CHAPTER XIANDREA BEARS WITNESS
“Youhave told me, signor, that you know neither Jajce nor her mountains. May it be my privilege, if you are of a mind to see the wonders of this incomparable land, to be your companion in the venture! And when that day shall come, let it be a day neither of dreadful summer nor of unrelenting winter; a day when the hills are sweet with the air of spring; when the rills run down foamed with golden light; when the grass of the woods is carpeted with the year’s first flowers. Then we shall see the minarets of the city rising up like silver towers above the fresh waters of the river; then will the thunder of her cascade make music for our ears. She will win a victory over our affections; we shall hold her in perpetual honour.
“I am led to speak in this way since I am still mindful of my last journey to the town of the falling rivers, and of the many troublesthat beset my path when I sought Christine in her new home. You may ask well enough how it was that I, having, in my misconception, sent soldiers to save her from shame, did not at once search for her in the mountains and carry her back to Sebenico. As God is my witness, I did this, and all else that might bring back to me the daughter I loved. Ten days I rode in the heights, asking of all that passed by for tidings of my child; ten days I searched the woods and the villages between Livno and my own city. But that very secrecy which the lad Ugo had observed stood between me and my desires. None but the shepherd knew where Christine had slept upon the night of her marriage. Vague rumours of a sharp pursuit in the mountains, intelligence of the fate of Orio, divergent accounts of the capture of the deserter, of his attack upon his commanding officer and his death—these things came slowly to our ears in a province where gossip is high treason and the publication of news often a felony. Indeed, I had begun to look upon little Christine as one snatched from my love and my life, to say that I should never hear her pretty prattle or touch her hand again,when—and that was five months after she had left the island—the summons from Jajce came to me, and I learnt not only of her new estate, but of her happiness and her fortune.
“She wrote the letter with her own hand—no longer the childish scrawl which was her gift from the priest at Zlarin, but neater characters, telling of some education and of culture. I read there that she was not forgetful of the old time or the old friends; but it was plain that the fervour of childhood had left her, and that she had put on the sober dignity of womanhood. Such love as she expressed for me was expressed in measured terms; she spoke of her great gratitude to the Count and of his unceasing kindness to her; she made mention of Father Mark and of her other friends; and she concluded by exhorting me to cross the mountains to Jajce and there to tell all I knew of her early life and circumstances—‘for,’ she said, ‘this I owe to my benefactor, and you alone can pay the debt.’
“I read her letter, and on the third day after, having suffered much by the way, I was driving my sleigh over the frozen park of Count Paul’s château. The scene was one to linger inthe memory, excellency, a scene to bear witness to the glory of God, and of nature, which is God’s child. Peak upon peak, shining in the sun like domes of ice, rose up above the path I followed; Jajce herself had put upon her a mantle of snow; her frozen cascades were so many ropes of gold and of jewels; the great lake had become a vast mirror, like a mirror of silver; the hills themselves were full of the dismal howling of the wolves. From such desolation it was good to pass to the warmth and the welcome of the house of the Zaloskis; good to hear the barking of the dogs, to see the bright flame of the fires, to feel the spreading heat of the many stoves. But better than all was it to remember that little Christine was then in the house, and that I was about to hear her voice again.
“They received me in the great hall, excellency, the priest coming forward to meet me, and whispering a word in my ear before he led me to his master. He had a kindly face, open and sincere; and ill as Christine had liked him at the first, I make sure that she has reason now to love him. This, indeed, his words proved, as you shall learn subsequently.
“‘My friend,’ said he, ‘you must first drink a glass of prune brandy, and warm yourself with the soup which Hans shall bring us. I know very well what the cold may be on the hills. Let us thank God for these thick walls around us.’
“He poured me a glass of the liquor, which was like fire to the stomach; and when I had drunk it I asked for Christine.
“‘She is in the library with the Count,’ said he, and I thought with just a little bitterness; ‘it is astonishing what service she seems to be to him. There is nothing like a woman’s hand, Signor Andrea, and hers is very ready. I have said from the first that she is no peasant’s child.’
“‘You have spoken well,’ I replied; ‘she is no peasant’s child. Her father could remember the day when he was first man in Zara; her mother had a gift of music above the common. The vagaries of trade and the coming of the Austrian—I speak freely, for I read your nationality in your face—brought ruin to their house. God be praised that she has found another home!’
“‘Amen to that,’ cried he. ‘You must forgiveus if the singular nature of her story has made us desirous to learn all that can be learnt. I took this opportunity of speaking to you, since I would rather hear anything that is to be told than have it come suddenly to the ears of the Count. Christine’s influence over him is very remarkable. Heaven forbid that I should speak against him—but he is another man since this little guest crept into his life. You will understand that I should not like him to hear ill of her.’
“‘Hear ill of her!’ cried I; ‘per Baccho, Father, I would like to know the man that would speak it. Hear ill of her—Holy Mother, what talk!’
“‘Then you are able to say that she is a good girl?’
“‘A good girl—cospetto, she is as innocent as a child at her first Communion. What! you would condemn her for running away to the hills with a lout who had promised to save her from a convent? That is pretty charity, Father!’
“‘I condemn her for nothing, signor; I am only anxious to know.’
“‘Then you know now,’ said I, and I spokewith some heat; ‘you have the word of Andrea of Sebenico.’
“‘The glory be to God,’ said he; ‘and now I will take you to her, for she has been asking for you all day.’
“He led the way from the hall, excellency, and passed down a vaulted corridor of stone, from the further end of which I heard the loud tones of a man’s voice—a rich and resonant voice, which would have held cavalry at the charge. I thought it strange that Father Mark, who hitherto had shewn some conceit of bearing and of manner, should become timid and reserved so soon as he heard his master speaking; but thus it was; and when we came to the door at the end of the passage he was humble and as fearful as a schoolboy.
“‘The Count is busy, I fear,’ said he, knocking timidly; ‘he is angry with the Prefect, and is putting down notes of his reply. Ah! that is a full stop; now we can go in.’
“Excellency, the full stop was a blow with the fist upon a cabinet or a table—a blow like the fall of a hammer upon the iron. We took advantage of its echoes to open the door, and a moment later little Christine’s arms were aboutmy neck. Ah! that was an hour to remember, an hour of my life—to have the wanderer’s cheek against my own, to hear her pretty words, to know that she could still call me Father Andrea. Yet I forgot not in whose presence I stood, and so soon as I had returned my child’s greetings I turned towards the Count and saluted him with proper respect.
“‘Herr Count,’ said I, ‘this is a happy day for me,’ and with that I continued to bow to him, until suddenly he stopped me peremptorily.
“‘Sit down, sit down, Signor Andrea,’ cried he; ‘you have been long in the coming, but are none the less welcome for that. We will give you a glass of hot wine, and then you shall talk to us. I’ll wager it was cold out yonder. Christine, see that the old man is made comfortable.’
“Excellency, I was hurt that he should have spoken of me in this way, for, poor as I am, there is old blood in my veins; yet I saw that he meant no hurt, and that his manner was the manner of a soldier, little given to courtesies. Nay, it was impossible not to feel respect for one who had so many of those gifts which men value. Rough of speech, huge of person, notwanting kindly eyes, to be reckoned handsome by the women, oddly dressed in a dark green military tunic—you would have marked Count Paul even in a regiment of Guards. There was a command in the lightest word he spoke, an invitation to obedience which few dared to resist. Yet you felt that his approval was something to be won and kept, that a kind word from him was precious as the gifts of others.
“But while I say this of the man, it is difficult to speak of the new Christine I found in the château of Jajce. Oh, she was changed beyond words, signor. Five months had made a woman of her; had robbed her of none of the graces of her childhood, yet had added other graces to them. She was always a tall child; but she had grown since I had seen her, and now stood up almost to the shoulder of the Count. Her new dress, brought from Vienna; her new manner of speech, for they had taught her much German; her pretty airs, like the airs of a little princess, all became her exceedingly. I saw that she was worthy of the château—was worthy of any fortune that could come to her; and this I made bold to tell the Count when he began to question me.
“‘Herr Count,’ said I, ‘she was the best of children, and I have loved her as one of my own.’
“‘And yet you left her four years to starve upon the island of Zlarin,’ said he, drily.
“Christine, eager to see that my wants were attended to, had run away while he spoke thus harshly. I did not fail to observe that the Count followed her steps with his eyes—nay, that his eyes rested upon her alone when she was in the room.
“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘it is true that necessity carried me from my duty to the child during the space of four years; but now that I am able, I am willing to repay. If it is your wish, I will take her back with me on the morrow, and will make it my charge to see that she is educated by the Sisters as I have promised.’
“Excellency, it was a wise answer, putting off at once the burden of his reproaches. He replied to me with your English word.
“‘Verdammt!’ said he, bringing his fist heavily upon the table, ‘she shall go to no convent! You hear that, old man? Then speak no more of it.’
“‘Herr Count,’ said I, ‘your wish is a command to me. Yet there is one by whom itmight not be so regarded. I speak of Christine’s husband, Ugo Klun.’
“‘Her husband, Signor Andrea!’ he cried with a start of surprise. ‘But he was shot in the mountains five months ago!’
“‘So the word goes,’ I answered; ‘but there is another story. Few know the hills like Ugo, Herr Count.’
“It was plain that this suggestion came very ill to him. He got up from his chair and paced the room twice before he spoke again.
“‘Pshaw!’ he exclaimed at last; ‘this is all nonsense. I have read the corporal’s report with my own eyes. He killed the fellow himself, and helped to bury him. Your tongue wags too fast, my friend; see that you keep it still when the girl comes back.’
“I bowed my head, excellency, being careful to lose nothing of my dignity before him. But when Christine came running back again, and I observed the restlessness of his hands and the flush upon his face, the whole of his secret was mine, and no longer was anything hid from me.
“And in my heart I said: ‘God help them both if Ugo Klun is living still in the cave above the Verbas.’”