These hindrances did so delay me that I was still upon the mountain when night fell, and not daring to continue this perilous journey in the dark, I crept under the shelter of a rock, and so lay shivering until the morning. However, I bethought me of my loft and its thatch-roof, and contrasting it with the open sky, passed the night pleasantly enough. I had still enough of my bread left over to serve me for breakfast in the morning, and since there was no water to be got, I made shift to moisten my throat by sucking lumps of ice. Late that afternoon I came down into a desolate valley, and felt the green turf once more spring beneath my feet. ’Twas closing in very dark and black. In front of me I could see the rain stretched across the hills like a diaphanous veil, shot here and there by a stray thread of sunlight; while behind, the heights of the Wildthurm were hidden by a white crawling mist. Looking at this mist, I could not but be sensible of the dangers from which I had escaped, and with a heart full of gratitude I knelt down and thanked God for that He had reached out His hand above me to save my life.
For many days I journeyed among these upland valleys, passing from hut to hut and from ravine to ravine, moving ever westwards from Lukstein, and descended finally into the high-road close to the village of Nauders. Thence I proceeded along the Inn Thal to Innspruck, earning my food each day by cutting wood into logs at the various taverns, or by some such service; and as for lodging, ’twas no great hardship to sleep in the fields at this season of the year. At Innspruck, however, whither I came in the first days of July, I was sore put to it to find employment, which should keep me from starving until such time as I could receive letters of credit from England. My first thought was to obtain the position of usher or master in one of the many schools and colleges of the town. But wherever I applied they only laughed in my face, and unceremoniously closed the door upon my entreaties. Nor, indeed, could I wonder at their behaviour, for what with my torn peasant’s clothes, my bare, scarred knees, and my face, which was burnt to the colour of a ripe apple, I looked the most unlikely tutor that ever ruined a boy’s education. At one school— ’twas the last at which I sought employment — the master informed me that he “did his own whipping,” and wandering thence in a great despondency of spirit, I came into the Neustadt, which is the principal street of the town. There I chanced to espy the sign of a fencing-master, and realising what little profit I was like to make of such rusty book-learning as I still retained, I crossed the road and proffered him the assistance of my services. At the onset he was inclined to treat my offer with no less hilarity than the schoolmasters had shown; but being now at my wits’ end, I persisted, and perhaps vaunted my skill more than befitted a gentleman. ’Twas, I think, chiefly to disprove my words, and so rid himself of me, that he bade me take a foil and stand on guard. In the first bout, however, I was lucky enough to secure the advantage, as also in the second. In a fluster of anger he insisted that I should engage upon a third, and thereupon I deemed it prudent to allow him to get the better of me, though not by so much as would give him the right to accuse me of a lack of skill. The ruse was entirely successful; for he was so delighted with his success that he hired me straightway as his lieutenant, and was pleased to compliment me upon my mastery of the weapon; not but what he declared I had many faults in the matter of style, which I might correct under his tuition.
In this occupation I remained for some three months. I wrote a letter immediately to Jack Larke, but received no answer whatsoever. Each week, however, I put by a certain sum out of my wages until I had accumulated sufficient to carry me, if I practised economy, to England. In the beginning of September, then, I gave up my position; a pupil, on hearing of my purposed journey, most generously presented me with a horse, which I accepted as a loan, and one fine morning I mounted on to the animal’s back and rode out towards the gates of the town.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LAST.
NOW THE ROAD which I chose led past the Hofgarten, a great open space of lawns and shrubberies which had been enclosed and presented to the town by Leopold, the late Archduke of Styria. Opposite to the gates of this garden stood the “Black Stag,” at that time the principal inn, and I noticed ahead of me four or five mounted men waiting at the door. Drawing nearer I perceived that these men wore the livery of Countess Lukstein.
My first impulse was to turn my horse’s head and ride off with all speed in the contrary direction; but bethinking me that they would never dare to make an attempt upon my liberty in the streets of an orderly city, I resolved to continue on my way, and pay no heed to them as I passed. And this I began to do, walking my horse slowly, so that they might not think I had any fear of them. Otto was stationed at the head of the troop, a few paces in advance of the rest, and I was well-nigh abreast of him before any of the servants perceived who passed them. Even then ’twas myself who invited their attention. For turning my head I saw the Countess just within the gates of the garden. She was habited in a riding-dress, and was taking leave of a gentleman who was with her.
On the instant I stopped my horse.
“Here, Otto!” I cried, and flinging the reins to him, I jumped to the ground.
I heard him give a startled exclamation, but I stayed not to cast a glance at him, and walked instantly forwards to where Ilga stood. I was within two paces of her before she turned and saw me. She reached out a hand to the gate, and so steadying herself looked at me for a little without a word. I bowed low, and took another step towards her, whereupon she turned again to her companion and began to speak very volubly, the colour going and coming quickly upon her face. For my part I made no effort to interrupt her. I had schooled myself to think of her as one whom I should never see again, and here we were face to face. I remained contentedly waiting with my hat in my hand.
“You have been long in Innspruck?” she asked of me at length, and added, with some hesitation, “Mr. Buckler?”
“Three months, madame,” I replied.
“But you are leaving?”
She looked across to my horse, which Otto was holding. A small valise, containing the few necessaries I possessed, was slung to the saddle-bow.
“I return to England,” said I.
She presented me to the gentleman who talked with her, but I did not catch his name any more than the conversation they resumed. ’Twas enough for me to hear the sweet sound of her voice; as, when a singer sings, one is charmed by the music of his tones, and recks little of the words of his song. At last, however, her companion made his bow. Ilga stretched out her hand to him and said:
“You will come, then, to Lukstein?” and detaining him, as it seemed to me, she added, “I would ask Mr. Buckler to come, too, only I fear that he has no great opinion of our hospitality.”
“Madame,” I replied simply, “if you ask me, I will come.”
She stood for the space of some twenty seconds with her eyes bent upon the ground. Then, raising her face with a look which was wonderfully timid and shy, she said:
“You are a brave man, Mr. Buckler”; and after another pause, “I do ask you.”
With that she crossed the road and mounted upon her horse. I did the same, and the little cavalcade rode out from Innspruck along the highway to Landeck. The Countess pressed on ahead, and thinking that she had no wish to speak with me, I rode some paces behind her. Behind me came Otto and the servants. Otto, I should say, had resumed his old impenetrable air. He was once more the servant, and seemed to have completely forgotten our companionship in Captivity Hollow. Thus we travelled until we came near to the village of Silz.
Now all this morning one regretful thought had been buzzing in my head. ’Twas an old thought, one that I had lived with many a month. Yet never had it become familiar to me; the pain which it brought was always fresh and sharp. But now, since I saw Countess Lukstein again, since she rode in front of me, since each moment my eyes beheld her, this regret grew and grew until it was lost in a great longing to speak out my mind, and, if so I might, ease myself of my burden. Consequently I spurred my hor
se lightly, and as we entered Silz I drew level with the Countess.
“Madame,” I said, “I see plainly enough that you have no heart for my company, neither do I intend any idle intrusion. I would but say two words to you. They have been on my lips ever since I caught sight of you on the Hofgarten; they have been in my heart for the weariest span of days. When I told you that I entered Castle Lukstein alone, God is my witness that I spoke the truth. No woman was with me. I championed no woman; by no ties was I bound to any woman in this world. This I would have you believe; for it is the truth. I could not lie to you if I would; it is the truth.”
She made me no answer, but bowed her head down on her horse’s mane, so that I could see nothing of her face, and thinking sadly that she would not credit me, I tightened my reins that I might fall back behind her. It may be that she noticed the movement of my hands. I know not, nor, indeed, shall I be at any pains to speculate upon her motive. ’Twas her action which occupied my thoughts then and for hours afterwards. She suddenly lifted her face towards me, all rosy with blushes and wearing that sweet look which I had once and once only remarked before. I mean when she pledged me in her apartments in Pall Mall.
“Then,” says she, “we will travel no further afield to-day,” and she drew rein before the first inn we came to.
I was greatly perplexed by this precipitate action, also by the word she used, inasmuch as we were not travelling afield at all, but on the contrary directly towards her home. Besides, ’twas still early in the afternoon. Howbeit, there we stayed, and the Countess retiring privately to her room, I saw no more of her until the night was come. ’Twas about eleven of the clock when I heard a light tap upon my door, and opening it, I perceived that she was my visitor. She laid a finger upon her lip and slipped quietly into the room. In her hand she held her hat and whip, and these she laid upon the table.
“You have not inquired,” she began, “why I asked you to return with me to Lukstein, what end I had in view.”
“In truth, madame,” I replied, “I gave no thought to it; only — only — —”
“Only I asked you, and you came,” she said in a voice that broke and faltered. “Even after all you had suffered at my hands, even in spite of what you still might suffer, I asked you, and you came.”
She spoke in a low wondering tone, and with a queer feeling of shame I hastened to reply:
“Madame, if you were in my place, you would understand that there is little strange in that.”
“Let me finish!” she said. “Lord Elmscott and your friend, Mr. Larke, are awaiting you at Lukstein. When your friend returned to England without you, he could hear no word of you. He had no acquaintance with Lord Elmscott, and did not know of him at all. He met Lord Elmscott in London this spring for the first time. It appears that your cousin suspected something of the trouble that stood between you and me, but until he met Mr. Larke he believed you were travelling in Italy. Mr. Larke gave him the account of your first journey into the Tyrol. They found out Sir Julian’s attorney at Bristol, and learned the cause of it from him. They came to Lukstein two months ago, and told me what you would not. I went up to the hills myself to bring you home; you had escaped, and your — the men had concealed your flight in fear of my anger. Lord Elmscott went to Meran, I came to Innspruck; and we arranged to return after we had searched a month. The month is gone. They will be at Lukstein now.”
So much she said, though with many a pause and with so keen a self-reproach in her tone that I could hardly bear to hear her, when I interrupted:
“And you have been a month searching for me in Innspruck?”
She took no heed of my interruption.
“So, you see,” she continued, “I know the whole truth. I know, too, that you hid the truth out of kindness to me, and — and — —”
She was wearing the gold cross which I had sent to her by Otto’s hand. It hung on a long chain about her neck, and I took it gently into my palm.
“And is there nothing more you know?” I asked.
“I know that you love me,” she whispered, “that you love me still. Oh! how is it possible?” And then she raised her eyes to mine and laid two trembling hands upon my shoulders. “But it is true. You told me so this afternoon.”
“I told you?” I asked in some surprise.
“Ay, and more surely than if you had spoken it out. That is why I stopped our horses in the village. It is why I am with you now.”
She glanced towards her hat and whip, and I understood. I realised what it would cost her to carry me back as her guest to Lukstein after all that had passed there.
I opened the door and stepped out on to the landing. A panel of moonlight was marked out upon the floor. ’Twas the only light in the passage, and the house was still as an empty cave. When I came back into the room Ilga was standing with her hat upon her head.
“And what of Lukstein?”
“A sop to Father Spaur,” she said with a happy laugh, and reaching out a hand to me she blew out the candle. I guided her to the landing, and there stopped and kissed her.
“I have hungered for that,” said I, “for a year and more.”
“And I too,” she whispered, “dear heart, and I too,” and I felt her arms tighten about my neck. “Oh, how you must have hated me!” she said.
“I called you no harder name than ‘la belle dame sans merci,’” said I.
We crept down the stairs a true couple of runaways. The door was secured by a wooden bar. I removed the bar, and we went out into the road. The stables lay to the right of the inn, and leaving Ilga where she stood, I crossed over to them and rapped quietly at the window. The ostler let me in, and we saddled quickly Ilga’s horse and mine. I gave the fellow all of my three months’ savings, and bidding him go back to his bed, brought the horses into the road.
I lifted Ilga into the saddle.
“So,” she said, bending over me, and her heart looked through her eyes, “the lath was steel after all, and I only found it out when the steel cut me.”
And that night we rode hand in hand to Innspruck. Once she trilled out a snatch of song, and I knew indeed that Jack Larke was waiting for me at Lukstein. For the words she sang were from an old ballad of Froissart:
Que toutes joies et toutes honneurs
Viennent d’armes et d’amours.
THE END
Lawrence Clavering (1897)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The first edition’s title page
CHAPTER I.
TELLS OF A PICTURE.
THE PICTURE HANGS at my lodgings here at Avignon, a stone’s throw from the Porte de la Ligne, and within the shadow of Notre Dame des Doms, though its intended housing-place was the great gallery of Blackladies. But it never did hang there, nor ever will; nor do I care that it should — no, not the scrape of a fiddle. I have heard men circumstanced like myself tell how, as they fell into years, more and more their thoughts flew homewards like so many carrier-pigeons, each with its message of longing. But Blackladies, though it was the only home I ever knew in England, did not of right belong to me, and the period during which I was master there was so populous with troubles, so chequered with the impertinent follies of an inexperienced youth raised of a sudden above his station, that even now, after all these years, I look back on it with a burning shame. And if one day, perchance, as I walk in the alleys h
ere beyond the city walls, the wind in the branches will whisper to me of the house and the brown hills about it — it is only because I was in England while I lived there. And if, again, as I happen to stand upon the banks of the Rhone, I see unexpectedly reflected in the broken mirror of its waters, the terraces, the gardens, the long row of windows, and am touched for the moment to a foolish melancholy by the native aspect of its gables — why, it is only because I look out here across a country of tourelles.
However, I come back to my lodging, and there is my picture on the wall — an accountant, as it were, ever casting up the good fortune and the mishaps of my life, and ever striking a sure balance in my favour.
I take the description of it from a letter which Mr. George Vertue wrote to a friend of mine in London, and that friend despatched to me. For, since the picture is a portrait of myself, it may be that an account of it from another’s hand will be the more readily credited. Mr. Vertue saw it some years since at a dealer’s in Paris, whither, being at that time hard pressed for money, I had sent it, but was lucky enough not to discover a purchaser.
“I have come across a very curious picture,” he wrote, “of which I would gladly know more, and I trust that you may help me to the knowledge. For more than once you have spoken to me of Mr. Lawrence Clavering, who fought for the Chevalier de St. George at Preston, and was out too in the Forty-five. The picture is the bust of a young gentleman painted by Anthony Herbert, and with all the laborious minuteness which was distinctive of his earlier methods. Indeed, in the delicacy with which the lace of the cravat is figured, the painter has, I think, exceeded himself, and even exceeded Vandermijn, whom at this period he seems to have taken for his model. The coat, too, which is of a rose-pink in colour, is painted with the same elaboration, the very threads of the velvet being visible. The richness of the work gives a very artful effect when you come to look at the face, which chiefly provokes my curiosity. In colour it is a dead white, except for the lips, which are purple, as though the blood stagnated there; the eyes are glassy and bright, with something of horror or fear staring out of them; the features knotted out of all comeliness; the mouth half opened and curled in the very sickness of pain; the whole expression, in a word, that of a man in the extremity of suffering — a soul’s torture superimposed upon an agony of the body; and all this painted with such circumstantial exactness as implies not merely great leisure in the artist, but also a singular pleasure and gusto in his subject....”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 214