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diff --git a/40949.txt b/40949.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ee1db57..0000000 --- a/40949.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7107 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Outrage, by Annie Vivanti - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Outrage - -Author: Annie Vivanti - -Release Date: October 5, 2012 [EBook #40949] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OUTRAGE *** - - - - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - - _THE OUTRAGE_ - - _ANNIE VIVANTI CHARTRES_ - - - _NEW YORK : ALFRED A. KNOPF : 1918_ - - COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY - A. VIVANTI CHARTRES - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - -THE OUTRAGE - - - - -BOOK I - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -Cherie was ready first. She flung her striped bath-robe over her -shoulders and picked up Amour who was wriggling and barking at her pink -heels. - -"_Au revoir dans l'eau_," she said to little Mireille and to the German -nursery governess, Frieda. - -"Oh, Frieda, _vite, vite, degrafez-moi_," cried Mireille, backing -towards the hard-faced young woman and indicating a jumble of knotted -tapes hanging down behind her. - -"Speak English, please, both. This is our English day," said Frieda, -standing in her petticoat-bodice in front of the mirror and removing -what the girls called her "Wurst" from the top of her head. In the glass -she caught sight of Cherie making for the door and called her back -sharply. "Mademoiselle Cherie, you go not in the street without your -stockings and your hat." - -"Nonsense, Frieda! In Westende every one goes to bathe like this," and -Cherie waved a bare shapely limb and flicked her pink toes at Amour, who -barked wildly at them. - -"I do not care how every one goes. You go not," said Frieda Rothenstein, -hanging her sleek brown Wurst carefully on the mirror-stand. - -"Then what have we come here for?" sulked Cherie, dropping Amour and -giving him a soft kick with her bare foot. - -"We have come here," quoth Frieda, "not for marching our undressed legs -about the streets, but for the enjoyment both of the summer-freshness -and of the out-view." Whereupon Mireille gave a sudden shriek of -laughter and Amour bounded round her and barked. - -Cherie crossed the room to the chair on which her walking clothes had -been hastily flung. "Won't sand-shoes do?" - -"No. Sand-shoes and stockings," said Frieda. "And hat," she added, -glancing down at the comely bent head with its cascade of waving -red-brown locks. - -Cherie hurriedly drew on her black stockings, glancing up occasionally -to smile at Mireille; and nothing could be sweeter than those shining -eyes seen through the veil of falling hair. Now she was ready, her -flapping _bergere_ hat crushed down on her careless curls, Amour hoisted -under her arm again, and with a nod of commiseration to Mireille she ran -down the narrow wooden staircase of Villa Esther, Madame Guillaume's -_appartements meubles_ and was down in the rue des Moulins with her -smiling face to the sea. - -The street was a short one, half of it not yet built over, leading from -a new aeroplane-shed at the back to the wide asphalted promenade on the -sea-front. Cherie met some other bathers--a couple of men striding along -in their bathing suits, their bronzed limbs bare, a damp towel round -their necks, their wet hair plastered to their cheeks. They barely -glanced at the picturesque little figure in the brief red bathing-skirt -and flapping hat, for all along the sands--from Nieuport, twenty minutes -to the right, to Ostend half an hour to the left--there were hundreds of -just such charming school-girl figures darting about in the sunlight, -while all the fast and loose "daughters of joy" from Brussels, Namur, -and Spa, added their more poignant note of provocativeness to the blue -and gold beauty of the summer scene. - -Cherie passed the bicycle shop and waved a friendly hand to Cyrille -Wibon, who was kneeling before his racing Petrolette and washing its -shining nose with the tenderness of a nurse and the pride of a father. - -"Remember! the two bicycles at eleven, on the sands," cried Cherie in -Flemish, and Cyrille lifted a quick forefinger to his black hair, and -nodded. Cherie ran on, crossed the wide promenade, and skipped down the -shallow flight of steps leading to the sands, those vast sweeping sands -of Westende that begin and end in the wide, wild dunes. She dropped -Amour, who rolled over, righted himself, dug a few rapid holes with his -hind paws in the sand and then trotted off to lead his own wicked dog's -life with certain hated enemies of his--a supercilious leveret, a -scatter-brained Irish terrier, and a certain mean and shivering -black-and-tan, whose tastes and history would not bear investigation. - -Cherie plunged through the quarter of a mile of dry, soft sand, into -which her feet sank at every step, and as she reached the smoother -surface that the outgoing tide left hard and level, she flung off her -bath-robe and her hat, her sand-shoes and her stockings; then she ran -out into the water. - -Lithe and light she ran, skipping over the first shallow waves and on -until the water lapped her knees and the red skirt bulged out all round -her like a balloon--on she ran with little chilly gasps of delight, -raising her white arms above her head as the water rose and encircled -her with its cool, strong embrace. The sun cast a net of dancing -diamonds on the blue satin sea, and the girl felt the joy of life bound -within her like some wild, living thing. She joined her finger-tips and -dived into the dancing waters; then she emerged, pushing her wet hair -from her eyes with her wet hand. She swam on and on toward the azure -horizon, and dreamed of thus swimming on for ever and losing herself in -the blue beauty of the world. - -An aeroplane passed above her with its angry whirr returning from -Blankenberghe to Nieuport, and she turned on her back and floated, -looking up at it and waving her small gleaming hand. She thought the -plane dipped suddenly as if it would fall upon her, and she watched it, -holding her breath for the pilot's safety till it was almost out of -sight. Then she turned and trod water awhile and blinked at the distant -shore for a sight of Mireille. - -Yes, surely, there was the skimpy figure of Frieda, and beside it ran -and hopped the still skimpier figure of Mireille, whose thin legs had -only scampered through ten Aprils and whose treble voice cut the -distance with the shrill note of exceeding youth. - -"Chereee!... Chereeee!... Come back. Come back and fetch me!" - -So Cherie, with a sigh, turned and swam slowly landward. - -Mireille came running out to meet her with little splashes and jumps and -shrieks, while Frieda stopped behind in a few inches of water and went -through a series of hygienic rites, first wetting her forehead, then her -chest, then her forehead again, and finally sitting down solemnly in the -water until she had counted a hundred. This concluded her bath, and she -went home to dress. - -When, an hour later, she came down to the sands again neatly clothed in -her Reformkleid, with the Wurst reinstated high and dry on the top of -her otherwise damp head, she saw her two charges lying flat and -motionless in the sand, the broiling sunshine burning down on their -upturned faces and closed eyes. They were pretending to be dead; and -indeed, thought Frieda, as she saw them lying, so small and still on the -immensity of the sands, they looked like drowned morsels of humanity -tossed up by the sea. - -Before Frieda could reach them, Cyrille, the bicycle teacher, passed -her--the monkey-man, as the girls called him--pedalling along on one -machine and guiding the other towards the two small recumbent figures. -They jumped up when they heard him, and by the time Frieda reached the -spot, Mireille was being hoisted on to a very rusty old machine, while -Cherie, a slim, scarlet figure, with auburn locks afloat and white limbs -gleaming, was skimming along in the distance on the smooth resilient -sands. - -"I do not approve," panted Frieda, running alongside of the swaying -Mireille, while the monkey-man trotted behind and held the saddle,--"I -do not approve of this bicycle-riding in bathing costume." - -"Oh, Frieda," gasped Mireille, "do stop scolding, you make me wobble--" -and with a sudden swerve the bicycle described a semicircle and ran -swiftly down into the sea. - -Mireille was very angry with Frieda and with the bicycle and with the -monkey-man, who grinned with his very white teeth in his very dark face, -and hoisted her up again. Frieda soon tired of following them, and sat -down near an empty boat to read _Der Trompeter von Saekkingen_. - -Saekkingen! As Frieda's eyes skimmed the neatly printed pages and -lingered on the woodcut of a church tower and a bridge, her soul went -back to the little town on the Rhine. For Frieda, like the famous -trumpeter, came from Saekkingen; her feet, in square German shoes, had -tottered and run and clattered and tripped at divers ages over its -famous covered bridge; she had leaned out of the small flower-filled -windows, and sent her girlish dreams floating down the sleepy waters of -the Rhine; she had passed Victor von Sheffel's small squat monument -every morning on her way to school, and every evening on her way home -she had looked up at the shuttered windows of the house that had been -his. Saekkingen!--with its clean white streets and its blue-and-white -Kaffee-Halle in the Square and its bakeries redolent of fresh _Kuchen_ -and _Schnecken_.... Frieda raised eyes of rancour to the dancing North -Sea, to the smooth Belgian sands, to the distant silhouettes of Cherie, -Mireille, and the monkey-man, even to the bounding Amour and his -companions of iniquity. She hated it all. She hated them all. They were -all selfish and vulgar and flippant, with no poetry in their souls, and -no religion, and bad cooking.... Frieda shook her head bitterly: "_Das -Land das meine Sprache spricht_ ..." she murmured in nostalgic tones, -and sighed. Then she took up her book again and read what Hidigeigei, -tom-cat and philosopher, had to say about love and the Springtime. - - Warum kuessen sich die Menschen? - Warum meistens nur die Jungen? - Warum diese meist im Fruehjahr?... - - * * * * * - -That evening Mireille opened the door to the postman and took two -letters from him. Then she went to the sitting-room where Frieda and -Cherie sat at their needlework; hiding one of the letters behind her -back she read out the superscription of the other with irritating -slowness: - -"Mademoiselle--Cherie--Brandes--Villa--Esther--" - -"Oh, give it to me!" cried Cherie, extending an impatient hand. - -"It is from Loulou," said Mireille, giving up the letter and still -holding the other one behind her back. - -"You may not call your mother Loulou," snapped Frieda. "I have never -heard of such a thing." - -"She likes it," said Mireille. "Besides, Cherie calls her Loulou." - -"Cherie is her sister-in-law, not her daughter," said Frieda; then -catching sight of the other letter in Mireille's hand: "Who is that -for?" - -"Hochwohlgeborenes Fraeulein--Frieda Rothenstein--" read Mireille, and -Frieda rose quickly and pulled the letter out of her hand. "Oh, Frieda, -you rude thing! Who is your letter from? It's on our letter-paper, and -is not from Loulou, and it is not from my father. Who calls you all that -twiddly-twaddly _hochwohlgeboren_ nonsense?" - -Nobody answered. Both Fraeulein and Cherie were reading their letters -with intent eyes. Mireille continued her monologue. "I believe it is -from Fritz. Fancy! Fritz, who is only papa's servant, writing to you! Do -you answer him? Fancy a _hochwohlgeboren_ getting letters from a -man-servant!" - -Frieda did not deign to reply, nor did she raise her eyes from the -letter in her hand; yet as Mireille could see, it was only one line -long. Just four or five words. But Frieda sat staring at them as if they -had turned her to stone. - -Now Cherie had finished reading the hastily scrawled page in her hand -and raised a face full of consternation. - -"Frieda! Mireille! Do you know what has happened? We are to go home -tomorrow." - -"Tomorrow!" exclaimed Mireille. "Why, papa said we were to stay here two -months, and we only arrived four days ago." - -"Well, your mother writes that we are to go home at once. Do you hear, -Frieda?" But Frieda did not answer nor raise her eyes. - -"But why--why?" cried Mireille. "Doesn't Loulou know we have arranged to -have your birthday party here, with Lucile and Jeannette and Cri-cri all -coming on purpose?" - -"Yes, she knows," said Cherie, turning her sweet, perplexed eyes from -Mireille's disconcerted face to the impassive countenance of Frieda, -"but she says there is going to be war." - -"War? What has that got to do with us?" exclaimed Mireille in injured -tones. "It really is too bad. Just as I had made up my mind that -tomorrow I would swim with both feet off the ground!..." - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -The next day's sun rose hot and angry. It was the 30th of July. By ten -o'clock Frieda had packed everything. Amour had been put into his -picnic-basket and his humped-up back coaxed and patted and finally -forcibly pressed down, and the lid shut over him. Then they awaited the -carriage ordered by telephone from Ostend the night before. - -But no carriage arrived. At eleven Cherie ran across to the -telephone-office and spoke in her sternest tones to the livery stable in -Ostend. - -"_Eh bien?_ Is this carriage coming? We ordered it for ten o'clock." - -"No, Madame, it is not coming," replied a gruff voice from the other -end. - -"Not coming?" - -"No, Madame." Then in lower, almost confidential tones, "It has been -requisitioned." - -"What is that? Then send another one," said Cherie. But Ostend had cut -off the communication and Cherie returned crestfallen and wondering to -the glum Frieda and the doleful Mireille sitting on the trunks in Madame -Guillaume's narrow hall. - -"No carriage," she said. - -"What?" exclaimed Frieda. - -"Why not?" asked Mireille. - -"I don't know; something is being done to it," Cherie said vaguely. "I -did not understand. Perhaps it is being re--re--covered, or something." - -At noon Madame Guillaume found a porter for them who wheeled the luggage -on a hand-cart to the Westende tramway station. And the tramway carried -them and their luggage and Amour in his basket to Ostend, where another -man with a hand-cart was found to wheel the luggage and the basket to -the railway station. - -They noticed at once that Ostend wore a strange and novel air. Crowds -filled the town, crowds that were not the customary sauntering -demi-mondaines and lounging viveurs. No; the streets were full of -hurrying people, of soldiers on foot and on horseback; long lines of -motor-cars, motor-cycles, carts and wagons blocked the roadways, and -behind them came peasants leading strings of unharnessed horses. Down -the rue Albert came, marching rapidly, a little band of Gardes Civiques -in their long coats and incongruous bowler-hats with straps under their -chins. Groups of officers, who had arrived a few days before for the -international tennis tournament, were assembled on the Avenue Leopold -and talked together in low, eager tones. - -"What is the matter with everybody?" asked Mireille, as they hurried -through the Place St. Joseph and across the bridge after the man with -the luggage, who was already vanishing into the crowded station. - -As if in answer to her question a couple of newspaper boys came -rushing past with shrill cries. "_Supplement ... supplement de -'l'Independance' ..., Mobilization Generale...._" - -"Frieda, is there really going to be war?" asked Cherie, looking -anxiously at Frieda's sulky profile. - -"Yes, I believe so," said Frieda. "Between Russia and Germany." - -"Oh well; that is far away," said young Cherie, with a little laugh of -relief, and she ran to rescue the picnic-basket from the porter's -roughly swinging hand. - -"Amour is whining," whispered Mireille, as they stood in the crush -waiting to pass the ticket-collector on the quai. - -"Oh! he mustn't," said Cherie. "Officially he is sandwiches." - -So Mireille thumped the basket with her small gloved hand and murmured, -"_Couche-toi, tais-toi, vilian scelerat_." And the official sandwiches -subsided in the basket and were silent. - -They never had such a journey. The train was crowded to suffocation; the -whole world seemed to be going to Brussels; every few minutes their -train stopped to let other even more crowded trains dash past them -towards the capital. - -"I have never seen so many soldiers," said Mireille. "I did not think -there were so many in the world." - -Frieda Rothenstein smiled disdainfully with the corners of her mouth -turned down. "There are a few more than this in my country," she said. - -"What? In Germany? But not such beautiful ones," cried Mireille, hanging -out of the window and waving her handkerchief as many others did to a -little company of Lancers cantering past on the winding road with lances -fixed and pennants fluttering. - -Frieda glanced at them superciliously. "You should see our Uhlans," she -said. And added under her breath, "Who knows? Perhaps one day you may." - -But the girls were not listening. The train was running into Brussels at -last. The journey had taken five hours instead of two. - -An hour later they still sat in the motionless train in the Brussels -station. - -"At this rate we shall never reach Bomal," said Cherie drearily, as they -watched train after train packed with soldiers leave the station before -theirs in the direction of Liege. Here all the world seemed to be -rushing out of Brussels towards the eastern frontier. - -But all things end; and finally their train started too, panting and -puffing out of the Gare du Nord towards Louvain, Tirlemont, and Liege. - -It was utterly dark by the time they reached Liege; and when they left -the Gare Guillemin the soft summer night had swathed the valley of the -Ourthe with tenebrous draperies. Little Mireille fell asleep with a pale -smudgy face resting against Frieda's arm. Cherie lay back in her corner -dozing and dreaming of Westende's blue sea; but Frieda's eyes were wide -open staring out into the darkness as the train rumbled in and out of -the tunnels, clattered over bridges following the gleaming blackness of -the river. - -Where the Ourthe meets its younger brother the Aisne, the train slowed -down, trembled, hissed, and stopped. - -"Bomal," announced the guard. - -"Here we are! Mireille, wake up!" cried Cherie, looking out of the -window. Then she put Mireille's _bergere_ hat very crookedly on the -child's towzled head, while Frieda hurriedly collected the books, the -tennis-rackets and the parasols. - -"Ah! there he is," and Cherie waved her hand out of the window to a tall -figure on the platform. "Claude! Claude! _Nous voici._" - -Claude Brandes, a handsome man, fifteen years older than his sister -Cherie, opened the carriage door with an exclamation of relief. "Thank -goodness you are here," he said, lifting his dazed, weary little -daughter in his arms as if she were a baby and hoisting her on to his -shoulder. "Are you all right? Have you got everything? Come along!" And -he started down the platform, Cherie and Frieda trotting quickly after -him. "Mademoiselle," he said, turning to Frieda, "give the check for -your trunks to Fritz." - -"_Oui, Monsieur le Docteur_," she replied, fumbling for it in her -hand-bag. Then she looked round for the man-servant, whom she had as yet -not caught sight of. Fritz Hollander ("Hollander by name and Hollander -by nationality," he always said of himself when making new -acquaintances) stepped out of the shadow and took the paper from -Frieda's hand. She murmured a greeting to him, but he did not reply nor -did he seem to notice her questioning glance. He turned on his heel, and -his massive figure was soon swallowed up in the shadows at the end of -the station. - -The little party had just reached the exit and the train, with a parting -whistle, was curving away into the darkness, when Mireille suddenly -raised her face from her father's shoulder and gave a shriek. "Amour! We -have forgotten Amour!" - -It was true. Amour, cramped and disgusted in his creaky luncheon basket, -was travelling away in the darkness to the heart of the Ardennes. - -After the first moment of dismay everybody was cross with everybody -else. - -"It's all his own fault," said Cherie, who was tired and hungry. "He -might have barked. He knew perfectly well that we were getting out." - -"Haven't we taught him to pretend he is sandwiches when we're -travelling?" sobbed Mireille indignantly. "How can you be so unjust?" - -"Never mind, Mirette," said her father; "don't cry. We will telegraph to -Marche to have him stopped and sent back. You will see him turn up safe -and tail-wagging in the morning." - -And the telegram was sent. - -As they walked through the silent, sleeping village of Bomal Cherie -inquired, "Why is Loulou not here? She might have come in the motor." - -Her brother hesitated a moment. "I have sent away the car," he said. - -"Sent it away? What for?" exclaimed Cherie. - -"I have ... I have lent it," said Dr. Brandes. - -"To whom?" inquired Mireille, trotting beside her father and hanging on -to his arm. - -He gave a little laugh. "To the King," he said. - -"Oh!" cried Mireille. "Not much of a car to lend to a king! Surely he -has better ones himself." - -"We all give what we have in time of war," said her father. "Come, I -will carry you, my little bird," he said, and lifted her up again. - -"What is the matter? Why are you so affectionate?" asked Mireille, -nestling comfortably in his arms and patting his broad back with her -small hand. - -Cherie laughed and looked up adoringly at her big brother. "Is he not -always affectionate?" she asked. - -"Not so dreadfully," replied Mireille, in her matter-of-fact tones; and -then they all three laughed. - -Frieda, hurrying behind them in the dark with the books, the parasols, -and the tennis-rackets, hated them for their laughter. - - * * * * * - -Louise Brandes, a slim white figure in the moonlight, awaited them at -the door. She kissed Mireille and Cherie and greeted Frieda kindly; then -she made them all drink hot milk and sent them to bed. - -"But I want to tell papa about how I can almost swim and nearly ride a -bicycle," said Mireille, sidling up to her father. - -"You shall tell him tomorrow, my darling," said Louise. - -But the morrow was not as they dreamed it. - -When early next morning Frieda and the girls came down to the -breakfast-room they found Louise, still in her white dress of the -evening before, sitting on the sofa with red eyes and a pale face. In -answer to their anxious questioning she told them that Claude had been -called away. Two officers had come for him close upon midnight; he had -scarcely had time to pack a few things. He had taken his surgical -outfit; then they had hurried him away with short words and anxious -faces. - -"But where--where has he gone to?" asked Cherie. - -"I don't know," said her sister-in-law, and the tears gathered in her -dark eyes. "They said something about his being sent to a field -ambulance, or to ... to the Depot Central...." - -"What is that?" asked Mireille; but as nobody knew, nobody answered. - -Mariette the maid brought in the breakfast, followed by her mother, -Marie the cook; and they both had red eyes and were weeping. Marie said -that her two sons had come to the house at dawn to bid her and Mariette -good-bye; the eldest, Toinot, belonged to the 9th line regiment and had -been sent off to Stavelot; and Charles, the youngest, had volunteered -and was being sent off heaven knows where. - -"Of course there is nothing to cry about," added Marie, with large round -tears rolling down her ruddy face. "There is no danger for our country. -But still--to see one's boys--going away like that--s-s-singing the -B-b-brabanconne--" she broke into sobs. - -"Of course, my good Marie," echoed Louise, "there is nothing to cry -about...." - -And then they all wept bitterly. Even Frieda, with her face in her -handkerchief, sobbed--on general principles, and also because -Weltschmerz gnawed at her treacherous, sentimental German heart. - -At breakfast every one felt a little better. As nearly all the men had -left Bomal or were about to leave, it was a comfort to reflect that -Fritz Hollander, the doctor's confidential servant, being a Dutchman, -was not obliged to go. True, he was a somewhat sulky, taciturn person, -but he had been with them two years and, as Loulou remarked while she -poured out the coffee, one felt that one could trust him. - -"I always trust people who are silent and look straight at you when you -speak," said the wise Louise, who was twenty-eight years old, and -admired Georges Ohnet. - -"I don't like Fritz," remarked Mireille. "I hate the shape of his -head--and especially his ears," she added. - -"Don't be silly," said Cherie. - -Frieda, who was just dipping a fresh roll into her coffee, looked up. -"He has the ears God gave him," she remarked, with pinched and somewhat -tremulous lips. - -Every one looked at her wonderingly, and she flushed scarlet as she bent -her head and dipped her roll into her cup again. - -After breakfast Louise went to rest for a few hours; Frieda said she had -some letters to write, and the two girls went out to call on their -friends and make plans as to what they would do on Cherie's birthday, -the 4th of August. - -They went to Madame Dore's house in the Place du Marche and found their -friends Cecile and Jeannette busy with their boy-scout brother, Andre; -they were sewing a band with S.M. on it, on the right sleeve of his -green shirt. - -"What is S.M.?" inquired Mireille. - -"That means Service Militaire," replied Andre proudly. - -"Fancy!" exclaimed Mireille. "And you only fifteen!" - -Andre passed his left hand carelessly over his fair hair. "Oh yes," he -said, with very superior nonchalance. "There are four thousand of us. We -shall have to take care of you women," he glanced with raised eyebrows -at the small, admiring Mireille, "now that the other men have gone." - -"Keep your arm quiet," said Cecile, "or I shall prick you." - -"Where is your father?" asked Cherie. "Has he left, too?" - -"Yes," said Andre. "He has been called out for duty in the Garde -Civique. He is stationed on the Chaussee de Louvain, not far from -Brussels." - -"Isn't it all exciting?" cried Jeannette, jumping up and down. - -"But against whom are we going to fight?" asked Mireille. - -"We don't know yet," declared Andre. "Perhaps against the French; -perhaps against the Germans." - -"Perhaps against nobody," said Cecile, biting off the thread and patting -the neatly-sewn armlet on her brother's sleeve. - -"Perhaps against nobody," echoed Andre, with a boyish touch of -ruefulness. "Nobody will dare to invade our land." - - * * * * * - -"Come, let us go into the garden," said Jeannette. - -Thus it was in Belgium on the eve of her impending doom. Doubtless in -high places--in the Palais de la Nation and the Place Royale--there were -hearts filled with racking anxiety and feverish excitement; but -throughout the country there was merely a sense of resolute expectancy, -of not altogether unpleasant excitement. Every one knew that the -sacrosanct rights of the land would be respected, but it was just as -good, they said, to be ready for every event. - -Nobody on that summer evening, from the remotest corner of Belgian -Luxembourg to the farthest homestead in Flanders, as they watched that -last July sun go down over the peaceful fields of grain, dreamed that -the Grey Wolves of War were already snarling at the gates, straining to -be let loose and overrun the world, panting to get to their work of -slaughter and destruction. No one dreamed that four days later massacre -and outrage and frenzied ferocity would rage through the shuddering -valleys of the Ardennes. - -Thus while Cherie and Cecile, Jeannette and Mireille ran out into their -sunshiny garden, at that same hour, far away in the Wilhelmstrasse a man -with a grey beard stood on a balcony and spoke to a surging -crowd--promising blood to the wolves. - -Thus while the four fair girls planned what they would do on the 4th of -August, on that balcony in Berlin their fate and the fate of Europe was -being pronounced. - -"We shall invite Lucile, Cri-cri, and Verveine," said Cherie. - -"We shall dash those aside who stand in our way," said the man on the -balcony. - -"We shall dance," said Mireille. - -"We shall grind our heel upon their necks," said von Bethmann-Hollweg. - -And the Grey Wolves roared. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -CHERIE'S DIARY - - -This is August the 1st. In three days I shall be eighteen. At eighteen -one is grown up; one pins up one's hair, and one may use perfume on -one's handkerchief and think of whom one is going to love. - -The weather is very hot. - -Cecile tells me that she saw Florian Audet ride past this morning; he -was at the head of his company of Lancers, and looked very straight and -handsome and stern; like Lohengrin, she said. I do not suppose he will -remember my birthday with all this excitement about manoeuvres and -mobilizing. - -There is no news at all about Amour. We are very unhappy about him. - -_Later._--Claude has written to say that he is ordered to Mons and that -there may be an invasion, and that whatever happens we are all to be -brave. We were not at all frightened until we read that; but now of -course we are terrified out of our wits. Every time the bell rings we -think it is the enemy and we scream. (Motto--to remember. It is better -never to tell any one to be brave because it makes them frightened.) - -_August 2nd._--It is very hot again today. We wished we were in -Westende. How nice it was there, bicycling on the sand in one's bathing -dress! One day I rode all the way to the Yser and back. The Yser is a -pretty blue canal and a man with a boat ferries you across for ten -centimes to Nieuport. Of course that day I did not want to go to -Nieuport because I was in my bathing dress; besides, I had no pocket and -therefore no money. - -I do not seem to write very important things in this diary; my brother -Claude gave it me and said I was not to fill it with futile nonsense. -But nothing really important ever happens. - -There is no news of Amour. - -Germany has declared war upon Russia; of course that is important, but I -do not write about it as it is more for newspapers than for a diary. -Louise says Germany is quite in the wrong, but as we are neutral we are -not to say so. - -_Later._--We are going out for an excursion this afternoon as it is -Sunday. We are going with Frieda to Roche-a-Frene, to ramble about in -the rocks, and Fritz is to follow us with a hamper of sandwiches, milk -and fruit. Loulou is coming too. It was Mireille who suggested it. She -said she thought we had been quite miserable enough. Mireille is very -intelligent and also pretty, except that her hair does not curl. - -_Evening, late._--As nothing important has happened today--except one -thing--I will write in this diary about the excursion. - -(The important thing is that I saw Florian, and that he says he will -come to my birthday party.) But now about the excursion. We were almost -cheerful after being so wretched and frightened and unhappy all the -morning about the war. - -Even Loulou said that it was difficult to think that anything dreadful -would happen with such a bright sun shining and the sky so blue. Frieda -was sulky and silent, and kept dropping behind to be near Fritz. Loulou -said that perhaps if Germany does not behave properly all the Germans -will be sent away from Belgium. That means that Frieda would have to go. -We should not be sorry if she did. She is so changed of late. When we -speak to her she does not answer; when we laugh or say anything funny -she looks at us with round, staring eyes that Mireille says are like -those of a crazy cat that stalks about in the evening. I suggested that -perhaps Frieda is in love, as I am told that it is love that makes those -evening cats so crazy. It would be quite romantic and interesting if -Frieda were in love. Perhaps if Fritz Hollander were not just a -servant--Frieda is more of a _demoiselle de compagnie_--I should say -that she might be in love with him. But he never looks at her except to -scowl. - -Today on our excursion I saw him do a funny thing. We came upon a spring -of water hidden among the rocks, and while the others went on I stayed -behind and clambered about, picking ferns. Fritz had also left the road, -and was coming along behind us. As he caught sight of the water he -stopped. He took a little notebook from his pocket, tore out a sheet, -and having looked round as if he feared some one might be watching him, -he scribbled something on the paper. Then he hurried back to the road -and stuck the paper on the trunk of a tree. I thought it must be a -love-letter or some message, so I slipped down the rocks and went to -look at it. There were only two words written on the scrap of paper: -"_Trinkwasser_--_rechts_." - -I found that very strange. We never thought he knew German. I -wondered why he did it and was going to ask him, but when he saw me -he looked so cross that I did not dare. Later on, as we rambled about -in the wood we came upon another piece of paper stuck on a tree. -"_Trinkwasser_--_links_," was written on it. I told Loulou what I had -seen, and she went straight to Fritz and asked him what it meant. He -said he had done it for Frieda, so that she should know where to find -water. - -"She is a thirsty soul," he added, and he laughed, showing a lot of -small, rabbity teeth. I do not think I have ever seen Fritz laugh all -the time he has been with us; he does not look very nice when he does. - -But--as Frieda says of his ears--I suppose he has the laugh God gave -him. - -The walk about Roche-a-Frene was fantastic and beautiful. - -After eating our sandwiches we lay on the grass and looked at the sky. - -Perhaps I dozed, for suddenly I thought I was in Westende the day that -the aeroplane passed above me as I swam far out in the sea. I heard the -angry whirr of the engine, but this time it seemed to sound much louder -than any I had ever heard. - -I opened my eyes and there it was, above us, flying very high and -looking for all the world like a beetle. It was all white except for a -panel of sky-blue painted across the centre of each wing. I noticed that -its wings were not straight as all the others I have seen, but sweeping -backwards like those of a bird. I called out to the others, and Mireille -said-- - -"How lovely it is! Like a white beetle with blue under its wings!" - -Then an extraordinary thing happened. Fritz, who had been sitting some -distance off looking at a paper, leaped to his feet as if he had been -shot. He is short-sighted, and his glasses dropped off his nose into the -grass. - -"My glasses, my glasses!" he cried out, as if he were quite off his -head. And Frieda actually ran to look for them, just as if she were his -servant. "What did she say?" Fritz was crying; "like a beetle? white? -with blue under its wings?" Frieda kept looking up and saying, "_Ja! ja! -ja!_" and Fritz was calling for his glasses. They both seemed demented. -The scarab-like aeroplane whirred out of sight. - -Loulou had got up and was very pale. She made us go home at once and -never spoke all the way. - -It was when we were passing through Suzaine that we met Florian. He was -on horseback. I did not think he looked like Lohengrin, but more like -Charles le Temeraire, or the Cid, el Campeador. - -He told us--and his horse kept prancing and dancing about while he -spoke--that his regiment was encamped on the banks of the Meuse awaiting -orders. They might be sent to the frontier at any moment. But, unless -that happened, he said he would make a point of coming to see us on the -4th--even if he could only get an hour's leave. I reminded him that he -had never missed coming to see us on that day since the very first -birthday I had in Claude's house, when I was eight years old and my -father and mother had just died in Namur. - -Loulou always tells me that I was like a little wild thing, shrinking -and trembling and weeping in my black dress, and afraid of everybody. On -that particular birthday I wept so much that my brother Claude had the -idea of sending for Florian--who is his godson--and asking him to try -and make friends with me. I remember Florian coming into the room--this -very room that I am writing in now--a boy of fourteen with short curly -hair and very clear steely-blue eyes. A little like Andre but -better-looking. He was what Loulou calls "_tres-crane_." "_Bonjour_," he -said to me in his firm, clear voice. "My name is Florian. I hate girls." -I thought that rather a funny thing to say, so I stopped crying and gave -a little laugh. "Girls," Florian continued, looking at me with -disapproval, "are always either moping or giggling." - -I stopped giggling at once; and I also left off moping so as not to be -hated by Florian. - -All these thoughts passed through my head as I watched him bending down -and talking to Loulou very quickly and earnestly, while his horse was -dancing about sideways all over the road. He certainly looked like a -very young Charles le Temeraire or like the knight who went to waken la -Belle au Bois dormant. - -_August 3rd._--We are very happy. Amour is safe! He is in the care of -the station-master at Marche and Andre is going very early tomorrow -morning to fetch him. Andre says that fetching dogs is not exactly a -Service Militaire, but it is in the line of a Scout's work to sally -forth in subservience to ladies' wishes, and obey their behests. He -said he would wear Mireille's colours, and she gave him the crumpled -Scotch ribbon from the bottom of her plait. - -We have invited Lucile, Jeannette, Cecile and Cri-cri, to come tomorrow -evening. It will not be a real birthday party with dancing as it was -last year, because everything is uncomfortable and unsettled owing to -the Germans behaving so badly. However neutral one may be, one cannot -help being very disgusted with them. Even Frieda had a hang-dog air -today when Loulou read out loud that the Germans had actually sent a -note to our King proposing that he should let them march through our -country to get at France! Of course our King has said No. And we all -went out to the Place de l'Eglise to cheer for him this afternoon. It -was Andre who came to tell us that all Bomal was going. - -It was beautiful and every one was very enthusiastic. The Bourgmestre -made a speech; then we sang la Brabanconne and the dear old Cure invoked -a blessing on our land and on our King. We all waved handkerchiefs and -some people wept. Marie and Mariette came too, but Frieda hid in the -house, being ashamed of her country, as she may well be. - -Fritz was there, and Mariette remarked that he seemed to be the only -young man left in Bomal. It is true. All the others have either been -called to military service or have gone as volunteers. The Square today -was full of girls and children and quite old people. - -I felt rather pleased that Fritz belongs to us. "A man in the house -gives one a sense of security," said Loulou the other day. I reminded -her of it as we were coming home, but she seemed worried and unhappy. -"Since your brother has left," she said, "Fritz is very much changed. He -does not behave like a servant; he never asks for my orders. Yesterday -at Roche-a-Frene he was like a lunatic. And so was Frieda." Poor Loulou -looked very white as she said this, and added that she wished Claude -would come back. - -There is certainly something curious about Fritz. This evening he -brought us the paper and stood looking at us while we opened it. I read -over Loulou's shoulder that the Germans had marched into the Grand-duchy -of Luxembourg and taken possession of the railways as if the place -belonged to them. When I raised my eyes I saw Fritz staring at us and he -had his hands in his pockets. He took them out when Loulou looked up and -spoke to him. - -She said, "Fritz, this is dreadful news"; and he said, "Yes, madam," and -smiled that curious rabbity smile of his. - -"Tell me," said Loulou, "did the master say anything to you when you saw -him to the train the other night?" - -"Yes, madam," said Fritz. - -"What--what did he say?" asked Loulou very anxiously. - -Fritz waited a long time before he answered. "The master said"--and he -smiled that horrible smile again,--"the master said I was to protect you -in case _those dogs_ came here. That's what he said--those dogs! Those -dogs--" he repeated, glaring at Loulou and at me until we felt quite -strange and sick. - -Little Mireille had just come into the room, and she asked somewhat -anxiously, "What dogs are you talking about?" - -Fritz wheeled round on her with a savage look. "German dogs," said he. -"And they bite." - -Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Loulou sighed. "Who would have conceived -it possible a month ago!" she murmured. "Why, even ten days ago, no one -dreamed of war." - -Fritz took a step forward. "Some of us have been dreaming of war," he -said--and there was something in his tone that made Loulou look up at -him with startled eyes,--"dreaming of war, not for the past ten days, -but for the past ten years." He rolled his eyes at us; then he turned on -his heel and strode out of the room. - -Loulou has written a long letter to Claude. But will it reach him? - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -MIREILLE'S DIARY - - -This is an important day, August the 4th--Cherie's birthday. Loulou has -given her a gold watch and a sky-blue chiffon scarf; and I gave her a -box of chocolates--almost full!--and a rubber face that makes grimaces -according to how you squeeze it, and also a money-box in the shape of an -elephant that bobs its head when you put money in it and keeps on -bobbing for quite a long time afterwards; Cecile and Jeannette sent -roses, Lucile and Cri-cri a box of fondants, and Verveine Mellot, from -whom we never expected anything, sent a parasol. We had not invited -Verveine for tonight because she lives so far away, quite out of the -village; but we shall do so now because of the parasol. - -We nearly had no party at all, Maman and Cherie being worried about the -Germans. But I cried, and they hate to see me cry, so they said that -just those five girls whom we see every day were not really a party at -all and they might come. - -The great event of today has been that Amour has arrived in his basket, -with 14 francs to pay on him; we were very glad, and Cherie said it was -just like receiving a new dog as a birthday present. Andre was not able -to bring Amour himself because he had been sent on some other Service -Militaire in a great hurry on his motorcycle. The one drawback about -Amour has been that he took the rubber face in his mouth and would not -drop it and hid with it. We found it afterwards under the bed, but most -of the colours had been licked off and Mariette says it is permanently -distorted. - -Mariette and Marie are going away today. They are taking only a few -things and are going to Liege, where they say they will feel safer. -Marie said we ought to go too, and Maman answered that if things went on -like this we certainly should. Maman has cried a good deal today; and -Frieda is shamming sick and has locked herself in her room. We have not -seen Fritz since last night. Altogether everything is very fearful and -exciting. Dinner is going to be like a picnic with nothing much to eat; -but there are cakes and sweets and little curly sandwiches, all -beautifully arranged with flowers, on the long table for this evening; -and we shall drink orangeade and grenadine. We were to have had ices as -well, but the patissier has joined the army and his wife has too many -children and is so miserable that she will not make ices. She told us -that her husband and other soldiers were digging ditches all round -Belgium to prevent the Germans from coming in. - -Now I am going to dress. I shall wear pink, and Cherie will be all in -white like a bride. She will have her hair up for the first time, done -all in curls and whirligigs, to look like that cake Frieda calls -_Kugelhopf_. - -Maman is going to make herself pretty too. She has promised not to think -of war or of the Germans until tomorrow morning because, as Cherie said, -one is eighteen only once in one's life. Now I come to think of it, one -is also eleven only once in one's life. I shall remember to say that -when my next birthday comes.... - - * * * * * - -While Mireille sat in the little study writing her diary with exceeding -care, her head very much on one side and the tip of her tongue moving -slowly from one side of her half-open mouth to the other, the door was -opened and Fritz looked into the room. He shut the door again, and -having listened for a moment on the landing to the soft-murmuring voices -of Louise and Cherie, he went upstairs to the second floor and turned -the handle of Frieda's door. It was locked. - -"Open the door," he said. - -Frieda obeyed. It was not the first time that she opened her door to -Fritz. - -"How loud you speak," she murmured, locking and bolting the door again, -"they may hear you." - -"I don't care if they do," said Fritz, sitting down and lighting a -cigarette. "For two years I have played the servant. Tomorrow I shall be -the master." - -"Tomorrow!" gasped Frieda. "Is it--as near as all that?" - -"Nearer, perhaps," murmured Fritz looking out of the window at the -crimsoning western sky. The round red August sun had set, but the day -still lingered, as if loth to end. Where the sky was lightest it bore on -its breast the colourless crescent of the moon, like a pale wound by -which the day must die. - -"Nearer, perhaps," repeated Fritz. "Be ready to leave." - - * * * * * - -That day the storm had already broken over Europe. The Grey Wolves were -pouring into Belgium from the south-east. At Dohain, at Francorchamps, -at Stavelot the grey line rolled in, wave on wave, and in their wake -came violence and death. - -But the guns were not speaking yet. In the village of Bomal, a bare -twenty miles away, nobody knew of it; and Louise, fastening a rose in -Cherie's shining tresses said, "We will think of the war tomorrow." - -Cherie kissed her and smiled. She smiled somewhat wistfully, and gazed -at her own lovely reflection in the mirror. The hot blue day had faded -into a gentle blue evening and Florian Audet had not kept his promise. -Perhaps, thought Cherie, his regiment has received orders to leave their -encampment on the Meuse; perhaps he has been sent to the frontier, but -still--and she sighed--she would have loved to have seen him and bidden -him good-bye.... - -But now little Mireille in her pink frock, looking like a blossom blown -from a peach-tree, came running in to call her. The door-bell had rung -and there was no one to answer it, since Marie and Mariette had gone and -Frieda was locked in her room and Fritz had vanished. So the two ran -lightly downstairs and opened the door to Lucile and Cri-cri, radiant in -pale blue muslin; and soon Cecile and Jeannette and Verveine arrived -too, and they all tripped into the drawing-room with light skirts -swinging and buoyant curls afloat. - -Verveine sat at the piano and the others danced and sang. - - Sur le pont - D'Avignon - On y danse - On y danse, - Sur le pont - D'Avignon - On y danse - Tout en rond! - -The laughing treble voices could be heard through the windows, thrown -wide open to the mild evening air, and a young soldier on horseback -galloping through the quiet village heard the song before he pulled up -at Dr. Brandes's door. It was Florian Audet keeping his promise. - -He slipped his bridle over the little iron gate and rang the bell. -Louise herself came down and opened the door to him. - -"Ah, Florian! How glad Cherie will be!" she exclaimed. Then, as the -light from the hall beat full on his set face, "Why, how pale you are!" -she cried. - -"I must speak to you," said Florian drawing her into the doctor's -surgery and shutting the door. - -Louise felt her heart drop like a stone within her. "Is there worse -news?" - -"The worst possible," said Florian. Then his eyes wandered over the -pretty, helpless figure before him. "Why are you dressed up like this?" -he asked harshly. - -"Why, Florian ..." stammered Louise, "it is Cherie's birthday ... -and...." - - Sur le pont - D'Avignon - On y danse - On y danse, - -sang the girlish voices upstairs. - -Florian turned away with a groan. "What shall I do?" he muttered. "What -will be the end of it?" Turning he saw Louise's stricken eyes gazing at -him, and he took her hand. "Marraine," he said, "you will be very -brave--it is best that I should tell you----" - -"Yes, Florian," said Louise, and the colour ebbed slowly from her face, -leaving it as white as milk. - -"The country is invaded at all points. There has been fighting at -Verviers...." - -"At Verviers!" gasped Louise, and her large eyes were like inkblots in -her colourless face. - -"Yes, and at Fleron." - -There was silence. Then Louise spoke. "What--what will happen to us? -What does it mean ... to our country?" - -"It means ruin and butchery," muttered Florian through his clenched -teeth; "it means violence, carnage, and devastation." Then he walked up -and down the room. "We are holding Vise," he muttered, "we are holding -it against Von Emmich's hell-hounds. And when we cannot hold it any -longer we will blow up the bridge on the Meuse." - -Louise had sunk into a chair. For a few moments neither spoke. Then -Louise looked up. - -"Will they--is it likely that they will come here?" - -"They may," said Florian gravely, and as he looked at her and thought -of her alone in the house with Cherie and Mireille a spasm crossed his -face and tightened his lips. - -"Will you be with us?" asked Louise, gazing at his stalwart figure and -strong clenched hands. "How long can you stay here?" - -"Forty minutes," replied Florian bitterly. - -Again there was silence. Then he said, "What about that -Dutchman--Claude's servant? Where is he?" - -"Fritz?" said Louise, trembling. Then she told him what had taken place -the night before, and also the events at Roche-a-Frene. Florian listened -to her with grim face. Then he strode up and down the room again in -silence. - -"Well," he said at last, "you have promised to be brave. You must listen -to what I tell you and obey me." - -He gave her brief, precise instructions. They were to pack their few -most valuable possessions at once, and leave for Bomal early next -morning for Brussels, via Marche and Namur--not Liege. "Remember," he -added, "not Liege." If no trains were available they must hire a -carriage, or a cart, or anything they could get. If no vehicle could be -found, then they must go on foot to Huy and thence to Namur. "Do you -understand?" - -Yes, Louise understood. - -Why not start now,--this evening? he suggested. They could go through -the wood to Tervagne---- - -Through the wood to Tervagne!... in the dark! Louise looked so terrified -that he did not insist. Besides, he reflected, there might be Uhlans -scouting in the woods tonight. No. They must leave at dawn. At three or -four o'clock in the morning. Was that understood? - -Yes, it was understood. - -"And--and----" asked Louise, "what are we to do with Frieda?" - -"Don't trust her. But take her with you if she wants to go. Otherwise -leave her alone. Keep your doors locked." - -"Yes." - -"And have you got money?" - -Yes, they had plenty of money. - -"And now," said Florian, looking at his watch, which told him that -twenty of the forty minutes had passed, "I should like to see Cherie." - -"I will call her," said Louise; then, at the door she turned to question -him with her fear-stricken eyes, "Shall I tell them--shall I tell the -children of the danger that threatens us?" - -"Yes, you must tell them," said Florian. "And send them to their homes -at once." - -"Oh, what will Mireille do?" gasped Louise. "What if she were to cry? -What if she were to fall ill with fear?" - -"Little Mireille is braver than we are," he said, smiling and putting -his arm around her drooping shoulders. "Courage, _petite marraine_" and -he bent over her with fraternal tenderness and kissed her cheek. - -He was left alone for a few moments; he heard the singing overhead stop -suddenly. Light fluttering footsteps came running down the stairs; the -door opened and Cherie stood on the threshold. - -He caught his breath. Was this vision of beauty in the floating silken -draperies his little friend Cherie? How had she been transformed without -his noticing it from the awkward little school-girl he had known into -this enchanting flower-like loveliness? She noticed his wonder and stood -still, smiling and drawing a diaphanous scarf that floated mistily about -her somewhat closer over her pearly shoulders. Her limpid eyes gazed up -at him with blue and heavenly innocence. - -A shudder passed through the man as he looked at her--a shudder of -prescient horror. Were not the wolves on the way already? Were not the -blood-drunken hordes already tearing and slashing their way towards this -virginal flower? Must he leave her to the mercy of their foul and -furious lust? - -Again the fearful shudder passed through him. And still those limpid, -childish eyes gazed up at him and smiled. - -"Cherie!" he said. "Cherie!" and with his hand he raised the delicate -face to his, and gazed into the azure wonder of her eyes. - -She did not speak. Nor did her lashes flutter. She let him look deeply -into the translucent profundity of her soul. - -"Cherie!" he said again. And no other word was spoken or needed. - - * * * * * - -The forty minutes had passed. There was a hurried leave-taking, a few -eager words of warning and admonition; then Florian had run downstairs, -spurs clinking, and swung himself into his saddle. - -As he turned the prancing horse's head to the north he looked up at the -windows. Yes; they were all there, waving their hands, clustered -together, the blonde heads and the brown, the blue eyes and the dark -eyes following him. - -"Remember," he cried to Louise, "remember--at dawn tomorrow! You will -leave tomorrow at dawn." And even as he spoke the unspeakable shudder -thrilled him again. Was it a foreboding of what the morrow might bring? -Was it a vision of what the tragic and sanguinary dawn had in store for -those he was leaving, alone in their defenceless beauty and youth?... - -At the end of the street he turned again and saw that Cherie had run out -on to the terrace and stood white as a lily in the moonlight, gazing -after him. - -He raised his hand high in the air in token of salute. Then he rode -away. He rode away into the night--away towards the thunderous guns of -Liege, the blood-drenched fields of Vise. And he carried with him that -vision of delicate loveliness. He had spoken no word of love to her nor -had his lips dared to touch hers. Her ethereal purity had strangely awed -and enthralled him. It seemed to him that the halo of her virginal youth -was around her like an armour of snow. - -Thus he left her, fragile and sweet--white as a lily in a moonlit -garden. - -He left her and rode away into the night. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -The young girls in their muslin frocks and satin shoes sped homeward -like a flight of startled butterflies. Did they dream it, or was there -really, as they ran over the bridge, a booming, rumbling sound like -distant thunder? They stopped and listened. Yes.... There it was again, -the deep booming noise reverberating through the starlit night. - -"_Jesus, Marie, St. Joseph, ayez pitie de nous_," whispered Jeannette, -and the others repeated the invocation. Then they ran over the bridge -and reached their homes. - -Louise, Cherie, and Mireille were left alone in the deserted house. - -Frieda's room, when they went upstairs to look for her, was empty. Her -clothes were gone. There were only a few of her books--"Deutscher -Dichterschatz," "Der Trompeter von Saekkingen," and Freiligrath's -"Ausgewaehlte Lieder"--lying on the table; and the plaster bust of Mozart -was still in its place on the mantelpiece. - -"She must have slipped out while we were talking with Florian," said -Cherie, turning a pale face to Loulou, who gazed in stupefaction round -the vacant room. - -"She was a snake," said Mireille, slipping her hand through her mother's -arm and keeping very close to her. "And so was Fritz." - -At the mention of Fritz, Louise shivered. "I do not suppose Fritz has -come back," she said, dropping her voice and glancing through the open -window at the darkened outbuilding across the courtyard. "He is surely -not in his room." - -There was a moment's silence, and they all looked at those lightless -windows over the garage. The thought of Fritz lurking there, waiting -perhaps in the dark to do some fiendish work, was very disquieting. - -"We must go and look," said Cherie. So holding each other very close and -carrying a lantern high above their heads they went across the quiet -courtyard up the creaky wooden stairs to Fritz's room. - -Fritz was not there. But his trunk was in its place and all his -belongings were scattered about. - -"It looks as if he intended to come back," said Cherie; and they -trembled at the thought. Then they went downstairs across the yard and -into the house again. They were careful to slam the heavy front door -which thus locked itself; but when they tried to push the bolt they -found it had been taken away. It was at this moment that the distant -booming sound fell also on their ears. - -"What was that?" asked Mireille. - -Cherie put her arm round the child. "Nothing," she said. "Let us go up -and pack our things." And as Louise still stood like a statue staring at -the door with the lantern in her hand she cried, "Loulou, go up to your -room and collect what you will take with you in the morning." - -And Loulou slowly, walking like a somnambulist, obeyed. - -How difficult to choose, from all the things we live among, just what we -can take away in our two hands! How these inanimate things grow round -the heart and become through the years an integral part of one's life! - -What? Must one take only money and a few jewels, and not this picture? -Not these letters? Not this precious gift from one who is dead? Not the -massive silver that has been ours for generations? Not the veil one was -married in? Not the little torn prayer-book of one's first communion? -Not one's father's campaign-medals, or the packet of documents that -prove who we are and what is ours? - -What! And the bird-cage with the fluffy canaries asleep in it? Are they -to be left to die? And the dog---- - -"Of course we must take Amour," said Cherie. - -"Of course," said Loulou, going through the rooms like a wandering -spirit, picking things up and putting them down in a bewildered manner. - -A clock struck eleven. Mireille, still in her pink frock, had clambered -upon her mother's bed and was nearly asleep. - -_Boom!_ Again that low, long sound, rumbling and grumbling and dying -away. - -"It is nearer," breathed Louise. And even while she said it the sound -was repeated, and it was nearer indeed and deeper, and the windows -shook. Mireille sat up with wide, shining eyes. - -"Is that a thunderstorm?... Or the Germans?" - -"It is our guns firing to keep the Germans away," said Louise, bending -over her and kissing her. "Try to sleep for an hour, my darling." - -Mireille lay back with her silken hair tossed on the pillow. - -"Are the Germans trying to come here?" she asked. - -There was silence. Then Cherie said, "I don't think so," and Louise -added, "Of course not." - -"But--might they want to come?" insisted Mireille, blinking to keep her -eyes open. - -"Why should they come here?" said her mother. "What would they want in -this little out-of-the-way village?" - -"What indeed?" said Cherie. - -Mireille shut her eyes and thought about the Germans. She knew a great -deal about them. Frieda had taught her--with the aid of a weekly paper -from Munich called _Fliegende Blaetter_--all the characteristics of the -nation. The Germans, Mireille had gathered, were divided into two -categories--Professors and Lieutenants. The Professors were old men, -bald and funny; the Lieutenants were young men, aristocratic and -beautiful. The Professors were so absent-minded that they never knew -where they were, and the Lieutenants were so fascinating that girls -fainted away and went into consumption for love of them. Frieda admitted -that there were a few other Germans--poets, who were mostly dead; and -housewives, who made jam; and waiters, who were sent to England. But -obviously the Germans that had got into Belgium this evening were the -Lieutenants and the Professors. Mireille nestled into her pillow and -went to sleep. She dreamed that they had arrived and were very amiable -and much impressed by her pink dress. - -She was awakened by a deafening roar, a noise of splintering wood and -falling glass. With a cry of terror she started up; then a flash blinded -her, another roar filled the air, and it seemed as if the world were -crashing to pieces. - -"Mireille!" Her mother's arms were around her and Cherie had rushed in -from her room with an ashen face. - -"Loulou, let us go at once--let us go to the Bourgmestre or to the Cure! -We cannot stay here alone!" - -"Yes ... let us go ..." stammered Louise. "But who will carry our -things?" - -"What things? We take no things. We are fugitives, Loulou! Fugitives!... -Quickly--quickly. Take your money and your jewels--nothing else." - -"Quickly, quickly," echoed the whimpering Mireille. - -"If we are fugitives," sobbed Louise, looking down at her floating -chiffon gown, "we cannot go out into the world dressed like this." - -"We cannot stop to change our clothes ... we must take our cloaks and -dark dresses with us," cried Cherie. "Only make haste, make haste!" - -But Louise seemed paralysed with fear. "They will come, they will come," -she gasped, gazing at the shattered window; the throbbing darkness -beyond seemed to mutter the words Florian had spoken: "Outrage, -violence, and slaughter ... outrage, violence, and slaughter...." - -Suddenly a sheaf of flame rose up into the sky, illuminating the room in -which they stood with a fantastic yellow glare. Then a terrific -explosion shook the foundations of the house. - -Louise catching Mireille in her arms stumbled down the stairs followed -by Cherie. They knew not where they were going. Another explosion roared -and shattered the coloured staircase window above them to atoms, driving -them gasping and panic-stricken into the entrance-room. - -Did hours or moments pass? They never knew. - -Now there were voices, loud hoarse voices, in the street; short guttural -commands and a clatter of hoofs, a clanking of sabres and spurred heels. - -"Let me look--let me look out of the window," gasped Cherie, tearing -herself free from Louise's convulsive grasp. She stumbled to the window, -then turned a haggard face: "They are here." - -Mireille shrieked, but her piping voice was drowned by the noise -outside. - -"They will murder us," sobbed Louise. - -"Don't cry! don't cry," wailed Cherie. "The gate is open but the door is -locked. They may not be able to get in." But even as she spoke she knew -the fallacy of that hope. - -"Wait," she whispered. "They are trying the door." Louise had followed -her to the window, clutching at the curtains lest she should fall. -"Look, some one is trying to open the door...." - -Louise bent forward and looked out. "It is Fritz...." she shrieked, and -staggered back. "Fritz! He has opened the door to them!" - -Now there was the tramp of many feet on the stairs, and loud voices and -the clanking of spurs and sword. - -As if the imminence of their fate had suddenly invested her with new -strength and dignity, Louise stood up, tall and tragic, between the two -trembling girls. She crossed herself slowly and devoutly; slowly and -devoutly she traced the sign of the cross on Cherie's forehead and on -Mireille's. Then with arms entwined they stood motionless. They were -ready to die. - -The door was kicked open; military figures in grey uniforms thronged the -passage and crowded noisily forward. - -They stopped as they caught sight of the three entwined figures, and -there was an instant's silence; then an officer--a lean man with a -grizzled moustache--stepped forward into the room. - -Those behind him drew up stiff and straight on the threshhold, evidently -awaiting orders. - -"_Tiens, tiens, tiens!_" said the officer, looking the three feminine -figures up and down, from glossy head to dainty feet, and his grey eyes -twinkled. "A charming tableau. You have made yourselves beautiful to -receive us?" His French was perfect; his tone, though slightly -contemptuous, was neither rude nor unkind; his eyes were intelligent and -humorous. He did not look like a hell-hound. He did not evoke the idea -of violence, outrage, and slaughter. - -In a sudden reaction from the supreme tension of terror a wave of -faintness overwhelmed Louise. Her soul seemed to melt away. With a -mighty throb of thankfulness and relief she felt the refluent blood -stream to her heart once more. - -The man had turned to the soldiers behind him--two seemed to be junior -officers, the other six were men--and gave them a short, sharp order in -German. They drew themselves up and saluted. The two younger officers -stepped forward and stood beside him. - -One of them--a tall young man with very light eyes--held a paper in his -hand, and at the request of his superior officer read it aloud. The -older man while he listened seemed to be surveying the apartment, -looking round first at one door, then at the other, then at the upper -floors. - -Cherie and Mireille were amazed. They who had learnt German with Frieda -understood what was being read. - -It was a brief, precise description of the house and its occupants. This -was the house of Claude Leopold Brandes, doctor, and reserve officer, -age thirty-eight, married. His wife, his child--a daughter--and his -sister lived with him. There were twelve rooms, three attics, a -basement; kitchen, scullery, wash-house, harness-room, stable. There was -a landaulet, a small motor-car, and two horses; all requisitioned. - -"_Das ist alles, Herr Kapitaen._" - -"No other adult males?" asked the Herr Kapitaen. - -No. Nothing but these women. - -Where had the man Brandes gone to? - -He had left on the night of July 31st. - -For the frontier? - -No, for the capital, it was believed. "But," added the young officer -casting a fleeting glance at the three women, "that will be easy to -ascertain." - -"Any one of ours here?" asked the older man. - -"Yes. A certain Fritz Mueller, of Loehrrach." - -Cherie quivered and tightened her grasp on Louise's hand. - -"Where is this Fritz Mueller?" asked the captain, looking about him. - -"Downstairs," answered the lieutenant. "He was the man who opened the -door for us." - -"Well, put him in charge of the billets and see that he provides for -twenty men," said the captain. "Now, as for us----" he took the paper -from the other's hand. He turned it round and looked at the plan of the -house roughly drawn on the back of the sheet. "Let me see ... three -rooms on this floor ... four on the next ... Glotz?" to the other and -youngest officer standing silent and erect before him. "Come with me, -Glotz. And bring an orderly with you." Then he glanced at Louise and -Cherie. "Von Wedel"--the light-eyed officer stood at attention--"you -stay here." The captain turned on his heel and marched up the stairs, -followed by the second lieutenant whom he had called Glotz and two of -the soldiers. The other four stood in the hall drawn up in a row, stiff -and motionless as automatons. - -Von Wedel shut the door in their faces; then he turned his gaze on the -three women left in his charge. He moved slowly, deliberately towards -them and they backed away from him, still holding each other's hands and -looking up at him with starry, startled eyes. He was very tall and -broad, and towered above them. He gazed at them a long time, his very -light eyes roving from Louise to Cherie, from Cherie to Mireille and -back to Cherie again. - -"Well, turtle-doves," he said, at last, and laughed, "did you expect -us?" The three pairs of startled eyes still looked up at him. "Is it -really in our honour that you put on all this finery?" - -He moved a step nearer, and again all three drew back. "Well, why don't -you answer?" - -Louise stepped a little in front of the other two as if to shield them; -then she spoke in low and quavering tones-- - -"Monsieur.... I hope ... that you and your friends ... will be good -enough to leave this house very soon.... We are alone here----" - -"Permit us then to keep you company," said Von Wedel, and added, in a -tone of amiable interrogation, "Your husband is not here?" - -"No," said Louise, and at the thought of Claude her underlip trembled; -she looked like a child who is about to cry. - -"Too bad," said Von Wedel, putting one foot in its muddy boot on a chair -and leaning forward with his elbow resting on his upraised knee. "Too -bad. Well; we must await his return." - -"But," stammered Louise, "he will not return tonight." - -"Won't he?" His insolent light eyes that had been fixed on Cherie during -this conversation now wandered with effrontery over the charming -trepidant figure of Louise. "Why, what an ungallant husband to be sure! -And may I ask where he has gone to?" He tossed the question at her -carelessly while he drew a gold coroneted cigarette-case from his pocket -and took from it the solitary cigarette it contained. "Your man told me -he had been ordered to Namur." - -"No--to Mons," said Louise. - -"Ah yes, Mons. Interesting town"--he tapped one end of his cigarette on -the palm of his hand, "fine old Cathedral of St. Waudru ... four railway -lines ... yes. Did he go alone?" - -Mireille pinched her mother's arm. - -"Don't say," she whispered. - -The officer heard it and laughed. He took hold of the child's arm and -drew her gently away from her mother's side. "_Na! sieh doch einmal!_" -he said. "Are we not sly? Are we not knowing? Are we not diplomatic? -Eh?" Holding her by her small arm he backed her away across the room, -then giving her a little push he left her and turned his attention to -the other two again. Louise had turned deathly pale, but Mireille, -unharmed and undaunted, signalled to her from the other end of the room, -signifying defiance by shrugging her shoulders and sticking her tongue -out at the spruce, straight back of the enemy. - -He now stared at Cherie again, and under his insistent insolent gaze she -trembled like an aspen leaf. - -"Why do you tremble?" he asked. "Are you afraid of me?" - -"Yes," murmured the girl, drooping her head. - -He laughed. "Why? I'm not a wild beast, am I? Do I look like a wild -beast?" And he moved a step nearer. - -Louise stepped in front of Cherie. "My sister-in-law is very young," she -said, "and is not used to the attention of strangers." - -"My good woman," replied Von Wedel with easy insolence, "go and find -some cigarettes for me." And as Louise stared at him with an air of -dazed stupefaction he spoke a little louder. "Cigarettes, I said. Surely -in your husband's study you will find some. Preferably Turkish. Quick, -my good soul. _Eins, zwei, drei_--go." - -After a moment's hesitation Louise turned and left the room; Mireille -ran after her. Cherie darted forward to follow them, but Von Wedel took -one long stride and caught her by the arm. "_Halt, halt!_" he said, -laughing. "You stay here, my little turtle-dove, and talk to me." - -The girl flushed and paled and trembled. "What a shy dove!" he said, -bending over her. "What is your name?" - -"Cherie," she murmured almost inaudibly. - -"What? _'Cherie'?_" he laughed. "Did you say that to me? The same to -you, Herzchen!" He sat down on a corner of the table quite close to her. -"Now tell me what you are afraid of. And whom you are afraid of.... Is -it of Captain Fischer? Or of me? Or of the soldiers?" - -"Of everybody," stammered Cherie. - -"Why, we are such good people," he said, blowing the cigarette-smoke in -a long whiff before him, then throwing the cigarette on the carpet and -stamping it out with his foot. "We would not hurt a cat--nor a dog," he -added, catching sight of Amour, who came hopping down the stairs limping -and yelping, "let alone such an adorable little angel as you." - -The dog came whining piteously and crouched at Cherie's feet; she bent -down and lifted him up in her arms. He was evidently hurt. Von Wedel -said "Good dog!" and attempted to pat him, but Amour gave a long, low -growl and the officer quickly withdrew his hand. - -Louise reappeared bringing boxes of cigars and cigarettes, which she -placed on the table. Mireille, who followed her, caught sight of Amour -in Cherie's arms and heard him whine. - -"What have you done to him?" she said, turning fiercely on Von Wedel. - -He laughed. "Well, well, what a little vixen!" he said. Then he added, -"You can take the dog away. I don't like dogs." Cherie moved at once -towards the staircase, but he stopped her again. "No, no; give the dog -to the vixen. You stay here." - -Cherie obeyed, shrinking away from him to Louise's side, while Mireille -ran upstairs with Amour and took him to Cherie's room. She kissed him on -his rough black head and patted his poor paws and put him down on a -cushion in a corner. Then she ran down again to see what was going on. -Amour left alone whined and howled in hideous long-drawn tones of -indignation and suffering. When a few minutes later Captain Fischer, -followed by Lieutenant Glotz and the two soldiers on his round of -inspection, came downstairs, he stopped on the landing. - -"What is that noise? Who is crying?" he asked. - -"The dog, sir," said Glotz, "whom you kicked downstairs before." - -"Hideous sound!" said Captain Fischer; "stop it." - -And one of the soldiers went in and stopped it. - -Captain Fischer went downstairs, followed by Glotz. When they entered -the room Von Wedel turned away from Cherie and stood at attention. - -Outside the boom of the cannon had ceased, but there were loud bursts of -firing in the distance, sudden volleys which ceased as abruptly as they -began. The three officers seemed to pay no heed to these sounds; they -stood speaking together, the captain issuing brief orders, Von Wedel -asking a question or two, and Glotz saying "_Ja, Herr Kapitaen--ja, Herr -Leutnant_" at brief intervals, like a mechanical toy. Glotz was -round-faced and solemn. He never once looked at Louise, Cherie, or -Mireille, who stood in a corner of the room watching the men with -anxious eyes. - -"What are they saying?" asked Louise in an undertone. - -Cherie listened. So far as she could understand they were making -arrangements as to where they should sleep. - -"Eight men are to stay here," she translated in a whisper, "four in the -attics and four downstairs. They themselves are going somewhere -else--wait! They are talking of the Cheval Blanc--wait ... wait ... -they are saying"--and her eyes dilated--"that they can't go there -because the inn is burning...." - -At this point Von Wedel gave a loud laugh and Fischer smiled. Only -Glotz's chubby countenance remained solemn, like the face of an anxious -baby. - -"What are they saying now?" asked Louise. - -Mireille whispered, "They are talking about the _Pfarrer_--that means -the priest." - -"About Monsieur le Cure? What are they saying about him?" - -At this point Von Wedel laughed again. "_Der alte Esel!... Seine eigene -Schuld...._" - -"What is that? what is that?" asked Louise. - -"The old donkey ... his own fault," translated Mireille. - -"And now what?" The captain was bending down and looking at his boots. - -Cherie interpreted. "He says he will be glad to get the mud and blood -off his feet...." - -"Mud and blood?" echoed Louise in a horrified whisper. "Surely not." - -Mireille nodded. "_Koth und Blut_--that is what he said." - -A wave of sickness came over Louise; she felt the ground heave under -her. - -Now Von Wedel was helping the captain to take off his tunic, drawing the -left sleeve down with great precaution. - -"He says he is wounded," whispered Mireille. - -"But he says it is nothing; that his arm is only grazed," supplemented -Cherie. - -The coat was off and Captain Fischer was carefully turning up his -shirt-sleeve. Yes; the forearm was grazed and bleeding. - -The captain examined it very carefully, and so did Von Wedel, bending -over it and shaking his head with an air of great concern. The captain -looked across at Louise and beckoned to her with his finger. - -"Come here, _Gnaedige_, please;" and as she approached him he said, "Your -husband is a doctor, is he not? Then you will have some antiseptic in -the house. Lysoform? Sublimate? Have you?" Louise nodded assent. "Bring -me some," he said. "And a little boiled water if you have it." - -Louise turned without a word and left the room. - -"She is very stupid," said Von Wedel looking after her. - -"She is very pretty," said the captain. - -Louise passed the soldiers who stood in the hall talking together in low -voices. She went down the stairs feeling dizzy and bewildered. Would -these men stay in the house all night? Would they sleep and eat here? -Would they order her about, and ogle Cherie, and bully little Mireille? -How long would they stay, she wondered. A week? a month?... She entered -her husband's surgery and turned on the light. The sight of his room, -of his chair, of his book, open on the desk as he had left it, seemed to -wring her heart in a vice of pain. "Claude! Claude!" she sobbed. "Come -back! Come back and take care of us!" - -But Claude was far away. - -She found the little blue phial of pastilles of corrosive sublimate; she -poured some distilled water into a small basin and found cotton and a -packet of lint for a bandage. Then she went upstairs again, past the -soldiers in grey, and entered the sitting-room. It was empty. - -Where had they all gone to? Where had they taken Cherie and Mireille? -She stumbled blindly up the short flight of stairs leading to the -drawing-room. There she heard their voices, and went in. - -Captain Fischer was reclining on the sofa, still in his shirt-sleeves, -with his boots off. Von Wedel and Glotz were at the flower-adorned -supper-table prepared for Cherie's birthday party, and were eating -sandwiches in large mouthfuls. Their grey helmets were on the piano; -their belts on a chair. Cherie stood cowering in a corner near the door. - -"Where is Mireille?" cried Louise; and Cherie replied, "She is all -right. He"--indicating the captain on the sofa--"has sent her to fetch -him some slippers." Her lips quivered. "I wanted to go with her but they -would not let me." - -"I feel as if we were in a dream," murmured Louise. - -"Ah," cried the man on the sofa, catching sight of Louise, "here is my -good Samaritan." He crossed the room in his stockinged feet and took the -basin out of her hands. He looked round a moment uncertain where to put -it; then he drew up a satin chair and placed the basin of water on it. - -"_Gut_," he said. "And what have we here?" He took the little bottle -from her hand. "'Perchlor. of mercury, 1.0 gramme.' That is right." He -shook one of the little pink tablets out on his palm and dropped it in -the water. "Now, charming lady, will you be a sister of mercy to a poor -wounded man?" He bared his arm and sat down on the sofa again, making -room for her beside him; but she stood in front of him, and dipping some -pieces of cotton in the water she bathed the injured arm. - -The door opened and Mireille came in with a pair of her father's -slippers in her hand. When she saw her mother stooping over the man's -arm her small face flushed scarlet. She flung the slippers down and, -running to the corner where Cherie was standing, she hid her face on -Cherie's arm. - -"_Ei, ei, the_ vixen!" laughed Von Wedel, taking another sandwich. "Now -we want something to drink. Not these syrups," he added, pushing the -grenadine and orangeade aside. "Let us have some champagne. Eh, Glotz? -What do you say to that?" - -"And some brandy," said Fischer. "This scratch is deucedly painful." - -There was a moment's silence. Then Cherie, taking a step towards the -door, said, "I will fetch some brandy." - -"I'll come too," said Mireille. - -"No, no, no, no," cried Von Wedel, catching hold of them each by one -arm. "You two want to run away. I know your tricks! No. The vixen stays -here; and the angel"--bending to gaze into Cherie's face--"comes with me -and shows me where the brandy is kept." - -"She shan't! she shan't!" screamed Mireille, clinging to Cherie's arm. - -"_Donner und Blitz!_" exclaimed Von Wedel, "what a little demon. You -just catch hold of her, Glotz, and keep her quiet." - -Glotz, who had been sitting at the table eating silently, rose and dried -his mouth on one of the beflowered tissue-paper serviettes. "I know -where the cellar is," said he, "I saw it on my round with the Herr -Kapitaen. If the Herr Kapitaen permits, I will fetch the brandy myself." -And he left the room quickly, paying no heed to Von Wedel's murmured -remark that he was a confounded interfering head of a sheep. - -Louise had burst into tears when Von Wedel had told Glotz to hold -Mireille, and although the captain patted her hand and told her not to -cry she went on weeping bitterly while she bandaged his arm. - -Von Wedel looked at her a moment and then turned to Cherie. "What -relation are you to that weeping Niobe? I forget." - -"Sister-in-law," murmured Cherie inaudibly. - -"What? Speak louder. I can't hear," said Von Wedel, seating himself on a -corner of the table and lighting one of Dr. Brandes's cigars. - -"Sister-in-law," repeated Cherie faintly. - -"Sister-in-law? Good." He puffed at the cigar. "And I'll be your -brother-in-law, shall I? Ah, here is the wine!" he exclaimed as the door -was thrown open. - -But it was not the wine. It was another officer, dressed like the others -in a grey uniform bereft of all insignia; he was very red and covered -with dust and mud. He saluted the captain and nodded to the lieutenant, -loosened his belt and flung his grey helmet on the piano where the -others lay. - -"Ah, Feldmann," cried Captain Fischer. "What have you done?" - -"My duty," said the new-comer in a curious hoarse voice. - -"_Der Pfarrer?_" ... questioned Von Wedel. - -The man nodded and made a grimace. "And that idiot of a scout-boy too. -It was he who fired at you," he said turning to Fischer. - -"It was not," said the captain. "It was an old man, from a window. Near -the church." - -"Oh well, I didn't see any old man," said Captain Feldmann. "And these -civilians must be taught their lesson.... What have we here?" he added, -surveying the table. "I am famished." And he took two or three -sandwiches, placed them one on the other and ate them. "Beastly hole, -this," he remarked, with his mouth full. "We needn't have come here at -all." - -"Oh yes, we need," declared Fischer very sternly. - -"Well, we won't discuss that," said Feldmann. "And anyhow we are going -on in the morning. I should like something to drink." - -Cherie had flushed to the roots of her hair. She had grasped the one -thing only--they were going on in the morning! At any cost she must tell -Louise that wonderful news. And she did so rapidly, in low tones, in -Flemish. - -Louise, who had finished bandaging the officer's wounded arm, burst into -tears again; this time they were tears of joy. - -"What are these women?" inquired Feldmann, glancing around with his -mouth full. "They look like ballet-dancers." - -"That one," said Von Wedel, with a coarse laugh, pointing at Louise, -"is the weeping Niobe; and that" indicating Mireille--"is the demon -child. And this"--taking Cherie's wrist and drawing her towards him--"is -my sister-in-law and an angel." - -"And this is Veuve Clicquot '85," said Glotz entering with some bottles -in his hand and stepping as if casually between Cherie and her -tormentor. - -The men turned all their attention to the wines, and sent Glotz to the -cellar three or four times to fetch some more. - -They wanted Martel; they wanted Kirsch; they wanted Pernod. Then they -wanted more champagne. Then they wanted more sandwiches, which Louise -went to make. Then they wanted coffee, which Feldmann insisted upon -making himself on a spirit-lamp. They set fire to the tablecloth and to -the tissue-paper serviettes, which they threw down and stamped out on -the carpet. - -Von Wedel sat down at the piano and sang "Traum durch die Daemmerung," -and Feldmann wailed a chorus. Then Feldmann recited a poem. He was very -tipsy and had to put one arm around Glotz's neck and lean heavily on -Glotz's shoulder in order to be able to stand up and gesticulate. - - "Liebe Mutter, der Mann mit dem Kocks ist da!" - "Schweig still, mein Junge, das weiss ich ja. - "Hab'ich kein Geld, hast du kein Geld, - "Wer hat denn den Mann mit dem Kocks bestellt?" - -Great laughter and applause from Captain Fischer and Von Wedel greeted -this; only Glotz remained impassive; with Feldmann's arm around his -neck, his chubby countenance unmoved, his expression vacant. - -For some time they paid no heed to the three women clustered together in -the furthest corner of the room, except to stretch out a detaining hand -whenever they tried to move towards the door. - -"No," declared Von Wedel, leering at them through his light, vague eyes. -"No. You don't leave this room. Not all three together. Only one at a -time; then we're sure she'll come back." - -So they clung together with pale bewildered faces, whispering to each -other every now and then the comforting words, "They will go away in the -morning." - -But the morning was not yet. - -When Captain Fischer suggested that it was time to go to bed, the others -called him an old screech-owl; whereupon Captain Fischer explained to -them at great length that military discipline did not permit them to -call him a screech-owl. And he called Louise to witness that he had been -called a screech-owl. - -But now Feldmann was singing "Gaudeamus igitur," so the captain joined -in too. - -"Come along," said Von Wedel, lurching towards Cherie with two glasses -in his hand; "come, turtle-dove, _Bruedershaft trinken_!" He forced one -of the glasses into her hand. "You must drink the pledge of brotherhood -with us. Like this"--and he made her stand face to face with him, -pushing his left arm through hers and raising his glass in his right -hand. - -Cherie shrank back, seeking refuge behind Louise. But he dragged her -forward and caught her by the arm again. - -"Obedience!" he roared, scowling at her. "Now sing; '_Lebe, liebe, -trinke, schwaerme_'--and when I get to the words '_froh mit mir_,' we -clink our glasses together." - -"Please not! please not!" implored Cherie. - -"_Froh mit mir_"--repeated he, glaring at her through his heavy lids. -And he sang: - - Lebe, liebe, trinke schwaerme - Und erfreue dich mit mir. - Haerme dich wenn ich mich haerme - Und sei weider - froh - mit - mir! - -At the last three words he clinked his glass against Cherie's. "Drink!" -he commanded in a terrible voice. "If you do not drink, it is an insult -which must be punished." - -With a sob Cherie raised the glass to her lips. - -Louise was wringing her hands. "The brute! the brute!" she cried, while -Mireille holding her mother's skirts stared wide-eyed at the scene. - -Captain Fischer looked across at Louise. "My Samaritan," ... he mumbled. -"My sister of mercy...." He rose and approached her with a stupefied -smile. - -Mireille rushed at him like a little fury. "Go away," she screamed, "go -away!" - -The Herr Kapitaen took her not unkindly by the shoulders. "Little girls -should be in bed," he said thickly. "My little girls are in bed long -ago." - -Louise clasped her hands. "I beg you, sir, have pity on us; let us go -away.... The house is yours, but let us go away." - -"Where do you want to go?" he asked dully. - -"To our rooms," said Louise. - -"You have no rooms; they are ours," he said, and bending forward he -widened his eyes at her significantly. - -Louise looked about her like a trapped animal. She saw Von Wedel and -Feldmann who had Cherie between them and were forcing her to drink out -of their glasses; she saw Glotz seated on the piano-stool looking on -with fat, impassive face; she saw the man before her bending forward and -leering suggestively, so close that she could feel his hot, acrid breath -on her face. The enemy! The man with mud and blood on his feet ... he -was putting out his hand and touching her---- - -She fell on her knees and dragged Mireille down beside her! she lifted -up her hands and raised her weeping face to him. "Your children ... you -have children at home ... your little girls are in bed and asleep ... -they are safe ... safe, locked in their house.... As God may guard them -for you, oh protect us! spare us! Take care of us!... Be kind--be kind!" -She dropped forward with her head on his feet--on Claude's slippers--and -little Mireille with quick tears rolling down her face looked up at him -and touched his sleeve with a trembling hand. - -He looked down and frowned. His mouth worked. Yes. He had three -yellow-headed little girls in Stuttgart. It was good that they were in -Stuttgart and not in Belgium. But they were little German girls, while -these were enemies. These were belligerents. Civilians if you will, but -still belligerents.... - -He looked down at the woman's bowed head and fragile heaving shoulders, -and he looked at the white, frightened child-face lifted to his. -"Belligerents" ... he growled, and cleared his throat and frowned. Then -his chin quivered. "Get away," he said thickly. "Get away, both of you. -Quick. Hide in the cellar--no--not in the cellar, in the stable--in the -garden--anywhere. Don't go in the streets. The streets are full of -drunken soldiers. Go." - -Louise kissed his feet, kissed Claude's slippers, and wept, while -Mireille smiled up at him with the smile of a seraph, and thanked and -thanked him, not knowing what she thanked him for. - -"But--what of Cherie?" gasped Louise, looking round at the frightened -wild-rose figure in its white dress, trembling and weeping between the -two ribald men. - -"You shall take her with you," said Fischer, and he went resolutely -across the room and took Cherie by the arm. - -"What? What? You old reprobate," roared Feldmann, digging him in the -ribs, with peals of coarse laughter. "You have two of them! What more do -you want, you hedgehog, you? Leave this one alone." - -"You leave her alone, too. I order her to go away." Fischer frowned and -cleared his throat and tried to draw Cherie from Feldmann's and Von -Wedel's grasp. - -"What do you mean?" asked Von Wedel, going close up to Fischer and -looking him up and down with provocative and menacing air. - -"I mean that you leave her alone," puffed the captain. "Those are my -orders, Lieutenant--and if they are not obeyed you shall answer for it." - -"You old woman! you old head of a sheep," shouted Von Wedel; "answer for -it, shall I? You are drunk; and I'm drunk; and I don't care a snap -about your orders." And dragging Cherie's arm from Fischer's grasp he -pushed him back and glowered at him. - -"Your orders ..." stuttered the intoxicated Feldmann, placing his hand -on Fischer's shoulder to steady himself, "your orders ... direct -contradiction with other orders ... higher orders ..." He wagged his head -at Fischer. "The German seal must be set upon the enemy's country.... Go -away. Don't be a screeching owl." - -"And don't be a head of a sheep," added Von Wedel. "_Vae victis!_ If it -isn't you, it'll be somebody else. It'll be old Glotz--look at him ... -sitting there, all agog, _arrectis auribus_! Or it will be our drunken -men downstairs. Just listen to them!..." - -The drunken men downstairs were roaring "Die Wacht am Rhein." Von -Wedel's argument seemed to carry conviction. - -"_Vae victis!_" sighed Fischer, swallowing another glass of brandy and -looking across the room at the trembling Louise. "If it isn't I ... then -Glotz ... or somebody else ... drunken soldiers...." - -He went unsteadily towards Louise, who stood clutching at the locked -door. "Woe to the vanquished, my poor woman ... seal of Germany ... -higher orders.... Why should I be a head of a sheep?..." - - - - -BOOK II - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -It is pleasant to sit in a quiet English garden on a mild September -afternoon, sipping tea and talking about the war and weather, while -venturesome sparrows hop on the velvety lawn and a light breeze dances -over the flower-beds stealing the breath of the mignonette to carry back -at nightfall to the sea. - -Thus mused the gentle sisters, Miss Jane and Julia Cony, as they gazed -round with serene and satisfied blue eyes on the lawn, the sparrows, the -silver tea-set, the buttered toast, and their best friend, Miss Lorena -Marshall, who had dropped in to have tea with them and whose gentle -brown eyes now smiled back into theirs with the self-same serenity and -satisfaction. All three had youthful faces under their soft white hair; -all three had tender hearts in their somewhat rigid breasts; all three -had walked slender and tall through an unblemished life of undeviating -conventionality. They were sublimely guileless, divinely charitable and -inflexibly austere. - -"It is pleasant indeed," repeated Julia in her rather querulous treble -voice. Julia had been delicate in her teens and still retained some of -the capricious ways of the petted child. She was the youngest, -too--scarcely forty-five--and was considered very modern by her sister -and her friend. "Of course the Continent is all very well in its way," -she went on. "Switzerland in summer, and Monte Carlo in winter----" - -"Oh, Julia," interrupted Miss Jane quickly, "why do you talk about Monte -Carlo? We only stayed there forty-five minutes." - -"Well, I'm sure I wish we could have stayed there longer," laughed the -naughty Julia. "The sea was a dream, and the women's clothes were -revelations. But, as I was saying, England is, after all----" - -We all know what England is, after all. Still, it is always good to say -it and to hear it said. Thus, in the enumeration of England's advantages -and privileges a restful hour passed, until the neat maid, Barratt, came -to announce the arrival of other visitors. Mrs. Mulholland and her -daughter Kitty had driven round from Widford and came rustling across -the lawn in beflowered hats and lace veils. Fresh tea was made for them -and they brought a new note into the conversation. - -"Are you not thinking of taking a refugee?" asked Mrs. Mulholland. "The -Davidsons have got one." - -"The Davidsons have got one?" exclaimed Miss Marshall. - -"The Davidsons have got one?" echoed Miss Jane and Miss Julia Corry. - -"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Mulholland somewhat acidly. "And I am sure if -they can have one in their small house, you can; and we can." - -"Refugees are all the rage just now," remarked Kitty. "Everybody who is -anybody has them." - -"Yes, but the Davidsons ..." said Miss Marshall. "Surely they cannot -afford it." - -"They have dismissed their maid," explained Mrs. Mulholland, "and this -poor Belgian woman has to do all their housework." - -"Yes; and Molly Davidson says that she is really a countess," added -Kitty, "and that she makes the beds very badly." - -"Poor soul!" said Miss Jane. - -"I certainly think," continued Mrs. Mulholland, "that the Davidsons of -all people should not be putting on side with a foreign countess to make -their beds for them, while others who have good houses and decent -incomes simply look on. In fact," she added, "I have already written to -the Committee in Kingsway offering hospitality to a family of two or -three." - -"That is very generous of you," said Miss Jane; and Miss Julia shyly -patted the complacent white-gloved hands reposing in Mrs. Mulholland's -lap. - -"We had not thought of it ourselves, so far," said Miss Jane. "But if -it is our duty to help these unfortunates, we shall certainly do so." - -"Of course you will. You are such angels," exclaimed the impulsive -Kitty, throwing a muscular arm around Miss Jane's prim shoulders and -kissing her cheek. And Miss Jane liked it. - -"How does one set about it?" asked Miss Marshall; "I might find room for -one, too. In fact I should rather like it. The evenings are so lonely -and I used to love to speak French." - -Mrs. Mulholland, to whom she had turned, did not answer at once. Then -she replied drily: "You can write to the Refugee Committee or the -Belgian Consulate. The Davidsons got theirs from the Woman's Suffrage -League." - -Then there was a brief pause. - -"But I hear that the committee is frightfully particular," she went on. -"They don't send them just to any one who asks. One must give all sorts -of references. In fact," she added, with a chilly little laugh, "it is -almost as if one were asking for a situation oneself. They want to know -all about you." - -There was another brief silence, and then Mrs. Mulholland and Kitty took -their leave. - -To Miss Julia, who accompanied them to the gate, Mrs. Mulholland -remarked, "The idea! Miss Marshall wanting a refugee! With her past!" - -"What past?" inquired Miss Julia, wide-eyed and wondering. - -"Oh," snapped Mrs. Mulholland, tossing her head, and the white lace veil -floating round her sailor-hat waved playfully in the breeze, "when -people live abroad so long, there is always something behind it." - -She stepped into her motor, followed by the pink-faced, smiling Kitty, -and they drove away to pay some other calls. - -Miss Julia returned to the lawn with a puckered brow and a perturbed -heart. Neither she nor her sister had ever thought of Miss Lorena -Marshall's past; Miss Marshall did not convey the impression of having a -past--especially not a foreign past, which was associated in Jessie's -mind with ideas of the Moulin Rouge and Bal Tabarin. The neat black hat -sitting firmly on Miss Marshall's smooth pepper-and-salt hair could -never be a descendant of those naughty French _petits bonnets_ which are -flung over the mills in moments of youthful folly. Her sensible -square-toed boots firmly repelled the idea that the feet they encased -could ever have danced adown the flowery slopes of sin. - -"I do not believe a word of it," said Miss Julia to herself, and later -on to her sister. Miss Jane was indignant at the suggestion. "This -village is a hotbed of cats," she said cryptically; and when the vicar -looked in after dinner to discuss arrangements for a Church concert -they confided in him and asked his opinion. Had he known Miss Lorena -Marshall before she came to Maylands? Did he think she had a past--a -Continental past? - -The vicar thought the suggestions ridiculous and uncharitable. - -"Of course," said Miss Jane, toying with her favourite angora cat's ear -as he lay purring comfortably in her lap, "we are narrow-minded old -maids." The vicar made a deprecating gesture. "Yes, yes, we are. And we -like to be sure that our friendships are not misplaced." - -"We are narrow-minded old maids," echoed Miss Julia. The two Miss Corrys -always said that, partly in order to be contradicted and partly in that -curious spirit of humility which in the English heart so closely borders -on pride. For is not the acknowledgment of a certain kind of inferiority -a sign of unmistakable superiority? - -When we say we are a humdrum nation, when we say we are a dull and slow -and stodgy nation, do we not in our heart of hearts think that it would -be a good thing if other nations took an example from our very faults? - -Even so when Miss Corry said, "We are narrow-minded old maids"--she felt -with a little twinge of remorse that the statement was not altogether -sincere. Did she really, in her heart of hearts, think it narrow-minded -to abhor vulgarity, to shun coarseness, to shrink from all that might be -considered indecorous or unseemly? Then surely to be narrow-minded was -better than to be broad-minded, and she for one would certainly refuse -to change her views. Was narrow-mindedness mindedness nowadays not -almost a synonym for pure-mindedness? - -And--"old maids"! Did she really consider herself and her younger sister -old maids? Had they--just because they had chosen to remain -unmarried--any of the crotchety notions, the fantastic, ineradicable -habits that old maids usually get into? Did they go about with a parrot -on their shoulder like Miss Davis? Or dose themselves all day with -patent medicines, like the Honourable Harriet Fyle? Did they fret and -fuss over their food, or live in constant terror of draughts and -burglars? Certainly not. And--come now--did they really feel a day older -than when they were twenty-two and twenty-five respectively? Or did they -look any older?--except for their hair which, had they chosen, they -could easily have touched up with henne or Inecto? Were they not able to -do anything, to go anywhere? Were their hearts not as young, and fresh, -and ready for love if it happened to come their way, as Kitty -Mulholland's or Dolly Davidson's? Did not their elder brothers--the -parson and the Judge--always speak of them still as "the girls"? - -No. Miss Jane and Miss Julia Corry were not quite sincere when they -called themselves "narrow-minded old maids," and accordingly they had -qualms and conscience-pricks when they did so. - - * * * * * - -A week later the two sisters returned Mrs. Mulholland's call. They -fluttered into the large drawing room full of the subdued murmur of many -voices, and were greeted absent-mindedly by the busy hostess and -effusively by Kitty. The Davidsons were there, quite unsuitably attired -(remarked Miss Jane to Miss Julia; nobody wore satin at tea), and they -were explaining volubly to a group of ladies how it happened that their -Belgian countess-refugee had suddenly left them. - -"First of all, she was not a countess at all," explained Dolly Davidson. - -"And she was not even a Belgian," Mrs. Davidson added, in aggrieved -tones. "I cannot understand the W.S.L. sending her to us. Why she -confessed before she went away that she was a variety artist from Linz -and could only speak German and Czech. We always thought the language -she spoke was Flemish. It has been a most unpleasant affair." - -Every one was tacitly delighted. Mrs. Davidson had been giving herself -such airs of importance with her countess, and now it turned out that -she had been playing Lady Bountiful to an alien enemy from a Bohemian -Cafe Chantant. One would have to be super-human not to rejoice. "How did -you get rid of her?" asked one of the ladies, discreetly repressing her -smiles. - -"A villainous-looking man came to fetch her, late in the evening," said -poor Mrs. Davidson, blushing. "They made a frightful noise in the hall, -quarrelling or something." - -"Then they both went upstairs," piped up Dolly Davidson; and pointing to -her brother, a lumpish youth who at that moment had his mouth full of -cake. "We sent Reggy upstairs to tell them to go away at once. But Reggy -only looked through the keyhole and wouldn't come down again until -mother fetched him." - -"It isn't true," mumbled Reggy. - -"Finally we had to send for the police," said Mrs. Davidson, with tears -of mortification in her eyes. - -Mrs. Mulholland confessed that she felt rather nervous about her own -refugees who were expected at any moment. "I wish I could countermand -them," she said; but her sympathizing friends all agreed that having -asked for them she must keep them when they came. - -They arrived the following day--an uninteresting woman, with two torpid -boys and a thin girl of fifteen. - -The boys ate a great deal, and the girl was uncannily intelligent. -Since landing in England they had had it drummed into them that they -were heroes; they had been acclaimed with their compatriots as the -saviours of Europe; they had had speeches made to them apprising them of -the fact that the gratitude of all the world could never repay the debt -that civilization owed them. They therefore accepted as their due the -attentions and kindness shown them. They ate jam at all their meals and -asked for butter with their dinner; they drank red wine and put a great -deal of sugar in it; they complained that the coffee was not good. They -borrowed Mrs. Mulholland's seal-skin coat and Kitty's silk scarves when -they felt chilly, and they sat in the drawing-room writing letters or -looking at illustrated papers all day long. They spoke French in -undertones among themselves and accepted everything that was provided -for them without any undue display of gratitude. Had they not saved -Europe? Would Mrs. Mulholland still have a seal-skin coat to her back -but for Belgium? Had it not been for King Albert, would not the Uhlans -and the Death's Head hussars be sprawling on the Mulholland sofa, eating -the Mulholland jam, criticizing the Mulholland coffee? _Comment donc!_ - -And had they not themselves, in order to save Europe, given up their -home and their business--a stuffy little restaurant (_Au Boeuf a la -Mode, Epicerie, Commestibles_) down a dingy Brussels street? - -The restaurant soon became a Grand Hotel in their fond reminiscences. -_Le souvenir, cet embellisseur_, swept the sardine-tins, the candles, -the lemons, and the flies from its windows, built up a colonnaded front, -added three or four stories and filled them with rich and titled guests. - -"What was the name of your hotel?" inquired Mrs. Mulholland. "We stopped -in Brussels once on our way to Spa, and I remember that we stayed in a -most excellent hotel--The Britannique, or The Metropole, or something." - -"Tell them," said Mme. Pitou to her daughter Toinon who acted as -interpreter,--"tell them the name of our hotel--in English." - -"Restaurant to the Fashionable Beef," said Mademoiselle Pitou; and -Madame Pitou sighed and shook her head despondently. "Hotel," she -corrected, "not Restaurant. 'Hotel to the Fashionable Beef.' Toinon," -she added, "do ask these people to give us _potage aux poireaux_ this -evening, for I cannot and will not eat that black broth of false turtle -any more." - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -The craze for refugees cooled slightly in the neighbourhood after that. -The first rush of enthusiastic generosity abated, and when friends met -at knitting-parties and compared refugees there was a certain aegritude -on the part of those who had them, and a certain smiling superiority on -the part of those who had not. They were spoken of as if they were a -disease, like measles or mumps. - -"I hear that Lady Osmond has them," said Mrs. Mellon. - -"Has she really?" - -"Yes. And poor Mrs. Whitaker, too." - -"Mrs. Whitaker? You don't say so." - -"Yes, indeed. Mrs. Whitaker has them. And she feels it badly." - -"I will run over to see her," said the sympathetic Mrs. Mulholland. "I -am so fond of the dear soul." - -But that very afternoon Mrs. Whitaker herself called on Mrs. Mulholland, -at Park House. - -"How do you do, my poor dear Theresa?" began Mrs. Mulholland, taking -Mrs. Whitaker's hand and pressing it. "I hear----" - -"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Whitaker rather fretfully, drawing her hand away. -"Of course you have heard that I have them." There was a brief silence. -"I must confess I did not expect quite such dreary ones." - -"Dreary, are they?" exclaimed Mrs. Mulholland. "Is that all?" - -"It's bad enough," sighed Mrs. Whitaker. "You have no idea what they are -like. Three creatures that look as if they had stepped out of a -nightmare." - -But Mrs. Mulholland overflowed with her own grievances. "Do they borrow -your clothes and use all your letter-paper and order your dinners?" -asked Mrs. Mulholland, quivering with indignation. Her cook had just -given notice on account of Madame Pitou going into the kitchen and -making herself a _timbale de riz aux champignons_. - -"No. They don't do that. But they sit about and never speak and look -like ghosts," said Mrs. Whitaker. "When you have time you might drop in -and see them." - -"I think I'll run over with you now," said Mrs. Mulholland; "though I -don't for a moment believe they can be as bad as mine." - -She put on her garden-hat and her macintosh, told Kitty not to let the -Pitous do any cooking in the drawing-room, and went out with Mrs. -Whitaker. They took the short cut across the fields to Acacia Lodge. - -"What language do they speak?" asked Mrs. Mulholland, as she proceeded -with Mrs. Whitaker through the green garden-gate and down the drive. - -"They never speak at all," replied Mrs. Whitaker; "and I must say I had -looked forward to a little French conversation for Eva and Tom. That is -really what I got them for." - -They walked on under the chestnut-trees towards the house. Eva in trim -tennis attire and George in khaki came to meet them, running across the -lawn. - -"I've beaten George by six four," cried Eva, waving her racket. - -"That's because I let you," said her brother, shaking hands with Mrs. -Mulholland and allowing his mother to pat his brown cheek. - -"Handsome lad," murmured Mrs. Mulholland, and wished she had brought -Kitty with her, even though the Pitous should profit by her absence to -prepare their _tete-de-veau en poulette_ on the drawing-room fire. -"Where are ... _they_?" she added, dropping her voice and looking round. - -"I don't know," said Eva. "I have not seen them all the afternoon." - -"I have," said George. "They are in the shrubbery." - -"You might call them, dear boy," said his fond mother. - -"Not I," said George. - -"I will," said Eva, and ran down the flower-bordered path swinging her -racket. - -"Sweet girl," said Mrs. Mulholland, following Eva's slim silhouette with -benevolent eyes, and then gazing even more benevolently at George -Whitaker's stalwart figure. "She and my Kitty should really see -something more of each other." - -Mrs. Whitaker threw a penetrating glance at her friend's profile. -"Schemer," she murmured to herself. "Certainly," she said aloud. "As -soon as George goes to Aldershot I hope your dear daughter will often -come here." - -"Cat," reflected Mrs. Mulholland. And aloud she said, "How delightful -for both the dear girls!" - -George had sauntered with his long khaki limbs towards the shrubbery, -but Eva reappeared alone. - -"They won't come," she said. - -"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Mulholland. - -"Why not?" asked Mrs. Whitaker. - -"They don't want to," said Eva. "The tall one shook her head and said, -'_Merci_.'" - -"I am not surprised," laughed George, "considering they have been -exhibited to half the county within the last three days." - -"I'll fetch them myself," said Mrs. Whitaker sternly. Then she turned to -her son. "George, you who are half a Frenchman after your visit to -Montreux, do tell me--how do I say in French, 'I desire you all three -to come and be introduced to a very dear friend of mine?'" - -There was a brief silence; then George translated. "_Venny_," he said. - -"Is that all?" - -"Yes," said George. - -His mother was about to go when Mrs. Mulholland suggested: "Had we not -both of us better take a turn round the garden, and casually saunter -into the shrubbery?" - -"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Whitaker. - -And so they did. George followed them slowly, with Eva hanging on his -arm. She was very fond and proud of her soldier brother. - -They entered the shrubbery and saw seated upon a bench three figures -dressed in black, who rose to their feet at their hostess's approach. - -"Goodness gracious! how uncanny they look!" whispered Mrs. Mulholland, -and added, with a smile of half-incredulous pleasure, "I believe they -really are worse than mine." - -The three black figures stood silent and motionless, and Mrs. Mulholland -found herself gazing as if fascinated into the depths of three pairs of -startled, almost hallucinated eyes, fixed gloomily upon her. - -Mrs. Whitaker addressed them in English, speaking very loud with an idea -of making them understand her better. They seemed not to hear, they -certainly made no attempt to answer her amiable platitudes. - -Mrs. Mulholland, moved to something like pity by their stricken -appearance, put out her hand saying, "How do you do?" and two of them -laid their limp fingers in hers--the third, whom she now noticed was a -child although she wore a long black skirt, neither stirred nor removed -her stony gaze from her face. There was an embarrassing pause. Then Mrs. -Mulholland asked with a bright society smile-- - -"How do you like England?" - -No answer. - -"George, dear, ask them in French," said his mother. - -George stepped forward blushing through his tan. "Um ... er ..." he -cleared his throat. "_S'il vous plait Londres?_" he inquired timidly. - -He addressed the tallest, but she gazed at him vacantly, not -understanding. The little girl stood next to her--the large tragic eyes -in her small pale face still fixed on the unknown countenance of Mrs. -Mulholland. She conveyed the impression that she had not heard any one -speak. - -George, blushing deeper, turned towards the third ghost standing before -him, coughed again and repeated his question, "_S'il vous plait -Londres?_" - -Then a strange thing happened. The third ghost smiled. It was a real -smile, a gleaming smile, a smile with dimples. The ghost was suddenly -transformed into a girl. "_Merci. L'Angleterre nous plait beaucoup._" -That was in order not to hurt the "half Frenchman's" feelings. Then she -added in English, "London is very nice." - -"Oh," snapped the astonished Mrs. Whitaker, "you speak English?" and her -tone conveyed the impression that something belonging exclusively to her -had been taken and used without her permission. - -"A little," was the murmured reply. The smile had quickly died away; the -dimples had vanished. Under Mrs. Whitaker's scrutiny the girl faded into -a ghost again. The two ladies nodded and moved away. George and Eva, -after a moment's hesitation and embarrassment, followed them. - -"What strange, underhand behaviour!" commented Mrs. Whitaker; "never to -have told me she understood English until today." - -"I suppose they were trying to find out all your family concerns," said -Mrs. Mulholland. - -A word that sounded like "Bosh" proceeded from George, who had turned -his back and was walking into the house. - -"I think they were just dazed," explained Eva. "They look almost as if -they were walking in their sleep. I never even noticed until today that -they were all so young. Why, the little one is a mere kiddy;" she -twisted round on her heel. "I think I shall go back and talk to them," -she added. - -"No," said her mother. "You will stay here." - -That evening when Mr. Whitaker came back from the City his daughter had -much to tell him, and even the somewhat supercilious George took an -interest and joined in the conversation. - -"The ghosts have spoken, papa!" cried Eva, dancing round him in the -hall. Then as soon as he was in the drawing-room she made him sit down -in his armchair and kissed him on the top of his benevolent bald head. -"And--do you know?--they are really not ghosts at all; are they, -mother?" - -Mrs. Whitaker did not look up from her knitting. But her husband spoke. - -"They are the wife, the sister, and the daughter of a doctor," he said. -"At the Belgian Consulate I was told they were quite decent people. My -dear Theresa," he added, looking at his wife, "I think we ought to have -asked them to take their meals with us." - -"I did so," said Mrs. Whitaker, with some asperity. "I did so, although -they do look like scarecrows. But they say they prefer having their -meals by themselves." - -"Then you must respect their wishes," said Mr. Whitaker, opening a -commercial review. - -"Just fancy, Pops," said Eva, perching herself on the arm of her -father's chair, "the youngest one--the poor little creature with the -uncanny eyes--is deaf and dumb." - -"How sad!" said her father, caressing his daughter's soft hair. - -"Did her mother tell you so?" asked Mrs. Whitaker, looking up from the -grey scarf she was knitting. - -"No, not her mother," explained Eva; "the other one told me. The one -with the dimples, who speaks English. She is sweet!" cried the impulsive -Eva, and her father patted her hair again and smiled. - -"Her name is Sherry," remarked George. - -"Oh, George, you silly," exclaimed Eva. "You mean Cherie." - -"How do you know her name?" snapped Mrs. Whitaker, laying down her -knitting in her lap and fixing stern inquisitorial eyes upon her son. - -"She told me," said George, with a nonchalant air. - -"She told you!" said his mother. "I never knew you had any conversation -with those women." - -"It wasn't conversation," said George. "I met her in the garden and I -stopped her and said, 'What is your name?' and she answered, 'Sherry.' -That's all." - -"Queer name," said his father. - -"My dear Anselm, that is really not the point--" began Mrs. Whitaker, -but the dressing-gong sounded and they all promptly dispersed to their -rooms, so Anselm never knew what the point really was. - -After dinner Eva, as usual, went to the piano, opened it and lit the -candles, while her father sat in the dining-room with the folding-doors -thrown wide open, as he declared he could not enjoy his port or his pipe -without Eva's music. - -"What shall it be tonight, Paterkins?" Eva called out in her birdlike -voice. "Rachmaninoff?" - -"No. The thing you played yesterday," said her father, settling himself -comfortably in his armchair, while the neat maid quietly cleared the -table. - -"Why, that _was_ Rachmaninoff, my angel-dad," laughed Eva, and twisted -the music-stool to suit her height. - -George came close to her and bending down said something in an -undertone. - -"Good idea," said Eva. "Ask the mater." - -"You ask her," said George, sauntering into the adjoining room, where he -sat down beside his father and lit a cigarette. - -Eva went to her mother, and coaxed her into consenting to what she -asked. Then she ran out of the room and reappeared soon after, bringing -with her the three figures in black. As they hesitated on the threshold, -she slipped her arm through the arm of the reluctant "Sherry" and drew -her forward. "Do come!--_Venny!_" she said, and the three entered the -room. - -They were quite like ghosts again, with pale faces and staring eyes and -the rigid gait of sleep-walkers. - -They sat down silently in a row near the wall, and Eva went to the piano -and played. She played the Rachmaninoff "Prelude," and when she had -finished they neither moved nor spoke. She wandered off into the gentle -sadness of Godard's "Barcarole," and the three ghosts sat motionless. -Schumann's "Carnaval" did not cheer them, nor did the "Moonlight Sonata" -move them. When Eva at last closed the piano they rose, and the two -eldest, having silently bowed their thanks, they left the room, -conducting between them the little one, whose pallor seemed more -spectral and whose silence seemed even deeper than theirs. - -"Poor souls! poor souls!" growled Mr. Whitaker, clearing his throat and -knitting his brows. "Theresa, my dear," to his wife, "see that they lack -for nothing. And I hope the children are always very kind and -considerate in their behaviour to them. George," he added, turning what -he believed to be a beetling brow upon his handsome son, "I noticed that -you stared at them. Do not do so again. Grief is sensitive and prefers -to remain unnoticed." - -George mumbled that he hadn't stared and marched out of the room. Eva -put her arms round her father's neck and pressed on his cheek the loud, -childish kisses that he loved. - -"May I go and talk to them a little?" she asked, in a coaxing whisper. - -"Of course you may," said her father, and Eva ran out quickly, just as -her mother looked up to say, "What is it?" - -"I have sent Eva to talk to those unhappy creatures," said Mr. Whitaker. -"We must try and cheer them a little. It is nothing less than a duty. -Poor souls!" he repeated, "I have never seen anything so dismal." - -"I think we fulfil our duty in providing them with shelter and food," -said Mrs. Whitaker. - -"You think nothing of the kind, Theresa," said Mr. Whitaker. - -"I do," asserted his wife. "And as for Eva, she is already inclined to -be exaggeratedly sentimental in regard to these people. She is -constantly running after them with flowers and cups of tea." - -"Nice child," said her father, with a little tightening in his throat. - -"She is not a child, Anselm. She is nineteen. And I do not wish her to -have anything to do with those women." - -"Theresa?" said her husband, in a high questioning voice. "Theresa. Come -here." - -Mrs. Whitaker did not move. "Come here," he repeated in the threatening -and terrible tone that he sometimes used to the children and to his old -retriever Raven--a tone which frightened neither child nor beast. "Come -here." - -Mrs. Whitaker approached. "Sit down," he said, indicating a footstool -in front of him; and Mrs. Whitaker obeyed. "Now, wife," he said, "are -you growing hard and sour in your old age? Are you?" - -"Yes," said Mrs. Whitaker. "I am." - -"Ah," said Mr. Whitaker, "that's right. I knew you weren't." And he -laughed, and patted her cheek. - -This was not the answer Mrs. Whitaker was prepared for and she had -nothing ready to say. So the wily Mr. Whitaker went on, "I have noticed -lately in you certain assumed asperities, a certain simulated -acrimony.... Now, Theresa, tell me; what does this make-believe bad -temper mean?" - -Mrs. Whitaker felt that she could weep with rage. What is the good of -having a bad temper when it is not believed in? Of what use is it to be -sore and sour, to feel bitter and hard, in the face of smiling -incredulity? - -"With other people, my dear," continued Mr. Whitaker, "you may pretend -that you are disagreeable and irascible, but not with me. I know -better." - -This simple strategy had proved perfectly successful for twenty years -and it answered today, as it always did. - -"I _am_ disagreeable, I _am_ irascible, I _am_ bitter, and hard, and -cross," said Mrs. Whitaker, whereupon Mr. Whitaker closed his eyes, -smiled and shook his head. - -"Don't keep on shaking your head like a Chinese toy," she added. -"Anselm, you really are the stupidest man I have ever seen." And then -she laughed. "It is dreadful," she added, putting aside the hand he had -laid on her shoulder, "not to be believed when one is cross, not to be -feared when one is angry. It makes one feel so helpless." - -"You may be helpless," he said; "womanly women mostly are. But you are -never cross and you are never angry. So don't pretend to be." - -Now Mrs. Whitaker was tall and large and square; she was strong-minded -and strong-featured; she was what you would call a "capable woman"--and -none but her own inmost soul knew the melting joy that overcame her at -being told that she was helpless. She raised her hand to the hand that -lay on her shoulder again, and patted it. She bent her head sideways and -laid her cheek upon it. - -"Now, what's the trouble?" said her husband. - -"The trouble ... I can hardly express it," she spoke hesitantly, "either -to myself or to you. Anselm!" she turned her eyes to him suddenly, the -eyes full of blueness and temper and courage he had fallen in love with -in Dublin long ago. "I hate those three miserable women," she said. "I -hate them." - -"What!" cried her husband, drawing his hand away from hers. - -"I fear them, and I hate them!" she repeated. - -"What have they done?" - -"They have done nothing," said his wife, with drooping head and downcast -eyes. "But I cannot help it. I hate and fear them ... for the children's -sake." - -"What do you mean?" Mr. Whitaker was sitting very straight. The thin -soft hair still crowning his brow was ruffled. - -"The mystery that surrounds them frightens me," said Mrs. Whitaker. "I -don't know where they come from, what they have seen, what they have -lived through. I should like to be kind to them, I should like to -encourage the children to cheer them and speak to them. But there is -something ... something in their eyes that repels me, something that -makes me want to draw Eva away from them. I cannot express it. I don't -know what it is." - -There was a brief silence. Then her husband spoke. "A woman's instinct -in these things is right, I suppose. But to me it sounds uncharitable -and cruel." - -Mrs. Whitaker rose to her feet, her face flushing painfully. "Are we -called upon to sacrifice our daughter's purity of mind, her ignorance of -evil, to these strangers? Is it our duty to encourage an intercourse -which will tear the veil of innocence from her eyes?" - -"I am afraid so," said Mr. Whitaker gravely. "How can our daughter have -pity on human suffering while she does not know its meaning? True -charity, Theresa, cannot be blind; compassion must know the ills it -tries to heal. My dear, we are face to face with one of the -problems--one of the minor problems perhaps, but still a very real -problem--which this ghastly war has raised. Think for a moment, Theresa; -how can our girls, who are called upon to nurse the wounded in body, and -comfort the stricken in soul, live in the midst of puerile ignorance any -longer? Painful though it may be, the veil you speak of, the white veil -that hides from a maiden's eyes the sins and sorrows of life, must be -rent asunder." - -"It is cruel! it is cruel!" cried the mother. - -"Yes. War is cruel. And life is cruel. But do not let us--you and I--add -to the cruelty of the world. If our daughter must learn to know evil in -order to be merciful, then let innocence die in her young heart, in -order that pity which is nobler, may be born." There was a long silence. - -Then Mrs. Whitaker raised her husband's hand to her lips and kissed it. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Eva had gone upstairs to the schoolroom, now transformed into a -sitting-room for the refugees, and had knocked softly at the door. - -No one answered and she stood for a moment irresolute. Then the sound of -a sobbing voice fell on her ear, "Mireille! Mireille!" ... The despair -of it wrung her heart. With sudden resolve she turned the handle and -went in. - -Under the green-shaded electric light a picture almost biblical in its -poetic tragedy presented itself to her eyes. The youngest of the -refugees, the child, with her long hair loosened--and it fell like -golden water on either side of her white face--stood motionless as a -statue under the lamp-shine, gazing straight before her, straight, -indeed, into the eyes of Eva as she halted spell-bound on the threshold. -Kneeling at the child's feet, with her back to the door, was the eldest -one of the three, her long black garments spreading round her, her arms -stretched upwards in a despairing embrace of that motionless childish -figure; her head was thrown forward on her arm and it was her sobbing -voice that Eva had heard. Standing beside her holding a little golden -crucifix in her clasped and upraised hands, stood the other girl--the -girl who had smiled--and she was praying: "_Sainte Vierge, aidez-nous! -Mere de Dieu, faites le miracle!_" Unmoved, unseeing, unhearing the -little girl they were praying for stood like a statue, her wide, -unseeing eyes fixed before her as in a trance. - -With sorrow and pity throbbing in her heart Eva slipped back into the -passage again, closing the door softly behind her. After a moment's -uncertainty she knocked at the door once more, this time more loudly. A -voice answered timidly, "_Entrez_." - -They were all three standing now, but the tears still fell down the -cheeks of the eldest one, who had quickly risen from her knees. - -"May I come in?" asked Eva timidly. "I thought I should like to come and -talk with you a little." - -The second one, who understood English, came forward at once with a wan -and grateful smile. "Thank you. Please come," she said. And Eva entered -and closed the door. - -There was a pause; then Eva put out her hand shyly and stiffly to the -eldest one; "Don't cry," she said. - -Surely no other words so effectively open the flood-gates of tears! Even -though they were spoken in a tongue foreign to her, the stricken woman -understood them and her tears flowed anew. - -"_Loulou, Loulou, ne pleure pas!_" cried the younger girl, and turning -to Eva she explained: "She cries because of her child"--she pointed to -the little spectre--"who will not speak to her." - -"Is she really dumb?" asked Eva, in awed tones, gazing at the seraphic -little face, dazed and colourless as a washed-out fresco of Frate -Angelico. - -"We do not know. She has not spoken for more than a month." The girl's -gentle voice broke in a sob. "She does not seem to know us or to hear -us." She went over to the child and caressed her cheek. "_Mireille, -petite Mireille! dis bonsoir a la jolie dame!_" - -But Mireille was silent, staring with her vacant eyes at what no one -could see. - -Eva stepped forward, trembling a little, and took the child's limp hand -in hers. "Mireille," she said. The blue eyes were turned full upon her -for an instant, then they wavered and wandered away. "What has happened -to her? What made her like this?" asked Eva, in a low voice. - -"Fear," replied the girl, her lips tightening. And she said no more. - -"Fear of what?" insisted Eva, with the unconscious cruelty of youth and -kindness. - -"The Germans came to our house," faltered the girl; "they ... they -frightened her." Again her quivering lips closed tightly; a wave of -crimson flooded her delicate face. Then the colour faded quickly, -leaving behind it a waxen pallor and a deep shadow round her eyes. - -"Were they unkind to her? Did they hurt her?" gasped Eva, and for the -first time, as she gazed at that motionless child figure, her startled -soul seemed to realize the meaning of war. - -"No; they did not hurt her. They did nothing to her. But she was -frightened" ... her arm went round the child's drooping shoulders, "and -because she cried they ... they bound her ... to an iron railing...." - -"They bound her to an iron railing!... How cruel, how wicked!" cried -Eva. - -"Yes, they were cruel," said the girl, and a terrified look came into -her eyes. She moved back a little, nearer to the other woman, the tall -black figure that stood silent, looking down at the glowing embers of -the fire. She had neither moved nor spoken since Eva had entered the -room. - -Eva continued her questioning. - -"And were you frightened, too?" - -"Yes. I was frightened." - -"What did you do? Did you run away?" - -"I don't know. I don't remember. I don't remember anything." - -Such terror and anguish was there in the lovely girlish face, that Eva -dared to ask no more. - -"Forgive me," she stammered; "I ought not to have made you speak about -it. Forgive me--Mademoiselle." She placed her hand timidly on the girl's -arm. "Or may I call you 'Cherie'?" - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -The mild September days swung past; the peaceful English atmosphere and -the wholesome English food, added to the unobtrusive English -kindness--which consists mainly in leaving people alone and pretending -not to notice their existence--wrought gentle miracles on the three -stricken creatures. - -Not that Mireille found speech again, but Louise watched day by day with -beating heart the return of the tender wild-rose colour to her child's -thin cheeks, and saw the strange fixed expression of terror gradually -fade out of her eyes. - -Mireille never wept and never smiled; she seemed to wander in the shadow -of life, mute, quiet, and at peace. - -But life and joy came throbbing back to Cherie's young heart, in -fluttering smiles and little trills of laughter, in soft flushes and -quick, light-running steps. Louise, seated by Mireille at the schoolroom -window, would let her work sink on her lap to watch the girlish slender -figure of her sister-in-law darting to and fro on the tennis-lawn; she -would listen amazed to the sweet voice that had so quickly attuned -itself to English words and English laughter. And her soul was filled -with wonder. How--how had Cherie so quickly forgotten? Had she no -thought for brother and lover fighting on the blood-drenched plains of -Ypres? How could she play and talk and laugh while there was no news -from Claude or from Florian? While they might even now be lying -dead--dead with upturned faces, under the distant Belgian sky! And how, -ah! how could she have forgotten what befell, on that night of horror -but a few short weeks ago? - -As if some subtle heart-throb warned her, Cherie would turn suddenly and -gaze up at the two pale faces framed in the window beneath the red and -gold leaves of the autumnal creeper. Then she would fling down her -racket and, leaving Eva and Kitty Mulholland and George--who were often -her partners in the game--without a word, she would run into the house -and up to the schoolroom and fling herself at Louise's feet in a storm -of tears. - -"Mireille!... Florian!... Claude!" The beloved names were sobbed out in -accents of despair, and Louise must needs comfort her as best she could, -smoothing the tumbled locks, kissing the flushed, wet face, and finally -herself leading her out into the garden again. Mireille went lightly and -silently beside them, like a pale seraph walking in her sleep. - -It was not only to console Cherie that Louise smiled in those first -days of exile. Hope, like a shy bird, had entered into her heart. - -There was better news from the Continent; all Europe had taken up arms -and was fighting for them and with them. There had been the glorious -tidings of the battle of the Marne. Then one day Florian had sent a -message. - -It appeared on the front page of _The Times_, and Mr. Whitaker himself -went up with it to the schoolroom, followed by Mrs. Whitaker, Eva and -George. Florian said he was safe, and was in touch with Claude. He gave -an address for them to write to if this message caught their eye. - -Louise and Cherie embraced each other with tears of joy. Claude and -Florian were safe! Safe! And would one day come over to England to fetch -them. Perhaps in a month or two the war would be over. - -Louise dreamt every night of Claude's return. She pictured his arrival, -the sound of his footsteps in the garden, his voice in the hall--then -his strong arms around her.... Ah! but then he would see Mireille! He -would ask what had happened--he would have to be told.... - -No! No! Mireille must be healed before he arrives. He must never -know--Never! She need not tell him. She must not tell him. - -Or must she? - -It became an obsession. Must she tell him? Why, why must she tell him? -Why break his heart? No; he need never know--never! Mireille must be -healed before he arrives. Mireille must be taught to speak and smile -again. Mireille must find again the dear shrill voice of her childhood, -the sweet piercing treble laughter with which to welcome his return. The -laughter and the voice of Mireille! Where were they? - -Had the Holy Saints got them in their keeping? - -Louise fell on her knees a hundred times a day and prayed to God and to -the Virgin Mary and to the Saints to give back to Mireille her voice. -Perhaps Saint Agnes would help her? Or little Saint Philomena, who both -were martyred in their thirteenth year. Or if not, surely there was -Saint Anthony of Padua who would restore Mireille's voice to her. He was -the Saint who found and gave back what one had lost. And to Saint -Anthony she prayed, in hope and faith for many days; in anguish and -despair for many weeks.... Then, suddenly, she prayed no more. - -From one day to another her gentle face changed. The soft lines seemed -suddenly to be carved out of stone. When she sat alone face to face with -Mireille their eyes would gaze into each other with the same fixity and -stupefaction; but while the gaze of the child was clear and vacant, the -eyes of the mother were wild and wide with some dark horror and -despair. Fear--fear--the mad affrightment of a lost spirit haunted her, -and with the dawn of each new day seemed to take deeper root in her -being, seemed to rise from ever profounder depths of woe and horror. - -"Loulou! dearest! What is the matter? Are you ill?" Cherie asked her one -morning, noting her lagging footsteps and her deathly pallor. - -"No, darling, no," said Louise. "But--you?" She asked the question -suddenly, turning and fixing her burning eyes on the girl's face. - -"I? Why do you ask me?" smiled Cherie, surprised. - -"Are you well?" insisted Louise. "The English boy told me"--Louise -seemed hardly able to speak--"that the other day--you fainted." - -"Oh!" Cherie laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "How silly of him to -tell you. It was nothing. They were teaching me to play hockey ... and -suddenly I was giddy and I stumbled and fell. I am often giddy and sick. -It is nothing. I believe I am a little anaemic. But I really am quite -well. Really, really!" she repeated laughing and embracing Loulou. "I am -always as hungry as a wolf!" - -And she danced away to find "Monsieur George" and scold him for telling -tales. - -Louise's eyes followed her with a deep and questioning gaze. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -The Curate of Lindfield had arranged a Benefit Concert for the refugees. -It was to be held in the schoolhouse on the last Saturday in September, -and the proceeds were to be divided among the Belgian refugees of the -neighbourhood, to whom also complimentary tickets were sent. The two -front rows of seats were reserved exclusively for them. - -For weeks past the excitement among the amateur performers who had -offered their services had been intense. Miss Snelgrove, the Whitakers' -nearest neighbour, who was going to sing "Pur dicesti" and "Little Grey -Home in the West," had been alternately gargling and practising all day, -until it was often hard to make out which of the two she was actually -doing. - -Finally her throat became so sore that Mrs. Mellon, of "The Grange," had -to be asked to sing in her stead. - -Mrs. Mellon, stout and good-tempered, said she would do anything for -charity; so the "Habanera" from "Carmen" was put on the program instead -of "Pur dicesti" and the "Little Grey Home"; and Mrs. Mellon heroically -untrimmed her best hat, so as to have the red velvet rose which adorned -it to wear in her hair. - -"But surely," said Miss Snelgrove, who had magnanimously gone to see her -on the eve of the concert to ask how her throat felt--she herself spoke -in a hoarse whisper--"surely you are not going to sing Carmen in -costume, are you?" - -"No, not exactly in costume," said Mrs. Mellon, trying the rose first -over the left temple and then under her right ear, "but I think the -dress ought to be suited to the song; don't you? I have had my black -lace shortened, and have added a touch of colour ... here and there...." -Mrs. Mellon indicated her ample bosom and her portly hips. "A scarlet -sash, and the red rose in my hair will be quite effective. I _had_ -thought of having a cigarette in my hand--as Carmen, you know--but Mr. -Mellon and the vicar thought better not. - - "L'amour est enfant de Bohem-ah, - "See tew ne maim pah, je t'aim-ah".... - -she warbled in her rich padded contralto, and the envious Miss Snelgrove -felt her own small, scratchy soprano contract painfully in her -overworked throat. - -George Whitaker was to perform a few conjuring tricks which he had -learned from a book called _Magic in the Home_. He had performed them -innumerable times in the family circle, with great adroitness and -success; but when the evening of the concert came round he vowed he -would not be able to do anything. - -"I know I shall make an ass of myself," he said repeatedly to every one, -and nobody had time to contradict him. About an hour before they were to -start he stood with Cherie in the hall, waiting for the others. - -Cherie was wearing a white muslin gown of Eva's, which George knew very -well, and which made him feel almost brotherly towards her. Mrs. -Whitaker and Eva were still upstairs dressing, and Loulou had gone to -put Mireille to bed, telling the maid in anxious maternal English to -"wake on her, is it not?" - -"I know I shall make an ass of myself," repeated George. "My hands are -quite clammy." - -"What a pity!" sighed Cherie sympathetically, shaking her comely head. - -"Most awfully clammy. Just feel them," said George, stretching out to -her a large brown hand. - -"I can see that they are," said Cherie. - -"Oh, but just feel," said George. - -Cherie cautiously touched his palm with the tip of one finger. "Most -clammy indeed," she said; and George laughed; and Cherie laughed too. - -"Besides," said the conjuror, "I am nervous. I positively am. Heart -thumping and all that kind of thing." - -"Dear, dear," said Cherie. - -George sighed deeply and repeated, "I know I shall make a hash of -things." - -He did. - -His was the first number of the program, and when he appeared he was -greeted with prolonged and enthusiastic applause. Things bulged in his -back and things dropped out of his sleeves; objects he should not have -had popped out of his pocket and rolled under the piano; flags appeared -and unfurled themselves long before they should have done so and in -parts of his person where flags are not usually seen. - -His mother sat bathed in a cold sweat as he fumbled and bungled, and Eva -kept her eyes tightly shut and prayed that it might finish soon. But it -did not. The flags, which should have been the crowning patriotic finale -of his performance, having appeared in the beginning of it, there seemed -to the agonized George to be nothing to finish with and no way of -finishing. He went on and on, stammering and swallowing with a dry -palate, clutching a hat, a handkerchief, and an egg, and wondering what -on earth he was going to do with them. - -Cherie had watched him solemnly enough in the beginning, but when he -caught her eye and dropped the egg something seemed to leap into her -throat and strangle her. When a tennis-ball dropped from his sleeve and -he had to crawl after it under the grand piano while the Union Jack -hidden up his back slowly unfurled itself behind him, she felt that she -must laugh or die. - -She laughed; she laughed, hiding her face in her hands, her forehead and -neck crimson, her slim shoulders heaving, while Loulou nudged her -fiercely and whispered, "_Ne ris pas!_" - -George, returning from under the piano caught sight of that small, -shaking figure in the front row; his hands grew clammier, his throat -drier. - -At last the curate, to end the painful performance, started applauding -in the wings, and the abashed conjurer turned and walked quickly -away--with a rabbit peering out of his coat-tail pocket. - -In the wings he met the curate, who tried to comfort him. "Don't you -mind. It wasn't so bad!" he said genially, clapping George on the back. -"That silly girl laughing in the front row put you out." - -"Not at all, not at all," declared George. "It was that beastly egg. -Besides," he added, "everybody ought to have laughed. I wanted them to -laugh. It was intended to be a funny number." - -"Oh, was it?" said the curate, somewhat sourly. "You should have -announced that on the program. Nobody would have thought it to look at -you." - -But the next number was already beginning. Mrs. Mellon was on the -platform clasping a fan in her gloved hands. The gloves were tight and -white and short, and so were her sleeves, and between the two a portion -of red and powerful elbow was disclosed. The rose was in her hair, the -sash round her waist, her eyes flashed with impassioned Spanish -vivacity. At the piano the timid, short-sighted Mr. Mellon took his -seat, after a good deal of adjustment of the creaky piano-stool. - -No sooner had he nervously started the first notes of the introductory -bars than Mrs. Mellon's loud contralto burst from her, and with hand on -hip, she informed the audience in French that love was a rebellious -bird. - -Mr. Mellon, who still had three bars of introduction to play, floundered -on awhile, then turned a bewildered face to his wife and stopped -playing. There followed a brief low-voiced discussion as to who was -wrong--she asking him angrily why he did not go on, and he murmuring -that she ought to have waited four bars. Then they began again; and once -more Mrs. Mellon told every one that love was a rebellious bird. With -Latin fervour, with much heaving of breast and flashing of eye, she -declared, "_Si tew ne m'aim-ah pas--je t'aim-ah_," and the warning, "_Si -je t'aim-ah prends garde a toe-ah_" seemed to acquire a real and very -terrifying significance. - -Again Cherie, who had listened with becoming seriousness to the opening -bars, was seized with a fit of spasmodic laughter. The agitated Mrs. -Mellon telling every one to beware of her love seemed to her to be the -most ludicrous thing she had ever heard; and she bowed her face in her -hands and rocked to and fro with little gasps of hysterical laughter. - -Louise glanced at her and then at Mrs. Mellon; and then she, too, was -caught by the horrible infection. Biting her lips and with quivering -nostrils, she sat rigid and upright, staring at the platform, but her -shoulders shook and the tears rolled down her face, which was crimson -with silent laughter. - -Mrs. Mellon must have seen it--were the culprits not in the first -row?--and she looked disdainfully away from them; but her song grew -fiercer and fiercer, her notes grew louder and higher as she soared away -from the pitch and left poor Mr. Mellon tinkling away in the original -key, about three semitones below. - -The other refugees, sitting on either side of Cherie and Louise, turned -and looked at them; the Pitou children began to giggle but were quickly -pinched back into seriousness by their mother. - -The next number on the program was a dance; a somewhat modified Salome -dance, performed by Miss Price. - -When Miss Price ran coyly in with bare legs and feet, and a few Oriental -jewels jingling round her scantily draped form, even Madame Pitou gave -way completely, and had to let the little Pitous laugh as they would, -while she, with her face hid behind her handkerchief, gasped and choked -and gurgled. The convulsive hilarity soon gained all the refugees. Every -posture of Miss Price, her every gesture, every waggle of her limbs, -every glimpse of the soles of her feet--somewhat soiled by contact with -the stage carpet--made all the occupants of the two front rows rock and -moan with laughter. Those immediately behind them noticed it. Then -others; it was whispered through the hall that the refugees were -laughing. Soon the entire audience was craning its neck to look at the -unworthy, thankless foreigners for whose benefit the entertainment had -been arranged, and who were rudely and stupidly laughing like two rows -of lunatics. - -The unwitting Miss Price was just rising from an attitude of genuflexion -with a rapturous smile and two black marks on her knees, when she caught -sight of the Pitou boy writhing with silent merriment at the end of the -first row. Her eye wandered along that row and the next one and she saw -all the bowed and quivering figures, the flushed faces hidden in -handkerchiefs, and the heaving shoulders. - -Casting upon them a glance of ineffable disdain she walked haughtily -with her bare legs into the wings. Mr. Mellon rippled on at the piano -for a little while, then he, too, stopped and hurried off the stage at -the nearest exit. - -Behind the scenes the artists were assembled in an indignation-meeting. -There were eleven numbers still to come, but no one would go on. It was -proposed that the curate should go out and make a short but cutting -speech; and he went half-way out and then came back again, not having -anything ready to say. Besides the sight of the refugees still convulsed -with laughter upset him. For their part his appearance and disappearance -did nothing to allay their condition, now bordering on collective -hysteria. - -Finally, after rapid consultation in the wings, the good-natured Miss -Johnson was prevailed upon to go out and sing the "Merry Pipes of Pan." -She was not nervous and did not care whether the silly refugees laughed -or not. - -When she stepped out she saw that Mr. Mellon was not there to accompany -her, so after a long wait she went off into the wings on one side, just -as Mr. Mellon--wiping his mouth after a hasty refreshment--came hurrying -in on the other. - -Miss Johnson had to be coaxed and driven and pushed out again, and this -so flustered her that she forgot most of her words and had to make a -series of inarticulate sounds until she came to the refrain. - -Here she felt safe. - - "Then follow the mipes," - -she warbled, - - "The perry mipes----" - -There seemed to be something wrong with the words, but she could not get -them right - - "Yet, the perry perry mipes of Pan!" - -"Gracious goodness," murmured the husky Miss Snelgrove to Mrs. Whitaker, -who sat near her, "what a strident voice!" - -"Yes," assented Mrs. Whitaker. "And what _are_ the 'perrimipes,' I -wonder?" - - * * * * * - -There was no denying it. The concert was a fiasco. Owing to the -execrable behaviour of the refugees and the contagion of their senseless -laughter, a kind of hysteria gained the hall and half the audience was -soon in a condition of brainless and uncontrollable hilarity. - -Every new number was greeted with suffocated giggles, sometimes even -with screams of laughter from the younger portion of the audience. - -The curate--who had himself been found holding both his sides in one of -the empty schoolrooms--made a caustic speech at the close of the -performance about "our well-meant efforts, our perchance too modest -talents," having appealed mainly to the risible faculties of their -foreign guests, and he had pleasure in stating that the sum collected -was eighteen pounds seven shillings and sixpence. - -The refugees slunk home and were treated like pariahs for many weeks -afterwards; while the word "Concert" was not pronounced for months in -the homes of Mrs. Mellon, of Miss Johnson, or of Miss Price. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -CHERIE'S DIARY - - -Loulou is ill, and I am very anxious about her. It must be the English -climate perhaps, for I also do not feel as I used to feel in Bomal. I -often am deathly sick, and faint and giddy; I cannot bear the sight of -things and of people that before I did not mind, or even liked. Certain -puddings, for instance, and all kinds of dishes which I thought so -extraordinarily nice to eat when we first came here, now I cannot bear -to see them when they are brought on the table. Something makes me grind -my teeth and I feel as if I must get up and run out of the room. And I -have the same inexplicable aversion to people; for instance the nice -kind Monsieur George Whitaker--I cannot say what I feel when he comes -near to me; a sort of shuddering terror that makes me turn away so as -not to see him. I cannot bear to look at his strong brown hands with the -little short fair hairs on his wrist. I cannot look at his clear grey -eyes, or at his mouth which always laughs, or at his broad shoulders, or -anything.... There is something in me that shrinks and shudders away -from the sight of him. Have the sorrows and troubles we have passed -through unhinged my reason?... - -But to return to Louise. I thought that what made her look so pale and -wild was the anxiety of not hearing from Claude; but since his first -dear letter ten days ago telling us that he is safe, she seems even -worse than before. It is true he has been wounded; but that is almost a -blessing, for the wound is not serious and yet it will keep him safely -in the hospital at Dunkirk for months to come. He may remain slightly -lame as he has been shot in the knee, but that does not matter, and he -says his health is perfect. - -Of course I thought Loulou would start at once to go and visit him, as -she can get permission to see him and he has sent her plenty of money -for the journey; but she will not hear of it. She only weeps and raves -when I speak of it; and I do not think she ever sleeps at night. I can -hear her in her room, which is next to mine, moaning and whispering and -praying whenever I wake up. I have asked her why, why she will not go to -see Claude--ah, if only I knew where to find Florian, how I should fly -to his side!--but she shakes her head and weeps and her eyes are full of -terror and madness. I ask her, "Is it because of Mireille? Are you -afraid of telling him about her?" "Yes, yes, yes," she cries. "I am -afraid, afraid of telling him what has made her as she is." - -"But, Loulou, dearest, what do you mean? Was it not her fear that the -Germans would kill us that took away her speech? Why should you not tell -Claude? He would comfort you. He knows the Germans were in Bomal! He -knows that they ransacked our house, that they killed Monsieur le Cure -and poor Andre...." - -"Yes, he knows that," answers Louise slowly with her eyes fixed on mine. -"But he does not know----" - -Then she is silent. - -"What does he not know?" - -She grasps my shoulders. "Cherie, Cherie. Are you demented? Have you -forgotten--have you forgotten?" - -Forgotten!... In truth, I have forgotten many things. There are gaps in -my memory, wide blank spaces that, no matter how I try to remember, I -cannot fill. Now and then something flashes into those blank spaces, a -fleeting recollection, a transient vision, then the blankness closes -down again and when I try to remember what I have remembered, it is -gone. - -I ask Louise to tell me what she means, to tell me what I have -forgotten; but she only stares at me with those horror-haunted eyes and -whispers, "Hush! hush, my poor Cherie!" Then she places her cold hand on -my lips as if to close them. - -I will try to remember. I will write down in this book all that remains -in my memory of those terrible days and nights when we fled from home; -when we hid starving and trembling in the woods, and saw through the -trees our church-tower burn like a torch, saw it list over and crash -down in a cloud of smoke and flame; when, crouching in a ditch, we heard -the Uhlans gallop past us and saw them drag two little boys, Cesar and -Emile Duroc, out of their hiding-places in the bushes only a few yards -from us. - -We saw them--we saw them!--crush the children's feet with the butts of -their rifles, and then taunt them, telling them to "run away!" I can see -them now--two of the men standing behind the children, holding them -upright by their small shoulders, while a third beat and crunched and -ground their feet into the earth.... - - * * * * * - -But stay ... the wide blank spaces in my brain go back much further than -that. - -What is it that Louise says I have forgotten? Let me try to remember. -Let me try to remember. - -I will go back to the evening of my birthday. August the fourth. Our -friends come. We dance. - - Sur le pont - D'Avignon - On y danse, on y danse.... - -Then Florian arrives--and goes. The last thing I see clearly--distinct -and clear-cut as a haut-relief carved upon my brain--is Florian, -turning at the end of the road to wave his hand to me. Then he is gone. -I remain standing on the verandah, alone; I can see the row of pink and -white carnations in their pots at my feet; Louise's favourite malmaisons -fill the air with perfume, and the large white daisies among them gleam -like stars in the grey-green twilight; I am wearing my white dress and -the sea-blue scarf Louise has given me that morning. Then little -Mireille's laughing voice calls me; they all come running out to fetch -me, Lucile and Cri-cri, Verveine, Cecile and Jeannette.... - -Then, suddenly--the gun! the thud and roll of that first distant gun!... - -The children have fled, pale, trembling, whispering to their homes, and -we are left alone in the house; alone, Louise, Mireille and I, because -Frieda and Fritz--wait! what do I remember about Fritz? That he is -throwing our gate open to the enemy--no; it is something else ... -something that frightens me more than that--but I cannot remember. I see -Fritz laughing. Whenever I remember Fritz I see him laughing. He is -leaning against a door ... there is a curtain.... I seem to see a red -curtain swaying beside him and he is laughing with his head thrown back. -What is he laughing at?... At me? What is happening that he should laugh -at me? The blank closes round Fritz. He has vanished. I cannot hold -him. It is as if he were made of mist. - -But--before that; what do I remember before that?... - -The guns are thundering, the windows shake ... a huge sheaf of flame -rises up into the sky. There is a roar, an explosion; it is as if the -world were crashing to pieces. - -Then soldiers fill the house; officers take possession of our -rooms--their coats and belts are on our chairs, their helmets are flung -on the piano. There is a tall man with very light eyes.... - -A tall man with very light eyes.... - -Let me try to remember. - -They order us about; they make Louise cry. One of them is wounded in the -arm--I see it bleeding on the wet cotton-wool that Louise is binding -round it--Now the blank comes.... I feel it coming down like a white -cloud on my brain. Lift it, oh, holy Mother, lift it and let me -remember! - -There are two of the men near me; they blow their cigarette-smoke in my -face; they want me to drink out of their glasses.... I weep ... I will -not. They laugh and force me to drink. _Eins, zwei, drei!_--they -threaten me with I know not what--the light eyes of one of them are -close to mine ... impelling me, forcing me.... I am frightened, and I -drink. Then they sing and clink their glasses together. I stand between -them, and they make me drink again--cool frothing champagne and hot -burning brandy--until I am so giddy that the floor heaves under my feet. - -I cry and cry. I call Louise ... she is gone from the room. I see -Mireille crouching in a corner staring at me, white and terrified. I -call her--"Mireille! Mireille!" She springs up and rushes to me, she -screams like a maddened animal, and the light-eyed man catches her by -the wrists and laughs. The other man--one of the other men, I don't know -how many there are--one who has red hair and has been reciting something -in German, lies down on the sofa and goes to sleep. But another one--I -remember his round face, I remember that the others were angry with him -and called him names--he comes near to me and says something quickly in -my ear. I am not afraid of him ... I know he is trying to help me ... -but I am so sick and giddy that I do not understand what he says. He -pushes me towards the door. He says in German: "_Geh! Geh! Mach' dass du -fort kommst!_" and again he pushes me toward the door. But I turn to see -what is being done to Mireille. She has a broken glass in her hand and -she is trying to strike the tall officer in the face with it, as if she -were trying to strike at his light eyes and put them out. There is a -streak of blood on his chin but he is still laughing. He snatches up my -blue scarf which is lying on the floor and he ties Mireille's hands -behind her back with it. Then he winds it round and round her until she -cannot move. Wait--wait--let me remember!... Then he takes one of the -leather belts that are on the chair and he straps her to the -railing--the wrought-iron railing that ends the short flight of steps -that lead to the drawing-room. I see him lifting her up those three -shallow steps, I see him kick over the china flower-pot on the top step -in order to get nearer to the iron banister, I see him fasten her to it -with the leather strap.... Her little wild face is turned towards me, -her hands are tied behind her back. I hear what he says in German--he is -laughing and laughing--"_Da bleibst du ... und schaust zu!_" Is he going -to kill her? "_Schau nur zu! Schau nur zu_," he repeats. What does he -mean? Is he going to kill me--to kill me before her eyes? - -He comes toward me ... (the white cloud is coming over my brain again). -I see the other officer--the one with the round face, the one who had -tried to push me to the door--Glotz! yes, Glotz, that was his name--I -see him dart forward and catch hold of the other man's arms--stopping -him--keeping him away from me. I rush to Mireille and try to drag her -away from the railing, to free her ... I cannot. My fingers have no -strength. She is crying and moaning. I hear Glotz shouting again to me -in German--"Get away--get away!" He is struggling with the tall man to -give me time to escape. I stumble up the stairs screaming, "Louise! -Louise!" I fall, again and again, at almost every step, but I stumble on -and reach her door--it is locked. Locked from the inside. But I hear -sounds in the room--a man's hoarse agitated voice.... - -I stagger blindly on. I will go to my room, I will lock myself in there, -and open the window and call for help.... - -I turn the handle and open my door. On the threshold I stop.... There is -something lying there--a black heap, with blood trickling from it. -Amour! It is Amour, with his skull crushed in. - -As I stand looking down at it I hear a man's footsteps running up the -stairs--I know it is the tall man--he is coming to find me! I stagger -blindly forward, my feet slipping in Amour's blood. I draw the door -after me. I rush forward and hide behind the curtained alcove where my -dresses hang. The man stops at the door and looks in. He sees the dead -dog on the threshold; he says "_Pfui_" and tries to push it aside with -his foot. He glances round the apparently empty room, then he turns away -and I hear him going down the passage, opening other doors, thumping at -Louise's door, where the voice of a man answers him.... Then I hear him -running upstairs to the top floor in search of me. - -I slip from my hiding-place, I stumble again over the horrible thing -that was Amour, and I rush down the stairs and into the drawing-room. -Mireille is still there, tied to the banister, her face thrown back, the -tears streaming from her eyes. She is alone, but for the red-haired -officer asleep and snoring on the sofa. A thought has come to me. I -cross the room, which swims round me, and I go to the sideboard--I take -the bottle of corrosive sublimate from the shelf where Louise had put -it--I open it and shake some of the little pink tablets into my -hand--then I run to the table where the wine-glasses stand. One of them -is still half-filled with champagne. I drop the tablets into it. Even as -I do so I hear the man coming downstairs. He appears on the top of the -short flight, near Mireille, and laughs as he sees me. "Ha, ha! the -dovelet who tried to escape!" - -I smile up at him. I smile, moving back towards that side of the table -where his wine-glass stands. He passes his hand over his forehead and -hair; his face is hot; I know he is going to drink again. Then he -lurches towards me; he puts one hand round my waist and with the other -grasps the glass on the table.... Now this again I see, clear-cut in my -memory as if carved into it with a knife; the tall man standing beside -me raising the wine-glass to his lips.... - -He stops--he looks down into the glass. His face is motionless, -expressionless. He merely stares at the little bright pink heap at the -bottom of the glass from which spiral streaks of colour slowly curl up -and tint the pale-gold wine. - -For what seems to me hours or eternities he stares at the glass; then -his light eyes turn slowly upon me. And this is the last thing I see. - -I carry the gaze of those light eyes with me as I slip suddenly into -unconsciousness. I hear a crash--is it the glass that has fallen?... I -feel the grasp of two strong hot hands on my arms--is he holding me, or -crushing me down? I hear Mireille shriek as I try madly to beat back the -enveloping darkness. Mireille's piercing voice follows me into oblivion. - -Then nothing more.... - -Nothing more. - - * * * * * - -The cloud that blots out consciousness lifts for an instant--is it a -moment later? or hours later? Or years later?... I have no idea. - -I feel that I am being lifted ... carried along ... then flung down. I -feel my head thrown far back, my hair dragged from my forehead.... The -world is full of rushing horrors, of tearing, racking pain.... Then -again nothing more. - -Fritz?... Is it then that I see him laughing as he looks at me? He is -standing near a red curtain--he is speaking to some one, but his eyes -are upon me and he laughs.... - -Once more unconsciousness like a black velvet tunnel engulfs me. - - * * * * * - -Out of the darkness comes Louise's voice calling me softly ... then -louder ... then screaming my name. I open my eyes. She is bending over -me. She lifts me up ... she wraps a shawl round my head, she drags me -along ... drags me down the steps and out of the house and down a stony -road that leads to the woods. - -It is not day and it is not night; it is dawn perhaps. - -Thirst and a deathly sickness are upon me.... I can go no farther. I -lean my head against a tree, the rough bark of it wounds my forehead as -I slip to the ground and fall on the damp leaves and moss. - -I moan and cry. - -"Hush! for the love of heaven! Hush!" ... It is Louise's voice. "Hide, -hide, lie down!" - -And she drags me into a deep ditch overgrown with brambles. We hear -horses gallop past and men's voices, full guttural voices that we know -and dread. They ride on. They are gone. No--they stop. - -They have found widow Duroc's two little boys hiding in the bushes.... -Little Cesar is shouldering a wooden gun and points it at them. In a -moment three of the men are off their horses.... The children must be -punished. - -The children are punished. - -... Then the men ride on. But the torture of those children has reminded -me of Mireille. "Mireille--" I cry. "We must go back and fetch -Mireille!" - -"Hush! Mireille is here." - -Mireille is here! She is not dead? Then who is dead? - -"No one, no one is dead," says Louise, "we are all three here." - -No--no--no! Somebody is dead. Somebody has been killed, I know it. I -know it. Who is it? Is it I--is it Cherie who is dead? Louise's arms are -about me, her tears fall on my face. - -Then once again the velvet mist falls, and the world is blotted out. - - * * * * * - -We are on board a ship, dipping and rising on green-grey waters.... - -Many people are around us; derelicts like ourselves.... - -Soon the white cliffs of England shine and welcome us. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -CHERIE'S DIARY - - -November 2nd (_All Souls_).--It is strange, but even yet the feeling -comes over me now and again that somebody was murdered on that night. -And, strangest of all, I cannot free myself of the thought that it was -I--I, who was killed, I, who am no more. I cannot describe the feeling. -Doubtless it is folly. It is weakness and shock. It is what the good -English doctor who has been called in to see us all--especially to try -and cure Mireille--calls "psychic trauma." He says Mireille is suffering -from psychic trauma; that means that her soul has been wounded. -Sometimes I feel as if my soul had not only been wounded but that it had -been killed--murdered while I was unconscious. I feel as if it were only -a ghost, a spectre that resembles me and bears my name, but not the real -Cherie, that wanders in this English garden, that speaks and smiles, -kisses and comforts Louise, prays for Claude and for Florian. - -Florian! Florian! Where are you? Are you dead, too? Is this sense of -annihilation, of unreality in me but an omen, a warning of your real -death? My brave young lover, blue-eyed and gay, have you gone from -life? If I wander through all the world, if I journey to the ends of the -earth, shall I never meet you again? - -Oh God! I wish we were all safely dead, Louise and I and poor little -Mireille; all lying silent and at peace, with closed eyes and quiet -folded hands. I often think how good it would be if we could all three -escape from life, as we escaped from the foe-haunted wood that night; if -we could silently slip away, out of the long days and the dark nights; -out of the hot summers and the dreary winters; out of feverish youth and -desolate old age; out of hunger and thirst, out of exile and -home-sickness, out of the past and out of the future, out of love and -out of hate. Oh! to lie in peace under the waving trees of the little -cemetery in Bomal, all with quiet heart and closed eyes. And by our side -like a marble hero, Florian, Florian as I have known and loved him, -Florian faithful and brave and true. - -... But what of Claude? What would he do alone in the world, poor lame -Claude, whose country is ravaged, whose home is devastated, whose wife -fears him, whose child cannot speak to him ... and whose sister, though -she lives, has been murdered in her sleep? - - * * * * * - -_November 15th._--Doctor Reynolds called today. Louise said she wanted -him. Then when he came she would not see him. She locked herself in her -room, and nobody could persuade her to come down. - -So it was I who took Mireille into the drawing-room where Mrs. Whitaker -and the doctor were waiting for us. They were talking rather excitedly -when I knocked at the door--at least Mrs. Whitaker was--but when we -entered she did not say a word. - -She looked me up and down and I felt sorry that I had Louise's old black -frock on instead of the new navy suit they had made for me a month ago. -But I cannot fasten it, it is so tight round my throat and waist. That -reminds me that when Mrs. Whitaker said the other day that she wished -Doctor Reynolds to see me, I laughed and told her about my dresses being -so tight, assuring her therefore that there could not be much wrong with -me. She did not laugh, however; on the contrary, she stared at me very -strangely and fixedly, and did not answer. - -I don't know what is wrong in the house, but everybody seems silent and -constrained and not so kind as they used to be. Eva has been sent away -to stay with friends in Hastings, and George, who is at Aldershot, comes -home for a day or so every now and then, but hardly ever speaks to us. -He wanders about the roads near the house, or goes into the garden, the -sad rainy garden, flicking the wet grasses and flowerless plants with -his riding-stick. He often glances up at the window where I sit as if he -would like to speak to us; but if I nod and smile at him he looks at me -for an instant and then turns away. I have an idea that his mother -objects to his talking with us much. He wanted Louise or me to read -French with him, but after the first day his mother had a long talk with -him and he did not come to our sitting-room again. - -Perhaps they are tired of having us in the house. I am not surprised. We -are doleful creatures, and we all have something the matter with us. I -myself sometimes imagine I am going into consumption; I feel so strange -and faint, I feel so sick when I eat, and I have the most terrible pains -in my chest. Also I am anaemic, I know. But still I don't cough. So -perhaps I am all right. - -When we went into the drawing-room today the kindly old doctor felt -Mireille's pulse and spoke to her, but all the time he was looking at -me, and so was Mrs. Whitaker. He asked me several questions and when I -told him what I felt, he coughed and said, "Hm.... Yes. Quite so." At -last he glanced at Mrs. Whitaker, who at once got up and left the room -with Mireille. - -The doctor then beckoned to me and took my hand. - -"My poor girl," he said, "have you anything to tell me?" - -I was frightened. "What do you mean? Am I going to die? Am I very ill?" - -He shook his head. "No. Why should you die? People don't die--" he -commenced, and stopped. - -"What about Mireille?" I asked, feeling terrified, I knew not why. - -"Now we are speaking of you," he said, quite sternly. - -Again he stopped as if expecting me to say something. I was bewildered. -Perhaps the old man was a little strange in his head. - -He coughed once more and his face flushed. Then he said: "I am an old -man, my dear. I am a father--" He stopped again. "And I know all the -sadness and wickednesses of the world. You may confide in me." - -I said: "Thank you very much. I am sure I can." - -There was another long silence. He seemed to be waiting. Then he got up -and his face was a little hard. "Well," he said, "perhaps you prefer -speaking to Mrs. Whitaker." - -"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "Why--not at all." - -Again he waited. Then he took his hat and gloves. "Well--as you like," -he said abruptly. "I cannot compel you to speak. You must go your own -way. I suppose you have your reasons." And he left the room. - -I stood petrified with wonder. What did he mean about my going my own -way? Why did he seem displeased with me? As I opened the door to go back -to my room, I heard him in the hall speaking to Mrs. Whitaker. - -"No," he was saying. "I feel sure I am not mistaken. But she would not -approach the subject at all." - -What a queer nightmare world we are living in! - - * * * * * - -_Later._--I am expected to say something, I know not what. Everybody -looks at me with an air of expectation--that is to say, Mrs. Whitaker -does. But strangest thing of all, I sometimes think that Loulou does -too. There are long silences between us, and when I raise my eyes I find -her looking at me with a sort of breathless eagerness, an expression of -anxiety and suspense of which I cannot grasp the meaning. - - * * * * * - -_Late at night._--Mrs. Whitaker was very strange this evening. She came -into my bedroom without warning, and found me on my knees. I was weeping -and saying my prayers. She suddenly came towards me with an impulsive -gesture of kindness and took me in her arms. - -"Poor little girl!" she said, and she kissed me. She added, as if she -were echoing the sentiments of the kind old doctor, "Cherie, I am a -mother--" Then she stopped. "And I am not such a sour, hard person as I -look." The tears stood in her eyes so I took her hand and kissed it. She -sat down on a low chair and drew me to a footstool beside her. "Tell -me," she said. "Tell me everything. I shall understand." - -So I told her. I told her how unhappy I was about Louise and Mireille, I -told her about Claude in the hospital. She said, "I know all that. Go -on." Then I told her about Florian, how brave and handsome he was, and -that we were betrothed. Then I wept bitterly and told her I thought that -he was dead. - -She raised my face with her hand and looked into my eyes. "Is it he?" -she said. - -I did not understand. She repeated her question. "Is it he? Did he--" -she hesitated as if looking for a word--"did he wrong you?" - -"Why? How wrong me?" I asked. - -She gazed deeply into my eyes and I gazed back as steadfastly at her, -wondering what she meant. - -"Did he betray you?" - -"Betray me? Never!" I cried. "He could never betray. He is true and -faithful as a saint." - -I was hurt that she should have asked such a question. Florian, who has -never looked at or thought of any woman but me! Betray me! - -"Well," she said rising to her feet suddenly--her expression of rather -cold dignity again reminded me of the doctor. "If it had been the -outrage of an enemy I know you would have told me. However, let it be -as you wish. I will say only this: where I could have pitied disgrace, I -cannot condone deceit." - - * * * * * - -And she left me. - -Am I dreaming, or are people in this country incomprehensible and -demented? - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -Louise looked her doom in the face with steady eyes. No more hope, no -more doubt was possible. This was November. The third month had passed. - -What she had dreaded more than death had come to pass. From the first -hour the fear of it had haunted her. Now she knew. She knew that the -outrage to which she had been subjected would endure; she knew that her -shame would live. - -In the middle of the night after tossing sleeplessly for hours, the full -realization of this struck her heart like a blow. She sat up with -clenched teeth in the darkness, her hands pressed to her temples. - -After a while she slid from her bed and stood motionless in the middle -of the room. Around her the world was asleep. She was alone with her -despair and her horror. - -How should she elude her fate? How should she flee from herself and the -horror within her? - -She turned on the light and went with quick steps to the mirror. There -she stood with bare feet in her long white nightdress, staring at -herself. Yes. She nodded and nodded like a demented creature at the -reflection she saw before her. She recognized the aspect of it; the -dragged features, the restless eyes, the face that seemed already too -small for her body, the hunted anxious look. That was maternity. To -violence nature had conceded what had been withheld from love. What she -and Claude had longed for, had prayed for--another child--behold, now it -was vouchsafed to her. - -With teeth clenched she gazed at her white-draped reflection, she gazed -at the hated fragile frame in which the eternal mystery of life was -being accomplished. With the groan of a tortured animal she hid her face -in her hands. What should she do? Oh God! what should she do? - - * * * * * - -Then began for Louise the heartbreaking pursuit of liberation, the -nightmare, the obsession of deliverance. - -All was vain. Nature pursued its inexorable course. - -Then she determined that she must die. There was no help for it--she -must die. She dreaded death; she was tied to life by a two-fold -instinct--her own and that of the unborn being within her. How tenacious -was its hold on life! It would not die and free her. It clung with all -its tendrils to its own abhorred existence. Every night as she lay awake -she pictured what it would be if it were born--this creature conceived -in savagery and debauch, this child that she loathed and dreaded. She -could imagine it living--a demon, a monster, a thing to shriek at, to -make one's blood run cold. Waking and in her dreams she saw it; she saw -it crawling like a reptile, she saw it stained with the colour of blood, -she saw it babbling and mouthing at her, frenzied and insane.... That is -what she would give life to, that is what she would have to nurse and to -nourish; carrying that in her arms she would go to meet her husband when -he came limping back from the war on his crutches. - -She pictured that meeting with Claude in a hundred different ways, all -horrible, all dreadful beyond words. Claude staring at her, not -believing, not understanding.... Claude going mad.... Claude lifting his -crutch and crushing the child's skull with it, as Amour's skull had been -crushed--ah! the dead horrible Amour that she had seen when she -staggered out of the room at dawn that day!... That was the first thing -she had seen--that gruesome animal with its brains beaten out and its -gleaming teeth uncovered. She could see it now, she could always see it -when she closed her eyes! What if this sight had impressed itself so -deeply upon her.... Hush! this was insanity; she knew that she was going -mad. - -So she must die. - -How should she die? And when she was dead, what would happen to -Mireille? And to Cherie? - -_Cherie!_ At the thought of Cherie a new rush of ideas overwhelmed -Louise's wandering brain. Cherie! What was the matter with Cherie? - -Had not she also that tense look, those pinched features, all those -unmistakable signs that Louise well knew how to interpret? Was it -possible that the same doom had overtaken her? - -Then Louise forced herself to remember what she would have given her -life to forget. With eyes closed, with shuddering soul, she compelled -herself to live over again the darkest hours of her life. - -... Before daybreak on the 5th of August. The house was silent. The -invaders had gone. Louise, a livid spectre in the pale grey dawn, had -staggered from her room--passing the dead Amour on Cherie's -threshold--and had stumbled down the stairs. There at the foot of the -wrought-iron banister lay Mireille, her mouth open, her breath coming in -gasps, like a little dying bird. - -Louise had raised her, had unwound the long scarf that bound her, had -sprinkled water on her face and poured brandy down her throat ... until -Mireille had opened her eyes. Then Louise had seen that they were not -Mireille's eyes. There was frenzy and vacancy in the pale orbs that -wandered round the room, wandered and wandered--until they stopped and -were fixed, suddenly wild, hallucinated and intent. On what were they -fixed with such an expression of unearthly terror? The mother turned to -see. - -Mireille's wild gaze was fixed upon a door, the red-curtained door of a -bedroom. It was a spare room, seldom used; sometimes a guest or one of -Claude's patients had slept there. - -It was on this door--now flung wide open and with the red drapery torn -down--that Mireille's wild, meaningless gaze was fixed. Louise looked. -Then she looked again, without moving. She could see that the electric -lights were burning in the room; a chair was overturned in the doorway, -and there, there on the bed, lay a figure--Cherie! Cherie still in her -white muslin dress all torn and bloodstained, Cherie with her two hands -stretched upwards and tied to the bedpost above her head. A wide pink -ribbon had been torn from her hair and used to tie her hands to the -brass bedstead. Her face was scratched and bleeding. She was quite -unconscious. Louise thought she was dead. - -Ah! how had she found the strength to lift her, to call her, to drag her -back to life, weeping over her and Mireille, gazing with maddened -despair from one unconscious figure to the other?... She had dressed -them, she had dragged and carried them down the stairs at the back of -the house. Should she call for help? Should she go crying their shame -and despair down the village street? No! no! Let no one see them. Let no -one know what had befallen them.... - -And--listen! Was that not the clatter of Uhlans galloping down the road? - -Moaning, staggering, stumbling, she dragged and carried her two helpless -burdens into the woods.... - -There, the next evening a party of Belgian Guides had found them. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -The Vicar of Maylands, the Reverend Ambrose Yule, was in his study -writing his monthly contribution to the _Northern Ecclesiastical -Review_. He was interested in his subject--"Our Sinful Sundays"--and his -thoughts flowed smoothly on the topic of drink, frivolous talk and open -kinematograph theatres. He wrote quickly and fluently in his neat small -handwriting. A knock at the door interrupted him. - -"Yes? What is it?" he asked somewhat impatiently. - -"A lady to see you, sir," said Parrot, the comely maid. - -"A lady? Who is it? I thought every one knew that I do not receive -today." - -"It is one of the foreign ladies staying with Mrs. Whitaker, sir." - -"Oh, well. Show her into the drawing-room, and tell your mistress." - -"I beg your pardon, sir, but----" a smile flickered over Parrot's mild -face--"she asked specially for you. She said she wished to speak to 'Mr. -the Clergyman' himself. First she said, 'Mr. the Cury' and then she -said, 'Mr. the Clergyman.'" - -"Well," sighed the vicar, "show her in." He placed a paper-weight on his -neatly written sheets, rose and awaited his visitor standing on the -hearthrug with his back to the fire. - -Parrot ushered in a tall figure in black and then withdrew. The vicar -stepped forward and found himself gazing into the depths of two -resplendent dark eyes set in a very white face. - -"Pray sit down," he said, "and tell me in what way I can be of service -to you." - -"May I speak French?" asked the lady in a low voice. - -"_Mais certainement, Madame_," said the courtly clergyman, who twenty or -thirty years ago had studied Sinful Sundays abroad with intelligence and -attention. - -The lady sat down and was silent. She wore black cotton gloves and held -in her hands a small handkerchief, which she clutched and crumpled -nervously into a little ball. - -The kindly vicar with his head on one side waited a little while and -then spoke. "You are staying in Maylands? In Mrs. Whitaker's house, I -believe? Have I not seen you, with two young girls?" - -"Yes. My daughter and my sister-in-law." Louise's voice was so low that -he had to bend forward to catch her words. - -"Indeed. Yes." The vicar joined his finger-tips together, then -disjoined them, then clapped them lightly together, waiting for further -enlightenment. As it was not forthcoming he inquired: "May I know your -name, Madame?" - -"Louise Brandes." - -"And ... er--monsieur your husband----?" the vicar's face was -interrogative and prepared for sympathy. - -"He is wounded, in hospital, at Dunkirk." - -"Sad, sad," said the vicar, gently shaking his handsome grey head. -"And ... you wish me to help you to go and see him?" - -"No!" Louise uttered the word like a cry. Sudden tears welled up into -her eyes, rolled rapidly down her cheeks and dropped upon her folded -hands in their black cotton gloves. - -"_Alors?_ ..." interrogated the vicar, with his head still more on one -side. - -Louise raised her dark lashes and looked at the kind handsome face -before her, looked at the narrow benevolent forehead, the firm straight -lips, the beautiful hands (the vicar knew they were beautiful hands) -with the finger-tips lightly pressed together. Instinctively she felt -that here she would find no help. She knew that if she asked for pity, -for protection, for money, it would be given her. But she also knew that -what she was about to crave would meet with a stern repulse. - -She had made up her mind that this was to be her last appeal for help, -her last effort to obtain release. He was the priest, he was the -representative of the All-Merciful.... - -She made the sign of the cross, she dropped on her knees and grasped his -hand. "_Mon pere_," she said--thus she used to address the Cure of -Bomal, butchered on that never-to-be-forgotten night. "I will tell -you----" - -The vicar withdrew his hand from her grasp. "I beg you, madam, not to -address me in that way. Also pray rise from your knees and take a seat." -Ah me! how melodramatic were the Latin races! Poor woman! as if all this -were necessary in order, probably, to ask for a few pounds, or to say -that she could not get on with the peppery Mrs. Whitaker. - -Louise had blushed crimson and risen quickly to her feet. "I am sorry," -she said. - -And then the kind vicar blushed too and felt that he had behaved like a -brute. - -At that moment the door opened and Mrs. Yule entered the room. With her -was Dr. Reynolds, carrying a black leather bag. - -"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Yule, catching sight of Louise. "I am sorry, -Ambrose. I did not know you had a visitor." - -"All right, dear," said the vicar; "this is Madame Brandes, who is -staying with the Whitakers. She wants to consult me on some personal -matter." Then he turned to Dr. Reynolds. "Well, doctor; how do you find -our boy?" - -"Quite all right. Quite all right," said the doctor. "We shall have him -up and playing football again in no time. It is nothing but a strained -tendon. Absolutely nothing at all." - -Mrs. Yule had gone towards Louise with outstretched hand. "How do you -do? I am glad to meet you," she said cordially. "You will stay for tea -with us, I hope. My daughter, too, will be so pleased to see you. -Not"--she added, with a little break in her voice--"that she really can -see you. Perhaps you have heard that my dear daughter is blind." - -"Blind!" Like a tidal wave the sorrow of the world seemed to overwhelm -Louise. She felt that the sadness of life was too great to be borne. -"Blind," she said. Then she covered her face and burst into tears. - -Mrs. Yule's maternal heart melted; her maternal eyes noted the broken -attitude, the tell-tale line of the figure! she stepped quickly forward, -holding out both her hands. - -"Come, my dear; sit down. Will you let me take your hat off? This -English weather is so trying if one is not used to it," murmured Mrs. -Yule with Anglo-Saxon shyness before the stranger's unexpected display -of feeling, while the two men turned away and talked together near the -window. Mrs. Yule pressed Louise's black-gloved hand in hers. What -though this outburst were due, as it probably was, to the woman's -condition, to her overwrought nerves, or to who knows what grief and -misery of her own? The fact remained--and Mrs. Yule never forgot -it--that this storm of tears was evoked by the news of her dear child's -affliction. Mrs. Yule's heart was touched. - -"You are Belgian, I know," she said in French, sitting down beside -Louise and taking one of the black-gloved hands in her own. "I myself -was at school in Brussels." And indeed her French was perfect, with just -a little touch of Walloon closing the vowels in some of her words. "I -would have called on you long ago--I would have asked you to make -friends with my daughter whose affliction has so distressed your kind -heart; but as you may have heard, my boy met with an accident, and I -have not left the house for many days.... Do wait a moment, Dr. -Reynolds," she added as the doctor approached to bid her good-bye. And -turning to Louise she introduced him to her as "the kindest of friends -and the best of doctors." - -"We have met," said Dr. Reynolds, shaking hands with Louise and looking -keenly into her face with his piercing, short-sighted eyes. "Madame -Brandes's little daughter," he added, turning to Mrs. Yule, "is a -patient of mine." There was a moment's silence; then the doctor, -turning to the vicar, added in a lower voice: "It seems that their home -was invaded, and the child terribly frightened. It is a very sad case. -She has lost her reason and her power of speech." - -Mrs. Yule in her turn was deeply moved and quick tears of sympathy -gathered in her eyes. With an impulse of tenderest pity she bent -suddenly forward and kissed the exile's pale cheek. - -Like a flash of lightning in the night, it was revealed to Louise that -now or never she must make her confession, now or never attempt a -supreme, ultimate effort. This must be her last struggle for life. As -she looked from Mrs. Yule's kind, tear-filled eyes to the calm, keen -face of the physician hope bounded within her like a living thing. The -blood rushed to her cheeks and she rose to her feet. - -"Doctor!..." she gasped. Then she turned to Mrs. Yule again, it seemed -almost easier to say what must be said, to a woman. "I want to say -something.... I must speak...." And again turning to the doctor--"Do you -understand me if I speak French?" - -Doctor Reynolds looked rather like a timid schoolboy, notwithstanding -his spectacles and his red beard, as he replied: "Oh ... _oui, Madame. -Je comprong._" - -The vicar stepped forward. Looking from Louise to his wife and to the -doctor he said: "Perhaps I had better leave you...." - -But Louise quickly extended a trembling hand. "No! Please stay," she -pleaded. "You are a priest. You are the doctor of the soul. And my soul -is sick unto death." - -The vicar took her extended hand. "I shall be honoured by your -confidence," he said in courtly fashion, and seating himself beside her -waited for her to speak. - -Nor did he wait in vain. In eloquent passionate words, in the burning -accents of her own language, the story of her martyrdom was revealed, -her torn and outraged soul laid bare. - -In that quiet room in the old-fashioned English vicarage the ghastly -scenes of butchery and debauch were enacted again; the foul violence of -the enemy, the treason, the drunkenness, the ribaldry of the men who -with "mud and blood" on their feet, had trampled on these women's -souls--all lived before the horrified listeners, and the martyrdom of -the three helpless victims wrung their honest British hearts. - -Louise had risen to her feet--a long black figure with a spectral face. -She was Tragedy itself; she was the Spirit of Womanhood crushed and -ruined by the war; she was the Grief of the World. - -And now she flung herself at the doctor's feet, her arms outstretched, -her eyes starting from their orbits, imploring him, in a paroxysm of -agony and despair, to release and save her. - -She fell face-downwards at his feet, shaken with spasmodic sobs, -writhing and quaking as if in the throes of an epileptic fit. Mrs. Yule -and the doctor raised her and placed her tenderly on the couch. Water -and vinegar were brought, and wet cloths laid on her forehead. - -There followed a prolonged silence. - -"Unhappy woman!" murmured the vicar, aghast. "Her mind is quite -unhinged." - -"Yes," said the doctor; but he said it in a different tone, his -experienced eye taking in every detail of the tense figure still -thrilled and shaken at intervals by a convulsive tremor. "Yes, -undoubtedly. She is on the verge of insanity." He paused. Then he looked -the vicar full in the face. "And unless she is promptly assisted she -will probably become hopelessly and incurably insane." - -A low cry escaped Mrs. Yule's lips. "Oh, hush!" she said, bending over -the pallid woman on the couch, fearful lest the appalling verdict might -have reached her. But Louise's weary spirit had slipped away into -unconsciousness. - -"A sad case--a terribly sad case," said the vicar, thoughtfully pushing -up his clipped grey moustache with his finger-tips and avoiding the -doctor's resolute gaze. "She shall have our earnest prayers." - -"And our very best assistance," said the doctor. - -As if the words of comfort had reached her, Louise sighed and opened her -eyes. - -Mrs. Yule's protecting arm went round her. - -"Of course, of course," said Mr. Yule to the doctor. Then he crossed the -room and stood by the couch, looking down at Louise. "You will be brave, -will you not? You must not give way to despair. We are all here to help -and comfort you." - -Louise raised herself on her elbow and looked up at him. A dazzling -light of hope illuminated her face. Mr. Yule continued gravely and -kindly. - -"You can rely upon our friendship--nay, more--upon our tenderest -affection. Our home is open to you if, as is most probable, Mrs. -Whitaker desires you to leave her house. My wife and daughter will nurse -and comfort you, will honour and respect you----" Louise broke into low -sobs of gratitude as she grasped Mrs. Yule's hand and raised it to her -lips. "And in the hour----" the vicar drew himself up to his full height -and spoke in louder, more impressive tones--"and in the hour of your -supreme ordeal, you shall not be forsaken." - -Louise rose, vacillating, to her feet. "What ... what do you mean?" she -gasped. Her countenance was distorted; her eyes burned like black -torches in her ashen face. - -"I mean," declared the clergyman, his stern eyes fixed relentlessly, -almost threateningly, upon the trembling woman, "I mean that whatever -you may have suffered at the hands of the iniquitous, you have no -right"--he raised his hand and his resonant voice shook with the -vehemence of his feeling--"no right yourself to contemplate a crime." - -A deep silence held the room. The sacerdotal authority wielded its -powerful sway. - -"A crime! a crime!" gasped Louise, and the convulsive tremor seized her -anew. "Surely it is a greater crime to drive me to my death." - -"The laws of nature are sacred," said the vicar, his brow flushing, a -diagonal vein starting out upon it; "they may not be set aside. All you -can do is humbly to submit to the Divine law." - -Louise raised her wild white face and gazed at him helplessly, but Dr. -Reynolds stepped forward and stood beside her. "My dear Yule," he said -gravely, "do not let us talk about Divine law in connection with this -unhappy woman's plight. We all know that every law, both human and -Divine, has been violated and trampled upon by the foul fiends that this -war has let loose." - -The vicar turned upon him a face flushed with indignation. "Do you mean -to say that this would justify an act which is nothing less than -murder?" - -The doctor made no reply and the vicar looked at him, aghast. - -"Reynolds, my good friend! You do not mean to tell me that you would -dare to intervene?" - -Still the doctor was silent. Louise, her ashen lips parted, her wild -eyes fixed upon the two men, awaited her sentence. - -"I can come to no hasty decision," said the man of science at last. "But -if on further thought I decide that it is my duty--as a man and a -physician--to interrupt the course of events, I shall do so." He paused -an instant while his eye studied the haggard face and trembling figure -of Louise. "_A priori_," he added, "this woman's mental and physical -condition would seem to justify me in fulfilling her wish." - -"Ah!" It was a cry of delirious joy from Louise. She was tearing her -dress from her throat, gasping, catching her breath, shaken with -frenzied sobs in a renewed spasm of hysteria. - -They had to lift her to the couch again. The doctor hurriedly dissolved -two or three tablets of some sedative drug and forced the beverage -through Louise's clenched teeth. Then he sat down beside her, holding -her thin wrist in his fingers. Soon he felt the disordered intermittent -pulse beat more rhythmically; he felt the tense muscles slacken, the -quivering nerves relax. - -Then he turned to the vicar, who stood with his back to the room looking -out of the window at the dreary rain-swept garden. - -"Yule," he said, "I shall be sorry if in following the dictates of my -conscience I lose a life-long friendship--a friendship which has been -very precious to me." The vicar neither answered nor moved; but Mrs. -Yule came softly across the room and stood beside the doctor--the man -who had healed and watched over her and those she loved, who fifteen -years before had so tenderly laid her little blind daughter in her arms. -She remained at his side with flushed cheeks, and her lips moved -silently as if in prayer. Her husband stood motionless, looking out at -the misty November twilight. - -"Still more does it grieve me," continued the doctor, "to think that any -act of mine should wound your feelings on a point of conscience which -evidently touches you so deeply. But be that as it may, I must obey the -dictates of common humanity which, in this case, coincide exactly with -the teachings of science. Given the condition in which I find this -woman, I feel that I must try my best to save her reason and her life. -The chances are a hundred to one that if the child lived it would be -abnormal; a degenerate, an epileptic." The doctor stepped near the couch -and looked down at the unconscious Louise. "And as for the mother," he -added, pointing to the pitiful death-like face, "look at her. Can you -not see that she is well on her way to the graveyard or the madhouse?" - -There was no reply. In the silence that followed Mrs. Yule drew near to -her husband; but he kept his face resolutely turned away and stared out -of the window. - -She touched his arm tremulously. "Think, dear," she murmured, "think -that she has a husband--whom she loves, who is fighting in the trenches -for her and for his home. When he returns, will it not be terrible -enough for her to tell him that his own daughter has lost her reason? -Must she also go to meet him carrying the child of an enemy in her -arms?" - -The vicar did not answer. He turned his pale set face away without a -word, and left the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Dusk, the dreary November dusk, had fallen as Louise hurried homeward -across the damp fields and deserted country roads. She had refused Mrs. -Yule's urgent offer to accompany her or to send some one with her. She -wanted to be alone--alone to look her happiness in the face, alone with -her new heaven-sent ecstasy of gratitude. After the nightmare-days of -hopelessness and despair, behold! life was to be renewed, retrieved, -redeemed. Like a grey cloak of misery her anguish fell away from her; -she stepped forth blissful and entranced into the pathway of her -reflowering youth. - -And with the certainty of this deliverance came the faith and hope in -all other joys. Claude would return to her; Belgium would be liberated -and redeemed. Mireille would find her speech again! Yes, Mireille would -find her sweet, soft smile and her sweet shrill laughter. Might it not -be Louise's own gloom that had plunged the sensitive soul of her child -into darkness? Surely now that the storm-cloud was to be lifted from -her, also the over-shadowed child-spirit would flutter back again into -the golden springlight of its day. Surely all joys were possible in this -most beautiful and joyous world. And Louise went with quick, light -steps through the gloaming, half-expecting to see Mireille, already -healed, come dancing towards her, gay and garrulous, calling her as she -used to do by her pet name, "Loulou!" - -Or it might be Cherie who would run to meet her, waving her hand to tell -her that the miracle had come to pass! - -Cherie! The name, the thought of Cherie struck at Louise's heart like a -sudden blow. Her quick footsteps halted. As if a gust of the November -wind had blown out the light of her happiness, she stood suddenly still -in the middle of the road and felt that around her there was darkness -again. - -Cherie!... What was it that the doctor had said to her as he came with -her to the gate of the Vicarage, as he held her hand in his firm, strong -grasp, promising to save her from the deep waters of despair? What were -the words she had then neither understood nor answered, borne away as -she was on the wave of her own tumultuous joy? They suddenly came back -to her now; they suddenly reached her hearing and comprehension. He had -said, looking her full in the face with a meaning gaze, "What about your -sister?" - -"What about your sister?" Your sister. Of course he had meant Cherie. -What about her? What about her? Again Louise felt that dull thud in her -heart as if some one had struck it, for she knew, she knew what he -meant--she knew what there was about Cherie. - -There was the same abomination, the same impending horror and disgrace. -Had not Cherie herself come and told her, in bewilderment and -simplicity, of the strange questionings, the obscure warnings Mrs. -Whitaker and the doctor had subjected her to? Ah, Louise knew but too -well what it all meant; Louise knew but too well what there was about -Cherie that even to strangers was manifest and unmistakable. Yes, Louise -had dreaded it, had felt it, had known it--though Cherie herself had -not. But until now her own torment of body and soul had hidden all else -from her gaze, had made all that was not her own misery as unreal and -unimportant as a dream. Vaguely, in the background of her thoughts, she -had known that there was still another disaster to face, another fiery -ordeal to encounter, but swept along in the vortex of her own doom she -had flung those thoughts aside; in her own life-and-death struggle she -had not stopped to ask, What of that other soul driving to shipwreck -beside her, broken and submerged by the self-same storm? - -But now it must be faced. She must tell the unwitting Cherie what the -future held for her. She must stun her with the revelation of her shame. - -For Louise understood--however incredible it might seem to others--that -Cherie was wholly unaware of what had befallen her on that night when -terror, inebriety, and violence had plunged her into unconsciousness. -Not a glimmer of the truth had dawned on her simplicity, not a breath of -knowledge had touched her inexperience. Sullied and yet immaculate, -violated and yet undefiled--of her could it indeed be said that she had -conceived without sin. - -Louise went on in the falling darkness with lagging footsteps. Deep down -in her heart her happiness hid its face for the sorrow and shame she -must bring to another. - -Then she remembered--with what deep thankfulness!--that though she must -inflict this hideous hurt on Cherie, yet she could also speak to her of -help, she could promise her release and the hope of ultimate peace and -oblivion. - -She hurried forward through the darkening lanes, and soon joy awoke -again and sang within her. Yes! There they stood at the open gate, the -two beloved waiting figures--the taller, Cherie, with her arm round the -slender form of Mireille. Louise ran towards them with buoyant step. - -"Louise!" cried Cherie. "Where have you been? How quickly you walk! How -bright and happy you look! Why, I could see your smile shining from far -off in the darkness!" - -Louise kissed the soft, cold cheeks of both; she took Cherie's warm -hand and the chilly little hand of Mireille and went with them towards -the house. How cheerful were the lighted windows seen through the trees! -How sheltered and peaceful was this refuge! How gracious and generous -were the strangers who had housed and nourished them! - -How kind and good and beautiful was life! - - * * * * * - -"Tell me the truth, Louise," said Cherie that evening, when, having seen -little Mireille safely asleep, Louise returned to the cheerful -sitting-room, where the dancing firelight gleamed on the pink walls and -cosy drawn curtains. "Tell me the truth. You have heard -something--something from Claude ... something----" Cherie flushed to -the lovely low line of the growth of her auburn curls--"from Florian! -You have, you have! I can read it in your face. You have had news of -some kind." - -Yes--Louise had had news. - -"Good news----" - -Yes. Good news. She sat down on a low armchair near the fire and -beckoned with her finger. "Cherie!" - -The girl came quickly to her side and sat down on the rug at her feet. -The fire danced and flickered on her red-gold hair and milkwhite oval -face. - -"Cherie." ... Louise's voice was low, her eyes cast down. She felt like -a torturer, she felt as if she were murdering a flower, tearing asunder -the closed petals of this girlish soul and filling its cup with poison. - -Cherie was looking up into her face with a radiant, expectant smile. - -How should she tell her? How should she tell her?... - -Louise bent forward and covered the shining, questioning eyes with her -hand. "Tomorrow, Cherie! Tomorrow." - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -On the morrow Cherie awoke early. She could not say what had startled -her out of a deep restful slumber, but suddenly she was wide awake, -every nerve tense in a kind of strained expectancy, waiting she knew not -for what. Something had occurred, something had awakened her; and she -was waiting for it to repeat itself; waiting to hear or feel it again. -But whatever it was, sound or sensation, it was not repeated. - -Cherie rose quickly, slid her feet into her slippers, and went across -the room to the window. She leaned out with her bare elbows on the -window-sill and looked at the garden--at the glistening lawn, at the -stripped trees, dark and clear-cut against the early sky. It was a -rose-grey dawn, as softly luminous as if it were the month of February -instead of November. There seemed to be a promise of spring in the pale -radiance of the morning. - -She knew she could not sleep any more; so she dressed quietly and -quickly, wrapped a scarf round her slim shoulders, and went down into -the garden. - -George Whitaker also had awakened early. These were his last few days at -home before leaving for the front, and his spirit was full of feverish -restlessness. His sister Eva was expected back from Hastings that -morning and they would spend two or three happy days together before he -left for the wonderful, and awful adventure of war. He had obeyed his -mother's desire, and had not seen or spoken to their Belgian guests for -many days. Indeed, it was easy--too easy, thought George with a sigh--to -avoid them, for they seemed day by day to grow more shy of strangers and -of friends. George only caught fleeting glimpses of them as they passed -their windows; sometimes he saw a gleam of auburn hair where Cherie sat -with bent head near the schoolroom balcony, reading or at work. - -This morning, as he stood vigorously plying his brushes on his bright -hair and gazing absent-mindedly at the garden, he caught sight of -Cherie, with a scarf round her shoulders and a book in her hand, walking -down the gravel pathway towards the summer-house. He flung down his -brushes, finished dressing very quickly, and ran downstairs. After all, -he was leaving in forty-eight hours or so--leaving to go who knows -where, to return who knows when. He might never have such another chance -of seeing her and saying good-bye. True, it was rather soon to say -good-bye. He would probably be meeting her every moment during the next -two days. Eva was coming back, and would be sure to want her little -foreign friend always beside her. Eva had a way of slipping her arm -through Cherie's and drawing her along, saying: "_Allons, Cherie!_" -which was very pleasant in George's recollection. He also would have -liked to slip his arm through the slim white arm of the girl and say, -"_Allons, Cherie!_" He could imagine the flush, or the frown, or the -fleeting marvel of her smile.... - -In a few moments he was downstairs, out of the house, and running -towards the summer-house. But she was not there. - -He found her walking slowly beside the little artificial lake in the -shrubbery, reading her book. - -"Good-morning," he said in tones exaggerately casual, as she looked up -in surprise. - -"Good-morning, Monsieur George," she said, and the softness of the "g's" -in her French accent was sweet to his ear. - -"What are you doing, up so early?" - -"_Et vous?_" she retorted, with her brief vivid smile. - -"I ... I ... have come to say good-bye," he said. - -"Good-bye? Why, I thought you were not going away until the day after -tomorrow." - -"Right-o," said George. "No more I am. But you know what a time I take -over things; the mater always calls me a slow-coach. I--I like beginning -to pack up and say good-bye days and weeks before it is time to go." -Again he watched the little half-moon smile that turned up the corners -of her mouth and dimpled her rounded cheek. - -"Well then--good-bye," she said, looking up at him for an instant and -realizing that she would be sorry when he had left. - -"Good-bye." He took her book from her and held out his hand. She placed -her own soft small hand in his, and he found not another word to say. So -he said "Good-bye" again, and she repeated it softly. - -"But now you must go away," she said. "You cannot keep on saying -good-bye and staying here." - -"Of course not," said George. "I'll go in a minute." Then he cleared his -throat. "I wonder if you will be here when I come back. I suppose you -would hate to live in England altogether, wouldn't you?" - -"I don't know. I have never thought of it," said Cherie. - -"Well--but do you like England? Or don't you?" - -"_S'il vous plait Londres?_" quoted Cherie, glancing up at him and -laughing. Surely, thought George, no other eyelashes in the world gave -such a starry look to two such sea-blue eyes. - -"In some ways I do not like England," she remarked, thoughtfully. "I do -not like--I mean I do not understand the English women. They seem -so--how shall I say?--so hard ... so arid...." She plucked a little -branch from a bush of winter-berries and toyed with it absently as she -walked beside him. "They all seem afraid of appearing too friendly or -too kind." - -"Perhaps so," said George. - -"When we first came here your sister warned me about it. She said, 'You -must never show an English woman that you like her; it is not customary, -and would be misunderstood.'" - -"That's so. We don't approve of gush," said George. - -"If you call nice things by horrid names they become horrid things," -said Cherie sternly and sententiously. "Natural impulses of friendliness -are not 'gush.' When I first meet strangers I always feel that I like -them; and I go on liking them until I find out that they are not nice." - -"You go the wrong way round," said George. "In England we always dislike -people until we know they are all right. Besides, if you were to start -by being sweet and amiable to strangers, they would probably think you -wanted to borrow money from them, or ask them favours." - -"How mean-minded!" exclaimed Cherie. - -George laughed. "You should see the mater," he said, "how villainously -rude she is to people she meets for the first time. That is what makes -her such a social success." - -Cherie looked bewildered. George was silent a moment; then he spoke -again. - -"And what do you think about the English men? Do you dislike them too?" - -"I don't really know them," said Cherie; "but they--they _look_ very -nice," and she turned her blue eyes full upon him, taking a quick survey -of his handsome figure and fair, frank face. - -George felt himself blush, and hated himself for it. - -"You--you would never think of marrying an Englishman, would you?" - -Cherie shook her head, and the long lashes drooped over the sea-blue -stars. "I am affianced to be married," she said with her pretty foreign -accent, "to a soldier of Belgium." - -"Oh, I see," said George rather huskily and hurriedly. "Of course. Quite -so." - -They walked along in silence for a little while. Then he opened her -book, which he still held in his hand. "What were you reading? Poetry?" - -He glanced at the fly-leaf, on which were written the words "_Florian -Audet, a Cherie_," and he quickly turned the page. "Poetry" ... he said -again, "by Victor Hugo." Then he added, "Why, this sounds as if it were -written for you: '_Elle etait pale et pourtant rose...._' That is just -what you are." - -Cherie did not answer. What was this strange flutter at her heart again? -It frightened her. Could it be angina pectoris, or some other strange -and terrible disease? Not that it hurt her; but it thrilled her from -head to foot. - -"You are quite _pale et pourtant rose_ at this very moment," repeated -George, looking at her. Then he added rather bitterly as he handed her -back the book, "I suppose you are thinking of the day when you will -marry your soldier-lover." - -"Perhaps I shall not live to marry anybody," said Cherie in a low voice. - -"What an idea!" exclaimed George. - -"And as for him," she continued, "he will probably be killed long before -that." - -"Oh no," said George, "I'm sure he won't. And I'm sure you will.... And -I'm sure you're both going to be awfully happy. As for me," he added -quickly, "I am going to have no end of a good time. I believe I am to be -sent to the Dardanelles. Doesn't the word sound jolly! 'The -Dardanelles!' It has a ring and a lilt to it...." He laughed and pushed -his hair back from his clear young forehead. - -"Good luck to you," said Cherie, looking up at him with a sudden feeling -of kindness and regret. - -They had turned back, and were now passing the summer-house in full view -of the windows of the house. On the schoolroom balcony they saw Louise. -She beckoned, and Cherie hurried forward and stood under the balcony, -looking up at her. - -"Oh, Cherie! I wondered where you were," said Louise, bending over the -ledge. "I was anxious. Come up, dear! I want to speak to you." - -"Oh yes!" exclaimed Cherie eagerly, remembering Louise's promise of the -night before. Then she turned to George. "I must go. So now we must -really say good-bye." She laughed. "Or shall we say _au revoir_?" - -"Let us say _au revoir_," said George, looking her full in the face. - -"_Au revoir_, Monsieur George! _Au revoir!_" - -Then she went indoors. - - * * * * * - -Two days later George Whitaker went away. - -They sent him to the Dardanelles. - -And in this world there was never an _au revoir_ for Monsieur George. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -Louise stood in the doorway waiting for Cherie, and watched her coming -up the stairs rather slowly with fluttering breath. She drew her into -the room and shut the door. - -Mireille sat quietly in her usual armchair by the window, with her small -face lifted to the sky. - -"Cherie," said Louise, drawing the girl down beside her on the wide old -divan on which the little Whitakers had sprawled to learn their lessons -in years gone by. "I have something to say to you." - -"I knew you had," exclaimed Cherie, flushing. "I knew it yesterday when -I saw you. It is good news!" - -Louise hesitated. "Yes ... for me," she said falteringly, "it is good -news. For you, my dear little sister, for you ... unless you realize -what has befallen us--it may be very terrible news." - -Cherie looked at her with startled eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked -under her breath. - -Louise put her hand to her neck as if something were choking her. Her -throat was dry; she could find neither words nor voice in which to give -to the waiting girl her message of two-fold shame. - -"Cherie ... my darling ... I must speak to you about that night ... your -birthday-night----" - -Cherie started back. "No!" she cried. "You said when we came here that -we were to forget it--that it was a dream! Why--why should you speak of -it again?" - -"Cherie," said Louise in a low voice, "perhaps for you." ... She -faltered, "for you it may have been a dream. But not for me." - -The girl sat straight upright, tense and alert. "What do you mean, -Louise?" - -"I mean that for me that night has borne its evil fruit. Cherie! I -thought of killing myself. But yesterday ... I spoke to Dr. Reynolds. He -has promised to save me." - -"To save you!" gasped Cherie. "Louise! Louise! Are you so ill?" - -"My darling, my own dear child, I am worse than ill. But there is help -for me; I shall be saved--saved from dishonour and despair." She lowered -her voice. "Cherie!"--her voice fell so low that it could hardly be -heard by the trembling girl beside her--"can you not understand? The -shame I am called upon to face--the doom that awaits me--is maternity." - -_Maternity!_ Slowly, as if an unseen force uplifted her, Cherie had -risen to her feet. Maternity!... The veil of the mystery was rent, the -wonder was revealed! Maternity! That was the key to all her own strange -and marvellous sensations, to the throb and the thrill within her! -Maternity. - -She stood motionless, amazed. A shaft of sunlight from the open window -beat upon her, turning her hair to gold and her wide eyes to pools of -wondering light. Such wonder and such light were about her that Louise -gazed in awed silence at the ethereal figure, standing with pale hands -extended and virginal face upturned. - -She seemed to be listening.... To what voice? What annunciation did she -harken to with those rapt eyes? - -Louise called her by her name. But Cherie did not answer. Her lips were -mute, her eyes were distant and unseeing. She heard no other voice but a -child-voice asking from her the gift of life. - -And to that voice her trembling spirit answered. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -Dr. Reynolds kept his promise to Louise. - -In a private nursing-home in London the deed of mercy and of -ruthlessness was accomplished. The pitiable spark of life was quenched. - -Out of the depths of darkness and despair Louise, after wavering for -many days on the threshold of death, came slowly back to life once more. - -During the many weeks she was in the nursing-home she saw neither Cherie -nor Mireille; but Mrs. Yule came nearly every day and brought good news -of them both, saying how happy she and her husband were to have them at -the Vicarage. - -For Mr. Yule himself had gone to the Whitakers' house, an hour after -Louise had left it with Dr. Reynolds, and had taken the two forlorn -young creatures away. Their stricken youth found shelter in his house, -where Mireille's affliction and Cherie's tragic condition were alike -sacred to his generous heart. - -The little blind girl, Lilian, adored them both. She used to sit between -them--often resting her face against Mireille's arm, or holding the -child's hand in hers--listening to Cherie's tales of their childhood in -Belgium. She was never tired of hearing about Cherie's school-days at -Mademoiselle Thibaut's _pensionnat_; of her trips to Brussels and -Antwerp, and the horrors of the dungeons of Chateau Steen; of her -bicycle-lessons on the sands of Westende under the instruction of the -monkey-man; and above all of her visits to Braine l'Alleude and the -battle-field of Waterloo, where she had actually drunk coffee in -Wellington's sitting-room, and rested in his very own armchair.... - -Lilian, with her closed eyes and intent face--always turned slightly -upward as if yearning towards the light--listened eagerly, exclaiming -every now and then with a little excited laugh, "I see ... I see...." -And those words and the sweet expression of the small ecstatic face made -Cherie's voice falter and the tears suffuse her eyes. - -One day a letter came. It was from Claude. He had almost completely -recovered from his wound and was leaving the hospital in Dunkirk to go -to the front again. He sent all his love and all God's blessings to -Louise and to his little Mireille and to Cherie. They would meet again -in the happier days soon to come. Had they news of Florian? The last he -had heard of him was a card from the trenches at Loos.... - -And that same day--a snowy day in December--Louise at length returned -from her ordeal and stood, a pale and ghostly figure, at the Vicarage -door. To her also it opened wide, and her faltering footsteps were led -with love and tenderness to the firelight of the hospitable hearth. - -There in the vicar's leather armchair, with the vicar's favourite collie -curled at her feet, sat Mireille; her soft hair parted in the middle and -tied with a blue ribbon by Mrs. Yule; a gold bangle, given her by -Lilian, on her slim wrist. With a cry of joy and gratitude Louise knelt -before her, kissing the soft chill hands, the silent mouth, the eyes -that did not recognize her. - -"Mireille, Mireille! Can you not say a word to me? Not a word? Say, -'Welcome, mother!' Say it, darling! Say, '_Maman, bonjour_.'" - -But the child's lips remained closed; the singing fountain of her voice -was sealed. - -The door opened, and Cherie entered the room--a Cherie altered and -strange in her new and tragic dignity. - -Louise involuntarily drew back, gazing in amazement at the significant -change of form and feature; then with a sob of passionate pity she went -to her and folded her in her arms. - -Cherie, with a smile and a sigh, bowed her head upon Louise's breast. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -To see Christmas in an English vicarage is to see Christmas indeed; and -the love and charity and beauty of it sank deeply into the exiles' -wounded hearts. - -But one day came the summons to return to Belgium. It was a peremptory -order from the German Governor of Brussels to all owners of house or -property to return to their country with the least possible delay. The -penalty of disregarding this summons would be the confiscation of all -and any property owned by them in Belgium. - -Louise stood in Cherie's room with the open letter in her hand, aghast -and trembling. - -"To return to Belgium? They ask us to return to Belgium?" Louise could -scarcely pronounce the words. "Do you realize what it means, Cherie?" - -"It means--going home," whispered the girl, with downcast eyes and a -delicate flush mounting to her pale cheeks. - -"Home! Do you remember what that home was when we left it?" cried -Louise, her eyes blazing at the recollection. - -"No," said Cherie, "I do not remember." - -"Home! Home without Claude--without Florian! with half our friends -killed or lost ..." cried Louise, and the easy tears of weakness flowed -down her thin cheeks. "Home--with Mireille a silent ghost, and you--and -you--" Her dark passionate eyes lit for an instant on the figure of her -sister-in-law, and horror and shame seemed to grip at her throat. "Let -us never speak of it again." - -And she flung the paper into the fire. - -But the memory of it she could not fling away. The possibility of -returning to Belgium, which before had seemed so remote, the idea of -seeing their home again which they had deemed lost to them for ever, now -filled her mind and Cherie's to the exclusion of every other thought. -That harsh call to return rang in their hearts by day and by night, -awakening home-sickness and desire. - -At night Louise would dream a thousand times of that return, a thousand -times putting the idea from her with indignation and with fear. Every -night she would imagine herself arriving at Bomal, hurrying through the -village streets to the gate of her house, entering it, going up the -stairs, opening the door to Claude's study.... - -Little by little home-sickness wound itself like a serpent about her -heart, crushing her in its strong spirals, poisoning with its virulent -fang every hour of her day. Little by little the nostalgic yearning, -the unutterable longing to hear her own language, to be among her own -people--though tortured, though oppressed, though crushed by the -invader's heel--grew in her heart until she felt that she could bear it -no longer. The sense of exile became intolerable; the sound of English -voices, the sight of English faces, hurt and oppressed her; the thought -of the wild English waters separating her from her woeful land seemed to -freeze and drown her heart. - -A week after she had told Cherie never to speak about it any more she -thought of nothing else, she dreamed of nothing else, but to return to -her home, her wrecked and devastated home, there to await Claude in -hope, in patience, and in prayer. - -She would feel nearer to him when once the icy, tumbling waves of -the Channel separated them no more. She would be ready for him when -the day of deliverance came, the day of Belgium's freedom and -redemption--surely, surely now it could not be far off! Claude would -find her there, in her place, waiting for him. She would see him from -afar off, she would be at the door to meet him as she always was when he -had gone away even for a few days or hours. His little Mireille, alas! -was stricken, but might she not before then recover? His sister--ah! His -sister!... Louise wrung her hands and wept. - -Late one night she went to Cherie's room. She opened the door very -gently so as not to wake her if she were asleep. But Cherie was sitting -near the fire bending over some needlework and singing softly to -herself. She jumped up, blushing deeply, as Louise entered, and she -attempted to hide her work in her lap. It was an infant's white cape she -was embroidering, and as Louise saw it her own pale cheeks flushed too. - -"Cherie," she faltered, "I have been thinking ... what if we went home?" - -"Yes," said Cherie quietly, with the chastened calmness of those whose -mission it is to wait. - -"Let us go, let us go," said Louise. "We will make our house ready and -beautiful for those who will return." - -"Yes," said Cherie, again. - -"They will return and find us there ... waiting for them ... even though -the storm has passed over us...." Her voice broke in a sob. "Mireille -will recover, I know it, I feel it! And you--oh, Cherie!"--she dropped -on her knees before the trembling girl--"you, you will be brave," she -cried passionately, "before it is too late ... Cherie, Cherie, I implore -you...." - -Cherie was silent. It was as if she did not hear. It was as if she did -not understand. - -In vain Louise spoke of the shame of the past, of the woe and misery of -the future. To all her wild words, to her caresses and entreaties, -Cherie gave no reply. Her lips seemed mute, her eyes seemed distant and -unseeing as those of the mindless, wandering Mireille. - -At last she rose, and stood facing Louise, her face grave, inexorable, -unflinching. - -"Louise, say no more. No human reasoning, no human law, no human -sanction or prohibition can influence me. No one may judge between a -woman and the depths of her own body and soul; in so grave a matter each -must decide according to her own conscience. What to the one is shame, -hatred, and horror, to the other is joy, wonder, and love. To me, -Louise, this suffering--tragic and terrible though it be--is joy, -wonder, and love. I do not explain it, I do not justify it; I do not -think I even understand it. But this I feel, that I would sooner tear -out my living heart than voluntarily destroy the life which is within -me, and which I feel is part of my very soul." - -Louise was silent. She felt herself face to face with the great primeval -instinct of maternity; and words failed her. Then the thought of their -return to Belgium clutched at her heart again. - -"But if we go home! Think, think of the shame of it! What will they say, -those who have known us? Think--what will they say?" - -Cherie sighed. "I cannot help what they say." - -"And when Claude returns, Cherie! When Claude returns...." - -Cherie bowed her head and did not answer. - -Louise moved nearer to her. "And have you forgotten Florian? Florian, -who loves you, and hoped to make you his wife?..." - -The tears welled up into Cherie's eyes, but she was silent. - -Louise's voice rose to a bitter cry. "Cherie! Think of the brutal hands -that bound you, of the infamous enemy that outraged you. Think, think -that you, a Belgian, will be the mother of a German child!" - -But Cherie cared nothing, remembered nothing, heard nothing. She heard -no other voice but that child-voice asking from her the gift of life, -telling her that in the land of the unborn there are no Germans and no -Belgians, no victors and no vanquished, but only the innocent flowers of -futurity--the white-winged doves of Jesus, and the snowy lambs of God. - - - - -BOOK III - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -Feldwebel Karl Sigismund Schwarz lay on the internal slope of a crater -under a red sunset sky. His eyes were shut. But he was not asleep. He -was making up his mind that he must move his left arm. Something heavy -seemed to be pressing it down, crushing and crunching it. He would move -it, he would lift it up in the air and feel the circulation return to it -and the breezes of heaven blow on it. Never was there such a hot and -heavy arm.... Yes. He would certainly lift it in a moment. - -After this great mental exertion, Feldwebel Schwarz went to sleep for a -few moments; then he woke up again, more than ever determined to move -his arm. What did one do when one wanted to move one's arm? And where -was his arm? Where was everything? Where was he, Karl Sigismund -Schwarz?... There was evidently a 'cello playing somewhere quite close -to him; he could hear it right in his head: "Zoom ... zoom-zoom ... -zoom-zoom." - -He said to himself that he knew where he was. He was in Charlottenburg, -in the Cafe des Westens, and the Hungarian, Makowsky, was playing on -the _Bassgeige_. Zoom ... zoom-zoom.... The rest of the orchestra would -join in presently. Meanwhile, what was the matter with his arm? He -groaned aloud and tried to raise himself on his right elbow. He could -not do so; but in turning his head he caught sight of a man lying close -beside him, a man in Belgian uniform lying flat on the ground with his -profile turned to the sky. This convinced Schwarz that he was not in -Charlottenburg after all. He was somewhere in Flanders near a rotten old -city called Ypres; and he was lying in a hole made by a shell. He -glanced sideways at the Belgian again. Then he cried out loud, "See -here, what is the matter with my arm?" But the man did not answer, and -Schwarz realized that he probably did not understand German. Probably, -also, he was dead. - -So Karl Schwarz lay back again, and listened to the 'cello buzzing in -his brain. - -The red sunset had faded into a drab twilight when in his turn the -Belgian opened his eyes, sighed and sat up. He saw the wounded German -lying beside him with limp legs outstretched, a mangled arm and a face -caked with blood. The man's eyes were open, so the Belgian nodded to him -and said, "_Ca va, mon vieux?_" - -"_Verfluchter Schweinehund_," replied Karl Schwarz; and Florian Audet, -who did not understand that he was being called a damned swine-hound, -nodded back again in a friendly way. Then each was silent with his -thoughts. - -Florian tried to realize what had happened. He tentatively moved one -arm; then the other; then his feet and legs. He moved his shoulders a -little; they seemed all right. He felt nothing but a pain in the back of -his neck, like a violent cramp; otherwise there seemed nothing much the -matter with him. Why was he lying there? Let him remember. There had -been an order to attack ... a dash over the white Ypres road and across -the fields to the south ... then an explosion--yes. That was it. He had -been blown up. This was shock or something. He wondered where the -remains of his company was and how things had turned out. There were -sounds of firing not far away, the spluttering of rifles and the booming -of the gun. - -He tried to rise to his feet, but it was as if the earth rose with him. -He could not get his hands off the ground--earth and sky whirled round -him, and he had to lie down again. - -Soon darkness came up out of the thundering east and blew out the -twilight. - -Meanwhile Feldwebel Schwarz was again in the Cafe des Westens; the -orchestra of ten thousand _Bassgeigen_ was booming like mad, and he was -beating on the table with his heavy arm, calling for the waiter Max to -bring him something cold to drink. Max came hurrying up and stood before -him carrying a tray laden with glasses--huge cool Schoppen of Muenchner -and Lager, and tall glasses of lemonade with ice clinking in it. Which -would he have? He could not make up his mind which he would have. His -throat burned him, his stomach was on fire with thirst, and he could not -say which of the cool drinks he wanted. He felt that he must drink them -all--the iced Muenchner, the chilly Lager, the biting lemonade--he must -drink them all together, or die. Suddenly he noticed that the -_Wasserleiche_--you know the _Wasserleiche_, the "Water-corpse" of the -Cafe des Westens--the cadaverous-looking woman whose face is of such a -peculiar hue that you would vow she had been drowned and left lying in -the water for a couple of days before they fished her out again--well, -she had come up to the waiter and was embracing him, and all the glasses -were slipping off his tray. Ping!--pang!--down they crashed! -Ping!--pang! smashing and crashing all around. You never heard glasses -make such a noise. There was nothing left to drink--nothing in the wide -world. - -Then Feldwebel Schwarz began to cry. He heard himself moaning and -crying, until Max the waiter looked at him and then he saw that it was -not Max the waiter at all that the Water-corpse was embracing. She never -did embrace men. It was her friend Melanie, who stood there laughing -with her mouth wide open, showing the pink roof of her mouth and her -tiny wolfish teeth--the two eye-teeth slightly longer than the others -and very pointed. - -Karl Schwarz knew that if he wanted anything to drink he must be amiable -to Melanie. He would sing her the song about "Graefin Melanie," beginning -"_Nur fuer Natur_...." - -But he could not remember it. He could only remember the Ueberbrettel -song-- - - "Die Flundern - "Werden sich wundern...." - -He sang this a great many times, and the waiter Max, who was lying on -the floor among the broken glasses, applauded loudly. You never heard -such clapping; it went right through one's head. But Melanie did not -give him anything to drink, and the Water-corpse--he suddenly remembered -that she never allowed any one to speak to Melanie--turned on him -furiously and bit him in the arm. He howled with pain, and then Melanie -bent forward showing all her wolfish teeth, and she also bit him in the -arm. They were tearing and mangling him. He could not get his arm away -from the two dreadful creatures. "_Verdammte Sauweiber!_" he shouted at -them, and his voice was so loud that it woke him. - -He saw the star-strewn sky above him, and beside him the prostrate -figure of the Belgian as he had seen him before. Probably, he said to -himself, Melanie and the Water-corpse had been at this man too. To keep -them away he had to go on singing with his parched throat-- - - "Die Flundern - "Werden sich wundern...." - - * * * * * - - "Die Flundern - "Werden sich wundern...." - -He imagined that these words possessed some occult power which must keep -the two horrible women away from him. - -So he continued to repeat them all night long. - -Between two and three o'clock Florian Audet opened his eyes and turned -his head to look round. The wounded German's voice had roused him from -sleep--or from unconsciousness--and he lay there vaguely wondering what -that continually repeated cry might mean. - -"_Die Flundern werden sich wundern...._" The words sank into his brain -and remained there. Perhaps, he mused, it was some kind of national -war-cry, a shout of victory or defiance ... "Death or liberty!..." or -"In the name of the Kaiser," or something like that. - -From where he was he could see the outstretched figure lying to the -left of him, the limp legs, the helpless, upturned feet in their thick -muddy boots; and he heard the sound of the rattling breath still -repeating brokenly, "_Die Flundern werden sich wundern_...." - -An overwhelming sense of pity came over him; pity for the broken figure -beside him, pity for himself, pity for the world. With an immense -effort, for he felt as if every bone were broken, he turned on his side -and, struggling slowly along the ground, dragged himself towards the -dying man. When he reached him and could touch him with his outstretched -hand he rested awhile; then he fumbled for his brandy-flask, found it, -unscrewed it and held it near the man's face. - -"_Tiens! bois_," he said. But the German did not move to take it; and -soon the rattling breath stopped. - -Florian wriggled a little closer, slipped his right arm under the man's -head and raised it. Then by the grey April starlight he saw something -bubble and gush over the man's face from a wound in his forehead. The -German opened his eyes. What were those fiendish women doing to him now? -Pouring warm wine over his head.... Through the tepid scarlet veil his -wild eyes blinked up at Florian in childish terror and bewilderment. A -wave of sickening faintness overcame Florian; his arm slackened, and his -enemy's ghastly crimson face fell back upon it as Florian himself sank -beside him in a swoon. - -There they lay all through the night, side by side, like brothers, the -living and the dead; the German soldier with his head on the Belgian -officer's arm. And thus two German Red Cross men found them in the -chilly dawn as they slid down the crater-side, carrying a folded -stretcher between them. They were very young, the two Red Cross men; -they had not finished studying philosophy in the Bonn University when -the war had broken out, and they had left Kant and Hebel for a quick -course of surgery. The youngest one, who had very fair hair, wrote -foolish Latin poems, said to be after the style of Lucretius. - -They dropped the stretcher and stood silently looking down at those two -motionless figures in their fraternal embrace, whose attitude told their -tale. Florian's hand, holding the open brandy-flask, lay on the dead -German's breast; the ghastly dead face of their comrade was pillowed -easily on the enemy's encircling arm. - -Something rose in the throat of the two who gazed, and the younger -one--the one who wrote Latin verse--bent down and laid his hand lightly, -as if invoking a blessing on Florian's pale forehead. Then he turned -with a start to his companion. "He is alive!" - -The other in his turn touched the man's brow, then lifted the limp hand -to feel his pulse. They knelt beside him and poured brandy down his -throat. Then they worked over him for a long while, until a breath of -life fluttered through the ashen lips, and the vague blue eyes opened -and looked into theirs. - -The Germans rose to their feet. The Belgian, when he had lain -unconscious with his arm around their fallen comrade, had been to them a -hero and a friend. Now, alive, with open eyes, he was their foe and -their prisoner. - -They spoke to him at first, not unkindly, in German; then, somewhat -brusquely, in French; but he gave them no reply. His brain was benumbed -and stupefied. He could not speak and he could not stand. So they lifted -him and placed him on the stretcher. - -"Poor devil!" murmured the younger man as he extended the two limp arms -along the recumbent body and pointed out to his companion the right -sleeve of the Belgian uniform sodden and stiff with the German soldier's -blood. - -"Poor devil! What have we saved him for? To send him to the hell of -Wittemberg!..." - -"Hard lines," murmured the other one. - -"_Gerechter Gott!_" exclaimed the foolish fair-haired poet, "I wish we -could give him a chance." - - * * * * * - -They gave him a chance. - -Florian never knew how it was that he found himself lying on a blanket -on the stone floor of a half-demolished farm building, a sort of -dilapidated cow-house. - -As he raised his aching head he saw that milk, bread, and brandy had -been left on the floor beside him; also a packet of cigarettes, some -matches, and a tablet of chocolate. He drank greedily of the milk; then -he took a sip of brandy and staggered to his feet. Though giddy and -trembling, he found he could stand. And as he stood he noticed that he -was stripped to the skin. There was not a stitch of clothing on him, nor -was there a vestige of his own uniform anywhere to be seen. There was -nothing but a pair of muddy yellow boots standing in the middle of the -floor--boots that reminded him of those he had seen on the dying German -on the hill-side. These and the grey blanket he had lain on were all -that one could possibly clothe oneself in. Nothing that had been his was -there. Even the brandy was not in his own flask. - -Florian looked round the deserted place, the crumbling walls which bomb -and shell had battered. There was a rusty, broken plough in a corner, a -few tools and some odd pots and pans. After brief reflection Florian put -on the boots; then he finished the bread, the milk, and the brandy. -Finally, having knotted in one corner of the blanket the chocolate, the -cigarettes, and the matches, he wound the rough grey covering round his -body and stepped out to face the world. - -It was an empty, desolate world; a dead horse lay not far off on the -muddy road leading across the plain. By the sun, Florian judged it to -be about seven o'clock in the morning. He seemed to recognize the -locality; it might be a mile or two from the fighting ground of the -preceding day. Yes. There to the left was the straight white road from -Poperinghe to Ypres; he recognized the double line of trees ... where -was he to go? In what direction were the Belgian lines, he wondered. He -still felt weak, and his knees trembled; his mind was vacant except for -a jumble of meaningless sounds. The words the dying German had repeated -through the night rang in his head continually. He found himself -murmuring over and over again, "_Die Flundern werden sich wundern_...." - -He also had to make a strenuous mental effort to realize that he -actually was wandering about the world in nothing but a pair of boots -and a blanket. Everything seemed like an insensate dream. Perhaps he was -still suffering from shock and dreaming all this? Perhaps he was really -lying in hospital with concussion of the brain.... Who on earth could -have stolen all his clothes and left him in exchange the milk, the -chocolate, and the cigarettes? - -There was something base and treacherous in robbing an unconscious man, -he said to himself. On the other hand, there was a touch of friendliness -and kindness in the chocolate and the cigarettes. The whole thing was -absurd and fantastic. - -"Either," reasoned Florian, stumbling along in his blanket in the -direction of a distant wood, "either I have been the prey of some -demented creature, or I am at this very moment light-headed myself...." -"_Die Flundern werden sich wundern._" He had to make an effort not to -say those crazy words aloud. He felt he would go mad if he did so. As -long as he kept them shut up in his brain he was their master; but if he -let them out he felt they would get the better of him, and he would go -on saying them over and over and over again like the delirious German. -Decidedly he was weak in his head, and must try to keep a firm hold on -his brain. "_Die Flundern ... werden sich wundern._" - -A few moments later he saw some mounted soldiers riding out of the wood; -he saw at once that it was a German patrol. He thought of turning back -and hiding in the shed again, but it was too late. They had caught sight -of him, and were riding down towards him at full speed. - -Well, the game was up, said Florian to himself; he would be taken. He -could neither kill others nor himself with a piece of chocolate and a -packet of Josetti. - -So he stood stock-still, folded his arms, and awaited their arrival. -("_Die Flundern werden sich wundern...._") - -As the eight or ten men galloped up, Florian noted from afar their -looks of amazement at the sight of him. They hailed him in German, and -he did not reply. He stood like a statue; he said to himself that he -would meet his fate with dignity. But he had not reckoned with the -ludicrous effect of his attire. Two of the men dismounted, and one of -them addressed him in German with a broad grin on his face; but the -other--a young officer--silenced the first one abruptly, and turning a -grim countenance to Florian, asked him in French why he was in that -array. - -"What have you done with your uniform?" he asked, scowling. - -Florian scowled back at him, and gave no reply. He had made up his mind -that he would not speak. ("_Die Flundern werden sich wundern._") - -The officer gave an order, and two soldiers took him by the arms and -dragged his blanket from him. He stood there in his muddy boots, bare in -the sunshine, his face and hands and hair caked with mud. But he was a -fine and handsome figure for all that. - -The officer and the men had turned their attention to the knot in the -blanket. They undid it and took out the contents of the improvised -pocket. - -Then they looked at the figure before them and at each other. The -chocolate was German; the cigarettes were German; the boots were German. -What was the man? - -"_Meschugge_," murmured the lieutenant in explanation, not of Florian's -nationality, but of his condition of mind. - -"_Meschugge! Meschugge!_" repeated the others, laughing. - -The officer seemed uncertain. He turned and spoke in a low voice to the -others. Florian knew they were discussing him. Would they arrest him as -a cunning Belgian who had discarded his uniform, stolen the boots and -the blanket, and was shamming to be insane and dumb? Or would they think -him a German gone daft and send him to an infirmary? He hoped so. It -would be easier to make one's escape from an infirmary than from a -German prison. A German prison! Florian clenched his teeth. He saw that -the officer seemed inclined to adopt this course. - -"_Die Flundern werden_--" He almost said it aloud. The sound of these -guttural German voices round him seemed to drag the words out of him. He -felt his lips moving and he saw them watching him closely.... Suddenly -the crazy words ran out of his mouth. "_Die Flundern werden sich -wundern!_" - -He was not prepared for the effect of those words. The soldiers burst -into loud laughter; even the officer's hard face relaxed and he smiled -broadly. The others repeated it with comments. "Did you hear? '_Die -Flundern_'!... He has the Ueberbrettel on the brain!" And they roared -with laughter and clapped him on the bare shoulders and asked him in -what _Kabarett_ he had left his heart and his senses. - -Florian understood not a word, but he knew he was safe. At least, for -the present. - -Whatever the words were, they had saved him, and he made up his mind -that for the time being he would use no others. A little later he added -one other word to his repertoire, and that was _Meschugge_, which is -Berlin dialect for mad. He himself had no faint idea of what it meant, -but he heard it pronounced, evidently in regard to himself, by the -Prussian Lieutenant in whose charge he was conducted back to the German -lines. - -"_Die Flundern werden sich wundern_," and "_Meschugge_." With those six -words, murmured at intervals once or twice in a day, he got through the -rear lines of the German army, and through a brief stay in a camp -hospital, and finally into a Liege infirmary. Those who heard him knew -there could be no mistake. He was no Belgian and no Frenchman. Of all -words in the rich German vocabulary, of all lines of German verse or -song, no foreigner in the world could ever have hit on just these. None -but a true son of the Fatherland--indeed none but a pure-blooded -_Berliner_--would have even known what they meant. - -"_Ein famoser Kerl_," was this young Adonis, who had turned up from -heaven knows where in a blanket and a pair of boots. "_Ein ganz famoser -Kerl!_" And they clapped him on the shoulders. "_Er lebe hoch!_" - -Thus it came about that the Water-corpse and Melanie of the Cafe des -Westens unwittingly saved the life of a gallant Belgian soldier. And as -this is the only good deed they are ever likely to perform, may it stand -to their credit on the Day of Judgment when they are summoned to account -for their wretched and unprofitable lives. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -On the 1st of May the Ourthe and the Aisne, each with a crisp Spring -wave to its waters, came together at Bomal. "Here I am, as fresh as -ever," said the frisky little Aisne. - -"Oh, come off the rocks," grumbled the Ourthe, elbowing her way towards -the bridge, "and don't be so gushing." - -"There's a stork passing over us with a May-baby in his beak," bubbled -the Aisne. - -"A good thing if he dropped it. Here I am very deep," quoth the Ourthe. - -The Aisne, who was not deep at all, did not understand the quibble. "How -very blue you are!" she gurgled. "What is the matter? Is it going to -rain?" - -"If it does, mind you keep to your bed," retorted the Ourthe -sarcastically. - -"I won't. I am coming into yours," plashed the Aisne; and did so. - -"Oh! The Meuse take you!" grumbled the Ourthe foaming and swelling. - -And they went on together, quarrelling all the way to Liege, where the -Meuse took them both. - -The stork flew across the bridge, and stopped over Dr. Brandes's house. - -"Open your eyes, little human child," said the stork. "This is where you -are born." - - * * * * * - -"Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover...." sang Nurse Elliot, of the -American Red Cross, rocking the cradle with her foot and looking -dreamily out of the window. From where she sat she could catch a glimpse -of the Bomal church steeple and the swaying tops of the trees in the -cemetery. - -"Perhaps this poor lamb would be better off if it were already asleep -over there under those trees," reflected Nurse Caroline Elliot. And as -if in assent, the infant in the cradle uttered a melancholy wail. - -Nurse Elliot immediately began to sing Bliss Carman's May-song: - - Day comes, May comes, - One who was away comes, - All the world is fair again, - Fair and kind to me. - - Day comes, May comes, - One who was away comes, - Set his place at hearth and board - As it used to be. - - May comes, day comes, - One who was away comes, - Higher are the hills of home, - Bluer is the sea. - -The baby soon gave up all attempt to compete with the powerful American -contralto, and with puckered brow and tiny clenched fist went mournfully -to sleep again. He had been in the world just seven days and had not -found much to rejoice over. Life seemed to consist of a good deal of -noise and discomfort and bumping about. There seemed to be not much -food, a great deal of singing, and a variety of aches. "I wish I were -back in the land of Neverness," wept the baby, "lying in the cup of a -lotus-flower in the blue morning of inexistence." - -The stork, still standing on one leg on the roof resting from its -journey, heard this and said: "Never mind. Cheer up. It is not for -long." - -"For how long is it?" asked the baby anxiously. - -"Oh, less than a hundred years," said the stork, combing the feathers of -its breast with its beak. - -Then the baby wept even more bitterly. "Why? Why, for so short a time?" -it cried. - -"You bother me," said the stork; and flew away. - -And the cradle rocked and the baby wept and Miss Caroline Elliot sang. - - * * * * * - -They had arrived in Bomal ten days before--Louise, Cherie and -Mireille--after a nightmare journey, through Holland and Flanders. At -the station in Liege, Cherie, who was very ill, aroused the -compassionate attention of the American Red Cross nurses and they -obtained permission to bring her in a motor ambulance to Bomal. Nurse -Elliot, a tall kind woman, accompanied her, and was permitted to remain -with her and assist her during the ordeal of the ensuing days. - -On their arrival Louise had not come straight to the house. She had not -dared to bring Mireille to her home. She feared she knew not what. Would -the child recognize the place? Would the unconscious eyes perceive and -recognize the surroundings that had witnessed her martyrdom? What effect -might such a shock have on that stricken, sensitive soul?... Louise felt -unable to face any new emotions after the fatigue and misery of the -journey and the hourly anxiety in regard to Cherie. - -So she accompanied Mireille to the home of their old friend, Madame -Dore. - -Doubtful of the welcome she would receive, fearful of the changes she -might find, Louise knocked with trembling hand at the door of her old -friend's house. - -Madame Dore herself opened the door to her. But--was this Madame Dore? -This haggard, white-haired woman, who stared at her with such startled -eyes? - -"Madame Dore! It is I--Louise and little Mireille! Do you not recognize -us?" - -"Hush! Come in." The woman drew them quickly into the passage and locked -the door. Her eyes had a roving, frightened look, and every now and -then a nervous spasm contracted her face. - -"Oh my dear, my dear," said Louise, embracing her with tears. - -Locked in Madame Dore's bedroom--for the terrorized woman had the -obsession of being constantly watched and spied upon--Louise heard her -friend's tragic story and recounted her own. With pitying tears Madame -Dore caressed Mireille's soft hair and assured Louise that it would be a -joy for her and for Jeannette to keep her with them. - -"Dear little Jeannette!" exclaimed Louise. "How glad I shall be to see -her again. Is she well?" - -Yes. Jeannette was well. - -"And Cecile--? You say she is in England?" - -"Yes. She went with four or five other women from Bomal and Hamoir. She -could not live here any longer; her heart was broken. She never got over -the murder of her brother Andre"--the painful spasm distorted the -careworn face again--"you knew that he was shot by the side of the poor -old Cure that night in the Place de l'Eglise?" - -Yes. Louise knew. And she pressed the hand of her old friend with -compassionate tenderness. They talked of all their friends and -acquaintances. The storm had swept over them, wrecking, ruining and -scattering them far and wide. - -"Hush, listen!" whispered Madame Dore, suddenly grasping Louise's arm. -Outside they could hear the measured tread of feet and the sound of loud -voices, the loathed and dreaded German voices raised in talk and -laughter. - -"Our masters!" whispered Madame Dore. "They enter our houses when they -choose, they come in the middle of the night and rummage through our -things. They take away our money and our jewels. They read our letters, -they order us about and insult us. We cannot speak or think or breathe -without their knowledge and permission. They are constantly threatening -us with imprisonment or with deportation. We are slaves and -half-starved. Ah!" cried the unhappy woman, "why did I not have the -courage to go with Cecile to England? I don't know ... I felt old, old -and frightened.... And now Jeannette and I are here as in a prison, and -Cecile is far away and alone." - -Louise soothed her as best she could with caresses and consoling words. -But Madame Dore was heart-stricken and desolate, and the fact that they -had never met Cecile when they were in London caused her bitter -disappointment. Perhaps some evil had befallen Cecile? Did Louise think -she was safe? The English were kind, were they not? - -Yes, Louise was sure Cecile was safe. And yes, the English were very -kind. - -Even as she spoke a rush of longing came over her; a feeling that -resembled home-sickness in its tenderness and yearning. England!--ah, -England! How safe, indeed, how safe and kind and cool in its girdle of -grey water!... - -Perhaps, mused Louise, as she hurried home alone, meeting the -inquisitive glance of strangers and the insolent stare of German -soldiers in the familiar village-streets, perhaps it would have been -better after all if they had remained safely in England, if they had -disregarded the warning of the invader and allowed him to confiscate -their home. Thus at least they would have remained beyond the reach of -his intrusions, his insults and his cruelty. - -Meanwhile, in Dr. Brandes's house the energetic and capable Miss Elliot -had not been idle. A quick survey of the ransacked abode had shown her -that, although most of the valuables and all the silver and pictures had -been stolen, the necessary household utensils, and even the linen, were -left. Briskly and cheerfully she settled Cherie in a snow-white bed, -brushed and braided her shining hair in two long plaits, gave her a cup -of bread-and-milk and set resolutely to work to clear away some of the -litter and confusion before Louise should arrive. - -There were dirty plates and glasses, and empty bottles everywhere; there -were muddy mattresses on the floor. People seemed to have slept and -eaten in every room in the house. Tables, carpets and beds were strewn -with cigar and cigarette-stumps; drawers and wardrobes had been emptied -and their contents scattered on the floor; basins of dirty water stood -on cabinets, sideboard and chairs. - -Caroline Elliot brushed and emptied and cleared and cleaned, and drew in -the shutters, and opened the windows, and lit the fires; and by the time -she heard Louise's hurrying footsteps, was able to stand aside with a -little smile of satisfaction and watch Louise's pale face light up with -emotion and pleasure. - -It was home, home after all! - -And Louise, looking round the familiar rooms, felt a tremor of hope--the -timid hope of better days to come--stir in the depths of her thankful -heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -The child was three weeks old and still Cherie had not seen either -friend or acquaintance, nor had she dared to go out of the house. She -felt too shy to show herself in the day-time, and after nightfall the -inhabitants of Bomal were forbidden to leave their homes. Cherie dreaded -meeting any of her acquaintances; true, there were not many left in the -village, for some had taken refuge abroad and others had gone to live in -the larger cities, Liege and Brussels, where, rightly or wrongly, they -hoped to feel less bitterly their state of subservience and slavery. - -It was a sunny afternoon towards the end of May that Nurse Elliot at -last packed her neat bag and made ready to leave them. - -"I cannot possibly stay a day longer," she said, caressing Cherie, who -clung to her in tears. "I must go back to my post in Liege. Besides, you -do not need me any more." - -"Oh, I need you. I need you!" cried Cherie. "I shall be so lonely and -forlorn." - -"Lonely? With your child? And with your sister-in-law? Nonsense," said -the nurse briskly. - -"But Louise hardly speaks to me," said Cherie miserably. "She hates the -child, and she hates me." - -"Nonsense," said the nurse again; but she felt that there was some truth -in Cherie's words. - -Indeed, it was impossible not to notice the almost morbid aversion -Louise felt towards the poor little intruder. Louise herself, strive as -she would to hide or conquer her feeling, could not do so. Every line -and feature of the tiny face, every tendril of its silky pale-gold hair, -its small, pouting mouth, its strange, very light grey eyes--all, all -was hateful and horrible to her. When she saw Cherie lift it up and kiss -it she felt herself turn pale and sick. When she saw it at Cherie's -breast, saw the small head moving, the tiny hands searching and -pressing, she shuddered with horror and repugnance. Though she said to -herself that this was unreasonable, that it was cruel and wrong, still -the feeling was unconquerable; it seemed to spring from the innermost -depths of her Belgian soul. Her hatred was as much a primitive -ingenerate instinct, as was the passionate maternal love an essence of -the soul of Cherie. - -"She hates us, Nurse Elliot, she hates us," asseverated Cherie, pressing -her clasped hands to her breast in a pitiful gesture of despair. -"Sometimes if for a moment I forget how miserable I am, and I lift the -little one up in my arms, and laugh at him and caress him, suddenly I -feel Louise's eyes fixed upon us, cold, hostile, implacable. Yes. She -hates us! And I suppose every one will hate us. Every one will turn from -the child and from me in loathing and disgust. Where shall we go? Where -shall we hide, I and this poor little baby of mine?" She turned a -tearful glance toward the red-curtained door that hid her little one, -awake and cooing in his cot. Nurse Elliot had finished packing and -locking her bag, had rolled and strapped her cloak, tied on her bonnet -and was ready to go to the station. - -"Cherie," she said gravely, placing both her hands on the girl's frail -shoulders, "whatever is in store for you, you will have to face it. And -now," she added, kissing her on both cheeks, "if you love me a little, -if I have really been of any help or comfort to you during these sad -days, the moment has come for you to repay me." - -"Oh, how--how can I ever repay you?" cried Cherie. - -"By putting on your hat, taking your baby in your arms and accompanying -me to the station." - -"To the station! I! with--Oh, I could not, I could not!" She shrank back -and a burning flush rose to her brow. - -At that moment Louise entered the room dressed to go out. - -"You will accompany me to the station," repeated Nurse Elliot firmly to -Cherie. "You, and your sister-in-law, and the baby will all come to see -me off and wish me luck." - -"Don't--don't ask that," murmured Cherie. - -"I do ask it," said Caroline Elliot. "And you cannot refuse. I have -given you many days and many nights out of my life, and much love and -tender anxiety. And this is the only thanks I shall ever ask." She -stepped close to Cherie and placed her arms around her. "Can you not -see, my dear, that sooner or later you will be forced to meet the ordeal -you dread? You cannot imprison yourself and the child for ever between -these four walls. Then take your courage and face the world today; now, -while I am still with you." - -Cherie stood pale and hesitant; then she turned to Louise. "Would -you--would you go with me?" - -There was so much humility and misery in her voice that Louise was -touched. - -"Of course I will," she said; "go quickly and get ready." - -Cherie ran to her room. She put on the modest black frock she had worn -on the journey from England, but she dressed the baby in all his -prettiest clothes--the white cape she had embroidered for him, and the -lace cap with blue ribbons and the smartest of his blue silk socks. She -lifted him in her arms and stepped before the mirror. After all it was a -very sweet baby, was it not? People might hate him when they heard of -him, but when they saw him.... - -Trembling, blushing and smiling she appeared at the gate where Miss -Elliot and Louise stood waiting for her. She stepped timidly out of -doors between them, and very young and very pathetic did she look with -her flushed cheeks and shining, diffident eyes. Whom would they meet? -Would they see any one they knew? - -Yes. They met Mademoiselle Veraender, the school-mistress, who looked at -them, started, looked again and then, blushing crimson, crossed to the -other side of the road. They met Madame Linkaerts and her daughter -Marie. The girl recognized them with a cry of delight, but her mother -took her brusquely by the arm and turned her brusquely down a -side-street. They met four German soldiers strolling along who stared -first at the American nurse, then at Louise, then at Cherie with the -baby in her arms. - -One of them made a remark and the others laughed. They stood still to -let the three women pass, and the one who had spoken waved his fingers -at Cherie. "_Ein Vaterlandskindlein?--nicht wahr?_" And he threw a kiss -to the child. - -Three or four street-urchins who had been following the soldiers, -imitating their strutting gait and sticking their tongues out at them, -noticed the greeting and interpreted it with the sharpness which -characterizes the gutter-snipe all the world over. They also began to -throw kisses to Cherie and to the baby, shouting, "_Petit boche? Quoi?_" -A lame elderly man passed and taking in the situation at a glance, ran -after the boys with his stick. Others passed, and stopped. Many of them -recognized the women, and some looked pityingly, others contemptuously -at the flushed and miserable Cherie. But no one came to speak to her, no -one greeted her, no one smiled at the child in its embroidered cape and -its cap with the blue ribbons. A few idlers making rude remarks, -followed them to the station. - -Nurse Elliot left them. It was a sad leave-taking. Then they returned -home in silence, going far out of their way to choose the least -frequented streets. - -As they came down the shady lane behind their house Louise glanced at -Cherie, and her heart melted with pity. What a child she looked for her -nineteen years! And how sad and frightened and ashamed? What could -Louise do to help her? What consolation could she offer? What hope could -she hold out? - -None. None. Except that the child should die. And why should it die? Was -it not the child of puissant youth, of brutal vitality? Did it not drink -its sustenance from the purest source of life? Why should it die? - -No; the child would live; live to do harm and hurt; to bring sorrow and -shame on them all. Live to keep the flame of hatred alight in their -hearts, to remind them for ever of the foul wrong they had suffered.... - -Cherie had felt Louise's eyes upon her and turned to her quickly. Had -not her sensitive soul perceived a passing breath of pity and of -tenderness? Surely Louise would turn to her now with a word of -consolation and compassion? Perhaps the sight of her helpless infant had -touched Louise's heart at last.... - -No, no. Again she caught that look of resentment, that terrible look of -anger and shame in Louise's eyes; and bending her head lower over her -child she hurried into the house. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -The house seemed very empty without Nurse Elliot. Cherie seldom spoke, -for she had nothing to speak about but her baby, and she knew that to -such talk Louise would neither wish to listen nor reply. - -Other mothers, reflected Cherie bitterly, could speak all day about -their children, and she, also, would have loved to tell of all the -wonderful things she discovered in her baby day by day. For instance, he -always laughed in his dreams, which meant that the angels still spoke to -him; and the soles of his tiny feet were quite pink; and he had a dimple -in his left cheek, and a quantity of silky golden hair on the nape of -his neck--all things that Louise had never noticed, and Cherie did not -dare to speak about them. There was silence, pitiless silence, round -that woeful cradle. - -In order that the child should not disturb Louise, Cherie had given up -her own bedroom and chosen for the nursery the spare room on the floor -below--the room with the red curtains--which, strangely enough, seemed -for her to hold no memories. One afternoon as she sat there nursing her -child, Louise, who hardly ever crossed that threshold, opened the door -and came in. - -Cherie looked up with a welcoming smile of surprise and joy. But Louise -turned her eyes away from her and from the slumbering babe. - -"I have come to tell you," she said, "that Mireille is coming home. I am -going to fetch her this evening." - -Cherie drew a quick breath of alarm. "Mireille!... Mireille is coming -here?" she exclaimed. - -"Surely you did not expect the poor child to stay away for ever?" said -Louise, her eyes filling with tears. "I have missed her very much," she -added bitterly. - -"Of course ... of course," stammered Cherie, "I am sorry!... But what -is ... what is to become of me? I mean, what shall we do, the baby and -I?" - -"What _can_ you do?" said Louise bitterly. - -Cherie bent over her child. "I wish we could hide" ... she said in a low -voice, "hide ourselves away where nobody would ever see us." - -Louise made no reply. She sat down, turning away from Cherie, and tried -not to feel pitiless. "Harden not your hearts ... harden not your -hearts ..." she repeated to herself, striving to stifle the sense of -implacable rancour, of bitter hatred which hurt her own heart, but which -she could not overcome. - -"Mireille will come here!" Cherie repeated under her breath. "She will -see the child! What will she say? What will she say?" - -Louise raised her sombre eyes and drew a deep breath of pain. - -"Alas! She will say nothing, poor little Mireille! She will say -nothing." And the bitter thought of Mireille's affliction overwhelmed -her mother's soul. - -No; whatever happened Mireille, once such a joyous, laughter-loving -sprite, would say nothing. She would see Cherie with a baby in her arms, -and would say nothing. She would see her mother kneeling at her feet -beseeching for a word, and would say nothing. Her father might return, -and she would be silent; or he might die--and she would not open her -lips. This other child, this child of shame and sorrow, would grow up -and learn to speak, would smile and laugh and call Cherie by the -sweet-sounding name by which Louise would never be called again, but -Mireille would be for ever silent. - -Cherie had risen with her baby in her arms. Shy and trembling she went -to Louise and knelt at her feet. - -"Louise! Louise! Can you not love us and forgive us? What have we done? -What has this poor little creature done to you that you should hate it -so? Louise, it is not for me that I implore your pity and your love; I -can live without them if I must; I can live despised and hated because I -know and understand. But for him I implore you! For this poor innocent -who has done no harm, who has come into life branded and ill-fated, and -does not know that he may not be loved as other children are--one word -of tenderness, Louise, one word of blessing!" - -She caught at Louise's dress with her trembling hand. "Louise, lay your -hand on his forehead and say 'God bless you.' Just those three little -words that every one says to the poorest and the most wretched. Just say -that shortest of all prayers for him!" - -There was silence. - -"Louise!" sobbed Cherie, "if you were to say that, I think it would help -him and me to live through all the days of misery to come. It is so sad, -Louise, that no one, no one should ever have invoked a benediction upon -so poor and helpless a child." - -Louise's eyes filled with tears. She looked down at the tiny face and -the strange light eyes blinked up at her. They were cruel eyes. They -were the eyes she had seen glaring at her across the room, mocking and -taunting her, at that supreme instant when her prayers and little -Mireille's had at last succeeded in touching their oppressor's heart. -Those eyes, those light grey eyes in the ruthless face had lit upon -her, hard as flint, cruel as a blade of steel: "The seal of Germany must -be set upon the enemy's country----" - -Those eyes had condemned her to her doom. - -"I cannot, I cannot," she said, and turned away. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -Dusk was falling and a thin grey mist crept up from the two rivers as -Louise, with a black scarf over her head, hurried out of the house to -fetch Mireille. She was about to turn down the narrow rue de la Pompe -which led straight to the house of Madame Dore without passing the Place -de l'Eglise, where at this hour all the German soldiers were assembled, -when she noticed the hunched-up figure of a Flemish peasant coming -slowly along the small alley. He seemed to be mumbling to himself, and -looked such a strange figure with his slouch hat and limping gait that -in order to avoid him she turned back and went through the Square where -the soldiers lounged and smoked. They paid no heed to her and she -hurried on. - -In her heart a wild new hope had sprung. She was going to bring Mireille -home. For the first time since that terrible morning of their flight, -Mireille would find herself once more in the surroundings that had -witnessed her martyrdom. - -What if the shock of entering that house again, of being face to face -with all that must remind her of the struggle in which her agonized -child-spirit had been wrecked, what if that shock--Louise scarcely dared -to formulate the wild hope even in her own mind--were to heal her? Such -things had happened. Louise had heard and read of them; of people who -were mad and had suddenly been restored to reason, of people who were -dumb and had recovered their speech through some sudden powerful -emotion. - -With beating heart Louise went faster through the silent streets. - -The man she had seen in the rue de la Pompe had limped on; then turning -to the right he had found himself in front of Dr. Brandes's house. - -He stopped and looked up at the windows. They were open, wide open to -the cool evening air, and at the sight, joy rushed into his heart. The -house was certainly inhabited. By whom? By whom?... Had they reached -Bomal after all? He had heard from Claude that they had left England to -return to their home. Had they arrived safely? Were they here? - -The hope of seeing them again had inspired him to attempt and achieve -his daring flight from the Infirmary at Liege, and his temerarious -almost incredible journey across miles of closely-guarded country. The -vision of Cherie had been before him when at dead of night, with -bleeding hands, he had worked for hours to loosen the meshes of wire -nets and entanglements that surrounded the hospital grounds, where--half -patient, half prisoner--he had been held under strict surveillance for -nearly a month. It was Cherie's white hand that had beckoned to him and -upheld him through the long hungry days and the dreary nights, when he -was hiding in woods, crouching in ditches, plunging into rivers, -scrambling over walls and rocks until he had reached the valley of the -Aisne--passing indeed, quite near to Roche-a-Frene where, he remembered, -she had gone for an excursion on her last birthday.... It was the -thought of Cherie that had inspired and guided him through untold risks -and dangers. And now, perhaps, she was here, here in this house before -him, within reach of his voice, within sight of his eyes, just beyond -those joyous open windows.... - -He remembered how on her birthday-night less than a year ago he had -clattered up on horseback through the quiet streets and had seen these -windows wide open as they were now.--Ah, what destruction had swept over -the world since then! - -He remembered the sound of those laughing, girlish voices: - - Sur le pont - D'Avignon - On y danse - On y danse.... - -He glanced quickly round, then he raised his head and softly whistled -the well-known tune. - -Cherie had remained alone. She had heard Louise leave the house, closing -the outer door, and the sound of her quick footsteps had reached her for -a while from the street. Then silence had fallen. - -Louise was going to fetch Mireille. Soon they would come back together, -and Cherie must decide what she would do. How should she face Mireille? -No; she must hide, hide with her child, so that Mireille should not see -him. For what would Mireille say when she saw the child? True, as Louise -said, she would say nothing--nothing that ears could hear. But what -would her soul say? How could any one know what Mireille saw and what -she did not see? Who could tell but what she might not see and remember -and hate, even as Louise hated? And that silent hatred would be still -more terrible to bear. Yes; Mireille would surely know when she saw -those very light eyes that opened so widely in the tiny face; she would -remember the man who had tortured her, who had bound her to the iron -banisters with her face turned to the bedroom door--this very door, -close by, draped with the red curtains--Yes. The memory and the horror -of it all would come back to her wandering spirit every time she saw -those strange light eyes, now half-closed as the small head nestled -sleepily at its mother's breast. - -Cherie bent over her child and kissed the fair hair and the drowsy eyes -and the sweet half-open mouth. What if every one hated him? She loved -him. She loved him with the love of all mothers and with the greater -love of her sorrow and despair and shame. - -"Child of mine," she whispered, "why did they not let us both drift away -into eternity on that May morning when you had not yet crossed the -threshold of life, and I was so near to the open doors of death? We -could have floated peacefully away together, you and I, out of all this -trouble and sorrow. How simple and restful it would have been." - -But her baby slept and it was dusk and bed-time; so she rose and carried -him to his cradle in the adjoining room, pushing the red curtains aside -with her elbow as she entered. - -While she did so she found herself vaguely thinking of her -birthday-night, of the dance with Jeannette, Cri-cri, Cecile. Like a -bright disconnected thread that memory seemed to run through her dark -thoughts. What had brought it into her mind? Why was she suddenly living -over again that brief happy hour before the storm broke over her and -wrecked her life? - -The gay senseless words of the old dance kept ringing in her mind. - - Sur le pont - D'Avignon - On y danse - Tout en rond.... - -A thrill passed through her as she realized that some passer-by was -whistling it in the street. Tears gathered in her eyes at the memories -which that puerile tune evoked. - - Sur le pont - D'Avignon - On y danse - On y danse, - Sur le pont - D'Avignon - On y danse - Tout en rond. - -Soft and clear the whistling still persisted. Cherie placed the baby in -its cradle, stooped over him and kissed him. Then she went to the window -and stood on tiptoe to look out--for the window was high and round, like -a ship's porthole. - -The whistling stopped. Somebody standing in the shadow of the wall -stepped forward. - -And Cherie's heart stood still. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -She staggered back from the window and looked wildly round her. It was -Florian. It was Florian! What should she do? The child--where could she -hide the child? - -The low whistle outside was repeated, there was a note of haste, of -urgency in it. She must let him in. How had he got here? Surely he was -in danger, there in the open street.... - -Cherie looked at herself, looked down at her loose white gown still -unfastened at neck and breast--the child's warm white resting-place. -Louise's black shawl lay across a chair. She took it and flung it -hastily round her shoulders; holding it tightly about her as she ran -down the stairs and opened the door. - -Florian stepped quickly into the passage, closing the door behind him. -He looked strange in his oil-skin coat and slouch hat. The glimpse -Cherie caught of his face as he entered showed it hard and thin and -dark. Now in the shadowy passage she could not distinguish his features. - -He caught her hand and pressed it tightly in his own. "Cherie!... -Cherie!" His voice was hoarse with emotion. "Who is here with you?" he -whispered. - -"Nobody," she replied. - -"What? Are you alone in the house?" - -"Yes," faltered Cherie, withdrawing her hand from his. "I mean...." and -she stopped. - -"Surely," he whispered anxiously, "you are not living here alone? Where -are the others? Where is Louise?" - -"She is here--she has gone out. She will soon come back." - -Florian drew a sigh of relief. "Let us go upstairs," he said; and -stretched out his hand to take hers again. "What a cold little hand! And -how you tremble!" He bent down and looked closely into her face. "Did I -frighten you?" - -"Yes," said Cherie. - -"You look like a ghost." Suddenly a different note came into his voice, -a note of anxiety and alarm. "What is the matter, have you been ill?" - -"Yes," breathed Cherie. - -He asked nothing more but put his arm round her, helping and hurrying -her up the two flights of stone stairs. He threw open the sitting-room -door and looked round the familiar place. "The Saints be praised," he -murmured, and drew her into the room. - -He flung down his torn felt hat and threw off the long oil-skin coat. -Under it he was dressed in a dark linen suit, such as she had seen some -of the wounded Germans wear. He drew her to the window seat; the soft -May twilight fell on her pale face and glittering hair. - -"Tell me, Cherie, tell me all the news; quickly. I cannot stay long," he -added, "it would be dangerous for you and for me. I have escaped from -the Infirmary at Liege; they will be hunting all over the place for -me--and for the ploughman's clothes," he added with a smile that for a -moment made him look like the Florian of old. - -"The Infirmary? Have you been wounded?" - -"No. I have been blown up. The Germans found me; they think me a Boche, -and _meschugge_--that is Berlinese for crazy. They have kept me with -ice-bags on my head for three weeks," he laughed again. "Perhaps I was -really off my head at first--but tell me, tell me about you. How are -you? How is Louise?" - -"She is well." - -"Is the little girl here too?" - -"Mireille?" There was a pause. "Yes, Mireille is here." - -Something in her voice startled him. "What is wrong? Has anything -happened?" - -She was silent. His steel-blue eyes tried to pierce through the pallor -of her face, through the black-fringed, drooping eyelids, to read in her -soul. He suddenly felt that this shrinking figure in its white gown and -black shawl was aloof from him and draped in mystery. "What is it?" he -repeated. "What is wrong? Where has Louise gone to?" and he looked round -the familiar room with a sense of misgiving. - -"She has gone ... to ... to fetch Mireille...." Cherie stammered. Then -she suddenly raised her wild blue eyes to his. "Mireille is not as she -used to be." - -"What do you mean?" Florian suddenly felt sick and dizzy. - -"She does not know any one. And she does not speak." - -"Not speak?" echoed Florian, and the sense of sickness and dread -increased. "What has happened to her?" - -"She was frightened...." Cherie's voice was toneless and he had to bend -close to her to catch her words. "She was frightened ... that night you -left ... my birthday night." ... There was a silence. She could say no -more. And suddenly Florian was silent too. - -His silence seemed to fall on her heart like a heavy stone. At last she -raised her eyes to his face. - -"Speak," he said, "speak quickly." - -"That night ... they ... they came here...." - -"I know. I know _they_ came through Bomal." The cold sweat stood on his -brow. "Did they--come to this house?" - -"Yes," said Cherie. - -Again there was silence--heavy and portentous. - -Then he rose to his feet and stood a little away from her. - -"They were in this house," he repeated. His lips and throat were arid; -he had the sensation that his voice came from afar off. "What--what -happened to Mireille? Did they hurt her?" - -"No. She was afraid ... she screamed ... and they tied her to that -railing. There"--she pointed with her trembling hand to the wrought-iron -banister. - -And again Florian's silence fell upon her heart like a rock and lay -there, heavily, crushing the life out of her. - -After a long while he moved. He stepped back still further from her, and -his lips stirred once or twice before the words came. - -"And you? Did they--harm you?" - -Silence. - -He waited a long time, then he repeated the question; and again he felt -as if his voice came from miles away. - -Cherie suddenly dropped her face in her hands. He was answered. He -sprang forward and seized her wrists, dragging them away from her face. -"It is not true," he cried; "swear that it is not true!" And even as he -spoke he felt and hated the soft limp wrists, the feminine weakness, all -the delicate yielding frailty of her. He would have liked to feel her of -steel and adamant, that he might break and shatter her, that he might -crush and destroy. - -Now she was at his feet, sobbing and crying; and he had clenched his -fists so tightly in order not to strike her that his nails dug deep into -his palms. He looked down at her shimmering hair, at the white nape of -her neck, at her fragile, heaving shoulders. The enemy had had her. The -enemy had had her and held her. She whom he had deemed too sacred for -his touch, she whom he had never dared to kiss on cheek or hair or lips -had quenched the brutish desire of the invader!... The foul, -blood-drunken soldiers had had their will of her--and there she lay -sullied, ruined, and defiled. - -With a cry like the cry of a wounded animal he raised his clenched fists -to heaven, and the blood from his lacerated palms ran down his wrists, -and the tears, the hot searing tears that corrode a man's soul, rolled -down his gaunt, agonized face. - -There she lay, the broken, helpless creature, there she lay--the symbol -of his country, his wrecked and ruined country! - -Lost, lost both of them--broken, outraged and defiled. - -Not all his blood, not all his prayers, could ever undo the wrong that -had been done to them, could ever raise them in their pristine glory and -purity--the sullied soul of the woman, the outraged heart of his land. - -In the grey gloaming that fell around them, veiling with its shadows the -shame of her face, she told him what was still left to tell. - -He said never a word. He sat with bowed head, his eyes hidden in his -hands. He felt as if he were dead in a dead world. All the flames of his -anger and despair were spent. His soul was turned to ashes. Nothing was -left. Nothing was left to live for, to fight for, to pray for. - -For a long time he seemed to hear none of the stricken woman's words, as -she knelt sobbing at his feet. Then one word, constantly recurring, beat -on his brain like a hammer on red-hot iron. - -"The child ... the child"--every other word that fell from her lips -seemed to be "the child." - -"If only I could die," she was crying, "I should love to die were it not -for the child. It is such a forlorn and desolate little child. Nobody -ever looks at it, nobody ever smiles at it or wishes it well.... Not -even Louise, who is so kind.... No, she is cruel, she is like a fury -when she looks at the child. Oh, God! what will our life be in the midst -of so much scorn and hatred? Not that I care about myself; but what will -become of the little child? Perhaps I should have done as Louise -did.... I should have torn it from me before it came to life." - -A deep shudder ran through Florian. - -"But I seemed to hear a voice in my soul--the very voice of God, calling -aloud to me: '_Thou shall not kill._'" - -Florian rose to his feet and looked down at the bowed figure. This was -Cherie, the laughing, dimpling, blushing Cherie--his betrothed!... He -bent over her and laid his hand on her shoulder, but she paid no heed. - -"Ah, if only we could slip out of life together, the child and I! But -how? How? When he looks up at me and touches my face with his tiny -hands, how can I hurt him?" Her tear-flooded eyes looked up at Florian -without seeing him. "Should I strangle the little tender throat with my -hands? Or stifle the soft breath of his mouth?... Why should he not live -like other children, and laugh and play and be happy like every other -child? What has he done, poor innocent, that he should be accursed, -among children, an outcast, hated and despised?" - -"Cherie!" he said, but she did not hear or heed him. Nor did she heed -the braggart peal of trumpet and clarionet passing under the windows -with the din of the "Wacht am Rhein." She heard nothing, she cared for -nothing but her own and the enemy's child. - -The soldier's blood rose within him. - -"And is this all you have to say to me when I come to you out of the -very jaws of death? Is this all you can think of when our land is wrung -and wracked by the enemy, torn to pieces by the foul fiends that have -violated her and you? A thousand curses on them and on----" - -"No--no--no!" she screamed, springing to her feet and covering his mouth -with her hands. "No--no--not on him, not on him!" - -"In the name of Belgium," roared the maddened Florian, "in the name of -our outraged women, our perishing children, our murdered men, I curse -the child you have borne! In the name of our broken hearts, in the name -of our burned and ravaged homesteads--Louvain, Lierre, Berlaer, Mortsel, -Waehlen, Weerde, Hofstade, Herselt, Diest----" The names fell from his -lips, fanning his heart to fury; but the woman closed her ears with her -hands so as not to hear the tragic enumeration of those sacred and -familiar names--Belgium's rosary of martyrdom and fire. - -She held her hands over her ears and wept: "May God not hear you!... May -God not hear you!" - -But he raised his voice and continued the appalling litany: "Malines, -Fleron, Wavre, Notre Dame, Rosbeck, Muysen----" Suddenly he stopped. A -sound had struck his ear--what was it? - -It was a cry--the short, shrill cry of an infant. - -The man stood still as if turned to stone; his blood-shot eyes, -starting from their sockets, stared at the red-draped door from which -the sound had come. - -Cherie was at his feet, sobbing and wailing, her arms flung round his -knees. "Have pity, have pity!" she sobbed, shaking with terror of him, -blind with the fear of his violence. "Do no harm, do no harm! Kill me, -trample upon me, but do no harm to the child." - -And still Florian stood motionless, as if turned to stone. He heard none -of the wild words that fell from the terrified woman's lips; he heard -nothing but that querulous cry, the cry of the newly-born. The world -seemed to ring with it. Above the wailing voice of the woman, above the -din of soldiery, the clash of arms, the roar of warfare, rose that -shrill cry of life, the cry of humanity. And that cry pierced his heart -like a sword. In it was all the helplessness and misery of the world. It -seemed to tell him of the uselessness and hopelessness and sadness of -all things. - -Anger, grief and despair, the passion of vengeance and the desire to -kill, all dropped out of his soul and left it silent and empty. The -terrified woman before him saw those fierce eyes soften, saw the stern -lips tremble. - -He bent forward and raised her to her feet. "Poor Cherie!" he said. -"Poor little Cherie!" He took her pale, disfigured face between his two -hands and looked into her eyes. "Say good-bye to me. Say good-bye. And -may the Saints protect you." - -"Where are you going? What will you do?" she sobbed as she saw him -turning away from her, making ready to go out into the darkness--out of -her life for ever. - -"There is much for me to do," he said and his eyes wandered to the -window whence the sound of the German bugles could still be heard. - -And as she looked at him she saw that Florian, the comrade and lover of -her youth, had vanished--only the soldier stood before her, the soldier -aloof from her, detached from her, the soldier alone with his stern -great task to do. - -But in her the woman, the eternal, helpless woman, was born again, and -she clung to him and wept, for passion and love returned to her soul and -overwhelmed her. - -"You will leave me! You will leave me! Florian, oh, my love! What will -become of me? What shall I do? What shall I do?" - -As if in answer, the feeble cry of the infant rose again. - -The man said not a word. He raised his hand and pointed silently to the -red-draped door. Then he turned from her and went out into the night. - -Cherie stood still, gazing at the empty doorway through which he had -passed. - - * * * * * - -Then as the child still wept, she went to him. - -Humbly she went, and took her woman's place beside the cradle. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -The bugle bidding the inhabitants of Bomal to enter their homes and lock -their doors blew shrilly as Louise hurried through the darkening, -deserted streets, holding Mireille's chilly hand in hers. She spoke in -soft, hurried tones, as if the child could hear her, as if she could -understand. "You shall see, Mireille, you shall see when you enter your -home--you will recognize it and remember. When I open the door and you -step suddenly into the familiar place, I shall see the light break in -your eyes like a sudden dawn. You will turn to me and you will smile--or -weep! I do not know which will give me the greater joy--your tears or -your smile. Then you will open your sweet lips--and speak...." - -"What will your first words be, Mireille? Will you say, 'Mother'? Will -you greet me as one who returns from a long journey, as one who wakens -from a long dream?... Or, even though your voice be given back to you, -will you be silent awhile, able yet not daring to speak?... Or will the -first sound from your lips be a cry of terror when you remember what you -saw that night?... Mireille, Mireille, whatever it be, I know that this -evening I shall hear your voice. It is as if God had told me so." - -They went more quickly through the sombre streets. - -Far away over the hills of the Ardennes the great May moon arose. As -soon as Louise caught sight of the house she saw that the gate to the -courtyard was open. Could any one have entered during her absence? She -glanced up at the windows. They were open, but dark. The sense of panic -that was never far from her heart since their return to Belgium clutched -at her like a cold hand. Could anything have happened? Why had Cherie -not lit the lights? Who had left the gate unclosed? - -Then the thought of Mireille, the hope, the wild prescience of her -recovery which had suddenly grown into a delirious certainty flamed up -in her heart again, and all else was forgotten. She and Mireille were -alone in the world. - -She and Mireille were alone. - -She kept her eyes fixed on the small vacant face as she led her past the -gate--that gate through which the child's dancing feet had twinkled -throughout the care-free seasons of her infancy. - -But not a quiver rippled over the childish countenance, not a gleam of -light flickered in the dreamy eyes, and with a low sob Louise grasped -the small passive hand more tightly and drew her across the courtyard to -the hall-door. - -That door also was ajar, as if some one had hurriedly left it so, -regardless of the invader's orders that at sunset all doors should be -locked. One moment Louise thought of calling to Cherie to make sure that -she was in the house; but again the need to be alone, face to face with -Mireille's awakening soul, restrained her. She drew Mireille into the -hall and turned on the light. - -"Mireille ... Mireille...." she whispered breathlessly. "Look, -darling ... don't you remember? Don't you remember?" - -The girl's pale eyes roved from the tapestried archway to the panelled -doors, from the ornamental panoply to the Van de Welde winter landscapes -hanging on the wall before her. No ray of recognition lit the unmoved -face, which was fair and still as a closed flower. With beating heart -Louise placed her arm around the girl's narrow shoulders and guided her -light, uncertain footsteps up the stairs. The door to the sitting-room -was open; Louise stretched out her hand, and the brilliancy of the -electric light lit up the room. - -With a gasp Louise felt Mireille falter on the threshold ... she stood -breathless and watched her. Surely, surely she must recognize this -scene: there to the right, the large Flemish fireplace; there beyond it -the old-fashioned oak settee; and there the shallow flight of stairs, -with the wrought-iron banisters running right down into the room, facing -the door with the red-tapestried curtains.... Surely, with this scene -of her martyrdom brought suddenly before her, the veil of -unconsciousness would be rent from her soul. Louise felt it. Louise knew -it. Already she could almost hear the cry with which her child would -turn to her and fall into her arms.... - -Nothing. Nothing happened. - -For an instant a vague expression, a pale light as of dread, had -flickered over the tranquil countenance. She had faltered, and stood -still, with her eyes fixed on the red drapery of the closed door. Then -the pale flicker of emotion had faded from her face as if blown out by a -gust of wind. - -Nothing more. With limp, pendant hands and vacant eyes she stood before -Louise in her usual drooping posture--pale, ethereal and unreal, like a -little weary seraph walking in its dreams. - -The flaming torch of hope in the mother's heart was dashed to the -ground. - -And all was dark. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -Cherie, kneeling beside her child's cradle, had heard them enter the -adjoining room. She rose slowly. She must go and meet them; she must -greet Mireille and tell Louise that Florian had come; had come ... and -gone! - -The profound silence in the adjoining room struck her. She wondered, as -she hesitated at the door, why Louise did not speak. For did she not -always talk to Mireille in that low, tender voice of hers, as if the -child could understand? Now there was not a sound. It was if the room -were empty. - -Suddenly she understood. Louise was waiting, hoping that the miracle -might be accomplished--that Mireille might speak. Then Cherie also stood -motionless with clasped hands, and waited, waited for a sound, a word, a -cry. - -But the silence remained unbroken. - -At last she heard the sound of Louise's weeping; and, soon after, their -soft, retreating footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Then utter silence. - -And Cherie still stood at the closed door, leaning her forehead against -its panels. - -They had gone. Louise was taking Mireille to bed. She had not called -Cherie. She had not said good-night, nor asked her to come and see -Mireille. No. Cherie was not needed. Louise, even in her great sorrow, -did not think of coming to Cherie. She had gone with Mireille to her -room, and she would stay there and weep all alone, and sleep at last, -never knowing that Florian had been, never knowing that he had gone away -for ever, never knowing that Cherie's heart was broken!... With a rush -of passionate grief Cherie drew back from the door and fell on her knees -beside the cradle. - -And there the great May moon, rising like a golden disc over the hills -of the Ardennes, found her and shone down through the round window, upon -her and her sleeping babe. - - * * * * * - -Louise, lying awake in the dark, heard the church clock strike eleven. -She lay quite still in the silent room, listening to Mireille's soft -breathing. Then she thought of Claude, and prayed for his safety; but -not for his return. - -At last, exhausted, she slept. - -But Mireille, though her soft breathing never varied, was not asleep. -She lay motionless in the dark, with her eyes wide open. She was -listening to something that had awakened within her--Memory!... - -The church clock struck half-past eleven. Louise still slept, with the -occasional catch in her breath of those who have cried themselves to -sleep. - -Mireille sat up. The room was quite dark, the shutters closed and the -curtains drawn. But Mireille slipped from her bed, a slim, white-robed -spectre, and her bare feet crossed the room without a sound. She found -the door and opened it noiselessly; she crossed the landing, and her -small feet trod the carpeted staircase as lightly and silently as the -falling petals of a flower. - -Where was she going to? What drew her through the dark and silent house? - -Terror--and the memory of a red-draped door. Nothing else did her -haunted eyes perceive, nothing else did her stricken soul realize, but -that red curtain draped over a door. She remembered it with a vague, -horrible sense of fear. She must see it again.... Had she not once stood -before that draped door for hours and years and eternities?... Yes. She -must see it again. And if that door were to open--she must die!... - -She went on, drawn by her terror as by an unseen force, until she -reached the last shallow flight of stairs--three steps skirted by a -wrought-iron banister--and there she stopped suddenly, as if fettered to -the spot. For though the room was plunged in darkness she knew that -there, opposite her, was the door with the red curtain.... - -And thus she stood, in the self-same attitude of her past martyrdom, -feeling that she was pinioned there, feeling that she must stand for -ever with her eyes fixed in the darkness on that part of the room where -she knew was the door--the door with the red curtain.... - - * * * * * - -Cherie heard the clock strike eleven; then the quarter; then the -half-hour. And still she lay on the floor with her face hidden in her -arms. - -For her all was at an end. Her resolve was taken. Her mind was clear. -Now she had seen Florian there was nothing left to wait for. What good -would she or the child ever do in the world? Nobody wanted them. Nobody -ever wanted to see them or speak to them. They were outcasts. Not even -Louise could look without loathing at the hapless little child. Not even -Louise could invoke a benediction upon him. He was ill-omened, hated and -accursed. - -Cherie rose to her feet and went to the window--the old-fashioned -circular window like a ship's porthole--and opened it wide. - -The level rays of the moon poured in, flooding the room with light. - -"Good-night, moon," said Cherie. "Good-night, sky. Good-night, world." -Then she turned away and went to the cradle. She bent over it, and -lifted her sleeping infant in her arms. How warm he was! How warm and -soft and tender!... He must not catch cold.... Instinctively Cherie -caught up her wide blue silk scarf and wrapped it round herself and the -child. They were going out into the night air, out into the chilly -moonlight; they were going to cross the bridge over the Ourthe, and then -go up the lower bank of the river, up through the dank grasses, past the -old mill.... There, where the bank shelved down so steeply she would run -into the water. - -She knew what it would feel like. Last year, had she not run into the -rippling waves at Westende every morning? She remembered it well. - -Yes; she would feel the cool chill embrace of the water rising from her -feet to her knees ... to her waist ... to her breast ... to her -throat.... Then she would clasp her arms tightly round her child, -putting her lips close to his so as not to hear him cry, and her last -breath would be exhaled on the sweet warmth of that little mouth, the -dear little open mouth that seemed always to be asking for the balm of -milk and kisses. - -She raised her eyes once more to the open window. "Good-bye," she said -again to the sky, to the world, and to life. Then she resolutely turned -away from the shining circle of light. - -She drew the long blue scarf over her own head and shoulders, crossing -it over her arms and wrapping the infant in its azure folds as she held -him to her breast. Then she opened the door. - -The red curtain fell in a straight line before her, and she pushed it -softly aside; it slid smoothly back on its rings. - -Clasping her infant in the shimmering folds of blue, she took a step -forward--then stopped and stood transfixed in the doorway. - -Some one was there! Some one was standing silent, there in the dark. - -Who was it? - -_Mireille!_ - - * * * * * - -Mireille had stood motionless, almost cataleptic, with her fear-maddened -eyes fixed upon the dark spot which was the door. Now--now it was -opening! it was opening! A white light had streamed suddenly under the -curtain. - -Yes. The door was opening.... Now Mireille would die! She knew it! What -she was going to see would kill her, as it had killed her soul before. - -Gasping, with open mouth, with clenched hands, she saw the gap of light -widen beneath the moving curtain.... Now ... now.... The curtain had -slid back. There was a dazzling square of light.... - -And in that light stood a Vision. - -Bathed in the rays of the moon, swathed in shimmering azure stood a -Mother with her Child. Behind her head glowed a luminous silver circle. - -Ah! Well did Mireille know her! Well did Mireille remember her. All fear -was gone, all darkness swept away in the rapture of that dazzling -presence. - -Mireille stretched out her clasped hands towards that effulgent vision. -What were the words of greeting she must say? She knew them well ... -they were rising in her throat.... What were they? What were they? - -She wrung her clasped hands, with a spasm in her throat, but the words -would not come. She knew them. They seemed to burst open like flowers of -light in her brain, to peal like the notes of an organ in her soul, yet -her lips were locked and could not frame them. - -The vision moved, seemed to waver and tremble.... Ah! Would she fade -away and vanish and be lost? Would Mireille fall back again into eternal -silence and darkness? - -Something seemed to break in Mireille's throat. A cry--a cry, thrilling -and articulate--escaped her. The sealed fountain of her voice was opened -and the words of the immortal salutation gushed from her lips: - -"_Ave Maria!..._" - -Did not the shimmering figure smile and move towards her with extended -hand?... Fainting with ecstasy, Mireille sank at her feet. - -Louise had started from her sleep at the sound of a cry.... Whose voice -had uttered it? - -Though the room was dark, she felt that it was empty; she knew that -Mireille was not there. Yes, the door was open, showing a pale glimmer -of light. - -Swift as an arrow Louise sped down the stairs, then--on the landing of -the last flight--she stopped, dazzled and spell-bound by what she saw -before her. - -There in the moonlight stood the eternal vision of Maternity; and before -it knelt Mireille. - -And Mireille was speaking. - -"_Benedicta tu...._" - -Clear, frail and silvern the words fell from Mireille's lips. - -"_Benedicta tu!_" - -The blessing that Louise and all others had withheld, now fell like a -solemn prophecy from the innocent's lips, rang like a divine decree in -that pure voice that had been hushed so long. - -Mireille was healed! Healed through Cherie and her child of sorrow and -shame. - -A wave of exalted emotion overwhelmed Louise, and she sank on her knees -beside Mireille, repeating the hallowed benediction. - -With flowing tears Cherie, clasping her baby in her arms, wavered and -trembled like a holy picture seen in moonlit waters.... - - * * * * * - -And so farewell--farewell to Mireille, Cherie, Louise. - -They are still in their Belgian village awaiting the dawn of their -deliverance. - -Around them the fury of War still rages, and the end of their sorrow is -not yet. - -But upon them has descended the Peace of God which passeth all -understanding. - - -THE END - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Outrage, by Annie Vivanti - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OUTRAGE *** - -***** This file should be named 40949.txt or 40949.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/9/4/40949/ - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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