Christine of the hills

“There is a proverb in our tongue, excellency, which says that he who relies upon another’s table is apt to dine late. The misfortune which fell upon the house of Jézero in the week of Easter brought this saying home to me, to my discomfort.

“The Count had returned on the eve of Low Sunday. We had been then three days in the hills and in the villages seeking for Christine. Maria Santissima! there was no man in the house who did not shake with fear when the news went abroad that the little one was missing. As well might they have told us that our master was dead—aye, and better—for then there would have been none to hold us to the accusation.

“Even the priest trembled at the tidings, though I knew that he had looked for them. ‘Signor Andrea,’ he said—it was the night after she left us—‘I will not hold it from you that this is no surprise to me. Yet even I did not think that she would go away like this, without word or message. Who shall tell him? The Virgin be my help—I would not do it for a kingdom!’

“‘Father,’ said I, ‘your words are wise. This can be no surprise to you.’

“He turned quickly, searching me with his bright black eyes.

“‘How?’ exclaimed he; ‘they say that?’

“‘They do not say it,’ I answered, ‘but they may presently, if I do not hold my tongue. Was it not your word that if the man lived you would find him? Securo, I can remember and I can forget, Father.’

“He was much alarmed at this, and taking my arm he drew me gently to the window of the room.

“‘It is time that you and I understood each other, my friend,’ he said; ‘and for the matter of that, I have desired it all along. Though I know nothing—and God is my witness that I speak truth—of the reasons which have induced the girl to leave us at this time, I have no doubt at all that they are to be learnt in whatever house her husband has now chosen for her——’

“‘Eccoli, Father; then you know that he lives!’

“‘It was known to me three weeks ago, as it has been known to you from the first. We are no children, you and I, and we do not play harlequin for fools to laugh. Why, then, should we not talk to each other as men that have a common desire? You are well aware that Alvise, the father of the man Ugo, bribed a corporal to report the lad as dead. I will not stop to point out to you how grave a crime you contemplated in permitting Christine to go to the altar with one who could never be a husband to her. For the sake of the woman’s soul, and for the eternal good of my master, I have acted as became a priest and a servant of Jesus Christ. It remains for you to do what you can to repair the injury which you have brought upon this house. And firstly, it is for you to hold your tongue and to know nothing, whatever question may be put to you. An explanation would lead only to your undoing and to mine—it might lead also to a sin greater than any we have yet contemplated. As the affair stands, it is easy to say some accident must have overtaken Christine—even to hint that she is dead. If the Count should learn what we know, then we shall be the better for pretending ignorance. We can but act like honest men and the true friends of one whom it is a privilege to serve.’

“‘Per Baccho,’ said I, ‘you speak like a book; yet there are things I cannot forget, Father, and the first of them is that I am an old man and a poor one. Not that poverty is any sore to me! Poca roba poco pensiero, is my word. Yet I doubt not that I must return to my home at Sebenico when your master returns. It is hard that I should go empty-handed after all my pains. Surely, my tongue would be the stiller if there were a little weight of silver upon it.’

“‘I have thought of that, Signor Andrea,’ he answered quickly; ‘I am not one to forget my friends. When you leave the château of Jézero, it shall not be empty-handed. And you may count upon me always——’

“Our discourse was cut short at this point by the return of another of the woodlanders, who had ridden out towards Travnik in the hope of finding Christine. He now came galloping over the grass of the park, and many ran out to meet him, crying for his news.

“‘Hast thou heard of her? Surely I see that thou hast tidings! Saints and angels! who shall tell the Lord Count? You have learnt nothing? May the day be black that she passed the gates!’

“The man rode on, regardless of these cries from the grooms and the women, and drew rein only at the door of the château.

“‘I have been sixteen hours in the saddle,’ he said to the priest, ‘and have learnt nothing. There was a strange woman passed through Jajce this morning, and an Italian with her; but she had rags about her legs. Mehmed Bey, who rode by here at sunset yesterday, saw my lady standing by the thicket at the turn of the path. She had a rosary in her hand, and her eyes were towards the town. She was still there when dark came down and hid her from his sight. Holy God! that I must tell it to my master!’

“There was a little crowd round the man before he had done; and when his message was delivered the women fell to wailing again and the grooms to cursing. All these, excellency, had learnt love for her whose presence had breathed so sweet an influence in the house of the Zaloskis. They mourned for her as one of their own; they trembled when they asked each other what saying must come to the Count’s ears. No sooner did one of them ride into the park than another was upon his horse, galloping swiftly through the bridle-track of the woods, or spurring again to the house of the Prefect. Nor did they rest, night or day, until their master stood again in the great courtyard of the house, and the terrible moment of speaking was at hand.

“He had driven over from the station at Travnik, for there was no railway then to Jajce, and dark was upon the château when we heard the bells of his horses. I can remember well that he wore the blue uniform of his hussar regiment, and that his cloak was open and loose and his cap somewhat over his face when he stepped from the carriage and stood for a minute in the courtyard, where we were drawn up, with torches in our hands, awaiting him. I had hoped that he would have called me from the company and have spoken with me first—for a groom had already whispered that he had heard the tidings—but he did not so much as notice me.

“‘Where is Hans?’ he asked, casting a quick glance over the throng.

“The steward stepped forward and bent low.

“‘My Lord Count,’ he murmured, ‘blame me not——’

“Count Paul stopped him abruptly.

“‘Follow me,’ he said, ‘and let these others go to their work.’

“‘The horses are ready bridled in the stables, Herr Count.’

“‘There is no need of them—let the bridles be taken off.’

“I looked at Father Mark when this was said, and he returned my glance. The others went slowly out of the courtyard, glad to put distance between themselves and their master. The Count led the steward to his study, and lighted the lamps there. We could see him from our place in the quadrangle pacing the length of the apartment, with his sword clattering at his heels; we could watch the gestures of Hans, whose lips moved quickly, and whose emphasis was abundant. It was evident that Count Paul scarce spoke a word. Yet who could measure the sorrow of his silence?

“‘Look,’ whispered the priest, gripping my arm, ‘he is listening to the man’s tale, but he answers nothing. You heard him give the order to unbridle the horses. That means much, my friend.’

“‘Securo, Father,’ replied I, ‘what we know, he knows—that is plain. You spoke well when you said that we should put curbs upon our tongues.’

“‘I spoke as my faith taught me,’ he exclaimed; ‘yet God knows what it cost me to do so. He is not a man to forget; Madonna mia, he will remember always. And she had become very dear to him. I would give half my life if she could be a wife to him.’

“‘Aye, truly,’ said I, ‘that would have been a great day. And it may come yet—who knows? If there be a hunt still for the man she has gone with, is it not easy to lay hands upon him? A company of dragoons would catch him in three days!’

“The suggestion was new to him. He considered it for a moment, and then he said:

“‘As you say, yet who will give the command? Not the Count, certainly, for what service would it be to him if the husband of Christine were sent to a prison, and to his regiment afterwards? The tale that he fired upon his commanding officer is one to be told in a guest-house, and not to a court of soldiers. You know that it is untrue. And more than that, my friend, we are dealing with one to whom honour is a faith. You, of course, might go to the Prefect with the story in your mouth. He would answer you that the man Klun was shot in the hills. You would lose then both the opportunity of serving the woman and the reward which I have promised you. Is that wisdom?’

“‘Nay,’ said I, for he had convinced me, ‘it would be folly beyond words, and for the matter of that——’

“‘Hush!’ he whispered, ‘the steward is coming out.’

“It was as he said. The Count had now flung himself into a great chair before his fire, and sat there motionless, the red light playing upon his drawn and anxious face. But the steward came out to us, and raising his finger warningly, he led us to the cloister. There, in hurried whispered words, he told us what had passed.

“‘He heard all in Travnik,’ said he, ‘for they had telegraphed there. He asked me if there was any letter left or message, or if the man—whom they say she has gone with—has been seen about the place. I said no, and then he charged me that my lady’s name should never pass our lips again. His anger I could have borne with—but his kindness—my God, that is hard to bear now. And there was no complaint. Had I been a woman, he could not have spoken gentler words. Black be the day that I have seen him so.’

“Excellency, I make no excuse for him, but there were tears in the eyes of Hans when he had done speaking.

“‘Come, Master Hans,’ I exclaimed, ‘neither winter nor summer rests always in the sky, as the proverb goes. Diamine, he will forget in a week, and all will be well again! It must be our business to help him. He made mention of me, did you say?’

“‘Surely he did.’

“‘The Lord bless his charity, then.’

“‘Not so fast, my friend. It is his wish that you return to your home with to-morrow’s sun. “Let the old man be seen here no more,” he said. A hard word, Signor Andrea, but this is not the time to alter it.’

“‘God so do to him as he has done to one that came far to serve him,’ cried I, and would have added more, but the priest put his hand upon my arm.

“‘How,’ said he, ‘is this the time to be brawling like a beggar at a church door? I am ashamed of you! Is there not misfortune enough upon the house that you should add your complaints to it? Truly the Count is right, and it is time you went to your home again.’

“‘Father,’ I replied, ‘no man tells me twice that my company is a burden to him. To-morrow at dawn I will set out.’

“‘You do well,’ said he, ‘nor will your services be forgotten.’

“He spoke with meaning, excellency; and when I rode out of the gates at sunrise next day, a bag of guldens was jingling at my girdle. Nor could I, grieve as I might for the exceeding misfortunes which had come upon the house of the Zaloskis, deem the gift to be unearned.

“‘God will lighten the burden,’ I thought, ‘and my Lord Count will forget. A man has not lived his life at forty. He will love again, and find an object more worthy. It may be even that I shall meet someone who will think it worth his while to deal with Ugo Klun. And if the lad were sent to the frontier, who can tell what would happen? Priests are priests, and have not men’s eyes. We of the world judge more justly. It is unlikely,’ I said, ‘that those at Jézero will think any more of old Andrea now that he has left them. He must be just to himself and watch patiently. Perchance he may yet serve little Christine—and has he not a bag of guldens at his girdle?’

“The latter assurance was my abiding consolation. I cracked my fingers for joy, and my heart beat light at the glory of the morning. The sweet scent of the blossoms, the odours of the pines, the invigorating air of the mountains, the spreading sunshine, sent me singing on my way. I turned round in my saddle and saw the château set as a toy-castle—for so it seemed to be in the distance—in the hollow of the pass below me.

“‘Addio, addio,’ cried I; ‘who knows that the day is not to come when little Christine shall return to rule that house, and old Andrea shall find a haven for his years?’

“And, so thinking, I rode on towards my own city.”