THE JOURNEY
'When the meadow glows, and the orchard snows,
And the air's with love notes teeming,
When fancies break, and the senses wake,
O, life's a dream worth dreaming.'
W. E. HENLEY.
A HEAVY, leaden sky hung over the small town of Cannstatt, and the people
looked with foreboding at the lowering black clouds, and the weather-wise
foretold a furious thunder-storm. For many weeks the heavens had smiled
as though summer had come, though in truth the spring was but just begun,
and May counted but few days. The trees of the forest were donning their
leafy garments, the orchards were white and pink with apple, pear, and
cherry blossom, and the young grass stood tall and feathery in an
unusually early maturity. Of course the peasants grumbled, as peasants
always do; they complained of the heat and shook their heads over a
belated frost, which they declared must come to chastise the forwardness
of the growing things; they demanded rain from the smiling blue heavens,
and contemplated gloomily the tender, green shoots of the vines. But
when, in answer to their prayers for rain, the sky lowered and the sun
vanished, they grumbled again and spoke of the hailstones, which would
come to dash the blossoms of the fruit-trees and break the young vines.
All day the thunder had menaced but had not fulfilled the threat, and
when evening fell the air was still heavily oppressive. A rumbling sound
caused the people to run to their lattice windows and look up at the sky,
wondering if the storm had come at last; but it was only the echo of
carriage-wheels rolling through the mediæval archway, which led to the
fields beyond the town. The diligence drew up ponderously at the door of
the Hotel Zur Post, and the driver descended equally ponderously,
demanding loudly a drink of good Wirtemberg wine. Meanwhile an imperious
voice from the conveyance could be heard inquiring whether they had
arrived at Stuttgart, and if not, where they were. No one answering this
query, a hand was visible thrust out of the clumsy diligence, in an
attempt to unfasten the catch which held the door firm. A bystander came
forward and undid the door, and a tall woman stood on the step of the
coach looking around her. As she put her foot to the ground in her
further descent, a brilliant flash of forked lightning, followed
immediately by a tremendous detonation of thunder, announced the storm's
advent.
Rain began to fall in torrents, as though the clouds were rent asunder
and poured long pent-up anger upon the world. The lady hastened to the
porch of the Gasthof to seek shelter, and the driver of the coach led his
tired horses under cover of a shed in the courtyard. The chief room of
the inn was a cheerless apartment, long and dark, with narrow, rough
wooden tables fitted round the walls. A strong, stale smell greeted the
nose disagreeably. One or two peasants sat at the far end of one of the
tables; they stared rudely as the lady entered, and whispered remarks
about her, grinning broadly the while. She glanced haughtily at them and
called to the innkeeper, who had followed her from the courtyard,
desiring him to bring her food and wine. He went slowly to a painted
wooden cupboard, which stood against the wall at the back of the room,
and returned with a lump of coarse bread and some raw ham which he set
down on the dirty table. Taking an earthenware jug from before the group
of peasants, he brought it to add to the lady's unappetising meal. 'Good
wine last year here,' he said. 'Then, at least, something is good, Herr
Wirth, in your inn!' she answered; 'but tell me,' she continued, with a
smile which almost charmed even the boorish innkeeper, 'how far is it to
Stuttgart, and what is the name of this village?' 'Village? Lady, it is a
township, and much older than Stuttgart! It is Cannstatt, where the
Romans have left a camp, but Stuttgart is the finer because the Duke's
court is there. You have travelled far?' he added, his curiosity getting
the better of the unfriendly distrust with which the Wirtemberger
regards all strangers. 'From the far north,' she answered shortly. 'You
have never been in our country before?' he asked; 'well, you have an
ill-omened day for your arrival; the storm greeted you!' The lady
started. 'Thank you for reminding me,' she said, 'I dislike ill omens.'
The man grinned: it delighted his honest soul to have succeeded in
annoying a foreigner. 'You will reach Stuttgart to-night, for it is only
half a league from here. Is Stuttgart your destination?' he asked.
'Perhaps,' she answered, and turned away; the man's curiosity was,
evidently, little to her taste. However, another thought seemed to come
to her, for she turned again towards him, and, with a smile of infinite
sweetness, began to question him on the country, the people, and the
court. At first he answered shortly enough, but the lady fixed her eyes
upon him. Gradually he felt (he told the tale often in later days) a sort
of dream-feeling creep over him, and he replied to all her questions
fully, telling her everything he knew of the country gossip: how the Duke
was heartily weary of his wife, Duchess Johanna Elizabetha; how she was
eternally jealous of him; of how a Frau von Geyling held the Duke
enthralled; that the Erbprinz was a sickly child of nine years old, who
men said could not be long for this world. He told her of the people's
hatred of a Herr von Stafforth, a foreigner, who had become very mighty
in Stuttgart; in fact he gossiped freely, and perhaps, in his half-hour's
talk, let her discover more of the people's thoughts, and the dangerously
discontented state of the country, than was known to the ministers of
Wirtemberg. At length the lady rose and requested him to see if the storm
had sufficiently abated for the coach to continue its journey. The man
went out rubbing his eyes; he felt as if he had been half asleep.
The storm was over, and only the rain fell quietly as the coach rumbled
out of Cannstatt and across the bridge over the Neckar. The lady leaned
back against the wooden side of the diligence and closed her eyes. She
reflected that she must be near Stuttgart, and she wondered what her
destiny would be in the town which she was nearing in the darkness.
Gradually the monotonous creaking and the jolting of the heavy vehicle
made her drowsy, also she felt the warmth of the potent Wirtemberg wine
glow through her tired limbs. The coach passed through the outskirts of
Stuttgart, but Wilhelmine von Grävenitz, for it was she, slept and did
not see the outlying houses of that town, where Fate willed she should
play so important a part.
Wilhelmine had tarried in Berlin with her sister, Frau Sittmann, and the
days of her visit had lengthened to weeks ere she had resumed her journey
southwards, for she had been sick unto death with smallpox. When she
recovered she had almost found it in her heart to return to Güstrow and
hide her ravaged beauty; but in reality the fell disease had been very
merciful, and though Wilhelmine's skin was slightly pock-marked, the
bloom and colour of her magnificent health and forceful youth rendered
the marks inoffensive. Thus, though long delayed, she had at last
continued her adventurous quest.
The coach lumbered on, and Wilhelmine woke with a start as a more than
usually violent jolt flung her against the door. She peered out into the
darkness but could see nothing, for the night was absolutely starless.
The road was so steep that at moments the heavy carriage threatened to
run backwards down the hill, in spite of the straining of the wretched
horses that struggled onwards, slipping and floundering on the dripping
road. At the top of the hill the driver pulled up to breathe the poor
beasts; he came round to the back of the coach and called to Wilhelmine
that if she leaned out of the window she would see the lights of the town
of Stuttgart beneath her in the valley. She looked out, and far down she
saw lights glittering through the night. There were only a few visible,
for the windows of most of the houses were probably curtained to shut out
the wet night. Wilhelmine drew back into the diligence with a sense of
disappointment. She had dreamed of a splendid city, and this seemed like
a village.
She slept again, and it was the morning sun shining on her face which
roused her. She looked out of the window once more, and this time a
smiling landscape met her eye. The route ran between green fields, and on
each side of the road were huge, gnarled apple and pear trees, which
spring had crowned with a glory of snowy blossom. In the near distance
rose rounded, fir-clad hills, here and there the sombre colour broken by
the delicate verdure of young beech leaves. A delicious morning air
kissed Wilhelmine's cheeks and lips as she leaned out of the window,
wafting to her the faint, sweet breath of the fruit blossom mixed with
the smell of the wet fields and woods. 'What a glorious country!' she
said aloud, and she called to the driver to stop and let her rest her
aching limbs in a few minutes' walk. The man opened the door and bade her
'Grüss Gott, Fräulein,' and even the surly tone in which the words were
uttered could not spoil the beauty of the friendly South German greeting.
'All the fields and the woods say "Grüss Gott" to-day, I think!' she
returned. The heavy Swabian peasant stared at her. 'What ridiculous
things these foreigners say!' was written so clearly in his face, that
Wilhelmine laughed outright.
'Where do we change horses next?' she queried. He told her at Tübingen in
an hour's time, and that they would reach her destination, Rottenburg,
about twelve of the clock. When they rattled in to the old town of
Tübingen the driver informed her that they made an hour's halt there.
'Unless indeed,' he added, 'you choose to travel to Rottenburg by special
post-chaise, at a cost of twelve gulden.'
But Wilhelmine had few gulden to spare, and she decided to wander about
the town until the ordinary diligence started for Rottenburg. She climbed
the steep road to the ancient castle. The moat was filled with flowers
and shrubs. It surprised her to see this peaceful garrison of the
fortifications of a stronghold so soon after the invasion of Wirtemberg
by the troops of Louis XIV. She questioned a peasant who was loitering
near the drawbridge. He laughed at her, and endeavoured to be witty at
her expense, after the agreeable manner of the Swabian, who thinks
himself entitled to poke clumsy fun at any questioner. He condescended,
however, to inform her that in fertile Wirtemberg flowers and all growing
things find a home each spring in any and every nook and cranny, careless
that their forbears of a twelvemonth have been uprooted.
'A beautiful land,' she murmured, 'peopled by boors!' She turned away
from her discourteous informant and contemplated the grey walls of the
castle, so strong and grim, yet dressed with the gracious flowers of a
lavish spring. As she stood admiring the wonderful Renaissance gateway,
one side of the huge door was pushed open and a young man in student's
dress emerged. His face, though sickly and emaciated, interested her by
reason of its vivid intelligence and a certain mocking look of eye and
lip.
'Sir,' said Wilhelmine, as the youth approached over the drawbridge,
'could I see the castle, do you think? I am a stranger and have an hour
to pass in Tübingen, and I would fain wile away the time of my stay
here.' He told her she was at liberty to wander through the courtyard; he
need but request the doorkeeper to admit her. 'I am a student in this
university,' he explained, 'for though this castle is in reality a royal
residence, the students occupy one side of the quadrangle; and, in truth,
his Highness Eberhard Ludwig seldom visits his fortress of Tübingen.' She
thanked him for his courtesy and would have passed on alone, but the
student followed her through the peaceful courtyard, proudly pointing out
to her the fine workmanship of the fountain. Then he made her peep
through the windows of the library, which filled one side of the
building. There she saw black-robed students poring over the books.
'Melanchthon lectured there,' he said; 'Erasmus was here, and the learned
Dr. Faustus of Maulbronn came and studied here, so legend says.'
He took her up the moss-grown steps at the end of the courtyard, and out
on to the rampart. A view of infinite beauty lay before her: a vast
expanse of green fields through which the river Neckar flows gently, a
smiling valley glittering in the morning sunshine and radiant with fruit
blossom. In the middle distance were fir-clad hills, while behind them
rose blue and misty mountains. The student pointed southwards. 'Over
there is the ruined castle of Hohenzollern. If you have good eyes you can
catch the sun glinting upon one of the few remaining towers. It is the
ancient home of that strong race which rules Prussia. This Southern
Germany is the birthland of great races. Hohenstauffen is another
mountain in this range; but you cannot see it from here, it is too far.'
The student spoke dreamily, as though the changing destinies of master
races lay before him in a vision. Wilhelmine leant against the stone
balustrade and gazed at the beautiful country. She was interested in the
scholar's talk, and she waited, hoping he would continue; but as he did
not speak, she asked him whether the castle of the Hohenstauffens still
existed. He told her that not one stone remained upon another. 'Vanished
like the proud race which was called by its name, only a memory now to
the few who love the past!' he said. 'All things vanish, Fräulein,' he
continued, 'the good, the great, the wrong, the glory, and the tears; the
wise man must carve his name on the _lives_ of those around him if he
would benefit by power. The noble deed carved on stone raised to do us
honour after death is almost mockery. Personal power during our lives,
riches, enjoyment, all that dominion over others gives----' He paused and
laughed harshly.
Wilhelmine looked at him. 'What power do you seek, Mr. Student?' she
asked curiously.
'For myself, little! I wish for a sufficiency of money to be able to
pursue my studies, that is all. I am a theologian, and shall be a pastor
in a few months' time, and the occupation with the uninteresting peasant
souls of a country parish is little to my taste.'
Wilhelmine observed him narrowly. This man might prove useful, she
reflected, if she should desire a service, and if she were in a position
to pay for it. 'Tell me your name,' she said. He told her--Otto Pfahler,
and in return he begged her to tell him who she was; but she evaded the
question, and asked him concerning the history of Tübingen. There is no
being on earth more easy to manage than an historical enthusiast who has
seldom the opportunity of expatiating on the legends which he loves; you
have but to turn his mind to the past, he will wander off therein, and
you need not even listen, provided you have the wit to nod in an
interested way at intervals. Pfahler talked on as he accompanied
Wilhelmine across the courtyard, and she was able to dismiss him with a
bow and a word of thanks for his historic anecdotes, without divulging
her identity.
When Wilhelmine regained the diligence, she found the horses already
harnessed and the driver climbing upon the box. She took her place in
the clumsy vehicle and recommenced her journey.
The road from Tübingen to Rottenburg winds through the valley of the
Neckar for some ten miles. It is the usual South German high-road,
bordered by large fruit-trees; but to Wilhelmine, coming from the bleak
northern winter, it seemed as though she had been set down in Fairyland.
The white and pink blossoms of the fruit-trees, the strong high grass
whitened by the luxuriant growth of the cow-parsley, touched here and
there with the gold of the giant kingcups, and, as though the Master's
palette had been robbed of all its colours to complete this radiant
spring picture, the very earth of the vineyards below the fresh green of
the vine sprouts shone with the rich red brown of the Wirtemberg soil,
which is one more opulent charm added to the beauty of an indescribably
lovely spring country. Rottenburg lies in the centre of this valley; the
Neckar flows placidly half way round the small town. The diligence rolled
over a mediæval bridge which spans the river, and Wilhelmine found
herself at the end of her tedious, rattling journey. She stepped out of
the coach and looked about her, expecting to see her brother.
The narrow street was empty, save for several black-gowned figures moving
slowly towards an enormous building, which flanked one side of a square
or market-place, at the end of the street.
As she stood a moment hesitating, she heard herself addressed from the
door of the inn, before which the diligence had halted. Turning she saw a
most suave personage bowing and smiling, and imploring her to enter the
hostelry. Wilhelmine looked with interest at the man, evidently the
innkeeper, yet of so clerical an appearance that she thought he must be a
particularly prosperous priest. She entered the inn, and was ordering
herself some slight refreshment from her obsequious host when bells from
some neighbouring church rang out. The innkeeper crossed his brow and
breast with the third finger of his right hand, while with his left hand
he piously hid his eyes. He recited some prayers in a mumbling undertone,
then crossing himself once more, he turned with an oily smile to
Wilhelmine. 'The Angelus,' he said; 'evidently Madame is not of the
Faith. Here in Rottenburg we are all members of the true Church. We have
had the privilege of having a Jesuit college here these many years.'
Wilhelmine made some appropriate answer, and noted for the first time in
her personal experience the truth of a remark of Monsieur Gabriel's, that
one of the strengths of the Catholic Church is the semi-clericalising of
the laymen who live in or near any religious centre. It flatters the
uneducated to feel themselves akin to their spiritual dictators, and it
gives them a spurious refinement. Undoubtedly, the host of the Römischer
Kaiser was an excellent specimen of this class.
Wilhelmine, having partaken of her breakfast, was setting out to walk
towards the Neuhaus, where her brother had directed her to appear, when
she saw Friedrich Grävenitz coming down the street. He greeted his sister
hastily, and explained that the diligence had arrived before the usual
hour. He apologised for not having been at the inn to welcome his sister
on her arrival, but it struck Wilhelmine that though her brother had
gained in polish of manner since he had become a courtier, he had lost
the warmth and friendliness which had characterised him in earlier days.
She felt chilled and saddened, and it was in silence that she walked
beside him across the fields from Rottenburg to Madame de Ruth's house. A
stout peasant followed them carrying her scanty baggage. Friedrich talked
volubly to his unresponsive companion, and though he expressed the hope,
with much politeness, that she was not fatigued by her journey, he did
not listen to her reply, but plunged into an exact account of his own
position at court and of his poverty and difficulties. His sister was
weary, and an overpowering sense of loneliness possessed her; she had
always known her brother to be an egoist, but a certain spontaneous, easy
kindness had masked his self-love when he was in Mecklemburg.
They walked over the field before the house, passed through the
tree-shaded garden, up the red-tiled garden-path to the side door of the
Neuhaus, and Friedrich knocked loudly with the handle of his cane on the
panel. Madame de Ruth's peasant servant admitted them, and led the way
through the dark corridor to the panelled room, where, three months
earlier, it had been decided that Wilhelmine should be summoned to
Wirtemberg to help fill her brother's purse.
The sunshine streamed down on the garden without, but the room was
chilly, and Wilhelmine shivered a little as she stood waiting for her
unknown hostess to appear. It could not be said that Wilhelmine was a
timid woman, yet hers was one of those natures which, though ready to
attempt many things, shrink unaccountably at any touch of dreariness, and
almost dread meeting strangers. She looked at her brother, who stood with
his back turned towards the room, gazing out at the sunlit garden. She
noted his broad shoulders, the graceful pose of the body, the straight,
shapely legs, and the slightness of hip which distinguished him from the
usual heavily-built German. There was beauty in his lines, and yet a
certain strangeness of proportion in the whole figure which puzzled her
for a moment; then she noticed the extreme smallness of his head, and the
curious absence of development in the back of the skull, which gave him a
well-bred but foolish look. He was quite amiable, and meant kindly
towards his sister, yet he was incapable of helping in what was for her a
difficult moment; indeed, he added to her feeling of loneliness by his
loud talk and patronising air. At length the door opened and Madame de
Ruth appeared. She came forward with hands outstretched and a smile of
welcome on her kind, ugly face, which became most genial when she saw her
guest's undoubted beauty. 'A thousand pardons for keeping you waiting, my
dear! I was not dressed, lazy old woman that I am! And how fatigued you
must be, dear child; such a journey!--Grävenitz, have you not offered
your sister some refreshment? Good Lord! what an idea! What? You say you
have been talking? Yes, yes, I warrant you have!' Her sharp eyes had
taken in the situation. Madame de Ruth, though she talked, as Zollern
said, 'like a book,' had the faculty of talking and observing at the same
time. People think that the talkers of the world are so occupied with
their own prattle that their eyes remain idle; whereas some of the most
practised observers, especially those of the feminine sex, have learned
that it is possible to extract more information from others by appearing
to impart much, and that a flow of speech masks the observation to a
great extent. The garrulous lady saw the brother's pompous attitude; she
had caught the tones of his unmodulated voice before she entered, and she
noticed immediately the shadow on the girl's face and guessed what the
new arrival felt.
Wilhelmine responded readily to Madame de Ruth. Soon the girl felt as
though she had known her for years. After a few minutes' conversation the
two ladies left the formal living-room, and passed up a broad wooden
stair to a room on the first floor, where Wilhelmine found her few
belongings already set down. It was a pretty room for those days, though
we should now consider it but insufficiently furnished. Bare,
brown-stained boards, a narrow wooden bedstead, a couple of carved wooden
chairs, a large carved cupboard, and a table, on which stood a tiny
washing-basin and ewer of beautiful porcelain, completed the
appointments. The hostess rattled on cheerfully while Wilhelmine divested
herself of the cloak and hood. She realised that Madame de Ruth intended
to remain, curious to see the contents of the travelling-basket; but this
was precisely what the guest did not desire, for she had no wish to
expose the scantiness of her wardrobe to her new friend. She sat down on
one of the wooden chairs opposite her hostess, and listened to the
voluble talk. Both women knew exactly what the other wanted, and both
were equally determined not to be beaten; also both knew that the other
knew what they each wanted. It was one of those small feminine conflicts
which take place every day. The older woman's tongue ran on, while her
sharp eyes noted every shade and change in her guest's face. Wilhelmine
answered the many questions frankly enough, but Madame de Ruth observed
with satisfaction that she told only such things as all the world might
hear. There were no outbursts of girlish confidences, no indiscreet
questions; she was mistress of the situation, and if she showed any
shyness, it was never either awkward or foolish, but seemed merely a
delightful youthful attribute, an added charm. Her hostess felt a
deepening interest. This girl would be a more potent factor in the
intrigues for which they had destined her than they had dreamed. She
watched Wilhelmine as a full-grown tigress might watch the play of a
tiger cub, noting the promise of each movement, gauging the strength of
the young animal, and calculating the fighting powers which it would
develop. At length Madame de Ruth rose, and, drawing Wilhelmine to her,
she kissed her affectionately. 'You have a future before you, my dear,'
she said, and her fine smile lit her face. 'You have bewitched me, and
you will bewitch others of more importance. Now, dress. We dine at three
o'clock, and the Duke of Zollern will be with us.'
* * * * *
The Duke of Zollern was seated at Madame de Ruth's right hand; Monsieur
de Stafforth, Oberhofmarshall of the court of Wirtemberg, was at her
left; Madame Friedrich de Grävenitz sat beside the Duke to his right;
beside her was the Freiherr von Reischach, a gentleman famous for his
fine courtliness and his experience in war and love; Friedrich Grävenitz
sat next to him, and then came Wilhelmine seated between her brother and
Monsieur de Stafforth, opposite her hostess and the Duke of Zollern.
Madame de Ruth sat with her back turned towards the light; she knew the
value of shadow to an ageing face, and always declared that the glare
hurt her eyes, though, God knows, these were neither weak nor easily
dazzled. The Duke of Zollern, too, liked to have the light behind him.
'It is fitting for the old to turn their backs to the sunshine,' he had
remarked as they took their places at the table, 'for, indeed, the light
of youth is behind us, shining, alas! on the paths we have already
traversed. For the young--let the sunshine lie before them, making their
youth still more fair--if possible.' And he had bowed in his inimitable
way to Wilhelmine, who delighted in this courteous speech, though she was
perfectly aware that he and Madame de Ruth had placed her in the full
light in order to study her the better. Of a truth, Wilhelmine looked
wonderfully lovely that afternoon. Her luxuriant hair, innocent of
powder, was piled high on her head, and turned back from off her white
brow; the glow of perfect health was in her cheeks, and her strange
magnetic eyes were softened by shyness. She had fashioned herself a
bodice out of the feast-day kerchiefs which Mecklemburg peasant women
wear; cutting off the flowered borders, she had joined them together and
made a deep hem which she had sewn on her dark blue linen skirt. The
corsage was cut down at the back, and the front she had cut out in a deep
V shape, showing her creamy neck and the gentle rise of her breast. A
poor garment indeed, but the kerchiefs had been carefully collected, and
were all of the same delicate pink colour, and she had further softened
the lines round the contour of her neck by a folded white kerchief. At
her bosom she had fastened a spray of apple-blossom, and the petals
leaning against her white skin were not more delicate, more divinely
young than her breast. She looked like a blossom herself as the sunlight
touched her, and the men round the dinner-table gazed so eagerly at her,
that she knew she must be more beautiful than the ladies of the court,
albeit their gowns were of silk.
No dinner could be dull if Madame de Ruth was there; and Zollern, with
his courtly grace and witty talk, was a host in himself. Reischach was
silent, but his openly admiring looks at Wilhelmine pleased her more than
the phrases of a talkative gallant. As for Grävenitz, he talked loudly,
according to his wont, paying but little heed to the random answers of
Monsieur de Stafforth, who like Reischach was occupied with Wilhelmine.
But, unlike Reischach, Stafforth's admiration, though not so open, had
that touch of coarseness which is so often the mark of the bourgeois'
approval. Madame de Grävenitz, it was evident, entirely disapproved of
Wilhelmine. She was a pretty, colourless devotee, and she felt her
sister-in-law's beauty and obvious fascination to be almost indecorous.
Madame de Ruth chattered as usual, though at moments she paused to
whisper a comment to Zollern, who answered in a low voice by some subtle
irony which caused the lady much amusement. The dinner was very long, and
it was with relief that Wilhelmine saw her hostess rise from the table.
'Coffee in the garden, mes amis! and then Mademoiselle de Grävenitz
shall sing to us. There is a clavichord in the panelled room, and we will
leave the garden door open in order to hear the music. Come, Marie! what
a gloomy face! Why must the pious be gloomy? Lord, girl! forget your sins
for once, or you will exhaust the stock, and then there will be nothing
to repent of. Think, my dear,' she said, turning to Wilhelmine, 'your
sister-in-law is a saint. O Monseigneur, you shake a finger at me! Brook?
Who talks of brooks? Ah, well, I talk too much!--well, well!--An account
on the Last Day of my words? I pity the angel who adds up the sum! But
come, coffee! and a moment's silence, my friends!'
They all laughed. Madame de Ruth's vivacity was infectious; and even
Marie Grävenitz was smiling, as the party passed through the living-room
and into the garden. They went down the red-tiled path, and, turning to
the left, came to a stone bench before which, on a square table, the
servant had placed the coffee and seven tiny porcelain cups. Madame de
Ruth busied herself preparing the coffee for her guests, and Zollern
watched her, seated near on the bench. Marie Grävenitz walked a short
distance away, her demure figure harmonising well with the peace of the
formal garden; Grävenitz leaned against the back of the bench and looked
with complacency at the good brown coffee, which his hostess was pouring
into the little cups. Coffee was expensive, and being regarded as a great
luxury, was only dispensed in very small quantities. Reischach and
Monsieur de Stafforth were dallying with Wilhelmine, who stood listening
to their compliments with a smile on her lips.
'Mademoiselle,' Stafforth was saying, 'the court will rejoice in your
presence. We crave for youth--more still, we crave for beauty! His
Highness will welcome you, though, I trow, Madame the Duchess may not
prove so gracious! But when will you come to Stuttgart? It will be my
privilege to herald your arrival.'
'Monsieur, I am guided by my brother in these matters. He is my
protector, as is fitting,' she said, a trifle haughtily. Monsieur de
Stafforth's obsequious, yet patronising tone displeased her, and somehow
she desired him to know that her brother stood at her side in the world.
'Mademoiselle is right,' said Reischach shortly, 'these things will be
arranged. The coffee waits you, Monsieur; it would be a pity should your
portion get cold.' He spoke lightly, but Wilhelmine recognised the man of
breeding in the covert hint to Stafforth. It pleased her, and she smiled
at him. Stafforth, for his part, apparently paid no heed to the rebuff,
though Wilhelmine surprised an ugly glance and a faint deepening of the
hue of his coarsely chiselled, handsome face. At this moment Madame de
Ruth called them, and they gathered round the table. They drank their
coffee, listening to a highly coloured story of the wars which Friedrich
Grävenitz was recounting. His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, the hero
thereof, a sorry figure, as the reluctant victim of a lady of Ingolstadt,
whose advances he refused, trembling lest his haughty Sarah should hear
of it and give him a sound rating on his return to England. The anecdote
was broad, to say the least, and sure it did not lose in the telling. 'A
great captain, but sorely afraid of his lady!' finished Grävenitz with a
loud laugh.
'It is the privilege of the truly brave to tremble before beauty and
gentleness,' said Zollern sharply.
'The prerogative of fools to set them at naught,' he added in a low voice
to Madame de Ruth. There was a pause. Grävenitz himself, who should have
been uncomfortable, seemed to notice nothing, but the rest of the company
felt the moment to be one of difficulty. Stafforth offered his arm to
Wilhelmine and proposed a short stroll through the garden to the orchard;
and the girl, glad to escape the spectacle of her brother's swaggering
tactlessness, accepted, and they walked away together beneath the tender
green of the beech-trees.
The orchard was an enchanted spot, such a marvel of blossom overhead,
like rose-tinted foam, while under foot the grass was full of spring
flowers, the cow-parsley sending up a delicious faint fragrance, mingled
with the smell of the earth wet from the night's rain. Stafforth found a
stack of orchard poles, and dragging from beneath the heap the dryest of
them, he arranged a resting-place for Wilhelmine. They sat down, and he
recounted stories of court life in general and of Stuttgart in
particular. He portrayed the Duchess Johanna Elizabetha, a Princess of
Baden-Durlach by birth. He told of her good qualities, but also of her
dullness; of her eternal jealousy of her husband, Eberhard Ludwig, Duke
of Wirtemberg; of how the Duke sought entertainment with other ladies,
but that the reign of each was short-lived, for the Duke really had a
faithful soul and returned to his excellent, wearisome spouse. How a
Madame de Geyling was queen of the present hour; that she was a foolish
woman with a bad temper, who offended the courtiers and rated the Duke;
of how the court expected an imminent change of affection, but that no
one could imagine who the new favourite would be. He told her that the
Duke was a brilliant soldier, the friend and companion-in-arms of his
Grace of Marlborough, a polished courtier too, the finest dancer of his
day, and a very Phæton with horses. Withal a man of learning and
refinement, a passionate lover of music, a dreamer and a child of Nature,
who loved to wander alone in the beautiful Wirtemberg forests, and often
in the summer would stay in the woods all night, sleeping upon the soft,
brown carpet of last year's leaves. Stafforth spoke of the perpetual
intrigues of the Romish priests to convert the Duke and gain the country
back to the Catholic Church; he told her stories of the French invasion
of Wirtemberg, and how it was feared that the French would return to the
attack, and that therefore the Duke was occupied in Stuttgart gathering a
new army, though he masked those preparations by a series of brilliant
court gaieties. 'There is to be a magnificent feast in a few weeks' time
at Stuttgart, theatricals, a banquet, a stag-hunt, and a grand ball. Will
you honour my wife and me by accepting our hospitality for that time?
Your brother has rooms in the quarters set apart for the Kammerjunkers;
Madame de Ruth also has but a small apartment in the castle, not large
enough to entertain a guest. But I have a house with ample accommodation,
and it would give me much pleasure if you would come. Madame de Stafforth
too,' he added as an afterthought.
Wilhelmine accepted. She felt that this was no sudden proposition but an
organised scheme, probably of Madame de Ruth's.
'You must play a part in the theatricals, Mademoiselle. The rehearsals
begin next week; will you come then?'
'Let us go and consult Madame de Ruth,' she replied, rising.
They rejoined the group round the table, and Stafforth made his proposal
as though it were a new idea which had come to him. Madame de Ruth
feigned surprise; Grävenitz played the part of the grateful brother;
Zollern acclaimed the notion as excellent. Wherefore all this comedy?
thought Wilhelmine, for she realised that her programme had been fixed by
these schemers, and that this was merely the first act. She looked round:
ah, yes, Reischach! he was the audience for this play-acting. He was
intended to remain ignorant. Wilhelmine smiled; she was in the presence
of three practised intriguers--Zollern, Madame de Ruth, Stafforth. She
herself was to be a tool, as her brother already was. Well, let their
scheme carry her as far as it could; afterwards, she promised herself to
go onward aided by her own ingenuity alone, once she knew her ground. At
present she was not sure at whom the plot was aimed, though she had a
suspicion that it was the Duke himself whom she was designed to capture,
in order to further some unknown plans of her three protectors. She did
not count her brother; she recognised him as a mere pawn in the game.
'Mademoiselle to take part in the theatricals?' Madame de Ruth was
saying; 'delightful! but which part? You must sing, my dear. Your brother
says your voice is wonderful! Let us hear you now. Come, mes amis!
music!' Reischach led the newcomer to the clavichord in the panelled
room, and the company gathered near the garden-door to listen.
Wilhelmine ran her fingers over the keyboard. The instrument was old, and
though the notes rang true, they were faint and jingly. A lesser artist
might have endeavoured to amplify the chords, but Wilhelmine played her
accompaniment in thin arpeggios, making the clavichord sound like a
stringed instrument, and achieving a charming effect. She sang a gay
little sixteenth-century song, such a one as perchance Chastelard may
have sung to Marie of Scots in their happy days in France--a light
melody, with a sudden change to the minor in the refrain, like a sigh
following laughter. Wilhelmine's hearers, who had expected a beautiful,
untrained voice from this provincial lady, listened in unfeigned
surprise, and when the song was ended they crowded round her with
expressions of delight.
'We have found a pearl!' declared Madame de Ruth. 'Stafforth, what is
this play which they are going to act at Stuttgart? Who sings in it?
Madame de Geyling?--of course! Well, and after?--no one? Well, then,
Mademoiselle shall sing! Let it come as a surprise!'
Reischach approached.
'Monsieur de Reischach, I count you in our plot! We want our new friend
to make a sensation in Stuttgart. We can rely on your discretion? Let her
come as a surprise, I beg you! Remember that the lute of Orpheus itself
could not have charmed the beasts had they been warned to expect too
much.'
Reischach bowed. 'No word from me, Madame, to warn--the beasts!'
Madame de Ruth laughed. 'Do not apply my allegory literally,' she said.
The company broke up; the Duke of Zollern's coach was at the door. Also
Monsieur de Stafforth took his leave, for he intended to ride to
Stuttgart that evening.
As Zollern bade farewell to his hostess, she whispered, 'She will do
admirably! she will go far.'
'Too far, perhaps, Madame,' he answered; 'too far for all our
calculations, and for many people's comfort!'