The man’s indifference maddened me. I could scarcely keep my hands off him. Fortunately, Taddeo’s answer put an end to my doubts.
. . . Ludwig, all his indifference cast to the winds, continued to stamp and scream . . .
‘There is one less, at any rate, captain,’ he said carelessly, stooping forward to stir the embers. ‘The Saxon is gone.’
‘Himmel! He has, has he? Without leave?’ Ludwig answered. ‘The worse for him if we catch him, that is all!’
‘He went off with the German and his servants an hour before sunrise,’ Taddeo said with a yawn.
‘He had better not let our noble general overtake him!’ Ludwig answered grimly, while I stood still, stricken dumb by the news. ‘But enough of that. Where is my cap?’
Taddeo pushed it towards him with his foot, and he took it up and put it on. He had no sooner done so, however, than a thought seemed to strike him. He snatched the cap off again, and, plunging his hand into it, groped in the lining. The next instant he sprang to his feet with a howl of rage.
Taddeo looked at him in astonishment. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
For answer, Ludwig ran at him and dealt him a tremendous kick. ‘There, pig, that is for you!’ he cried vengefully, his eyes almost starting from his head. ‘You will not ask what it is next time! That Saxon hound has robbed me — that is what it is. But he shall pay for it. He shall hang before night! Every ducat I had he has taken, pig, dog, vermin that he is! But I’ll be even with him. I’ll lash — —’
And Master Ludwig, all his indifference cast to the winds, continued to stamp and scream so loudly that in the end Tzerclas overheard him, and appeared.
‘What is this?’ the general said harshly. ‘Is that man mad?’
Ludwig grew a little calmer at sight of him. ‘The Saxon, Heller,’ he answered, scowling. ‘He has deserted with fifty ducats of mine, general; good honest money!’
‘The worse for you,’ Tzerclas answered cynically. ‘And the worse for him, if I catch him. He will hang.’
‘He has taken a gold chain of mine also,’ I said, thrusting myself forward.
The general looked hard at me. ‘Umph!’ he said. ‘Which way has he gone?’
‘He left with the German gentleman and his two servants at daybreak,’ Taddeo answered, rubbing himself. ‘I thought that he had orders to go with them.’
‘He has gone north, then?’
‘North they started,’ Taddeo whimpered.
The general turned to Ludwig. ‘Take two men,’ he said curtly, ‘and follow him. But, whether you catch him or not, see that you are back two hours before noon. And let me have no more noise.’
Ludwig saluted hastily, and, it will be believed, lost no time in obeying his orders. In two minutes he was in the saddle, and dashed out of camp, followed by two of his men and one of my lady’s, whom I took leave to add to the party for the better care of my property, should it be recovered. I looked after them with longing eyes, and listened to the last beat of the hoofs as they passed through the forest. And then for three hours I had to wait in a dreadful state of suspense and inaction. At the end of that time the party rode in again, the horses bloody with spurring, the riders gloomy and chapfallen. They had galloped four leagues without coming on the slightest trace of the fugitive or his companions.
‘The German never went north,’ Ludwig said, looking darkly at his chief.
Tzerclas smoothed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Are you sure of that?’ he asked.
‘Quite, general. They have all gone south together,’ Ludwig answered, ‘and are far enough away by this time.’
‘Umph! Well, we start in an hour.’
And that was all! I wandered away and stood staring at the ground. I remembered that Peter the locksmith had valued the chain at two hundred ducats, a sum exceeding any I could pay. But that was not the worst. What was I to say to the girl? How was I to explain a piece of folly, mischief, call it what you will, that had turned out so badly? If I told her the truth, would she believe me?
At that thought I started. Why tell her the truth at all? Why not leave her in ignorance? She would be none the worse, for the chain was gone. And I, who had never meant to steal it, should be the better, seeing that I should escape the humiliation of confessing what I had done. Confession could do no good to her. And in what a position it would place me!
Leaning against a tree and driving my heel moodily into the soil, I was still battling with this temptation — for a temptation I knew it was, even then — when a light touch fell on my sleeve. I turned, and there was the girl herself, waiting to speak to me!
CHAPTER XII.
NEAR THE EDGE.
‘Will you give me back my — my chain, if you please?’ she said timidly.
And she stood with clasped hands and blushing cheeks, as if she were the culprit. Her eyes looked anywhere to avoid mine. Her voice trembled, and she seemed ready to sink into the earth with shame. She was small, weak, helpless. But her words! Had they come from the judge sitting on his bench, with axe and branding-iron by his side, they could not have cowed me more completely, or deprived me more quickly of wit and courage.
‘Your chain?’ I stammered, stricken almost voiceless. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If you please,’ she whispered, her face flushing more and more, her eyes filling. ‘My chain.’
‘But how — what makes you think that I have got it?’ I muttered hoarsely. ‘What makes you come to me?’
To confess, of my own motive and unsuspected, had been bad enough and shameful enough; but to be accused, unmasked, convicted — and by her! This was too much. My face burned, my eyes were hot as fire.
She twisted the fingers of one hand tightly round the other, but she did not look up. ‘You took it from the child’s neck as we passed through the ford,’ she said in a low voice, ‘that night I lost it.’
‘I did!’ I exclaimed. ‘I did, girl?’
She nodded firmly, her lip trembling. But she never looked up; nor into my face!
Yet her insistence angered me. How did she know, how could she know? I put the question into words. ‘How do you know?’ I said harshly. ‘Who told you so? Who told you this — this lie, woman?’
‘The child,’ she answered, shivering under my words.
I opened my mouth and drew in my breath. I had never thought of that. I had never thought, save once for a brief moment, of the child talking, and, on the instant, I stood speechless; convicted and confounded! Then I found my voice again.
‘The child told you!’ I muttered incredulously. ‘The child? Why, it cannot talk!’
‘It can,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘It can talk to me, and I can understand it. Oh, I am so sorry!’ And with that she broke down. She turned away and, covering her face with her hands, began to sob bitterly. Her shoulders heaved, and her slender frame shook with the storm.
A thief, and a liar! That was what I had made myself. I stood glaring at her, my breast full of sullen passion. I hated her and her necklace. I wished that it had been buried a thousand fathoms deep in the sea! That moment in the ford, one moment only, a moment of folly, had wrecked me. I raged against her and against myself. I could have struck her. If she had only left me alone, if she had not come to question me and accuse me, I should not have lied; and then, perhaps, I might have recovered the necklace, somehow and some day, and, giving it back to her, told her the story and kept my honesty. Now I had lied, and she knew it. And I hated her. I hated her, sobbing and shaking and shivering before me.
And then a ray of sunlight, passing through the branches, fell on her bowed head. A hundred paces away, little more, they were striking the camp. The men’s voices, their harsh jests and rude laughter, reached us. I heard one man called, and another, and orders given, and the jingle of the bits and bridles. All was unchanged, everything was proceeding in its usual course. One thing only in the world was altered — Martin Schwartz, the steward.
I found no words to lie to her
farther, to deny or protest; and when we had stood thus for a short time, she turned. She began to move slowly away from me, though the passion of her tears seemed to increase rather than slacken as she went, and shook her frame with such vehemence that she could scarcely walk.
For a time I stood looking after her in sullen shame, doing and saying nothing to stay her. Then, suddenly, a change came over me. She looked so friendless, so frail, and gentle and helpless, that, in the middle of my selfish shame, my heart smote me. I felt a sudden welling up of pity and repentance, which worked so quickly and wonderfully in me, that before she had gone a score of paces from me, my hand was on her shoulder.
‘Stop! Stay a moment!’ I muttered hoarsely. ‘I have been lying to you. I took the necklace — from the child’s neck. It is all true.’
She ceased crying, but she did not turn or look at me. She seemed to be struggling for composure, and presently, with her face still averted, she murmured —
‘Why did you take it? Will you please to tell me?’
As well as I could, I did tell her; how and why I had taken it, what I had done with it, and how I had lost it. She listened, but she made no sign, she said nothing; and her silence hurt me at last so keenly that I added with bitterness —
‘I lied before, and you need not believe what I say now. Still, it is true.’
She turned her face quickly to me, and I saw that her cheeks were hot and her eyes shining. ‘I believe it — every word,’ she said.
‘I will not lie to you again.’
‘You never did,’ she answered. And she stole a glance at me, a faint smile flickering about her lips. ‘Your face never did, Master Martin.’
‘Yet you wept sore enough for your chain,’ I said.
She looked at me for a moment with something like anger in her gentle eyes, so that for that instant she seemed transformed. And she drew away from me.
‘Did you think that I wept for that?’ she said in a tone of offence. ‘I did not.’
‘Then for what?’ I asked clumsily.
She looked two or three ways before she answered, and in the distance some one called me.
‘There! you are wanted,’ she said hurriedly.
‘But you have not answered my question,’ I said.
She took a step from me and paused, with her head half turned. ‘I wept — I wept because I thought that I had lost a friend,’ she said in a low voice. ‘And I have few, Master Martin.’
She was gone, before I could answer, through the trees and back to the camp. And I had to follow. Half a dozen voices in half a dozen places were calling my name. The general’s trumpet was sounding. I slipped aside and joined the camp from another quarter, and in a moment was in the middle of the hubbub, beset by restive horses and swaying poles, clanging kettles and swearing riders, and all the hurry and confusion of the start. My lady called to me sharply to know where I had been, and why I was late. The Waldgrave wanted this, Fraulein Max that. The general frowned at me from afar. It would have been no great wonder if I had lost my temper.
But I did not; I was in no risk of doing so. I had gone near the edge and had been plucked back. Late, and when all seemed over, I had been given a place for repentance; and gratitude and relief so filled my breast that I had a smile for every one. The sun seemed to shine more brightly, the wind to blow more softly — the wind which blew from Marie Wort to me. Thank God!
As I fell in behind my lady — the general riding alone some way in the rear — the Waldgrave came up and took his place at her side; greeting her with an awkward air which seemed to prove that this was his first appearance in her neighbourhood. He made a show of hiding his uneasiness under a face of careless gaiety, such as was his natural wear; and for awhile he rattled on gallantly. But my lady’s cool tone and short answers soon stripped him, and left him with no other resource but to take offence. He took it, and for a mile or so rode on in gloomy silence, brooding over his wrongs. Then, anger giving way to self-reproach, he grew tired of this.
With a sudden gesture he leaned over and laid his hand on the withers of my lady’s horse. ‘Tell me, what is the matter, fair cousin?’ he said in a softened tone. ‘What have I done?’
‘You should know,’ she answered, giving him one keen glance, but speaking more gently than before.
‘I know?’ he replied hardily. ‘I am sure I don’t.’
My lady shook her head. ‘I think you do,’ she said.
‘I suppose you are angry with me for — for standing up for Germany last night?’ he muttered, withdrawing his hand and speaking coldly in his turn.
‘No, not for that,’ my lady rejoined. ‘Certainly not for that. But for being too German in one of your habits, Rupert. Which do you think made the better figure last night — you who were flushed with wine, or General Tzerclas who kept his head cool? You who bragged like a boy, or General Tzerclas who said less than he meant? You who were rude to your host; or he who made every allowance for his guest?’
‘Allowance!’ my lord cried, firing up at the word. And I could see that he reddened to the nape of his neck with anger. ‘There was no need!’
‘Yes, allowance,’ my lady answered firmly. ‘There was every need.’
‘You would have me drink nothing, I suppose?’ he said fretting and fuming.
‘I would rather you drank nothing than too much,’ she replied. ‘Because a German and a drunkard have come to mean the same thing, is that a reason for deepening the reproach? For shame, Rupert!’
‘You treat me like a boy!’ he cried bitterly. And I thought that she was hard on him.
‘Well, you have only yourself to thank,’ she retorted cruelly, ‘if I do. You behave like a boy. And I do not like to have to blush for my friends.’
That cut him deeply. He uttered a half-stifled cry of anger and reined in his horse. ‘You have said enough,’ he said, speaking thickly. ‘You shall have no farther cause to blush in my case. I will relieve you.’ And on the instant, with a low bow, he turned his horse’s head and rode down the column towards the rear, leaving my lady to go on alone.
I confess I thought that she had been hard on him; perhaps she thought so too, now he was gone. And here were the beginnings of a pretty quarrel. But I did not guess the direction it was likely to take, until a horseman spurred quickly by me, and in a moment General Tzerclas, his velvet cloak hanging at his shoulder, had taken the Waldgrave’s place, and with his head bent low over his horse’s neck was talking to my lady. I saw him indicate this and that quarter with his gauntleted hand. I could fancy that this was Cassel, and that Frankfort, and another his camp, and that he was proposing plans and routes. But what he said I could not hear. He had a low, quiet way of talking, very characteristic of him, which flattered those to whom he addressed himself and baffled others.
And this, I suppose, it was that made me suspicious. For the longer I rode behind him and the more I considered him, the less I liked both him and the prospect. He was in the prime of his age and strength, inferior to the Waldgrave in height and the air of youth, but superior in that which the other lacked — the bearing of a man of the world, tried by good and evil fortune, and versed in many perils. Cool and resolute, handsome in a hard-bitten fashion, gifted, as I guessed, with infinite address, he possessed much to take the fancy of a woman; particularly of such a one as my lady, long used to comfort, and now learning in ill-fortune the value of a strong arm.
The possibility of such an alliance, thus suddenly thrust on my notice, chilled me. Anything, I said, rather than that. The Waldgrave had not left his post five minutes before I began to think of him with longing, before I began to invest him with all manner of virtues. At least, he was a German, of a great and noble family, tied to the soil, and fettered in his dealings by a hundred traditions; while this man riding before me possessed not one of these qualities!
Von Werder’s warning, which the loss of Marie Wort’s necklace had driven from my mind for a time, recurred with double force now, and did not tend to r
eassure me. I listened with all my might, trying to learn whether my lady was pledging herself to any course, for I knew that if she once promised I should find it hard to move her. But I could not catch a syllable, and presently there came an interruption which diverted my thoughts.
One of the two men who rode in front, and served for the advanced guard of our party, came galloping back with his hand raised and a grin on his dark face. He pulled up his horse a few paces short of General Tzerclas and my lady, and reported that he had found the Saxon.
‘What! Heller?’ the general exclaimed. ‘Here, Ludwig! Where are you?’
Ludwig, and I, and two or three more, spurred forward, and passing by my lady, who reined in her horse, came a hundred paces farther on upon the other trooper. He had dismounted and was stooping over a man’s body, which lay under a great tree that stood a few yards from the track.
‘So, so? He is dead, is he?’ the captain cried, leaping from his saddle.
‘Ay, this hour or more,’ the trooper answered with a grunt. ‘And robbed!’
‘Robbed?’ Ludwig shrieked. ‘Then you have done it, you scoundrel.’
‘Not I!’ the fellow said coolly. ‘Who ever it was killed him, robbed him. You can see for yourself that he has been dead an hour or more.’
The sudden hope which had dawned in my breast sank again. The man lay on his back, with his one eye staring, and his mean, livid face turned up to the tree and the sunshine. His cap had fallen off, and a shock of hay-coloured hair added to the horror of his appearance. I tried in vain to hide a qualm as I watched the soldiers passing their practised hands over his clothes; but I was alone in this. No one else seemed to feel any emotion. The dead man lay and his comrades searched him, and I heard a hundred ribald and loose things said, but not one that smacked of pity or regret. So the man had lived, without love or mercy, and so he died.
Ludwig stood up at last. ‘He has not the worth of his boots upon him!’ he said, with a savage snarl. And he kicked the body.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 138