CHAPTER XXIII.
The Vengeance of Passion
Alison had met Atkins at the foot of the stairs leading to their apartments, but he had not mounted them. He directed his steps to the room of the French steward of the castle, which had been pointed out to him by one of the soldiers.
The steward, an old man, with sharp, intelligent face, and dark, flashing eyes, sat at a table on which a lamp was burning, and examined his books. He looked up morosely as the door opened, but the embittered resentment which his features wore and with which he met everyone belonging to the hated soldiers quartered in the house, softened somewhat as he recognized the visitor. He knew that the travellers were Americans, forced to seek a night's rest in the castle from the impossibility of finding entertainment in the village. Although guests of the enemy, they did not belong to the hated nation, and the grim reserve which Alison had this afternoon shown in the circle of the officers, and which the Frenchman had found opportunity to observe, gave him a decided advantage. The steward rose, and approached his visitor politely, but still with a sort of chilling reserve.
"In what way can I serve you, Monsieur?"
Henry circumspectly closed the door, and hastily scanned the apartment. "I wish to speak with you on a matter of importance," he said. "Are we safe from intrusion?"
"Perfectly so!" returned the Frenchman. "The room, as you see, has only this one door."
Alison drew near the table, and his voice sank to a whisper. "You know, I suppose, that we are forbidden to pursue our journey. My companions have consented to remain here for the night, but I must in any event go on to the mountains."
"That is impossible, Monsieur," said the Frenchman politely but coldly. "The Prussians hold guard over every avenue; no person can reach the mountain-road without their permission."
Alison gazed at the Frenchman sharply and searchingly. "And would you not know how to get there in spite of the guards, if you wished to send tidings to the French sharpshooters in the mountains!"
"I tell you, Monsieur, that all the avenues are guarded."
"There are always lurking-places in the mountains not known to the enemy, and which the inhabitants can use all the more safely," said Alison with great positiveness. "This very afternoon I heard the officers express their opinion, that in spite of the sharpest watch, a secret understandings till existed between the village and the mountains, and in this case there must be such a path."
"Possibly. But I know of none."
Instead of answering, Alison drew forth his letter-case, took from it a bank-note and silently held it towards the old man. He must have known the value of this piece of paper, and it must have been very great, for he gazed in terror at the American.
"The price of the path," said he curtly.
"I do not allow myself to be bribed, Monsieur," said the Frenchman decidedly.
Alison quietly laid the banknote on the table. "Not by the Germans, I understand that in advance! They might offer you tenfold this sum, and it would be in vain. But I do not belong to them,–I am not their friend. Did my business concern their interests, I should be allowed to pass their line. The fact that I am compelled to seek your aid, may prove to you that as a Frenchman you can assume the responsibility of this treachery. You must tell me the way!"
The argument was just, and the lordly confidence of the American did not fail of its effect upon the old steward; still he did not yield.
"Would you go alone, Monsieur?"
"Certainly."
"And this very night? You perhaps know what you will meet there."
"I do!" declared Alison, who thought it best to conceal his entire ignorance of affairs, and pretend to have been initiated. He reached his goal. He succeeded in goading on the Frenchman in the old steward's nature; in making serviceable his hatred to the enemy. The steward well knew what threatened in the mountains to-night, and the circumstance that the stranger, without the knowledge of the Germans, wished to go there alone, convinced him that here he had to deal with an ally. And so his resistance gave way.
"There is such a path," he said, lowering his voice. "It leads over the mountains to L. The Germans do not know it; even if they have chanced to discover it, it ends for them in the first defile on the right. They cannot possibly know that it continues on the other side, and extending through the forest, connects with our park. The beginning and end are too much hidden by rifts in the rock and by shrubbery; it is a secret of ours."
Alison's eyes gleamed with a savage joy. "Very well; and how am I to find the path?" he asked.
"You go into the park, and pass up the principal avenue, which is unguarded; to the left you will see a statue of Flora. Go past this into the grotto close by. It is not so closely shut in by the rocky walls, as it appears to be; there is a way of egress from it to the forest. Follow the narrow path through the bushes; there is but one, you cannot err, and in ten minutes you will have reached the defile; it leads to the left up the mountain road to the rocky plateau where stands a solitary fir. There you are already beyond the lines, and far enough from them not to be remarked."
Alison had listened in breathless attention, as if he would hold fast every word in his remembrance; now with an expression of sullen triumph in his eyes, he took the bank-note from the table and handed it to the Frenchman.
"I thank you!" he said. "Here, take this!"
The old man hesitated. "I did not do this for money, Monsieur," he said.
"I know it. It was from hatred to the enemy. Give yourself no uneasiness. I do not need the money, at least not for to-night," he added, while his lips curled with a cold, bitter irony. "But the information is worth more to me than this paper; take it; it will not lay heavy on your conscience!"
The steward threw one more glance at the money. One would hardly venture such a sum merely to compromise him, and the path certainly was not of so high value to the Prussians as to this morose stranger. He took the reward and muttered some words of thanks.
When about to go, Alison turned and gazed steadily and threateningly at the old man.
"Your complicity ensures your silence. I need not enjoin silence upon you. The Germans would shoot you if they knew you had helped me through their lines."
"I know it, Monsieur."
"If I return towards morning, I shall have found entrance to the mountains impossible, and shall be supposed to have passed the night in the castle. You are not to know otherwise.–Adieu!"
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Shadow of Doom
In Walter's chamber a bright light was also burning, but upon his entrance, he found no one there but Frederic.
"Doctor Behrend has been here the whole time," he said, "and he waited a long while for you; but he has been summoned over to the village. I believe Corporal Braun is in a very bad state."
Walter seemed unpleasantly surprised at these tidings. "Has Doctor Behrend gone? he asked. I wished very much to speak with him."
"The doctor wished it too. He said I should have ready your cloak and your pistols, as you were to go away this evening, and would not take me with you this time as usual when you go out on patrol duty."
"No, Frederic, not this time," said Walter absently. He paced several times up and down, then he halted suddenly. "It is all the same now!" he murmured. "Why not tell him what I was going to confide to Robert?–Frederic!"
"Herr Lieutenant!"
"It is possible an attack may be made to-night. Have you received orders to be ready for an alarm?"
"Yes, at ten o'clock with two men I am to patrol the park. It is for the sake of security, the captain says, because it is not guarded."
"Very well! In any event you will see the doctor before this. It was very necessary that I should speak with him, but I must go, and I have no time to seek him in the village. You will deliver my errand word for word, just as I tell you; but to him alone, and no other. Do you hear?"
"To no other!"
The next words were very difficult ones for Walter to speak. He struggled with himself for some moments.
"If it should come to a conflict, he is the only one who will not have to take a part in it, and the French sharp-shooters around here are a barbarous horde to whom nothing is sacred. He must protect Miss Forest so far as lies in his power."
"The American Miss?" returned Frederic slowly.
"Yes!" Walter again hesitated, but then all at once the words broke hasty and ardent, from his lips. "Tell him I demand it of him as a last duty of friendship. Miss Forest has been to me the one dearest in the wide world! He shall guard her if he must, with his life!"
Frederic stood there dumb with consternation. This then was the solution of that mysterious hostility between his master and the American Miss! The poor fellow's head began to swim; he was quite incapable of understanding the relation of things.
"You must repeat this word for word!"
"I am at your command, Herr Lieutenant!" answered Frederic mechanically. He stood there as if rooted to his place, and saw his master examine the pistols and throw on the cloak. When he had arrived at the door, Frederic rushed after him.
"Herr Professor!"
Walter paused and glanced around. During the whole war, Frederic had not called him by this name, he had never forgotten the military title of his master, which it had always been his highest delight to emphasize as much as possible. How had this souvenir of B. all at once occurred to him? Surprised at the old familiar name unheard so long, Fernow gazed in the face of his former servant. It was fearfully pale, and there lay a strange repose in the usually expressionless features.
"Herr Professor"–there was a tone of anguished entreaty in the question–"must you really go quite alone? Can you not take me with you–certainly not?"
"No, I cannot!" said Walter gravely. "What has come over you all at once, Frederic? You have a duty to perform to-night and so have I; to such duties we have both become accustomed since the war."
Frederic heaved a sigh. "I do not know why it is, but, during the whole war I have not felt as I feel to-night. Now, when you are about to go, an icy shudder passes through me. Herr Professor," he broke out suddenly and despairingly, "I certainly shall never see you again!"
Walter gazed silently up to him. How strange it was! even this robust, thoroughly healthy nature, usually so unsusceptible to mental influences, at this moment seemed over-powered by a presentiment! Was it love for his master that gave him this instinct? He sought to guard himself against showing any weakness, he knew that the slightest token of weakness would quite rob the giant soldier before him of the little self-possession left him, and transform him into a sobbing child.
"You are out of your senses!" he said half displeased, and with a faint attempt to laugh. "Is this the first time that I have gone into danger? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Frederic! I really believe you are weeping."
Frederic did not answer, but he kept his clear-blue eyes fixed immovably on his master's face; at this moment, with a gift of introspection wonderfully enhanced, he saw that Fernow's glance did not accord with his words; he saw separation in it, and all subordination, all the military usage which for months long he had conscientiously observed, suddenly vanished; he saw before him only his professor whom he had so often nursed in illness, whom he had watched and guarded as a mother guards her child, who to him had been the one goal, the one object of life. He sobbed aloud, and a stream of tears gushed from his eyes.
"Herr Professor," he cried piteously, "would to God I could be shot down instead of you! A calamity is to happen to-night; I know it. One of us will certainly fall."
Walter smiled sadly and gently; he felt who this one would be; but the touching devotion of his servant in his parting hour, asserted its right. He now forgot all else, but not those long nights of illness during which Frederic had sat at his bedside, with a fidelity and self-renunciation he could never repay and never forget, and–in such a moment all arbitrary barriers fall, all chasms are bridged over–the officer threw his arms around his servant's neck and then warmly and affectionately pressed his hand. "Good-night, Frederic," he said softly, "Good-by! Whatever may happen to me, your future is provided for. Doctor Stephen has the requisite papers in his hands. And now–" he hastily drew himself up "now let me go, it must be!"
Frederic obeyed. He hesitatingly let go the hand which he had held in both of his, and stepped back. Once again Walter waved him an adieu, and then hurried from the room. With bowed head, the poor fellow stole to a window. He saw enveloped in its military cloak the tall figure which, clearly defined in the moonlight, strode over the terrace; he heard the step grow fainter and fainter in the distance, until its last echo died away. Regretful tears gushed anew from his eyes; with incontestable certainty, he felt that he had seen his master for the last time.
CHAPTER XXV.
To the Rescue
"Rouse up, Jane! Do not again refuse to see me, it is a matter of the greatest importance, and I must speak with you!"
With these words, Mr. Atkins knocked violently at the door of Jane's chamber, and compelled an entrance. The bolt was shoved back, and the door opened. A light also burned here. Jane was fully dressed, and a glance at the bed showed that it had not yet been disturbed. She evidently had not thought of sleeping. She advanced to meet him with mournful questioning in her face; her eyes were weak and inflamed from inward excitement, but they bore no traces of tears. Jane did not know that weeping which so often is the woman's only and supremest consolation; she had forgotten it in her childhood. That sobbing into which she had once broke out at the death-bed of her father, when for the moment her strength had utterly given way, had come over her, wild and passionate, like a convulsion, but tearless. Her rigid, iron nature knew not even the outward signs of weakness; she bore all sorrow as she had seen her father bear it; like a man.
Atkins allowed her no time to utter the question that trembled on her lips. "It is about a danger," he said hastily. "I thought to delay it, to avert it, but it proves greater than I had believed. My power is at an end; you must now interpose."
"What danger?" asked Jane, apprehensive and breathless. "Of what do you speak?"
"Of Alison and Lieutenant Fernow. They have come in conflict; Henry has challenged the Professor, who denies him satisfaction until the end of the war. Henry meditates revenge–they must not meet a second time."
Jane was horrified at this tidings, but she soon recovered her self-possession.
"You are right," she said with intensest bitterness. "They must not meet a second time; a fight between them and for my sake, would be worse than murder. Henry is in error; only one single word is needed to undeceive him; to-morrow I was going to speak that word; now there is not a moment to lose. Summon him here immediately!"
Atkins shook his head. "But Henry is nowhere to be found, I have already searched the whole castle for him in vain."
"And Walter? For God's sake where is Walter?"
Atkins elevated his eyebrows. "Lieutenant Fernow has gone to the mountains," he said gravely, "On some secret service, and alone, Henry knows that. If he follows–Jane, I need not tell you what calamity I fear."
For a moment Jane stood there rigid as a statue; then by a powerful effort, she roused herself from her stupor, and regained the whole decision of her character.
"I know Henry! He must not go until I have spoken with him; we must have him back at any price. I believe"–she placed her hand on her forehead, despite the bewildering anguish, striving to collect her thoughts,–"I believe there is only a single pass leading from here to the mountains. Did they not tell us so this morning?"
"Only one, and the Germans hold that; but Henry will hardly seek that path; he knows that the guards would be sure to repel him."
"So he could only go as far as the path. He must be there; I will seek him!"
Atkins tried to hold her back. "For God's sake!" he cried, "remember that we are in a foreign land, amid the storms of war; it is night, you could not possibly go alone."
Jane did not listen; she had already thrown her travelling cloak around her shoulders.
"Remain here, Mr. Atkins. If we should all three leave the castle, they might suspect us. You could have no influence over Henry; I must speak to him myself."
She was out of the door, and down the steps, before Atkins' expostulations were at an end. Involuntarily he wrung his hands.
"What an infernal night this is! This blue-eyed German has brought us all three into mortal danger! But Jane is right, I ought not to go out–it is better for them to arrange this among themselves. She must find him in the park. He can be nowhere else."
CHAPTER XXVI.
A Mortal Agony
The broad, forest-like park of the castle of S. lay bathed in the clearest moonlight and enveloped in the deepest silence, interrupted only now and then by the heavy tread of the patrols, who at the captain's order were pacing up and down. They had finished their round through the principal avenue, without encountering any suspicious person, and had now separated according to the orders given them, to explore the adjoining thickets and pathways. Frederic took the left, the other two the right, and they were to meet again on the terrace.
Slowly, his musket in hand, Frederic marched forward on the designated way. He needed not to hasten; there was plenty of time; nor to step lightly, a thing always exceedingly difficult for him; he had as before stated, met nothing suspicious on his round. Frederic was not fitted for any service demanding great intelligence, but he perfectly understood and would conscientiously execute the command to keep his eyes and ears open, to hold the strictest watch possible over all around, and at the slightest disturbance, hasten back to the castle to give the alarm. This responsible service had one great advantage for Frederic; it demanded his strictest attention, and left him no time for unavailing regrets over his master's absence, or troubled apprehensions as to his fate.
He had gone over a part of his beat, and was now close by the statue of Flora, which reared its white, moon-lighted form in the midst of a broad, grassy expanse. It had been particularly impressed upon him not to pass the shell-covered grotto near by without throwing a sharp glance within. Just as he reached the statue, he paused, and placed his hand on the lock of his musket. But he lowered the weapon even before a cry of alarm had broken from his lips. A long, white dress, beneath a dark travelling cloak, had betrayed a woman's form looming up behind the shrubbery; and as the figure now stepped out into the full moonlight, he recognized Miss Forest.
Frederic's earlier suspicion began to rise stronger than ever; he still clung obstinately to the idea that the strangers were spies, and that the "American Miss" was the most dangerous of the three. Her being a woman was nothing in her favor; no man could excel her in cleverness, and this strange, solitary meeting, gave new ground for Frederic's suspicion.
"What are you doing here in the park, Miss Forest?" he asked mistrustfully. "You should be more on your guard. Our password must be unknown to you, and if it had not been for your dress, I should have shot you."
Jane paid no heed to the warning; she stepped still nearer, and stood close before him. "Is it you, Frederic? Thank God that I have at least, found you!" she said.
Frederic was little inclined to echo this "thank God!" in the ardor of his military duty, he might have repelled her roughly, but remembrance of the words of his master fettered his tongue, and made every harsh tone impossible.
"Go back, Miss!" he said. "You must not remain here, and I cannot allow you to wander around in this way."
Jane seemed to regard the command as little as the threat that had preceded it. "You have looked through the park?" she said excitedly. "Have you not met Mr. Alison?"
Frederic's suspicion grew. Mr. Alison! What business had he here? Was this whole American crew roaming around the park? Something serious must lie at the bottom of all this.
"Mr. Alison is not here!" he said very decidedly. "We have gone our rounds through the park, and if he had been here, we must have seen him."
A sudden terror blanched Jane's face. "Almighty God! I came too late. He must already have found a path!" she cried despairingly. But this was no time to yield to despair, and meeting Frederic had already kindled a new ray of hope in her soul.
"Do you know where your master is gone?" she asked resolutely.
"No, I do not know," replied Frederic crabbedly; "but I tell you now in full earnest, Miss–"
"He is in the mountains," interrupted Jane. "I must go there at once; I must follow him."
Frederic stared at her in utter consternation. "God help me, Miss," he said, "but I believe you have lost your reason! Would you go to the mountains? Among the sharpshooters? You may as well make yourself content, you certainly cannot pass our lines: they are well guarded."
"I know it!" said Jane, "but yet I must go. They will order me back, but you, Frederic, know the pass-word, and must help me through the outposts."
In the excess of his horror, Frederic almost let his musket fall; but he drew himself bolt upright and with an expression of righteous indignation and boundless self-importance, he gazed down upon the young lady.
"Miss Forest," he said very emphatically, "anybody would know you come from that savage, godless America. Such wickedness would never enter the mind of a German Christian man or woman. I must help you through the outposts? Through our outposts? And to crown all, I am to give you the pass–word! You surely have no idea of war, or of what a soldier's duty really is!"
Jane stepped nearer to him and her voice sank to a low whisper.
"The life of your master is at stake; listen Frederic,–your master! A danger threatens him which does not come from the enemy, of which he has no suspicion, and which I alone know. He is lost, if I do not succeed in warning him. Do you understand now that I must go to him at any price?"
A quiver of pain passed over the soldier's face. "I thought as much!" he cried despairingly. "I knew that something dreadful would happen to-night!"
"There will be no dreadful event," said Jane confidently, "if I can only reach your master in season; and I can reach him, if you make it possible for me to follow him. You now know how much is at stake, Frederic; you will help me, will you not?"
Frederic shook his head. "I must not!" he said in a hollow voice.
In despairing entreaty, Jane grasped both his hands. "But I tell you, the life of your master is in peril; without my warning, he is lost! Will you let him die when a single word from you can save him? Good Heavens! Frederic, you must see that here is no treachery, no deception; that only a mortal agony for him alone urges me on. By your love for your master I implore you, help me through the lines!"
Frederic gazed silently down upon her; he saw and felt the truth of her words; a deathly anguish spoke from her face, entreated from her lips; and this anguish was for his master, concerned only his rescue. There were tears in the poor fellow's eyes; they fell slowly down his cheeks; but he only grasped his musket the more firmly.
"I cannot, Miss Forest! I cannot be false to my duty here; I could not help you through our lines, even to save my master's life. Don't look at me in that way; don't entreat me further! By God above, I cannot do as you wish!"
Jane drew back, and let his arm fall. Her last hope had vanished; the sentiment of duty had more power over Frederic, than even his passionate love for his master. Atkins was right; these Germans were terrible in their iron-sentiment of duty.
"And so Walter is lost!" she moaned faintly.
Frederic shuddered. "Tempt me no further, Miss Forest," he said, "Frederic Erdmann is no traitor!"
Jane trembled at these words. Her wide-open eyes were full of terror.
"What name is that? What are you called?"
"Erdmann! Did you not know that? But you have always heard them call me only Frederic."
Jane leaned against the base of the statue, her breast rose and fell in uncontrollable emotion, her eyes hung upon the man standing before her with an expression that could not be defined; sorrow, anxiety, consternation, all flamed up in that glance, and through all, beamed something like the presage of an infinite happiness.
"Do you know–do you know a young mechanic, Franz Erdmann, of M., who wandered over to France, lived in B., and is now serving in the Prussian army?"
"Why should I not know him?" replied Frederic, surprised more at the strange tone of the question than at the glance which accompanied it. "He is my brother, that is, my foster-brother, as he is usually called."
"And so"–Jane's voice was almost stifled in her terrible excitement–"and so you was that boy whom Erdmann's parents brought from Hamburg?–who grew up with him in M., and after the death of his parents, was adopted by pastor Hartwig! Speak, for God's sake–yes or no!"
"Certainly it was I," replied Frederic. "But where in the world, Miss Forest, did you learn all this!"
Jane did not answer. She summoned all her strength; upon the next question, hung life or death for her.
"And Professor Fernow! He too was reared by pastor Hartwig; but how came he there!"
"Well, it all happened very simply; the pastor took us both into his house the same year. Me first, out of favor and sympathy, because no one else would have me, and a few months later, my master, his sister's son, because his parents had suddenly died, and he had no other relations. As I was already there, he could not very well send me away, and so he kept us both. He did not do it willingly, and we had to pay dear for the bread he gave us; I by hard work around the house, and my master at the writing-desk; the pastor was determined he should be a scholar, but at the first, he would far rather have made verses. Well, all that soon ended; pastor Hartwig kept us well in rein.–God rest his soul! It did not go well with me until he really was at rest, and my young master, who became his heir, took me in charge. We have been almost twenty years together."
Jane had listened breathlessly, her hands pressed against her heart, which she thought must burst, and yet a stony burden had been lifted from it. The out-cry of happiness that broke from her inmost soul, was it for the brother found at last, or for him she had so long regarded as a brother! She did not know, but even the thought of Walter's dangers, receded at this moment; she was conscious of only one thing:–the fearful contradiction in her soul was settled; the terrible conflict ended. Whatever might come now, love for Walter Fernow was no longer sin!