Part 42 (1/2)

XXIII

LORRAINE SLEEPS

The next day the rain fell in torrents; long, yellow streams of water gushed from pipe and culvert, turning the roads to lakes of amber and the trodden lawns to sarga.s.so seas.

Not a shot had been fired since twilight of the day before, although on the distant hills Uhlans were seen racing about, gathering in groups, or sitting on their horses in solitary observation of the Chateau.

Out on the meadows, between the park wall and the fringe of nearer forest, the Bavarian dead lay, dotting the green pelouse with blots of pale blue; the wounded had been removed to the cover of the woods.

Around the Chateau the sallow-faced fanta.s.sins slopped through the mire, the artillery trains lay glistening under their waterproof coverings, the long, slim cannon in the breeches dripped with rain. Bright blotches of rust, like brilliant fungi, grew and spread from muzzle to vent. These were rubbed away at times by stiff-limbed soldiers, swathed to the eyes in blue overcoats.

The line of battle stretched from the Chateau Morteyn, parallel with the river and the park wall, to the Chateau de Nesville; and along this line the officers were riding all day, m.u.f.fled to the chin in their great-coats, crimson caps soaked, rain-drops gathering in brilliant beads under the polished visors. That they expected a sh.e.l.ling was evident, for the engineers were at work excavating pits and burrows, and the infantry were filling sacks with earth, while in the Chateau itself preparations were in progress for the fighting of fire.

The white flag with the red-cross centre hung limp and drenched over the stables and barns. In the corn-field beyond, long trenches were being dug for the dead. Already two such trenches had been filled and covered over with dirt; and at the head of each soldier's grave a bayonet or sabre was driven into the ground for a head-stone.

Early that morning, while the rain drove into the ground in one sheeted downpour, they buried Sir Thorald and little Alixe, side by side, on the summit of a mound overlooking the river Lisse.

Jack drove the tumbril; four soldiers of the line followed. It was soon over; the mellow bugle sounded a brief ”lights out,” the linesmen presented arms. Then Jack mounted the cart and drove back, his head on his breast, the rain driving coldly in his face. Some officers came later with a rough wooden cross and a few field flowers. They hammered the cross deep into the mud between Sir Thorald and little Alixe. Later still Jack returned with a spade and worked for an hour, shaping the twin mounds.

Before he finished he saw Lorraine climbing the hill. Two wreaths of yellow gorse hung from one arm, interlaced like thorn crowns; and when she came up, Jack, leaning silently on his spade, saw that her fair hands were cut and bleeding from plaiting the thorn-covered blossoms.

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

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

She seemed restless and preoccupied, and he, answering aloud her unasked question, said, ”I am going to search the forest to-day.

I cannot bear to leave you, but it must be done, for your sake and for the sake of France.”

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

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

”You are going?”

”Yes.”

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

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

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

”You also, Jack.”

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

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

”I will--if you wish,” she answered.