Part 46 (1/2)
The dark filled the little room. Presently the nurse crept in with a shaded lamp and touched Norah's shoulder.
”You could get up,” she whispered.
Norah shook her head, pointing to the thin fingers curled in her palm.
”I'm all right,” she murmured back.
They came and went in the room from time to time; the mother, holding her breath as she looked down at the quiet face; the nurse, with her keen, professional gaze; after a while the doctor stood for a long time behind her, not moving. Then he bent down to her.
”Sure you're all right?”
Norah nodded. Presently he crept out; and soon the nurse came and sat down near the window.
”Mrs. Hunt has gone to sleep,” she whispered as she pa.s.sed.
Norah was vaguely thankful for that. But nothing was very clear to her except Geoffrey's face; neither the slow pa.s.sing of the hours nor her own cramped position that gradually became pain. Geoffrey's face, and the light breathing that grew harder and harder to bear. Fear came and knelt beside her in the stillness, and the night crept on.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE WATCH ON THE RHINE
Evening was closing upon a waste of muddy flats. Far as the eye could see there was no rise in the land; it lay level to the skyline, with here and there a glint of still water, and, further off, flat banks between which a wide river flowed sluggishly. If you cared to follow the river, you came at length to stone blockhouses, near which sentries patrolled the banks--and would probably have turned you back rudely. From the blockhouses a high fence of barbed wire, thickly criss-crossed, stretched north and south until it became a mere thread of grey stretching over the country. There was something relentless, forbidding, in that savage fence. It was the German frontier. Beyond it lay Holland, flat and peaceful. But more securely than a mountain range between the two countries, that thin grey fence barred the way.
If you turned back from the sentries and followed the muddy path along the river bank, you were scarcely likely to meet any one. The guards in the blockhouses were under strict discipline, and were not encouraged to allow friends to visit them, either from the scattered farms or from the town of Emmerich, where lights were beginning to glimmer faintly in the twilight. It was not safe for them to disregard regulations, since at any moment a patrol motor-launch might come shooting down the river, or a surprise visit be paid by a detachment from the battalion of infantry quartered, for training purposes, at Emmerich. Penalties for lax discipline were severe; the guards were supposed to live on the alert both by day and by night, and the Emmerich commandant considered that the fewer distractions permitted to the sentries, the more likely they were to make their watch a thorough one. There had been too many escapes of prisoners of war across the frontier; unpleasant remarks had been made from Berlin, and the Commandant was on his mettle. Therefore the river-bank was purposely lonely, and any stray figure on it was likely to attract attention.
A mile from the northern bank a windmill loomed dark against the horizon; a round brick building, like a big pepper-castor, with four great arms looking like crossed combs. A rough track led to it from the main road. Within, the building was divided into several floors, lit by narrow windows. The heavy sails had plied lazily during the day; now they had been secured, and two men were coming down the ladder that led from the top. On the ground floor they paused, looking discontentedly at some barrels that were ranged against the wall, loosely covered with sacking.
”Those accursed barrels are leaking again,” one said, in German.
”Look!” He pointed to a dark stain spreading from below. ”And Rudolf told me he had caulked them thoroughly.”
”Rudolf does nothing thoroughly--do you not know that?” answered his companion scornfully. ”If one stands over him--well and good; if not, then all that Master Rudolf cares for is how soon he may get back to his beerhouse. Well, they must be seen to in the morning; it is too late to begin the job to-night.”
”I am in no hurry,” said the first man. ”If you would help me I would attend to them now. All the stuff may not be wasted.”
”Himmel! I am not going to begin work again at this hour,” answered the other with a laugh. ”I am not like Rudolf, but I see no enjoyment in working overtime; it will be dark, as it is, before we get to Emmerich. Come on, my friend.”
”You are a lazy fellow, Emil,” rejoined the first man. ”However, the loss is not ours, after all, and we should be paid nothing extra for doing the work to-night. Have you the key?”
”I do not forget it two nights running,” returned Emil. ”What luck it was that the master did not come to-day!--if he had found the mill open I should certainly have paid dearly.”
”Luck for you, indeed,” said his companion. They went out, shutting and locking the heavy oaken door behind them. Then they took the track that led to the main road.
The sound of their footsteps had scarcely died away when the sacking over one of the barrels became convulsed by an internal disturbance and fell to the floor; and Jim Linton's head popped up in the opening, like a Jack-in-the box.
”Come on, Desmond--they've gone at last!” he whispered.
Desmond's head came up cautiously from another barrel.
”Take care--it may be only a blind,” he warned. ”They may come back at any moment.”