CHAPTER XXXIV.
SUSPENSE.
For a little while after the Waldgrave had retired, CountLeuchtenstein stood turning my lady's letter over in his hands, histhoughts apparently busy. I had leisure during this time to comparethe plainness of his dress with the greatness of his part, to whichhis conduct a moment before had called my attention; and the man withhis reputation. No German had at this time so much influence with theKing of Sweden as he; nor did the world ever doubt that it was at hisinstance that the Landgrave, first of all German princes, flung hissword into the Swedish scale. Yet no man could be more unlike the darkWallenstein, the crafty Arnim, the imperious Oxenstierna, or thesleepless French cardinal, whose star has since risen--as I have heardthese men described; for Leuchtenstein carried his credentials in hisface. An honest, massive downrightness and a plain sagacity seemed tomark him, and commend him to all who loved the German blood.
My eyes presently wandered from him, and detected among the papers onthe table the two stands I had seen in his town quarters--the onebearing his child's necklace, the other his wife's portrait. Doubtlessthey lay on the table wherever he went--among assessments and imposts,regimental tallies and state papers. I confess that my heart warmed atthe sight; that I found something pleasing in it; greatness had notchoked the man. And then my thoughts were diverted: he broke open mylady's letter, and turning his back on me began to read.
I waited, somewhat impatiently. He seemed to be a long time over it,and still he read, his eyes glued to the page. I heard the paperrustle in his hands. At last he turned, and I saw with a kind of shockthat his face was dark and flushed. There was a strange gleam in hiseyes as he looked at me. He struck the paper twice with his hand.
'Why was this kept from me?' he exclaimed. 'Why? Why?'
'My lord!' I said in astonishment. 'It was delivered to me only anhour ago.'
'Fool!' he answered harshly, bending his bushy eyebrows. 'When didthat girl get free?'
'That girl?'
'Ay, that girl! Girl, I said. What is her name? Marie Wort?'
'This is Saturday. Wednesday night,' I said.
'Wednesday night? And she told you of the child then; of mychild--that this villain has it yonder! And you kept it from me allThursday and Friday--Thursday and Friday,' he repeated with a fiercegesture, 'when I might have done something, when I might have acted!Now you tell me of it, when we march out to-morrow, and it is toolate. Ah! It was ungenerous of her--it was not like her!'
'The Countess came yesterday in person,' I muttered.
'Ay, but the day before!' he retorted. 'You saw me in the morning! Yousaid nothing. In the evening I called at the Countess's lodgings; shewould not see me. A mistake was it? Yes, but grant the mistake; was itkind, was it generous to withhold _this?_ If I had been as remiss asshe thought me, as slack a friend--was it just, was it womanly? InHeaven's name, no! No!' he repeated fiercely.
'We were taken up with the Waldgrave's peril,' I muttered,conscience-stricken. 'And yesterday, my lady----'
'Ay, yesterday!' he retorted bitterly. 'She would have told meyesterday. But why not the day before? The truth is, you thoughtmuch of your own concerns and your lady's kin, but of mine and mychild--nothing! Nothing!' he repeated sternly.
And I could not but feel that his anger was justified. For myself, Ihad clean forgotten the child; hence my silence at my formerinterview. For my lady, I think that at first the Waldgrave's dangerand later, when she knew of his safety, remorse for the part she hadplayed, occupied her wholly, yet, every allowance made, I felt thatthe thing had an evil appearance; and I did not know what to say tohim.
He sighed, staring absently before him. At last, after a prolongedsilence, 'Well, it is too late now,' he said. 'Too late. The Kingmoves out to-morrow, and my hands are full, and God only knows theissue, or who of us will be living three days hence. So there is anend.'
'My lord!' I cried impulsively. 'God forgive me, I forgot.'
He shrugged his shoulders with a grand kind of patience. 'Just so,' hesaid. 'And now, go back to your mistress. If I live I will answer herletter. If not--it matters not.'
I was terribly afraid of him, but my love for Marie had taught me somethings; and though he waved me to the door, I stood my ground amoment.
'To you, my lord, no,' I said. 'Nothing. But to her, if you fallwithout answering her letter----'
'What?'he said.
'You can best judge from the letter, my lord.'
'You think that she would suffer?' he answered harshly, hisface growing red again. 'Well, what say you, man? Does she notdeserve to suffer? Do you know what this delay may cost me? What itmay mean for my child? Mein Gott,' he continued, raising his voice andstriking his hand heavily on the table, 'you try me too far! Yourmistress was angry. Have I no right to be angry? Have I no right topunish? Go! I have no more to say.'
And I had to go, then and there, enraged with myself, and fearful thatI had said too much in my lady's behalf. I had invited this lastrebuff, and I did not see how I should dare to tell her of it, or thatI had exposed her to it. I had made things worse instead of better,and perhaps, after all, the message he had framed might not have hurther much, or fallen far short of her expectations.
I should have troubled myself longer about this, but for theincreasing bustle and stir of preparation that had spread by this timefrom the camp to the city; and filling the way with a throng of peoplewhom the news affected in the most different ways, soon diverted myattention. While some, ready to welcome any change, shouted with joy,others wept and wrung their hands, crying out that the city wasbetrayed, and that the King was abandoning it. Others againanticipated an easy victory, looked on the frowning heights of theAlta Veste as already conquered, and divided Wallenstein's spoils.Everywhere I saw men laughing, wailing, or shaking hands; some eatingof their private hoards, others buying and selling horses, othersagain whooping like lunatics.
In the city the shops, long shut, were being opened, orderlies wereriding to and fro, crowds were hurrying to the churches to pray forthe King's success; a general stir of relief and expectancy wasabroad. The sunshine still fell hot on the streets, but under it lifemoved and throbbed. The apathy of suffering was gone, and with it thesavage gloom that had darkened innumerable brows. From window anddormer, from low door-ways, from carven eaves and gables, gaunt faceslooked down on the stir, and pale lips prayed, and dull eyes glowedwith hope.
While I was still a long way off I saw my lady at the oriel watchingfor me. I saw her face light up when she caught sight of me; and if,after that, I could have found any excuse for loitering in the street,or putting off my report, I should have been thankful. But there wasno escape. In a moment the animation of the street was behind me, thesilence of the house 'fell round me, and I stood before her. She wasalone. I think that Marie had been with her; if so, she had sent heraway.
'Well?' she said, looking keenly at me, and doubtless drawing herconclusions from my face. 'The Count was away?'
'No, my lady.'
'Then--you saw him?' with surprise.
'Yes.'
'And gave him the letter?'
'Yes, my lady.'
'Well'--this with impatience, and her foot began to tap thefloor--'did he give you no answer?'
'No, my lady.'
She looked astonished, offended, then troubled. 'Neither in writingnor by word of mouth?' she said faintly.
'Only--that the King was about to give battle,' I stammered; 'andthat if he survived, he would answer your excellency.'
She started, and looked at me searchingly, her colour fadinggradually. 'That was all!' she said at last, a quaver in her voice.'Tell me all, Martin. Count Leuchtenstein was offended, was he not?'
'I think that he was hurt, your excellency,' I confessed. 'He thoughtthat the news about his child--should have been sent to him sooner.That was all.'
'All!' she ejaculated; and for a moment she said no more, but withthat word, which thrilled
me, she began to pace the floor. 'All!' sherepeated presently. 'But I--yes, I am justly punished. I cannotconfess to him; I will confess to you. Your girl would have had metell him this, or let her tell him this. She pressed me; she went onher knees to me that evening. But I hardened my heart, and now I ampunished. I am justly punished.'
I was astonished. Not that she took it lightly, for there was that inher tone as well as in her face that forbade the thought; but that shetook it with so little passion, without tears or anger, and havingbeen schooled so seldom in her life bore this schooling so patiently.She stood for a time after she had spoken, looking from the windowwith a wistful air, and her head drooping; and I fancied that she hadforgotten my presence. But by-and-by she began to ask questions aboutthe camp, and the preparations, and what men thought of the issue, andwhether Wallenstein would come down from his heights or the King bedriven to the desperate task of assaulting them. I told her all that Ihad heard. Then she said quietly that she would go to church; and shesent me to call Fraulein Max to go with her.
I found the Dutch girl sitting in a corner with her back to thewindows, through which Marie and the women were gazing at the bustleand uproar and growing excitement of the street. She was reading in agreat dusty book, and did not look up when I entered. Seeing her soengrossed, I had the curiosity to ask her, before I gave her my lady'smessage, what the book was.
'"The Siege of Leyden,"' she said, lifting her pale face for aninstant, and then returning to her reading. 'By Bor.'
I could not refrain from smiling. It seemed to me so whimsical thatshe could find interest in the printed page, in this second-handaccount of a siege, and none in the actual thing, though she had onlyto go to the window to see it passing before her eyes. Doubtless sheread in Bor how men and women thronged the streets of Leyden to heareach new rumour; how at every crisis the bells summoned the unarmed tochurch; how through long days and nights the citizens waited forrelief--and she found these things of interest. But here were the sameportents passing before her eyes, and she read Bor!
'You are busy, I am afraid,' I said.
'I am using my time,' she answered primly.
'I am sorry,' I rejoined; 'for my lady wants you to go to church withher.'
She shut up her book with peevish violence, and looked at me with herweak eyes. 'Why does not your Papist go with her?' she saidspitefully. 'And then you could do without me. As you do without mewhen you have secrets to tell! But I suppose you have brought thingsto such a pass now that there is nothing for it but church. And so Iam called in!'
'I have given my lady's message,' I said patiently.
'Oh, I know that you are a faithful messenger!' she replied mockingly.'Who writes love letters grows thin; who carries them, fat. You aregrowing a big man, Master Martin.'