Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  ‘He has not done his duty!’

  ‘Because he has not been himself,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, we have enough to do in these evil days to protect those who are!’ he answered sharply. ‘Besides, this matter is a city matter. It is in the citizens’ hands, and I do not know what we have to do with it. Look now,’ he continued, almost querulously, ‘it is an invidious thing to meddle with them. We of the army are risking our lives and no more, but our hosts are risking all — wives and daughters, sweethearts, and children, and homes! And I say it is an awkward thing meddling with them. For Neumann the sooner they hang the dog the better; and for this young spark I can think of nothing that he has done that binds us to go out of our way to save him. Marienbad! What brought him into that den of thieves?’

  ‘My lord,’ I said, taken aback by his severity— ‘since he received a wound some months back he has not been himself.’

  ‘He has been sufficiently himself to hang about a woman’s apron-strings,’ the Count answered with a flash of querulous contempt, ‘instead of doing his duty. However, what you say is true. I have seen it myself. But, again, why does not your lady leave Prince Bernard to settle the matter?’

  ‘She fears that he may not be sufficiently interested.’

  He turned away abruptly; unless I was mistaken, he winced. And in a moment a light broke in upon me. The peevishness and irritability with which he had received the first mention of the Waldgrave’s name had puzzled me. I had not expected such a display in a man of his grave, equable nature, of his high station, his great name. I had given him credit for a less churlish spirit and a judgment more evenly balanced. And I had felt surprised and disappointed.

  Now, on a sudden, I saw light — in an unexpected quarter. For a moment I could have laughed both at myself and at him. The man was jealous; jealous, at his age and with his grey hairs! At the first blush of the thing I could have laughed, the feeling and the passion it implied seemed alike so preposterous. There on the table before me stood the miniature of his first wife, and his child’s necklace. And the man himself was old enough to be my lady’s father. What if he was tall and strong; and still vigorous though grey-haired; and a man of great name. When I thought of the Waldgrave — of his splendid youth and gallant presence, his gracious head and sunny smile, and pictured this staid, sober man beside him, I could have found it in my heart to laugh.

  While I stood, busy with these thoughts, the Count walked the length of the room more than once with his head bent and his shoulder turned to me. At length he stopped and spoke; nor could my sharpened ear now detect anything unusual in his voice.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, his tone one of half-peevish resignation, ‘you have done your errand. I think I understand, and you may tell your mistress — I will do what I can. The King of Sweden will doubtless remit the matter to the citizens, and there will be some sort of a hearing to-day. I will be at it. But there is a stiff spirit abroad, and men are in an ugly mood — and I promise nothing. But I will do my best. Now go, my friend. I have business.’

  With that he dismissed me in a manner so much like his usual manner that I wondered whether I had deceived myself. And I finally left the room in a haze of uncertainty. However, I had succeeded in the object of my visit; that was something. He had taken care to guard his promise, but I did not doubt that he would perform it. For there are men whose lightest word is weightier than another’s bond; and I took it, I scarcely know why, that the Count belonged to these.

  Nevertheless, I saw things, as I went through the streets, that fed my doubts. While famine menaced the poorer people, the richer held a sack, with all the horrors which Magdeburg had suffered, in equal dread. The discovery of Neumann’s plot had taught them how small a matter might expose them to that extremity; and as I went along I saw scarcely, a burgher whose face was not sternly set, no magistrate whose brow was not dark with purpose.

  Consequently, when I attended my lady to the Rath-haus at two o’clock, the hour fixed for the inquiry, I was not surprised to find these signs even more conspicuous. The streets were thronged, and ugly looks and suspicious glances met us on all sides, merely because it was known that the Waldgrave had been much at my lady’s house. We were made to feel that Nuremberg was a free city, and that we were no more than its guests. It is true, no one insulted us; but the crowd which filled the open space before the Town-house eyed us with so little favour that I was glad to think that the magistrates with all their independence must still be guided by the sword, and that the sword was the King of Sweden’s.

  My lady, I saw, shared my apprehensions. But she came of a stock not easily daunted, and would as soon have dreamed of putting out one of her eyes because it displeased a chance acquaintance, as of deserting a friend because the Nurembergers frowned upon him. Her eyes sparkled and her colour rose as we proceeded; the ominous silence which greeted us only stiffened her carriage. By the time we reached the Rath-haus I knew not whether to fear more from her indiscretion, or hope more from her courage.

  The Court sat in private, but orders that we should be admitted had been given; and after a brief delay we were ushered into the hall of audience — a lofty, panelled chamber, carved and fretted, having six deep bays, and in each a window of stained glass. A number of scutcheons and banners depended from the roof; at one end a huge double eagle wearing the imperial crown pranced in all the pomp of gold and tinctures; and behind the court, which consisted of the Chief Magistrate and four colleagues, the sword of Justice was displayed. But that which struck me far more than these things, was the stillness that prevailed; which was such that, though there were a dozen persons present when we entered, the creaking of our boots as we walked up the floor, and the booming of distant cannon, seemed to be equally audible.

  The Chief Magistrate rose and received my lady with due ceremony, ordering a chair to be placed for her, and requesting her to be seated at the end of the dais-table, behind which he sat. I took my stand at a respectful distance behind her; and so far we had nothing to complain of; but I felt my spirits sensibly dashed both by the stillness and the sombre and almost forbidding faces of the five judges. Two or three attendants stood by the doors, but neither the King of Sweden nor any of his officers were present. I looked in vain for Count Leuchtenstein; I could see nothing of him or of the prisoners. The solemn air of the room, the silence, and the privacy of the proceedings, all contributed to chill me. I could fancy myself before a court of inquisitors, a Vehm-Gericht, or that famous Council of Ten which sits, I have heard, at Venice; but for any of the common circumstances of such tribunals as are usual in Germany, I could not find them.

  I think that my lady was somewhat taken aback too; but she did not betray it. After courteously thanking the Council for granting her an audience, she explained that her object in seeking it was to state certain facts on behalf of the Waldgrave Rupert of Weimar, her kinsman, and to offer the evidence of her steward, a person of respectability.

  ‘We are quite willing to hear your excellency,’ the Chief Magistrate answered in a grave, dry voice. ‘But perhaps you will first inform us to what these facts tend? It may shorten the inquiry.’

  ‘Some weeks ago,’ my lady answered with dignity, ‘the Waldgrave Rupert was wounded in the head. From that time he has not been himself.’

  ‘Does your excellency mean that he is not aware of his actions?’

  ‘No,’ my lady answered quietly. ‘I do not go as far as that.’’

  ‘Or that he is not aware in what company he is?’ the magistrate persisted.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Or that he is ignorant at any time where he is?’

  ‘No, but — —’

  ‘One moment!’ the Chief Magistrate stopped her with a courteous gesture. ‘Pardon me. In an instant, your excellency — to whom I assure you that the Court are obliged, since we desire only to do justice — will see to what my questions lead. I crave leave to put one more, and then to put the same question to your steward. It is th
is: Do you admit, Countess, that the Waldgrave Rupert was last night in the house with Tzerclas, Neumann, and the other persons inculpated?’

  ‘Certainly,’ my lady answered. ‘I am so informed. I did not know that that was in question,’ she added, looking round with a puzzled air.

  ‘And you, my friend?’ The Chief Magistrate fixed me with his small, keen eyes. ‘But first, what is your name?’

  ‘Martin Schwartz.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. The man who was saved from the villains. We could have no better evidence. What do you say, then? ‘Was the Waldgrave Rupert last night in this house — the house in question?’

  ‘I saw him in the house,’ I answered warily. ‘In the hall. But he was not in the room with Tzerclas and Neumann — the room in which I saw the maps and plans.’

  ‘A fair answer,’ the Burgomaster replied, nodding his head, ‘and your evidence might avail the accused. But the fact is — it is to this point we desire to call your excellency’s attention,’ he continued, turning with a dusty smile to my lady— ‘the Waldgrave steadily denies that he was in the house at all.’

  ‘He denies that he was there?’ my lady said. ‘But was he not arrested in the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Chief Magistrate answered dryly, ‘he was.’ And he looked at us in silence.

  ‘But — what does he say?’ my lady asked faintly.

  ‘He affects to be ignorant of everything that has occurred in connection with the house. He pretends that he does not know how he comes to be in custody, that he does not know many things that have lately occurred. For instance, three days ago,’ the Burgomaster continued with a chill smile,’ I had the honour of meeting him at the King of Sweden’s quarters and talking with him. He says to-day that I am a stranger to him, that we did not meet, that we did not talk, and that he does not know where the King of Sweden’s quarters are.’

  ‘Then,’ my lady said sorrowfully, ‘he is worse than he was. He is now quite mad.’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ the magistrate replied, shaking his head gravely. ‘He is sane enough on other points. Only he will answer no questions that relate to this conspiracy, or to his guilt.’

  ‘He is not guilty,’ the Countess cried impetuously. ‘Believe me, however strangely he talks, he is incapable of such treachery!’

  ‘Your excellency forgets — that he was in this house!’

  ‘But with no evil intentions!’

  ‘Yet denies that he was there!’ the Burgomaster concluded gravely.

  That silenced my lady, and she sat rolling her kerchief in her hands. Against the five impassive faces that confronted her, the ten inscrutable eyes that watched her; above all, against this strange, this inexplicable denial, she could do nothing! At last —

  ‘Will you hear my steward?’ she asked — in despair, I think.

  ‘Certainly,’ the Burgomaster answered. ‘We wish to do so.’

  On that I told them all I knew; in what terms I had heard Neumann and General Tzerclas refer to the Waldgrave; how unexpected had been his appearance in the hall; how this interference had saved my life; and, finally, my own conviction that he was not privy to Tzerclas’ designs.

  The Court heard me with attention; the Burgomaster put a few questions, and I answered them. Then, afraid to stop — for their faces showed no relenting — I began to repeat what I had said before. But now the Court remained silent; I stumbled, stammered, finally sank into silence myself. The air of the place froze me; I seemed to be talking to statues.

  The Countess was the first to break the spell. ‘Well?’ she cried, her voice tremulous, yet defiant.

  The Burgomaster consulted his colleagues, and for the first time something of animation appeared in their faces. But it lasted an instant only. Then the others sat back in their chairs, and he turned to my lady.

  ‘We are obliged to your excellency,’ he said gravely and formally. ‘And to your servant. But the Court sees no reason to change its decision.’

  ‘And that is?’ The Countess’s voice was husky. She knew what was coming.

  ‘That both prisoners suffer together.’

  For an instant I feared that my lady would do something unbecoming her dignity, and either break into womanish sobs and lamentations, or stoop to threats and insistence that must be equally unavailing. But she had learned in command the man’s lesson of control; and never had I seen her more equal to herself. I knew that her heart was bounding wildly; that her breast was heaving with indignation, pity, horror; that she saw, as I saw, the fair head for which she pleaded, rolling in the dust. But with all — she controlled herself. She rose stiffly from her seat.

  ‘I am obliged to you for your patience, sir,’ she said, trembling but composed. ‘I had expected one to aid me in my prayer, who is not here. And I can say no more. On his head be it. Only — I trust that you may never plead with as good a cause — and be refused.’

  They rose and stood while she turned from them; and the two court ushers with their wands went before her as she walked down the hall. The silence, the formality, the creaking shoes, the very gules and purpure that lay in pools on the floor — I think that they stifled her as they stifled me; for when she reached the open air at last and I saw her face, I saw that she was white to the lips.

  But she bore herself bravely; the surly crowd, that filled the Market Square and hailed our appearance with a harsh murmur, grew silent under her scornful eye, and partly out of respect, partly out of complaisance, because they now felt sure of their victim, doffed their caps to her and made room for us to pass. Every moment I expected her to break down: to weep or cover her face. But she passed through all proudly, and walked, unfaltering, back to our lodging.

  There on the threshold she did pause at last, just when I wished her to go on. She stood and turned her head, listening.

  But with all — she controlled herself. She rose stiffly from her seat.

  ‘What is that?’ she said.

  ‘Cannon,’ I answered hastily. ‘In the trenches, my lady.’

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘It is shouting. They have read the sentence.’

  She said no more, not another word; and went in quietly and upstairs to her room. But I wondered and feared. Such composure as this seemed to be unnatural, almost cruel. I could not think of the Waldgrave myself without a lump coming in my throat. I could not face the sunshine. And Steve and the men, when they heard, were no better. We stood inside the doorway in a little knot, and looked at one another mournfully. A man who passed — and did not know the house or who we were — stopped to tell us that the sentence would be carried out at sunset; and, pleased to have given us the news, went whistling down the stale, sunny street.

  Steve growled out an oath. ‘Who are these people,’ he said savagely, ‘that they should say my lady nay? When the Countess stoops to ask a life — Himmel! — is she not to have it?’

  ‘Not here,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because we are not at Heritzburg now,’ I answered sadly.

  ‘But — are we nobody here?’ he growled in a rage. ‘Are we going to sit still and let them kill my lady’s own cousin?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘We have done all we can,’ I said.

  ‘But there is some one can say nay to these curs!’ he cried. And he spat contemptuously into the street. He had a countryman’s scorn of townsfolk. ‘Why don’t we take the law into our own hands, Master Martin?’

  ‘It is likely,’ I said. ‘One against ten thousand! And for the matter of that, if the people are angry, it is not without cause. Did you see the man under the archway?’

  Steve nodded. ‘Dead,’ he muttered.

  ‘Starved,’ I said. ‘He was a cripple. First the cripples. Then the sound men. Life is cheap here.’

  Steve swore another oath. ‘Those are curs. But our man — why don’t we go to the King of Sweden? I suppose he is a sort of cousin to my lady?’

  ‘We have as good as gone to him,’ I a
nswered. At another time I might have smiled at Steve’s notion of my lady’s importance. ‘We have been to one equally able to help us. And he has done us no good. And for the matter of that, there is not time to go to the camp and back.’

  Steve began to fume and fret. The minutes went like lead. We were all miserable together. Outside, the kennel simmered in the sun, the low rumble of the cannon filled the air. I hated Nuremberg, the streets, the people, the heat. I wished that I had never seen a stone of it.

  Presently one of the women came down stairs to us. ‘Do you know if there has been any fighting in the trenches to-day?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing to speak of,’ I answered. ‘As far as I have heard. Why?’

  ‘The Countess wishes to know,’ she said. ‘You have not heard of any one being killed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor wounded?’

  ‘No.’

  She nodded and turned away. I called after her to know the reason of her questions, but she flitted upstairs without giving me an answer, and left us looking at one another. In a second, however, she was down again.

  ‘My lady will see no one,’ she said, with a face of mystery. ‘You understand, Master Martin? But — if any come of importance, you can take her will.’

  I nodded. The woman cast a lingering look into the street and went upstairs again.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  A POOR GUERDON.

  I had slept scantily the night before, and the excitement of the last twenty-four hours had worn me out. I was grieved for the gallant life so swiftly ebbing, and miserable on my lady’s account; but sorrow of this kind is a sleepy thing, and the day was hot. I did not feel about the Waldgrave as I had about Marie; and gradually my head nodded, and nodded again, until I fell fast asleep, on the seat within the door.

  A man’s voice, clear and penetrating, awoke me. ‘Let him be,’ it said. ‘Hark you, fellow, let him be. He was up last night; I will announce myself.’

  I was drowsy and understood only half of what I heard; and I should have taken the speaker at his word, and turning over dropped off again, if Steve had not kicked me and brought me to my feet with a cry of pain. I stood an instant, bewildered, dazzled by the sunlight, nursing my ankle in my hand. Then I made out where I was, and saw through the arch of the entrance Count Leuchtenstein dismounting in the street. As I looked, he threw the reins to a trooper who accompanied him, and turned to come in.