‘Nor I,’ I said with a shiver. ‘You have not heard anything of a — a shooting-match, have you?’
‘It is for Sunday,’ he answered.
‘And to-day is Tuesday,’ I said. ‘Steve! you will not lose time?’
‘No, no.’
‘You will see her in the morning? In the morning, lad,’ I continued feverishly, clinging to the bars and peering out at him. ‘I must get out of this before Sunday! And this is Tuesday! Steve!’
‘Hush!’ he answered. ‘They are coming back.’
CHAPTER XXII.
GREEK AND GREEK.
What my lady’s thoughts were during her long ride back to the camp, I do not know. But I have heard her say that when she rode into the village, a day and a half in advance of the dusty, lumbering convoy, she could scarcely believe that it was the place she had left, the place in which she had lived for a fortnight. And this, though all remained the same. So much does the point from which we look at things alter their aspect.
The general had sent on the news of the Waldgrave’s loss by messenger, that she might be spared the pain of telling it; and Fraulein Max and Marie Wort were waiting on the wooden platform before the house when she rode wearily in. The sight of those two gave her a certain sense of relief and home coming, merely because they were women and wore petticoats. But that was all. The village, the reeking camp, the squalid soldiery, the whining beggars filled her — now that her eyes were opened and she saw this ugly face of war stripped of the glamour with which her fancy had invested it — with fear and repulsion. She wondered that she could ever have liked the place and been gay in it, or drawn pleasure from the amusements which now seemed poor and tawdry.
Fraulein Max ran down into the road to meet her, and when she had dismounted, covered her with tearful caresses. But the Countess, after receiving her greetings, still looked round wistfully as if she missed some one; and then in a moment moved from her, and mounting the steps went swiftly to the dark corner by the porch whither Marie Wort had run, and where she now stood leaning against the house with her face to the wall.
My lady, whom few had ever seen unbend, took the girl in her arms, and laid her head on her shoulder and stroked her hair pitifully.
‘Hush, hush, child!’ she murmured, her eyes wet with tears. ‘Poor child, poor child! Is it so very bad?’
But Marie could only sob.
They went into the house in a moment after that, those three, with the waiting-women. And then a change came over the Countess. Fraulein Max blinked to see it. My lady who, outside, had been so tender, began, before her riding cloak was off, to walk up and down like a caged wolf, with hard eyes and cheeks burning with indignation. Fraulein Max spoke to her timidly — said that the meal was ready, that my lady’s woman was waiting, that my lady must be tired. But the Countess put her by almost with an oath. For hours she had been playing a part, a thing her proud soul loathed. For hours she had hidden, not her sorrow only and her anger, but her anxieties, her fears, her terrors. Now she must be herself or die.
Besides, the thing pressed! She had her woman’s wits, and might stave off the general’s offer for a few days, for a week. But a week — what was that? No wonder that she looked on the four helpless women round her, and realised that these were her only helpers now, her only protection; no wonder that she cried out.
‘I have been a fool!’ she said, looking at them with burning eyes. ‘A fool! When Martin warned me, I would not listen; when the Waldgrave hinted, I laughed at him. I was bewitched, like a silly fool in her teens! Don’t contradict me!’ And she stamped her foot impatiently. Fraulein Max had raised her hand.
‘I don’t,’ the Fraulein answered. ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Do you understand that empty, chair?’ my lady answered bitterly. ‘Or that empty stool?’
Fraulein Anna blinked more and more. ‘But war,’ she said mildly— ‘a necessary evil, Voetius calls it — war, Countess — —’
‘Oh!’ my lady cried in a fury. ‘As carried on by these, it is a horror, a fiendish thing! I did not know before. Now I have seen it. Wait, wait, girl, until it takes those you love, and threatens your own safety, and then talk to me of war!’
But Fraulein Anna set her face mutinously. ‘Still, I do not understand,’ she said slowly, winking her short-sighted eyes like an owl in the daylight. ‘You talk as if we had cause not only to grieve — as we have, indeed — but to fear. Are we not safe here? General Tzerclas — —’
‘Bah!’ the Countess cried, trembling with emotion. ‘Don’t let me hear his name! I hate him. He is false. False, girl. I do not trust him; I do not believe him; and I would to Heaven we were out of his hands!’
Even Marie Wort, sitting white and quiet in a corner, looked up at that. As for Fraulein Max, she passed her tongue slowly over her lips, but did not answer; and for a moment there was silence in the room. Then Marie said very softly, ‘Thank God!’
My lady turned to her roughly. ‘Why do you say that?’ she said.
‘Because of what I have learned since you left us,’ the girl answered, in a frightened whisper. ‘There was a man who lived in this house, my lady.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the Countess muttered eagerly. ‘I remember he begged of me, and General Tzerclas gave him money. That was one of the things that blinded me.’
‘He hung him afterwards,’ the girl whispered in a shaking voice. ‘By the river, in the south-east corner of the camp.’
The Countess stared at her incredulously, rage and horror in her face. ‘That man whom I saw?’ she cried. ‘It is not possible! You have been deceived.’
But Marie Wort shook her head. ‘It is true,’ she said simply.
‘Then Heaven help us all!’ the Countess whispered in a thrilling tone. ‘For we are in that man’s power!’
There was a stricken silence after that, which lasted some minutes. The room seemed to grow darker, the house more silent, the road on which they looked through the unglazed window more dusty, squalid, dreary — dreary with the summer dreariness of drought. One of the waiting-women began to cry. The other stood bolt upright, looking out with startled eyes, and lips half open.
‘Yes, all,’ the Countess presently went on, her voice hard and composed. ‘He has asked me to be his wife. He has honoured me so far.’ She laughed a thin, mirthless laugh. ‘If I am willing, therefore, well. If I am not — still he will wed me. After that he will keep us here in the midst of these horrors. Or he will march to Heritzburg, and then God help Heritzburg and my people!’
Fraulein Anna passed her tongue over her lips again, and shifted her hands in her lap. She was paler than usual. But she did not speak.
‘The child?’ the Countess said presently, in a different tone. ‘Has it been recovered?’
Marie shook her head; and a moment later threw her kerchief over her face and went out. They heard her sobs as she went along the passage.
My lady frowned. ‘If we could get a message to Count Leuchtenstein,’ she murmured thoughtfully. ‘But I do not know where he is. He may return to seek the child, however; and that is our best chance, I think.’
They brought food in after that, and the council broke up. It is to be feared that the Countess found herself little the better for its advice.
In the evening the general called to learn whether she was much fatigued; and she fancied she detected in his manner a masterfulness and a familiarity from which it had been free. But her suspicions rendered her so prone to read between the lines, that it is possible that she saw some things that were not there. Her own feelings she succeeded in masking, except in one matter. He brought Count Waska with him; and it occurred to her, in her fear and helplessness, that she might enlist the Bohemian on her side. Such schemes come to women, even to proud women; and though Waska, half sportsman and half sot, and in body a mountain of flesh, was an unlikely knight-errant, she plied him so craftily, that when the two were gone she sat for an hour in a state of exaltation, believing that here a new
and unexpected way to safety might open. The Bohemian was second in command, though at a great interval. He was popular, and in some points a gentleman. Could she excite in him jealousy, discontent, even passion, her position was such that she was in no mood to stand on scruples.
But when the general came next day, he did not bring Waska; nor the day after. And he showed so plainly that he saw through the design, and suspected her, that he left her white and furious. Indeed it was a question who was left by this interview the more excited, my lady, who saw the circle growing ever narrower round her, and read with growing clearness the man’s determination to win her at all costs and by all means; or the general, whose passion every day augmented, who saw in her both the woman he desired and the heiress, and would fain, if he could, have won her heart as well as her person.
The possession of power tempts to the use of it, and he began to lose patience. He had a screw in readiness, he fancied, that would bend even that proud neck and humble those knees. A day or two more he would give her, and then he would turn it. Hate itself is not more cruel than love despised!
But he did not count on her influence over him. The day or two passed, and another day or two, and still she kept him amused and kept him at bay. Sometimes he saw through her wiles, and came near to vowing that he would not give her another hour. Will she, nill she, she should wed him. But then the glamour of her presence and her beauty blinded him again. And so a week went slowly by; each day won, at what a cost of pride, of courage, of self-respect!
At the end of that time my lady’s face had grown so white and drawn under the strain, that when she sat alone she looked years older than her age. The light still flashed in her eyes; they had grown only the larger. But her cheeks and her lips had lost their colour, her hair its gloss. When no one was watching her, she glanced round her like a hunted animal. When anything crossed her, she flew into fearful rages with her women. They were so useless, so helpless! She was like a scorpion I have heard of, that, ringed round with fire, stings all within its reach.
How many nights she tossed, sleepless; how often she went over the odds against her; grasped at this idea or that; thought of horses and roads, ways and means, the distance to Cassel, or the chances of Leuchtenstein’s return, I cannot say; but I can guess. At last, during one of these night vigils, something happened. She was lying, torturing herself with the thought that to this constant putting off there could only be one end, when she heard sneaking footsteps moving in the passage. The wall which divided it from her room ran beside her bed, and, lying still, she heard the rustling of garments against the boards.
Something like this she had feared in her worst moments; and on the instant she sat up and listened, her heart beating wildly. Since her return the two waiting-women had lain in her room. She could hear them breathing now. But beside and above that, she could hear the stealthy rustling sound she had heard before. Then it ceased.
She rose trembling. The windows were shuttered, and the lamp which commonly burned in a basin had gone out. The room, therefore, was quite dark. Without awaking the women she stole across the floor to the door, and there set her ear to the panels and listened. But she heard nothing except the distant shout of a reveller, and the mournful howling of one of the pack of curs that infested the camp; all was still.
Still she crouched there listening, and presently her patience was rewarded. Some one entered by the outer door, and went quickly along the passage, the boards creaking so loudly that it was a wonder the women were not aroused. The footsteps went straight to the room where Fraulein Max and Marie Wort slept. Some one had been out and returned!
There was a hint of treachery here, and my lady stood up, her face growing hard. Which of the two was it? In a moment she had her answer. A dozen times in the last week Marie had puzzled her; a dozen times the Papist girl’s easy resignation had angered her. She had caught her more than once smiling — smiling childish smiles that would not be repressed. This was the secret, then!
The Countess grew hot, and in a moment was out of her room and at the door of that other room. A taper still burned there; its light showed through the cracks. Without hesitation she thrust the door open, and entering surprised Marie Wort in the very act. The girl was standing in the middle of the floor taking off a cloak. Guilt and fear were written on her face.
‘You wicked girl!’ the Countess cried, her eyes blazing.
Then she stopped. For Marie, instead of retreating before her, pointed with a warning finger to a second empty pallet; and my lady looking round saw with astonishment that Fraulein Max was missing.
‘What does this mean?’ the Countess muttered in a different tone.
Marie, trembling and listening, put her finger to her lips. ‘Hush, hush, my lady,’ she whispered. ‘She must not find you here! She must not, indeed. I heard her go out, and I followed. I have heard all.’
‘All?’ the Countess stammered, and she began to tremble.
‘Yes,’ the girl answered. Then ‘Go, go! my lady,’ she cried. She was shaking with agitation, and looked round as if for a way of escape. But there was no second door to the room. ‘If she finds you here we are lost. Go back, and in the morning — —’
She stopped abruptly, and her eyes grew wide. The Countess listening too, and catching the infection of her fear, heard a board creak below.
For a moment the two stood in the middle of the floor, gazing into one another’s eyes. Then Marie, with a sudden movement, thrust my lady down on her pallet, and with the other hand put out the light.
They lay, scarcely daring to breathe, and heard Fraulein Anna grope her way in, and stand awhile, silent and listening, as if she found something suspicious in the extinction of the light. But the taper — it was a mere rushlight — had done this before, and Marie stirred so naturally, that Fraulein Max’s doubts passed away. She put off her cloak quickly, and presently — but not, as it seemed to the Countess, until an hour had elapsed — they heard her begin to breathe regularly. A few minutes more and they had no doubt she slept. Then Marie touched my lady’s arm, and the latter, rising softly, stole out of the room.
The adventure left the Countess’s thoughts in a whirl. She hated double-dealing as much as any one, and she could scarcely contain herself before Fraulein Max. It was as much as she could do to wear a smooth face for an hour, until a chance occasion, which fortunately came early in the day, left her alone with Marie. Then she turned, almost fiercely, on the girl.
‘What is this?’ she said. ‘What does it all mean? Himmel! Tell me! Tell me quickly!’
Marie Wort looked at her with tears in her eyes. ‘You should be able to guess, my lady,’ she said sadly. ‘There is a traitor among us.’
‘Fraulein Anna?’
Marie nodded. ‘She is in his pay,’ she said simply.
‘His? The general’s?’
‘Yes,’ Marie answered, speaking quickly, with her eyes on the door. ‘She met him last night, and told him what you feel about him.’
The Countess drew a deep breath. Her face turned a shade paler. She sat up straight in her chair. ‘All?’ she said huskily.
Marie nodded.
‘And he?’
‘He said he would have an answer to-day. Then I left. I did not hear any more.’
The Countess sat for a minute as if turned to stone. Here was an end of putting off — of smiles, and pleasant words, and the little craftinesses which had hitherto served her. Stern necessity, hard fate were before her. She was of a high courage, but terror was fast mastering her, when Marie touched her on the arm.
‘If you can put him off, until this evening,’ the girl muttered, ‘I think something may be done.’
‘What?’
‘Something. I do not know what,’ the girl answered in a troubled tone.
The Countess rose suddenly. ‘Ah! I would like to choke her!’ she cried hoarsely. She stretched out her arms.
‘Hush, hush, my lady!’ Marie whispered. The Countess’s violence frightened he
r. ‘I think, if you can put him off until to-night, we may contrive something.’
‘We? You and I?’ my lady said in scorn. But as she looked at the other’s pale, earnest face, her own softened, her tone changed. ‘Well, it shall be as you wish,’ she said, letting her arms drop. ‘You are a better plotter than I am. But I fear Fraulein Cat, Fraulein Snake, Fraulein Fox will prove the best of all!’
Marie’s frightened face showed that she thought this possible, but she said no more, and would give my lady no explanation, though the Countess pressed for it. It was decided in the end that the Countess should plead sudden illness, and use that pretext both to avoid Fraulein Max, and postpone her interview with the general until the evening.
He came at noon, and the Countess heard his horses pawing and fretting in the road, and she sat up in her darkened room with a white face. What if he would not accept the excuse? If he would see her? What if the moment had come in which his will and hers must decide the struggle? She rose and stood listening, as fierce in her beauty as any trapped savage creature. Her heartbeat wildly, her bosom heaved. But in a moment she heard the horses move away, and presently Marie came in to tell her that he would wait till evening.
‘No longer?’ the Countess asked, hiding her face in the pillow.
‘Not an hour, he said,’ Marie answered, indicating by a gesture that the door was open, and that Fraulein Max was listening. ‘He was — different,’ she whispered.
‘How?’ my lady muttered.
‘He swore at me,’ Marie answered in the same tone. ‘And he spoke of you — somehow differently.’
The Countess laughed, but far from joyously. ‘I suppose to-night — I must see him?’ she said. She tried as she spoke to press herself more deeply into the pillows, as if she might escape that way. Her flesh crept, and she shivered though she was as hot as fire.
Once or twice in the hours which followed she was almost beside herself. Sometimes she prayed. More often she walked up and down the room like one in a fever. She did not know on what she was trusting, and she could have struck Marie when the girl, appealed to again and again, would explain nothing, and name no quarter from which help might come. All the afternoon the camp lay grilling in the sunshine, and in the shuttered room in the middle of it my lady suffered. Had the house lain by the river she might have tried to escape; but the camp girdled it on three sides, and on the fourth, where a swampy inlet guarded one flank of the village, a deep ditch as well as the morass forbade all passage.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 149