WALNUTS OF GOLD.
Night is like a lady's riding-mask, which gives to the most
familiar features a strange and uncanny aspect. When to night
are added silence and alarm, and that worst burden of all,
responsibility--responsibility where a broken twig may mean a shot,
and a rolling stone capture, where in a moment the evil is done--then
you have a scene and a time to try the stoutest.
To walk boldly into a wall of darkness, relying on daylight knowledge,
which says there is no wall; to step over the precipice on the faith
of its depth being shadow--this demands nerve in those who are not
used to the vagaries of night. But when the darkness may at any
instant belch forth a sheet of flame; when every bush may hide a
cowardly foe and every turn a pitfall, and there are women in company
and helpless children, then a man had need to be an old soldier or
forest-born, if he would keep his head cool, and tell one horse from
another by the sound of its hoofs.
We started about eight, and started well. The Waldgrave and half a
dozen men crossed first on foot, and took post to protect the farther
end of the bridge. Then I led over the horses, beginning with the four
sumpter beasts. Satisfied after this that the arch remained uninjured,
and that there was room and to spare, I told my lady, and she rode
over by herself on Pushka. Marie Wort tripped after her with the child
in her arms. Fraulein Max I carried. My lady's women crossed hand in
hand. Then the rest. So like a troop of ghosts or shadows, with hardly
a word spoken or an order given, we flitted into the darkness, and met
under the trees, where those who had not yet mounted got to horse. Led
by young Jacob, who knew every path in the valley and could find his
way blindfold, we struck away from the road without delay, and taking
lanes and tracks which ran beside it, presently hit it again a league
or more beyond the town and far on the way.
That was a ride not to be forgotten. The night was dark. At a distance
the dim lights of the town did not show. The valley in which we rode,
and which grows straighter as it approaches the mouth and the river,
seemed like a black box without a lid. The wind, laden with mysterious
rustlings and the thousand sad noises of the night, blew in our faces.
Now and then an owl hooted, or a branch creaked, or a horse stumbled
and its rider railed at it. But for the most part we rode in silence,
the women trembling and crossing themselves--as most of our people do
to this day, when they are frightened--and the men riding warily, with
straining eyes and ears on the stretch.
Before we reached the ford, which lies nearly eight miles from the
castle, the Waldgrave, who had his place beside my lady, began to
talk; and then, if not before, I knew that _his_ love for her was
a poor thing. For, being in high spirits at the success of our
plan--which he had come to consider _his_ plan--and delighted to find
himself again in the saddle with an adventure before him, he forgot
that the matter must wear a different aspect in her eyes. She was
leaving her home--the old rooms, the old books, and presses and
stores, the duties, stately or simple, in which her life had been
passed. And leaving them, not in the daylight, and with a safe and
assured future before her, but by stealth and under cover of night,
with a mind full of anxious questionings!
To my lord it seemed a fine thing to have the world before him; to
know that all Germany beyond the Werra was convulsed by war, and a
theatre wherein a bold man might look to play his part. But to a
woman, however high-spirited, the knowledge was not reassuring. To one
who was exchanging her own demesne and peace and plenty for a
wandering life and dependence on the protection of men, it was the
reverse.
So, while my lord talked gaily, my lady, I think, wept; doing that
under cover of darkness and her mask, which she would never have done
in the light. He talked on, planning and proposing; and where a true
lover would have been quick to divine the woman's weakness, he felt no
misgiving, thrilled with no sympathy. Then I knew that he lacked the
subtle instinct which real love creates; which teaches the strong what
it is the feeble dread, and gives a woman the daring of a man.
As we drew near the ford, I dropped back to see that all crossed
safely. Pushka, I knew, would carry my lady over, but some of the
others were worse mounted. This brought me abreast of the Catholic
girl, though the darkness was such that I recognized her only by the
dark mass before her, which I knew to be the child. We had had some
difficulty in separating her from Steve, and persuading her that the
man ran no risk where he lay; otherwise she had behaved admirably. I
did not speak to her, but when I saw the gleam of water before us, and
heard the horses of the leaders begin to splash through the shallows,
I leant over and took hold of the boy.
'You had better give him to me,' I said gruffly. 'You will have both
hands free then. Keep your feet high, and hold by the pommel. If your
horse begins to swim leave its head loose.'
I expected her to make a to-do about giving up the child; but she did
not, and I lifted it to the withers of my horse. She muttered
something in a tone which sounded grateful, and then we splashed on in
silence, the horses putting one foot gingerly before the other; some
sniffing the air with loud snorts and outstretched necks, and some
stopping outright.
I rode on the upstream side of the girl, to break the force of the
water. Not that the ford is dangerous in the daytime (it has been
bridged these five years), but at night, and with so many horses, it
was possible one or another might stray from the track; for the ford
is not straight, but slants across the stream. However, we all passed
safely; and yet the crossing remains in my memory.
As I held the child before me--it was a gallant little thing, and
clung to me without cry or word--I felt something rough round its
neck. At the moment I was deep in the water, and I had no hand to
spare. But by-and-by, as we rode out and began to clamber up the
farther bank, I laid my hand on its neck, suspecting already what I
should find.
I was not mistaken. Under my fingers lay the very necklace which Peter
had described to me with so much care! I could trace the shape and
roughness of the walnuts. I could almost count them. Even of the
length of the chain I could fairly judge. It was long enough to go
twice round the child's neck.
As soon as I had made certain, I let it be, lest the child should cry
out; and I rode on, thinking hard. What, I wondered, had induced the
girl to put the chain round its neck at that juncture? She had hidden
it so carefully hitherto, that no eye but Peter's, so far as I could
judge, had seen it. Why this carelessness now, then? Certainly it was
dark, and, as far as eyes went, the chain was safe. But round her own
neck, under her kerchief, where it had lain before, it was still
safer. Why had she removed it?
We had topped the farther bank by this time, and were riding slowly
along the right-hand side of the river; but I was still turning this
over in my mind, when I heard her on a sudden give a little gasp. I
knew in a moment what it was. She had bethought her where the necklace
was. I was not a whit surprised when she asked me in a tremulous tone
to give her back the child.
'It is very well here,' I said, to try her.
'It will trouble you,' she muttered faintly.
'I will say when it does,' I answered.
She did not answer anything to that, but I heard her breathing hard,
and knew that she was racking her brains for some excuse to get the
child from me. For what if daylight came and I still rode with it, the
necklace in full view? Or what if we stopped at some house and lights
were brought? Or what, again, if I perceived the necklace and took
possession of it!
This last idea so charmed me--I was in a grim humour--that my hand was
on the necklace, and almost before I knew what I was doing, I was
feeling for the clasp which fastened it. Some fiend brought the thing
under my fingers in a twinkling. The necklace seemed to fall loose of
its own accord. In a moment it was swinging and swaying in my hand. In
another I had gathered it up and slid it into my pouch.
The trick was done so easily and so quickly that I think some devil
must have helped me; the child neither moving nor crying out, though
it was old enough to take notice, and could even speak, as children of
that age can speak--intelligibly to those who know them, gibberish to
strangers.
I need not say that I never meant to steal a link of the thing. The
temptation which moved me was the temptation to tease the girl. I
thought this a good way of punishing her. I thought, first to torment
her by making her think the necklace gone; and then to shame her by
producing it, and giving it back to her with a dry word that should
show her I understood her deceit.
So, even when the thing was done, and the chain snug in my pocket, I
did not for a while repent, but hugged myself on the jest and smiled
under cover of the darkness. I carried the child a mile farther, and
then handed it down to Marie, with an appearance of unconsciousness
which it was not very hard to assume, since she could not see my face.
But doubtless every yard of that mile had been a torture to her. I
heard her sigh with relief as her arms closed round the boy. Then, the
next moment I knew that she had discovered her loss. She uttered a
sobbing cry, and I heard her passing her hands through the child's
clothing, while her breath came and went in gasps.
She plucked at her bridle so suddenly that those who rode behind ran
into us. I made way for them to pass.
'What is it?' I said roughly. 'What is the matter?'
She muttered under her breath, with her hands still searching the
child, that she had lost something.
'If you have, it is gone,' I said bluntly. 'You would hardly find a
hayrick to-night. You must have dropped it coming through the ford?'
She did not answer, but I heard her begin to sob, and then for the
first time I felt uncomfortable. I repented of what I had done, and
wished with all my heart that the chain was round the child's neck
again. 'Come, come,' I said awkwardly, 'it was not of much value, I
suppose. At any rate, it is no good crying over it.'
She did not answer; she was still searching. I could hear what she was
doing, though I could not see; there were trees overhead, and it was
as much as I could do to make out her figure. At last I grew angry,
partly with myself, partly with her. 'Come,' I said roughly, 'we
cannot stay here all night. We must be moving.'
She assented meekly, and we rode on. But still I heard her crying; and
she seemed to be hugging the child to her, as if, now the necklace was
gone, she had nothing but the boy left. I tried to see the humour in
the joke as I had seen it a few minutes before, but the sparkle had
gone out of it, I felt that I had been a brute. I began to reflect
that this girl, a stranger and helpless, in a strange land, had
nothing upon which she could depend but these few links of gold. What
wonder, then, if she valued them; if, like all other women, she hid
them away and fibbed about them; if she wept over them now they were
gone?
Of course it was in my power in a moment to bring them back again; and
nothing had seemed easier, a few minutes before, than to hand them
back--with a little speech which should cover her with confusion and
leave me unmoved. Now, though I wished them round her neck again with
all the good-will in life, and though to effect my wish I had only to
do what I had planned--only to stretch out my hand with that word or
two--I sat in my saddle hot and tongue-tied, my fingers sticking to
the chain.
Her grief had somehow put a new face on the matter. I could not bear
to confess that I had caused it wantonly and for a jest. The right
words would not come, while every moment which prolonged the silence
between us made the attempt seem more hopeless, the task more
difficult; till, like the short-sighted craven I was, I thrust back
the chain into my pocket, and, determining to take some secret way of
restoring it, put off the crisis.
In a degree I was hurried to this decision by our arrival at the place
where we were to rest. This was an outlying farm belonging to
Heritzburg and long used by the family, when journeying to Cassel.
Alas! when we came to it, cold, shivering, and hungry, we found it
ruined and tenantless, with war's grim brand so deeply stamped upon
the face of everything that even the darkness of night failed to hide
the scars. I had not expected this, and for a while I forgot the
necklace in anxiety for my lady's comfort. I had to get lights and see
fires kindled, to order the disposal of the horses, to unpack the
food: for we found no scrap, even of fodder for the beasts, in the
grimy, smoke-stained barn, which I had known so well stored. Nor was
the house in better case. Bed and board were gone, and half the roof.
The door lay shattered on the threshold, the window-frames, smashed in
wanton fury, covered the floor. The wind moaned through the empty
rooms; here and there water stood in puddles. Round the hearth lay
broken flasks, and rotting _debris_, and pewter plates bent double--
the relics of the ravager's debauch.
We walked about, with lights held above our heads, and looked at all
this miserably enough. It was our first glimpse of war, and it
silenced even the Waldgrave. As for my mistress, I well remember the
look her face wore, when I left her standing with her women, who were
already in tears, in the middle of the small chamber assigned to her.
I had known her long enough to be able to read the look, and to be
sure that she was wondering whether it would always be so now. Had she
exchanged Heritzburg, its peace and comfort, for such nights as these,
divided between secret flittings and lodgings fit only for the
homeless and wretched?
But neither by word nor sign did she betray her fears; and in the
morning she showed a face that vied with the Waldgrave's in
cheerfulness. Our horses had had little exercise of late and were
in poor condition for travelling. We gave them, therefore, until
noon to rest, and a little after that hour got away; one and all, I
think--with the exception perhaps of Marie Wort--in better spirits.
The sun was high, the weather fine, the country on either side of us
woodland, with fine wild prospects. Hence we saw few signs of the
ravages which were sure to thrust themselves on the attention wherever
man's hand appeared. We could forget for the moment war, and even our
own troubles.
We proposed to reach the little village of Erbe by sunset, but
darkness overtook us on the road. The track, overgrown and narrowed by
spring shoots, was hard to follow in daylight; to attempt to pursue it
after nightfall seemed hopeless. We had halted, therefore, and the
Waldgrave and my lady were considering whether we should camp where we
were, or pick our way to a more sheltered spot, when young Jacob, who
was leading, cried out that he saw the glimmer of a camp-fire some way
off among the trees. The news threw our party into the greatest doubt.
My lady was for stopping where we were, the Waldgrave for going on. In
the end the latter had his way, and it was agreed that we should join
the company before us, or at any rate parley with them and learn their
intentions. Accordingly we shook up our tired horses and moved
cautiously forward.
The distant gleam which had first caught Jacob's eye soon widened into
a warm and ruddy glow, in which the polished beech-trunks stood up
like the pillars of some great building. Still drawing nearer, we saw
that there were two fires built a score of paces apart, in a slight
hollow. Round the one a number of men were moving, whose black figures
sometimes intervened between us and the blaze. Two or three dogs
sprang up and barked at us, and a horse neighed out of the darkness
beyond. The other fire seemed at first sight to be deserted; but as
the dogs ran towards us, still barking, first one man, then another,
rose beside it, and stood looking at us. The arrival of a second party
in such a spot was no doubt unexpected.
Judging that these two were the leaders of the party, I went forward
to announce my lady's rank. One of the men, the shorter and younger, a
man of middle height and middle age and dark, stern complexion, came a
few paces to meet me.
'Who are you?' he said bluntly, looking beyond me at those who
followed.
'The Countess Rotha of Heritzburg, travelling this way to Cassel,' I
answered; 'and with her, her excellency's kinsman, the noble Rupert,
Waldgrave of Weimar.'
The stranger's face lightened strangely, and he laughed. 'Take me to
her,' he said.
Properly I should have first asked him his name and condition; but he
had the air, beyond all things, of a man not to be trifled with, and I
turned with him.
My lady had halted with her company a score of paces from the fire. I
led him to her bridle.
'This,' I said, wondering much who he was, 'is her excellency the
Countess of Heritzburg.'
My lady looked at him. He had uncovered and stood before her, a smile
that was almost a laugh in his eyes. 'And I,' he said, 'have the
honour to be her excellency's humble and distant cousin, General John
Tzerclas, sometimes called, of Tilly.'