Chapter VII Guests of Chance
“’Twould be a wildish destiny
If we, who thus together roam
In a strange land and far from home,
Were in this place the Guests of Chance!
Yet who would stop or fear to advance...?”
WORDSWORTH.
“The Lord Burgrave is not at the castle. The gracious Lady Burgravine never receives visitors.”—Thus Martin the gatekeeper, thrusting his ugly head out of the vasistas of the great nail-studded door.
The last of the sunlight had faded. Grey and sheer rose the Burg walls and turrets above the visitors’ heads; sheer and grey fell the mountainside away at their feet.
“Mark now, comrade, for here are we back in the Middle Ages,” whispered Geiger-Hans to his companion. Aloud he cried to the porter, who was slowly withdrawing his countenance: “Half a minute, friend, and let us examine your statement. That the Lord Burgrave is away, I am aware; but that your lady does not receive has still to be proved. How if we two come upon the invitation of His Excellency himself? Consider me that.”
Through the gathering gloom Steven peered at the musician’s mocking features. Martin the doorward stared in silence for a moment; then, with a great groaning of bars and grinding of keys, set the heavy door ajar—not to admit them, indeed, but that he might stare the closer.
“Martin,” pursued the fiddler, gravely, “your name had better have been Thomas: you were born an unbeliever.”
“My orders are,” said Martin, in surly tones, “to admit no one.”
“Fellow,” said the fiddler, “a servant’s orders, I take it, are not like the Ten Commandments, but subject to variations according to another’s pleasure. What if I tell you that, knowing your master——”
“You? Know my master!” The doorward’s teeth showed like an old dog’s in a grin, half scorn, half doubt.
“Aye, we have but recently parted. By the same token, friend, he is now at Halberstadt and may be here to-morrow. Meanwhile, as it is damp and night falls, admit us to your stone hall and let us sit, for you will be wise to gaze at us a while longer before you take upon yourself to drive off the lord Burgrave’s friend and the lady Burgravine’s kinsman from doors to which they have been invited. Look at that gentleman. There is a gentleman for you, from the crown of his noble head to the sole of his high-born foot! And look at me! Ah, you know me! Geiger-Hans, am I not? Beware, Martin, great people have their disguises.”
Martin showed signs of agitation and yielding. Geiger-Hans, keeping him under the raillery of his glance, pursued his argumentative advantage:
“Now, cease scratching that grey stubble, and I will tell thee what to do to save thee from a false step. Go thou to the gracious lady, and ask her if her lord has not advised her of the probable visit of two travellers, and request of her whether (these two gentlemen having presented themselves) it is not her wish, in obedience to her lord, that they should be admitted. Meanwhile, we shall sit on this bench, and I shall beguile my noble companion’s weariness with a little air of music.”
The porter withdrew slowly, without another word, but not without casting backward glances of doubt upon the new-comers.
“How do you dare?” asked Steven, fixing almost awestruck eyes upon Geiger-Hans, who, nursing his instrument upon one knee, was coolly winding up the strings.
“Dare, I?” He twanged the cord, shook his head, and fell to screwing again. “Why should I not dare? What have I to fear? What have I to lose? We are sure of a welcome, I tell you—of a supper, and of a good joke.”
“Your magnificent audacity!” said Steven, sitting gingerly down at the end of the bench, and looking at the other’s lean figure as if it had been that of the Prince of Lies himself. “Positively, I myself could hardly believe you were not speaking the truth.”
“And so I was,” said the other, composedly. “Not one word but was solemn verity.”
“Oh, but stay! How come I to be kinsman to the Burgravine?”
“You are Austrian,” quoth the musician. “So is she, as I happen to know. Both the finest flower of the Empire’s aristocracy. If you’re not related somewhere... I’ll eat my fiddle.”
“Upon my word!” ejaculated Steven, opening his eyes very wide. “I suppose it is on the same kind of plea that you have your acquaintance with the Burgrave. An intimate acquaintance?”
“Intimate. I have said so. The Burgrave of Wellenshausen is a type that is true to itself.”
“And he has invited us to visit the Burg?” Steven’s tones broke into mirth.
“Indubitably.” The player raised his fiddle and drew a long note from it that was a musical mockery of the young man’s high key. “The husband who locks up a light-hearted wife alone in a solitary tower invites in terms most positive every gentleman of heart and spirit in the country to come and console her. M. de Wellenshausen is at Halberstadt, on the King’s business—I was playing at the Crown Hotel. He will be here to-morrow. And he said to me: ‘Friend’—mark you, friend (the Burgrave had dined satisfactorily; the wine is excellent at the Crown), ’you must come and play that tune at my castle.’ He’s fond of music, you see. ’Twas a promise. And the only person who will lie in the whole matter to-day is the noble lady Burgravine. She is dying by inches of ennui, and she will—be quite certain of it!—she will assure the porter that our visit has indeed been announced to her. ’Tis to be regretted, but such is the way of women who eat their hearts away in lonely strong houses.”
He caught his fiddle to his breast: liquid melody flowed out into the empty hall, and went echoing down long passages and up into vaulted roofs. Like rabbits from a warren, now a scullion popped a head out of some dark corner, now a rosy wench half opened a side door and peeped, smiling. There awoke all about the sleepy castle a sound of skirmishing and tittering; now a patter of bare feet; now the tramp of boots that no precautions could hush. At length the majestic form of the major-domo himself appeared before the vagrants, magnificent in his silver chain and silk stockings and buckle shoes. Geiger-Hans hushed his music and leaned over to Steven to whisper in his ear:
“See, he has been putting on his grand garb of ceremony to deliver his lady’s little lie.”
“The high-born, my mistress, had not expected you before to-morrow,” said the butler, with a deep bow to Steven. He cast a fish-like eye of astonishment upon the fiddler, but, nevertheless, pursued: “Will your honour follow me to your apartment?” Again he stared at the musician, who nimbly rose and bowed.
“My honour will also follow,” he said blandly. “Our valise is on the donkey’s back, at the door; see to it, my man.”
If Geiger-Hans were surprised at his own success, it was only the humorous twitch of his eyebrows that betrayed the fact. He was of those, apparently, whose talent for seizing opportunities generally evoke the belief that they have created them.
“Comrades should share and share alike,” said he presently, laying down Steven’s brush, which he had been wielding dexterously on his own locks—“lend me a black ribbon for my queue—it is out of mode, but I am of the old stock. I have been shaved à velours to-day—’twas an inspiration! A cloud of powder would complete me, but you new-century bucks know not of these refinements. Nay, but here is a pot of the finest Parma, as I live! For the chin and cheek of milord after the razor, no doubt? Now shall you see how it became the countenance of a better-looking generation.—I think that black suit of yours so neatly folded in the corner of our valise is, perhaps, what would best grace my gravity. Yes. And a ruffle shirt.... Thank you. Ah!... And those violet silk stockings.”
Steven stood hypnotized.
“Your eyes will positively drop out,” said the fiddler, “if you stare any more.” He drew a snuff-box from his discarded coat, and tapped it with his finger. “A pinch is but a poor thing, if a man has not a frill to his wrist,” he said. And he was apparently not ill-pleased to see how Steven marvelled at the grace with which he swung his borrowed laces, the air with which he flipped an invisible atom from his cuff. He took a step, as though his legs had never known but silk. Steven’s suit, if a little large, hung on his figure with a notable fitness.
“As I live!” cried Count Waldorff-Kielmansegg, with a loud laugh of discovery, “a gentleman, after all!”
Geiger-Hans drew his black brows together with his swift frown.
“Your equal, you mean, doubtless?” said he, dryly. “You do me too great honour.” Then his eyes softened again, as in his turn he surveyed his companion. “Come,” said he, “I would give all my superior years for some of your youthful disabilities. I cherish no illusions as to which of us the fair Burgravine will deem the better worth her notice.”
And, indeed, when the two were ushered into the long, dim, tapestry-hung saloon, the bright eyes of the lady of the castle merely swept Geiger-Hans, amazingly distinguished as he was in his borrowed plumes, to rest with complacency on the youth who followed him.
Steven held his head high, after the fashion of your shy, self-conscious fellow. But his head being one upon which Nature had set a noble stamp, this became it well. If there was pride in the arch of his eyebrow and the curl of his lip, there was, likewise, race to justify it. Betty, the Burgravine, could note as much between two flickers of her long eyelashes; note, too, that (thank goodness!) he wore none of those new, odious Cossack trousers, but kept to the fashion which made it worth while for a man to have a good line to his limb; note, furthermore, that plum-colour frac, maize waistcoat, and dove-grey kerseymeres make excellent harmony with rose taffeta. The lady had been created for courts, and even now, perched like a humming bird in the eyrie of a mountain eagle, moved in a gay, trifling atmosphere of her own. And, as he returned her gaze, Count Steven, who had also been constructed for the high places of life, felt that he was in his element once more.
“The—the gentlemen!” announced Niklaus, with a nervous giggle. He knew Geiger-Hans—as who did not that belonged to the country-side? But familiarity had not so far bred contempt, and neither he nor his compeers would have ventured to question anything the mysterious being chose to do. Had the fiddler desired himself to be announced as the Archangel Michael, or Prince Lucifer, or the Emperor Napoleon, or the Wandering Jew, Niklaus would scarcely have been surprised.
The rose-red lady advanced a sweet little sandal and made a profound curtsey. Her classic top-knot of curls was richly dark, and so was the olive velvet of her cheek; but as she looked up slowly from her inclination, Steven was quite startled to find that her eyes opened blue as forget-me-nots.
“Gentlemen!” ejaculated she, translating Niklaus’ clumsy Saxon German into tripping French—it being the tone of German Courts to speak French. The blue flowers of her eyes widened in surprise upon Geiger-Hans. She had not known there were two gentlemen when she looked forth from the window; only the goodly youth and his roadside guide. But this elderly person was a gentleman, no doubt about that, and a fine one, too.... Only, so old!
And now he took the lead, as became his years.
“Madame la Comtesse,” responded he; and even Steven, in spite of his Anglo-Austrian ear, could note the exquisite purity of his Gallic accent, “permit two travellers to express their gratitude for the generous alacrity with which you have granted them hospitality. We had lost our way——”
“Lost your way!” interrupted the lady; and an irrepressible smile curved her lips upwards.
“Yes, madam,” pursued the other, imperturbably; “and, with the night coming on, in this wild and mountainous district, Heaven knows what might not have happened to us!”
“I know not what your destination may be, sir,” answered she, drawing back with a faint air of haughtiness, “but surely yours is a strange itinerary that took an isolated crag on the road.”
“Madame,” said he, “we gave ourselves infinite pains to attain this height.”
The glance towards herself, the touch at his heart, the bow, made of these words a delicate compliment. The line of her mouth began once more to waver.
“To have gone down again, madam, would have been impossible. Our itinerary, as you say, is perhaps difficult to explain. If I were to tell you that we took a wrong turning, my friend here would correct me, for he is convinced, madam, it was the right turning, since it brought him to your feet.”
Here Steven could do nothing but bow in his turn. This he did, however, with such youthful grace and so ardent a look, that his hostess melted outright into smiles.
“Sir—!” said she, coyly; and the young man felt he had been eloquent indeed.
“Count Steven Lee zu Waldorff-Kielmansegg,” introduced Geiger-Hans, with a wave of his arm.
“Lee?... Waldorff?” quoth she, surprised.
“Steven Lee in England, Waldorff-Kielmansegg in Austria,” said the fiddler, blandly.
“O du mein lieber Oesterreich!” she exclaimed, singing; and the forget-me-not eyes became suffused with the tear of sensibility.
“Waldorff-Kielmansegg of Waldeck,” enumerated the master of ceremonies; while Steven stood in dignity, conscious of his honours.
“Then we are cousins!” She clapped her soft palms; the rising emotion was forgotten in laughter. “Positively we are cousins. I am Schwartzenberg—Betty von Schwartzenberg—and my mother’s second cousin, Rezy Lützow, married Tony Kielmansegg. You are welcome, my cousin.”
She held out her hand. He kissed it ceremoniously; and she, bending forward, sketched a butterfly salute on his forehead. It was the custom in his father’s country; but he had lived long enough in England for it to have grown unfamiliar. His heart contracted with a delicious spasm, and the blood sang in his ears. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself holding the taper fingers close, found his lips upon them again.
Perhaps the lady was displeased; but, if so, she cloaked the fact with a very pretty blush, and, as they drew apart, there could be no doubt but that the young visitor’s position was established. She now looked expectantly towards the elder of her guests.
He stood watching them with quizzical gaze, tapping his snuff-box, one leg becomingly advanced. She waited to hear a no less fine-sounding introduction. But as the waiting was prolonged to almost a hint of awkwardness:
“Will you not,” said she, “Cousin Kielmansegg, return Monsieur’s good offices?”
It was Count Steven’s turn to blush.
“My friend,” said the fiddler, after enjoying the poor youth’s agony with a relentless eye for a second or two, “has been content to accept my companionship as entertaining and useful to himself without inquiring into my ancestry. But such indulgence, my gracious hostess, I cannot claim of you. Through all the noble blood that flows in your veins, there mingles, of course, still a drop of Mother Eve’s. Permit me to make myself known to you as Jean, Seigneur de la Viole, Marquis de Grand-Chemin.... I lay but a couple of my poor titles at your feet.”
She pondered awhile, nibbling her little finger, her delicate eyebrows wrought as if in effort of memory. Then she said with gravity:
“Your name, sir, has an ancient sound.”
“Madam,” he responded, “I would not boast, but there is none more ancient in our world.”
Over again she pondered, looking down at the tip of her sandal. The blue eyes took stock afresh, and, thereupon, sunshine chased the gathering cloud from her face. With the air of one making up her mind to be amused without questioning:
“You are welcome, too,” she said, “Monsieur My Guest.”
“Ah, madam,” responded he, “pity that this, the fairest of my titles, must needs be the most fleeting!”
Tying a blue riband into a hasty knot as she came, entered Sidonia, almost at a run. All this time she had been striving to turn her heavy fair tresses into the fashionable top-knot, as demonstrated by Countess Betty—with what result her aunt’s first glance of pity told her but too clearly. She halted in her rapid advance, and stood, blushing like a school-girl, unable to lift her eyes.
“Child,” said the Burgravine, “here is my cousin, Count Kielmansegg, who could not pass by his kinswoman in exile without personally inquiring after her well-being.” When Sidonia ventured a stealthy look, it was to find—oh, bitter moment!—that she was unrecognized. “And this gentleman——” pursued her aunt, with a small, sarcastic smile.
The girl, bewildered, had begun her second curtsey, when she stopped herself with a cry of utter amazement—
“Thou, Geiger-Onkel!”
“Madam,” intervened the fiddler, gravely, addressing the Burgravine, “that is yet another of my honours—to young people who love my music, I am the Geiger-Onkel.”
“We are decidedly en famille to-night,” said the Burgravine, with a trace of acidity. “But here, child,” she proceeded in a meaning tone, “your friend had better be known as Monsieur de la Viole.”
“Marquis de Grand-Chemin,” insistently added the vagrant, with his courtly bow.
“Marquis de Grand-Chemin,” admitted the lady. Nevertheless, it was the arm of her cousin, the mere Count, that she took to conduct her to the dining apartment.