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Pride of Jennico

[306] <h2 class="p4">CHAPTER V</h2> A knock without aroused us. With a stifled cry of alarm, the woman who had made no sound on the violent entry of an armed man upon her unprotected solitude, now fell into deadly anguish. She sprang to the door, and I could see the lace on her bosom flutter with the fear of her heart as she bent her ear to listen. The knock was repeated. “Who is it?” cried Ottilie, in a strangled voice. “I had said I would be alone.” “‘Tis I, child,” came the answer in the well-known deep note; “it is Anna, alone.” I thrust my sword back into its scabbard; my wife drew a long breath of relief, and glanced at me with her hand pressed to her heart. “Anna, thank God! We can admit her: Anna is safe,” she said, and turned the key. Anna opened the door, stood an instant on the threshold, contemplating us in silence; a faint smile hovered about her hard mouth. Then, without wasting words on futile warnings, she made fast the lock, deposited on the floor a dark[307] lantern she had concealed under her apron, walked to the window, which she closed as best she could, and drew the curtains securely. Indeed, her precaution was not idle: through the silence of the outside world of night, muffled by the snow, but yet unmistakable, the tread of the first patrolling round now grew even more distinctly upon our ear, passed under the terrace, emphasised by an occasional click of steel, and died away round the corner. With the vanishing sound melted the new anxiety which had clutched me, and I blessed the falling snow which must have hidden again, as soon as registered, the tell-tale traces of my footsteps below. Anna had listened with frowning brow; when all was still once more, she turned to the Princess, and briefly, but in that softened voice I remembered of old: “I have told your ladies that you had bidden me attend to you this night, and that you must not be disturbed in the morning,” and then turned to me: “All is ready, sir; we have till noon before being discovered. And now, child,” she continued, as Ottilie, still closely clinging to my side, looked up inquiringly, “no time to lose; there is death in this for thy gracious lord, if not for us all as well.” “What does she mean?” asked Ottilie, and[308] seemed brought from a far sphere of bliss face to face with cold reality. “Oh, Basil, Basil, to leave me again!” “Leave you! I will never leave you,” cried I, touched to the quick at the change which had come upon the proud spirit of my beloved; “but if you will not come with me, with your husband, if you fear the perils of flight, the hardships of the road, or even,” said I, though it was only to try her and taste once again the exquisite joy of loving, humble words from her lips, “if you cannot make up your mind to give up your high state here, to live as the wife of a simple gentleman, I am content to die at your side. But leave you, never again! Ah! my God, once was too much.” She looked at me for a second with tender reproach in her tear-dimmed eyes and upon her trembling lips; then she answered with a simplicity that rebuked my mock humility: “I am content to go with you, Basil, were it to the end of the world.” At this I could not, in spite of Anna’s presence, but take her to my heart again, and the nurse, after watching us with a curious look of mingled pleasure and jealousy in her hollow eyes, suddenly and somewhat harshly bade us remember once more that time was short. [309] “You,” she went on to her lady, peremptorily, as if conscious of being herself the true mistress of the situation, “drink you of that broth and break some bread, and drink of that wine, for you have not eaten to-day. And you,” she added, turning to me, “make ready with your ladder.” Impatiently and sternly she stood by us until we prepared to obey her orders. We owe a very great debt of gratitude to this woman! My wife sat down like a child, watching me, sweet heart! over every mouthful of soup as one who fears the vision may fade. As for me, appreciating all the importance of immediate action, I threw from me the perilous temptation of letting myself go to the delight of the moment—a delight enhanced, perhaps, by the very knowledge of environing danger. Opening my cloak, I unwound the length of rope from my waist, cautiously slipped out again on the balcony and fastened one end to the iron rail. Remembering the precious burden it was to bear, I could not be satisfied without testing every knot, and finally trying its strength with my own weight by descending to the terrace. It worked satisfactorily, and the distance, fortunately, was not excessive. Then leaving it dangling, in three leaps I was[310] up again and once more in the warm room, just in time to see an exquisite gleam of silk stocking disappear into the depths of the fur boot which Anna was fastening with all the dexterity of a nurse dressing a child. And, indeed, my sweet love submitted to be turned and bustled and manipulated with an uncomplaining docility as if she was again back in her babyhood—although in truth I have reason to believe, from what I know of her and have heard since, that not even then had she ever been remarkable for docility. Grimly smiling, Anna completed her labour by submerging the dainty head in a deep hood; the sable-lined cloak and the muff she handed over to me with the abrupt command: “Throw them out! Auswerfen!” Anna should have been a grenadier sergeant; nevertheless, the thought was good, and I promptly obeyed. Next she gave me the lantern—she had thought of everything!—and commenced extinguishing the lights in the room. I took Ottilie by the hand, the little warm hand, ungloved, that it might the tighter feel the rope. “Will you trust yourself, love?” said I. She gave me no answer but a shaft of one of her old fearless looks and yielded her waist to my arm,[311] and thus we stepped forth into the snow and the night. I guided her to the rope and showed her where to hold, and where to place her feet, and then, climbing over the balcony, supporting myself by the projecting stones and the knotted ivy, I was able to guide the slender body down each swinging rung: for when the blood is hot and the heart on fire one can do things that would otherwise appear well-nigh impossible. Safely we reached the ground. I enveloped her in the cloak which Anna’s forethought had provided, and after granting myself the luxury of another embrace I was preparing to ascend the blessed rope again for the purpose of assisting Anna, when I discovered that incomparable woman solidly and stolidly planted by our side in the snow. “All is right, gracious sir,” she said in a hoarse whisper; “but it would be as well to take away that rope, since you can go up and down so easily without it.” Recognising in an instant the wisdom of the suggestion—it was well some one had a waking brain that night!—I clambered up once more, and in a few seconds had flung down the tell-tale ladder, and descended again. Anna took up the lantern, which she hid under[312] her cloak, and, all three clinging together, we hastened to the postern as noiselessly as shadows. The snow fell, but the wind had all subsided, and the air was now so still that the cold struck no chill. Outside the postern, seeing no one in sight, we paused. “I have told János to be at the bottom of the lane,” said I to Anna, as she pocketed the key after turning the lock. And then to my wife, who hung close and silent to my arm: “It is but a little way, and then you shall rest.” Even as I spoke I turned to lead her, but Anna arrested me: “I have thought better,” she said. “To leave the town in a carriage is dangerous. I have arranged otherwise.” I was about, I believe, to protest, or at least discuss, when Ottilie, who had hitherto permitted herself to be led whither I would, like one in a dream, suddenly cried to me in an urgent undertone to let Anna have her way: “Believe me,” she said, “you will not repent it.” I would have gone anywhere at the command of that voice. “It shall be so,” said I; “but there is János, and we cannot leave him in the lurch.” “No, we must have János with us,” said Anna;[313] “but that is easy. Follow me, children.” And uncovering her lantern, with her skirts well kilted up, she preceded us with fearless strides to the secluded turn at the bottom of the lane, where, true to his promise, I found the heiduck and his conveyance. For the greater security the lamps of the carriage had not been lit, but we could see its bulk rise in denser black against the gloom before us, and feel the warmth of the horses steam out upon us, with a pleasant stable odour, into the purity of the air. There was a rapid colloquy between our two old servants. János, the cunning fox! at once and appreciatively agreed to Anna’s superior plan of action, and indeed his old campaigner’s wits promptly went one better than the peasant’s shrewdness: instead of merely dismissing the carriage as she suggested, he bade the coachman drive out by the East Gate of the town and, halting at Gleiwitz, await at the main hostelry there the party that would come on the morrow. And in the dark I could see him emphasise the order by the transfer of some pieces, that clicked knowingly in the night silence. The point of the manœuvre, however, was only manifest to me when, turning to follow Anna’s lead again down[314] a side alley, the fellow breathed into my ear with a chuckle: “While your honour was away I took upon myself to despatch his carriage with our luggage, to meet us, I said, at Dresden. That will be two false scents for them—and we, it seems, take the south road to Prague! We shall puzzle Budissin yet.” On we tramped through the deserted bye-streets. It was only when we were stopped at last, in that self-same poor little mean lane, before the self-same poor little mean shop, faintly lit inside by a dull oil lamp, that I recognised the scene of my morning’s interview with Anna—that interview which seemed already to have passed into the far regions of my memory, so much had I lived through since. We met but few folk upon our way, who paid little attention to us. As we entered into the evil-smelling room, stepping down into it from the street, and as Anna shot back the slide of the lantern and turned upon us a triumphant smiling face, I felt that our chief peril was over. The shop was empty, but she was not disposed to allow us even a little halt: she marshalled us through the dank narrow passages with which I had already made acquaintance, across the courtyard[315] into the back street. There stood a country waggon with a leathern tent. By the flash of the lantern I saw that to it were harnessed a pair of great raw-boned chestnuts that hung their heads patiently beneath the snow, yet seemed to have known better service in their days—no doubt at one time had felt the trooper’s spurs. Beside them stood a squat man, enveloped to the ears in sheepskin, with a limp felt hat drawn over his brow till only some three-quarters of a shrewd, empurpled, not unkindly visage was left visible. The waggoner was evidently expecting us, for he came forward, withdrew his pipe, touched his hat, and made a leg. “My cousin,” said Anna to us, and added briefly and significantly: “He asks no questions.” Then in a severe tone of command she proceeded to address several to him. Had he placed fresh hay in the waggon according to her orders? Had he received from her sister the ham, and the wine and the blankets? Had the horses been well fed? On receiving affirmative grunts in answer, she bade him then immediately produce the chair, that the lady and the gentleman might get in. Between the closed borders of her hood I caught a glimpse of Ottilie’s faint smile, as lighted[316] by the lantern rays she mounted upon the wooden stool and disappeared into the dark recesses of the waggon, stirring up a warm dust as she went, and a far-away fragrance of hay and faded clover. “Now you, sir,” said Anna, and jogged my elbow. I believe at that moment we were to her but a pair of babes and nurslings for whom she was responsible, and that she would have as readily combed our hair and washed our faces as if we were still of a size to be lifted on her knee. I obeyed. And truly, as I crawled forward in the dark, amid the warm straw, groping my way to the further end till I laid my hand on Ottilie’s soft young arm extended towards me, when I heard her laugh a little laugh to herself as we snuggled in the nest together, I felt a happiness that was like that of a child, all innocent of past and improvident of future. Nevertheless at one and the same time my whole being was stirred to its depths with a tenderness my manhood had not yet known. In those foolish bygone days I had loved her, the sweet soul, with the unworthy, mad passion of a lover for his mistress. When she left me I had mourned her as a man mourns for his wife, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. Now, however,[317] we seemed to be lad and maid together; our love, after all the sorrow and the agony we had passed through, seemed to wear the unspeakable freshness of a first courtship. It was written that good measure was to be paid me to compensate for past anguish—good measure, heaped up, flowing over! I took it with a thankful heart. The cart swayed and creaked as János and Anna mounted and settled themselves at our feet, drawing the hay high over themselves. Then came another creaking and swaying in the forward end, we heard a jingle of bells, a crack of the whip and a hoarse shout: the cart groaned and strained to the effort of the horses, then yielded. And at a grave pace we rumbled over the cobble-stones, turning hither and thither through street after street which we could not see. And in the midst of our hay we felt a sense of comfortable irresponsibility and delicious mystery. All in the inner darkness we were dimly conscious of the snowy pageant outside: the ghost-like houses and the twinkling lights. Ottilie lay against my shoulder, and I felt her light breath upon my cheek. After a while—it would be hard to say how long—there was a halt; there came a shout from our driver, and an answering shout beyond. I knew[318] we had come to the Town Gates. That was a palpitating moment of anxiety as the two voices exchanged parley, which the heavy beating of the pulses in my ears would not allow me to follow. Next the rough cadence of a jovial laugh fell loud upon the air, and then—sweeter music I have seldom heard!—the clank of the gate’s bar. Once more we felt ourselves rumbling on slowly till we had passed the bridge and exchanged the cobbles of the town for the surface of the great Imperial road, more lenient for all its ruts. The cousin cracked his whip again and bellowed to his cattle; after infinite persuasion they broke into a heavy jog-trot. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” said Anna suddenly from her dark corner, in a loud vibrating voice, “give thanks to God, you children!” She leant forward as she spoke, and pulled aside the leathern curtains that hung across the back of the cart. With the rush of snowy air came to us framed by the aperture a retreating vision of Budissin, studded here and there with rare gleams of light. Thus did my wife, the young Princess of Lusatia, leave her father’s dominions, her prospects of a throne, for the love of a simple English gentleman! <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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