Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘I wish I could flatter myself that it is for Hilda’s sake,’ he thought. ‘But as I cannot, let this be the end.’

  The castle clock began to toll the hour of noon, as he raised the revolver a second time.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  WHEN BERBEL HAD hidden the precious letter among her possessions, she had firmly intended to keep it for some time, before giving it to its owner, but she had not excluded from her calculations the possibility of consulting Hilda upon the matter. In the hurry and confusion of the christening day it had seemed to the good woman that she might wait an indefinite time, leaving Greif in ignorance of the writing, while he grew daily better able to bear such a sudden and vivid quickening of past horrors, as must be brought about in his mind when he should read his father’s message. It appeared to Berbel both wiser and kinder to hide the letter for a long time.

  The day had passed off to the satisfaction of every one, and Berbel certainly deserved a share in the success of the christening. She had been indefatigable, wise and provident in all things, just as she had been in the old times when a penny meant more than a gold piece now. She had superintended everything and everybody, from the baby Sigmund to Greif himself, from the christening cake to the potato dumplings of the labourers’ feast. Nothing had escaped her quick eyes, or her ready memory, and all had gone well to the end.

  But when all was over Berbel was tired, and she was fain to acknowledge that she was not the woman she had been twenty years before. She was tired with the long day’s work and slept, instead of meditating upon the letter, as she had meant to do. Moreover sleep brought a wiser judgment to her refreshed brain, and when she awoke in the morning she resolved to consult Hilda without delay. Once more she opened her treasure safe and took out the sealed envelope, and looked at it attentively; not that she meant to run the risk of carrying it about with her, but because she wished to fix its appearance in her mind, in order to describe it to Hilda. There was nothing remarkable about the outward look of the letter except, perhaps, the superscription, in which Wastei had detected something of old Greifenstein’s roughness. But Berbel thought it quite natural that he should have addressed it simply, ‘To my son Greif,’ as he had done. To her mind it was more affectionate, and looked better than if he had written ‘Seiner Hochwohlgeboren Herrn Greif von Greifenstein.’ She looked closely at the thing, turning it over and examining it with the utmost attention. But there was nothing worth noticing beyond what she saw at first. The writing was large, heavy and clear, and the envelope was sealed with wax bearing the impress of the Greifenstein arms. There could not be more than one sheet of paper inside, for the letter was very thin. Berbel was somewhat surprised to find it in such good condition, considering that it had lain between the linings of a coat for more than a year and a half, but she reflected that during that time it had been carefully preserved, most probably in a chest or drawer in the recesses of the Jew’s shop, and that, after all, there was no particular reason why it should be torn, or stained, or otherwise injured, as though it had been handed about from one person to another ever since it had been written. The pristine freshness of the paper was certainly a little tarnished, and there were a few insignificant creases on its smooth surface; but, on the whole, the letter looked as though it might have been written but a few weeks before it had fallen into Berbel’s hands. It struck the good woman that Hilda would certainly wish to hear the whole story of Wastei’s discovery, which was strange enough, indeed; and that when she had heard it, that would not be all, for if they decided to give Greif the letter at once, he also must know whence it came.

  For a moment Berbel conceived it possible that it might not, after all, contain a farewell communication, since there was nothing to show that it had really been written on the fatal night, but the idea would not bear examination, and when she laid the envelope once more in its place in her box she was firmly persuaded that it contained old Greifenstein’s last words to his son. The longer she thought of this, the more she wondered how on the previous day she could have meditated keeping it from Greif for any length of time. Her motive had assuredly been to save him pain if possible, but at present she saw the whole matter in a different light. At the most, she thought, he might be saddened for a day or two by this message from another world, but it was better that he should suffer a little at present than that he should continue to fancy that his father had forgotten him in his last moments. Berbel was by no means without her share of the national military instinct, which will face annoyance in any shape, or impose it upon others rather than allow a duty of any kind to be eluded, or the execution of its mandates postponed. Better for Greif, she thought, that the matter should be settled at once, better for herself, better for everybody. Delay might be fatal. She herself might die suddenly, and the letter would be found among her belongings. What would be thought of her by her beloved mistress if it were discovered that she had concealed so precious a document? Or Greif might die, without ever knowing that his father had written — a hundred misfortunes might occur to prevent the letter reaching the hands for which it was destined. There was no time like the present, thought the sturdy Berbel, and no day like to-day for doing unpleasant things which could not be avoided.

  It was necessary to find an opportunity of speaking with Hilda alone, without danger of interruption, and as soon as possible. It was yet early morning, and Hilda was in all probability still asleep, dreaming of the festivities of the previous day, but it would be important to know whether Greif was up or not, and whether he intended to leave the castle during the morning. Berbel left her room and went down to the court. The men were sure to know if Greif had meant to go into the forest or to stay at home, as he would certainly have given orders for some one to accompany him. He was not like his father, who had loved to tramp all day alone, wearying himself out, and coming home late in the evening, in the perpetual attempt to make the days seem short. Greif was by nature gregarious, and was not satisfied with the society of his dogs, but usually took a couple of men with him, when he could not prevail upon Rex to join in his expeditions.

  Berbel went into the court and asked a few questions, carelessly enough. It was a warm morning and the men seemed sleepy after the carousal of the previous night. None of them had received any orders for the day, and those who had anything to do went about their occupations in a leisurely fashion, slowly and deliberately, while those who had no work sat together in a shady corner smoking their porcelain pipes, and discussing the festive reminiscences of the christening, enjoying their idleness as very strong men can, who habitually work hard and say little. It was evident that nothing would be done on that day, and it was probable that Greif would stay at home. Berbel turned away and went towards the entrance of the hall. She was about to go in when she heard footsteps behind her, and on looking round saw Wastei striding up with his long, greyhound step.

  ‘God greet you, Frau Berbel,’ he said, coming nearer.

  He was no longer arrayed in his magnificent velvet coat as on the previous day. Such finery was only for the greatest festivities, and at present he wore no jacket at all, but a rough waistcoat with metal buttons, which hung loose and open over his shirt, and he had a bundle under his arm.

  ‘Good morning, Wastei,’ answered Berbel, fixing her sharp eyes upon him with a look of inquiry. She wondered why he had come.

  ‘I have brought you something,’ he remarked, standing still before her, and tapping the bundle he carried with one hand.

  ‘More trout?’ inquired Berbel with a twitching smile. ‘There is no gold to be picked up to-day, Master Wastei.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he answered. ‘But then one can never know,’ he added reflectively.

  ‘Out with it!’ exclaimed Berbel who was not in a humour for long conversations.

  ‘Out with it is soon said,’ returned the other. ‘It is a serious matter. Do you think I can chatter like a magpie without thinking of what I am to say?’

  ‘Then think, and be quick about it,
or I shall go in.’

  ‘Oh, if you are in a hurry, you may take the bundle without any explanation,’ replied Wastei, holding it out towards her. Berbel took it, and felt it, as though trying to guess what it contained.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked at length, as her imagination failed to suggest the nature of the contents.

  ‘It is my coat,’ said Wastei. ‘The old wolf’s coat, if you like it better.’

  ‘And what am I to do with your coat?’ inquired Berbel. In spite of the question she had thrust the bundle under one arm and held it firmly, with the evident intention of keeping it.

  ‘When you have given the letter to the baron, you might be so kind as to mend the pocket for me,’ said Wastei calmly.

  ‘But I told you I should perhaps wait some time before giving the letter.’

  ‘Yes — but you have thought about that in the night,’ answered Wastei keenly. ‘You will not wait much longer than to-day.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘It would not be like you, Frau Berbel,’ said the man, with affected indifference.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ replied Berbel, smiling unconsciously at the subtle flattery bestowed upon her scrupulously honest character. ‘Perhaps not. I had thought of it, as you say.’

  ‘And I had thought that unless the old wolf’s coat were there with the hole in the pocket, Frau Berbel might not be able to make it quite clear that Master Wastei had spoken the truth. But if the truth is quite clear, why then—’ he paused, as though he did not care what might happen in such a case.

  Berbel looked at him for a moment, and then laughed a little, a phenomenon which with her was exceedingly unusual.

  ‘You are really not stupid at all,’ she remarked. The ghost of a smile played about Wastei’s thin lips as he turned his eyes upon her. Their expression was at once keen, cunning and good-natured.

  ‘Nobody ever said I was particularly dull,’ he answered.

  ‘Then you want me to show the coat, together with the letter?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But when they know that it belonged to Herr von Greifenstein, they will wish to keep it, will they not?’

  ‘Of course,’ repeated Wastei.

  ‘And then, when they find that you have bought it honestly, they will want to buy it of you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you gave twenty marks for it?’

  ‘Twenty marks.’

  ‘And you think they will give you more for it, though I shall tell them just what it cost you at the Jew’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You are not stupid, Wastei. You are not stupid at all. But I thought you imagined the coat would bring you luck. I wonder that you want to part with it!’

  ‘Do you? Is it not luck if I get more for it than it cost at the Jew’s?’ The man’s eyes twinkled as he spoke.

  ‘There is certainly something in what you say,’ answered Berbel. ‘I am not surprised that you got it so cheap. You understand a bargain, I see.’

  ‘And you will be glad, too, Frau Berbel, when you have to explain how the letter was found,’ said Wastei thoughtfully. ‘You will be glad to have the coat in your hands to show, and if they like, they can go to the Jew and he will tell them that I bought it only the other day.’

  ‘You are quite sure you are telling the truth, Wastei?’

  ‘I always do, now that I have a gun license,’ he answered. ‘You see, the truth is best for people who have anything to lose.’ ‘Fie, Wastei!’ exclaimed Berbel, half inclined to smile at his odd philosophy, but unwilling to let him see that she could appreciate a jest upon so moral a subject.

  ‘It is true, Frau Berbel. Not that I ever lied much, either, though I have told some smart tales to the foresters in the old days, when I was a free-shot in the forest, and they were always trying to catch me with a hare in my pocket — and to you too, Frau Berbel, when I used to make you think the game was all right. What did it matter, so long as you had it to eat, you and — well, those were queer times. I suppose you have game whenever you like, now, do you not?’

  ‘Ay, Wastei — I sometimes could not find any lead in your hares—’

  ‘That made them lighter to carry and more wholesome to eat,’ observed the other with a chuckle.

  ‘And I had my doubts about them, of course—’

  ‘But you did not ask many questions — not very many — did you?’

  ‘Not always, Wastei,’ answered Berbel with a twitch of the lips. ‘You see I thought it best to believe you, and to treat you like an honest fellow. There were reasons—’

  ‘Better than doubts, especially when the hare was dead and lying on your kitchen table. Well, well, those times are gone now, and if I ever shot a hare or a roebuck without lead, or pulled the trout out of the stream without making a hole in his nose, why I have forgotten it, and I will not do it again, I promise you. I am growing old, Frau Berbel, I am growing old.’

  ‘And wise, I hope—’

  ‘When a man is young he can do without a gun license,’ observed Wastei. ‘When the years begin to come, he wants that and other things too. May-wine in May, Frau Berbel, and brown beer in October.’

  ‘And all the cherry spirits you can pick up, between times, I suppose. What are the other things?’

  ‘A good house to live in, and a good wife to roll the potato dumplings. These are two things that are good when the grey years come.’

  ‘You put the house before the wife, I see,’ remarked Berbel.

  ‘Because if I had a good house I could have the good wife fast enough. Wastei is not so dull as he looks. He has looked about him in the world. Ay, Frau Berbel, now if you were thinking of being married and had your choice of two men, would you choose the one with a house or the one without? It is a simple question.’ ‘Very simple, Master Wastei,’ answered Berbel, stiffening her stiff neck a little. ‘So simple that it is of no use to think about it, nor even to ask it. When do you want your coat back?’

  ‘I want a coat, but not that one — whenever you please. But do not hurry yourself, for I shall not catch cold, and my sweetheart does not care whether I have one or not.’

  ‘So you have a sweetheart, have you?’

  ‘Ay, and a treasure, too — in my waistcoat pocket,’ explained Wastei, showing the shining edge of the gold piece he had received on the previous day. ‘She has yellow hair, like the lady Hilda’s, and a golden heart like Frau Berbel’s — I only wish she were as big.’

  ‘Fie, Wastei — making compliments at this time of day, and to an old woman!’

  ‘Old friends, old logs, old spirits,’ observed Wastei. ‘We have known each other a long time, Frau Berbel, in good and bad days, summer and winter, and you have always been the same to me.’

  ‘Small credit for that!’ exclaimed Berbel. ‘You have done me many a good turn in twenty years, and my ladies too, and you have never got much by it, that I can see — more praise to you!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ ejaculated Wastei, who was visibly affected by the speech. ‘God greet you, Frau Berbel!’ he added, turning away abruptly and leaving her standing alone in the court.

  Berbel looked after him for a few seconds, and there was an unusually tender expression in her sharp eyes, as she watched his retreating figure. He had been a wild fellow in his day, a daring poacher, an intrepid drinker of fiery cherry spirits, always the first in a fight and the last out of it, the terror of the head forester and his men, the object of old Greifenstein’s inveterate hatred, the admiration of the village maidens for twenty miles around, the central figure in a hundred adventures and hairbreadth escapes of all kinds, and yet, as though he were miraculously preserved from harm, he had always managed to keep out of trouble, and though many a time suspected of making free with the game, yet never convicted, nor even brought to a trial. It had been impossible to catch him and impossible to prove anything against him. At last the head forester, who had a secret reverence for his extraordinary powers of endurance and unrival
led skill in woodcraft, had made terms with him and employed him as a sort of supernumerary upon the government establishment. From that day, Wastei, who would have waged war to the death with all regular foresters, had surrendered at discretion to the kindness shown him, and had given up poaching for ever. Berbel could not help liking him, and being grateful to him for many a good turn he had done the poor ladies at Sigmundskron. She had often distrusted him at first, but after twenty years’ acquaintance and friendship she owned, as she watched him stride away, that he had a heart of gold, as he had said of her but a few moments earlier.

  It seemed as though circumstances pointed clearly to the course she had intended to pursue, for since Wastei had brought her the coat it was no longer possible to put off the execution of her purpose. She determined to obtain an interview with Hilda as soon as possible and to place both the garment and the letter in her hands. The reasoning she followed in selecting Hilda for her confidence has been sufficiently explained already. The intimacy existing between the two made such a plan seem most natural to her, Hilda’s strong and sensible nature made it safe, the difficulty of the mission, so far as Greif was concerned, made it appear wisest to leave the matter to his wife’s wisdom and tact. Berbel went upstairs with her bundle under her arm.

  Though Hilda had not risen quite so early as her old servant, she was by this time dressed and ready for the morning walk Greif liked so much in the summer time. Berbel met them both in one of the passages, walking quickly, arm in arm, talking and laughing happily as they went. Berbel would have let them pass, seeing that Hilda was not alone, had not the latter stopped and asked a question.

  ‘What have you got there, Berbel?’ she inquired, looking at the bundle.

  ‘It is a very important matter,’ answered Berbel. ‘And if you could spare me a few minutes—’

  ‘Is it really important?’ asked Hilda, leaning on her husband’s arm.