HUGH soon departed, but for his sister the events of that memorable day were not yet over. It was late, and she was about to retire to rest, having first dutifully shown August's present to the Lady of Savelburg, who said few words, but drew her close and held her to her heart. She had just finished her evening prayer—tonight unusually earnest, there were so many things to give thanks for, so many still to ask ―when a servant knocked gently at the door. “Fraulein,” he said softly, and with rather an air of mystery, “Captain Graham is here. You will find him in the matted parlor. He begged me to disturb no one, save yourself only.”
“I will go to him,” said Jeanie, feeling not at all reassured by so unseasonable a visit. When she saw her uncle her worst fears were confirmed. He looked pale and haggard, indeed absolutely ill. His dress, too, was disordered; it lacked its usual soldierly neatness and smartness, besides being soaked with rain and stained with mud, for the night was wet.
She came near to give him the usual embrace, but he put her from him, saying testily, “Don't you see, child, that I am wet?”
“Yes, uncle; you must have had a very uncomfortable ride. Is anything wrong, that you come to me thus, and at such an hour?”
He gave a short laugh, in which there was no mirthfulness. “Wrong more than enough, or at least I fear so,” he said. “But it is not that which has brought me here.”
Just then the servant entered, bearing wine and cakes for the refreshment of the visitor; an attention with which, under the circumstances, Jeanie would have gladly dispensed. She was relieved when her uncle said, as the servant left the room, “I want neither meat nor drink. For a week past I have hated the sight of both.”
Jeanie drew near, and put her hand affectionately on his shoulder. “Dear uncle,” she said, “I see you are in trouble. Will you not tell me what it is?”
“You are the last person in all the world to whom I ought to tell it,” he answered passionately, shaking off her hand. “Do not touch me. You would not if you knew all.”
She now no longer doubted what was the matter. But she only came the closer, and spoke with the deeper tenderness. “Uncle Charlie,” she said, using the familiar name generally left to Hugh, “you know I love you so well that any trouble of yours could only bring me near you, and not drive me away. You know too,” she added, with a little hesitation, “that if we have done wrong, ―either you or L—there is but one way of help for us. We must take the sin to the feet of our dear Saviour, and ask Him to forgive the past, and to give us strength to do better for the future.”
“It was scarce a sin that I can see. It was rather a mistake—a terrible mistake!”
“But, uncle, you have found before this that things of that kind did you harm,” said Jeanie, yet further confirmed in her suspicions, and not quite liking the tone of his last words.
“Found that what did me harm? Of what are you thinking? Surely not of my respectful worship of the peerless Lady of Savelburg, a worship I was free to offer, and she—if she had so pleased it—to accept? It is not that that has harmed me. In itself it was worthy and noble, though I own that its consequences have proved disastrous.”
Jeanie began to think—it might rather be said to hope―that she was on the wrong track after all. She felt, indeed, utterly perplexed and bewildered, and therefore waited for him to speak again, which he seemed in no hurry to do. During the pause a new thought occurred to her. Could he have been stung, by the jests of his comrades upon his hopeless passion, into the madness of fighting a duel? That was an offense punishable with death in the camp of Gustavus Adolphus.
“Have you fought with anyone?” she faltered.
“Yes, and no. I struck one blow, which I shall regret to my dying day; and the more so as I do not know the consequences.”
“You must have been provoked to it.”
“Provoked to it I was, but by myself alone. What have I been doing all these weeks past, save lashing myself into an unreasonable fury against the Lord of Savelburg, till I felt more like a wild beast than the soldier of a Christian king?”
“Oh!” cried Jeanie, in a tone of great relief. “If it was he whom you struck, uncle, of course that was in fair fight, and no crime before God or man.”
“That is all you know, poor child; and I must not tell you more. But I would to God I had been slain myself before I struck that blow!” He rose from his seat, and began to pace up and down the room with rapid, agitated steps. Jeanie's first fears returned; ―to vanish again, as she observed him more closely, or rather to give way to others which were all the more terrible because so vague and indefinite. Could her uncle be going out of his mind? How else could this overwhelming remorse and anguish, which seemed to have no adequate cause, be accounted for?
“You are the very last person I ought to tell,” he again repeated; but it was in a tone that said, “It would be an immense relief to tell you, for all that.”
“I can see no reason why you should not tell me, uncle,” Jeanie answered gently. “Do, if it be any relief to you. Perhaps I could comfort you. At all events, I will try.”
“Sit down where you are, then. No, not nearer. Turn your face away from me. I am overwhelmed with an awful fear. I misdoubt me sore that I have slain”―
“Not Hugh—oh, not Hugh!” The words broke from Jeanie with a sudden sharp cry of anguish, as the terror of a possible accident with sword or pistol swept over her. It was an unreasoning terror, for Hugh had only left her side a few hours before, and her uncle's trouble had been, by his own confession, of a week's standing, ―but she was too horror-stricken and agitated for reflection.
“Hugh! Are you dreaming? How could Hugh have anything to do with it, he here with you, I yonder in the camp? No, no; Hugh is well out of it all. Have I not told you that it was the Lord of Savelburg I tried to slay, fancying, madly and foolishly, as I now believe, that Lady Gertrud would look on me with favor as the avenger of her wrongs?”
“She would not do so. She will never care for anyone in that way. I think she has suffered too much.”
“I know well enough she will never care for me,” said poor Charlie ruefully. “I wish I had left my ill-luck where I found it, and not made it a thousand times worse, by way of making it better! I heard the new Lord of Savelburg spoken of as a gallant officer, for whom Wallenstein had taken one of his excessive and capricious fancies. In such cases his munificence is beyond belief, and his confidence unbounded. So the favorite was not a little envied of his comrades, the rather as he was a foreigner, and kept himself proudly aloof from the vices and disorders of the camp, disdaining to enrich himself by plunder. Doubtless this made him the more anxious to distinguish himself in the field, and justify the preference of his general. On the day of Altenberg he was one of those who held the fort against us, and performed wonders of valor. I knew him by the; plume of crimson and black, and I was near him once, when they made a sally. But I could not come at him―to my sair grief and dule! Would I had not lived to get my will another day! After the battle we sent out skirmishing parties, and so did they. On the third day I requested the command of one of these, being anxious to do something by-ordinar, since the king had given me my company. We fell in with a troop of horse, and behold! to my delight, there waved the plume of crimson and black at the head of it. First, we let them charge against our pikes, for that is the way to do when you have foot against horse. Then, as they recoiled, and he tried to rally them, I spurred forward, crying, ‘Lord of Savelburg, I have business with you.’ It was the matter of a moment. We went at each other sword in hand. His thrust missed me, but I saw that his blood was flowing from the effect of mine. Then for the first time I saw his face. Jeanie, it was the face of your father! ―Have I got the mark of Cain upon me?”
“Are you sure?” asked Jeanie in bewilderment. “Sure? ―of the face I loved best in all the world ever since I was a two years' bairn?”
Jeanie felt as if the great Labeling Haus had fallen down suddenly upon her head, and was crushing her to dust. Graham poured out some wine and brought it to her. “Here, drink this. You are deadly pale. And no wonder!”
“No,” said Jeanie, pushing it away. “I am not faint or ill―only sore perplexed. I cannot understand. I thought my father was dead.”
“You bairns were allowed to think so. And, indeed, Master John and I thought it the more likely thing. But we had never heard any tidings of his death. We knew nothing for certain.”
“I was aware there was a kind of doubt,” said Jeanie slowly. “At least, that you had not heard for certain. But all this is so strange. To think that it is he who has been keeping Fraulein Gertrud's inheritance!” In the midst of her bewilderment, this was the aspect of the case which occurred to Jeanie first.
“Even so,” said Graham. “Knowing him as I did in past years, I do not wonder that he took by storm the proud, capricious heart of Wallenstein. But”―
“But, uncle, you can surely find out about him from someone in the enemy's camp. You do find out things often; I have heard you say so.”
“I have tried. Monro made for me every inquiry that could be made, but he only learned that the Lord of Savelburg was sore wounded, and had left the camp. Whither he went, or what they have done with him amidst the confusion they are in now (though that they try to hide), we cannot learn. And tomorrow we march away―in this terrible uncertainty whether I am my brother's murderer or no.”
“The baron will help us,” said Jeanie. “He will find out where they have brought him.”
“There is some hope in that suggestion. But oh, lassie—if he dies! Is it always a sin in God's sight for a man to kill himself, I wonder?”
“Sin! It is sin even to think of it!” said Jeanie, shuddering. “God keep you from such horrible thoughts, dear uncle. And He will. Be brave, and keep your heart up. We will find out your ―my―is he really my father?―and send you word that his wound is healing.”
“You are a brave lassie; God bless you! Ask, of course, ―or rather, get the baron to ask—for the Lord of Savelburg.”
“Lord of Savelburg! I cannot understand it yet. It is like a dream, and a terrible dream, too. What will Fraulein Gertrud think?”
“A terrible dream, you may say indeed. But I, at least, must come to my senses, for we march tomorrow morning. I ought to have told you at first, only this horror has driven everything out of my head. Tell Hugh at once. He must come back with me.”
“Hugh!”
“Of course. No doubt the boy is fast asleep in his bed these three hours. But you must rouse him immediately, for I cannot go without him. Hoot awa', lassie! what ails you?”
“I begin to think that everything is a dream, or that I am out of my mind. Uncle, Hugh went to you hours ago―early in the afternoon. You sent for him yourself.”
“I did not! Someone has played a trick upon the boy. This is too provoking! As if there was not trouble enough already. And now, what can have become of him?”
This last trouble, touching the tenderest part of her being, completely overwhelmed poor Jeanie.
Her brave heart failed for once, and, giving herself up to an agony of apprehension, she moaned helplessly, with trembling lips, “Oh, Hugh, Hugh!―what shall we do?”
The sight of her anguish lent a little manly courage to her uncle, usually the weaker of the two. “Come, my bairn,” he said; “you must not give way like that. No real harm has befallen the lad. This is nothing more than a foolish practical joke, which some idle young companion has been so ill-advised as to play upon him.”
“May not someone have laid a snare for him, to make him a prisoner?” faltered Jeanie.
Even in the midst of his vexation, Graham could not help smiling. “They might, if he were a young prince, or the heir to a great estate. But who would take the trouble of laying snares for a boy of the regiment? Or, for that matter, who would know what to do with him when they got him? He is not so precious in everyone's eyes as he is in yours and mine, Jeanie.”
“But, uncle, if that strange thing you have told me be true indeed, Hugh is an heir—the heir of Savelburg.”
“Who could know of that? But stay; let us think a little. Who brought Hugh my message, or the message said to have been mine?”
“It was not a message; it was a note.”
“Did you see it? Do you know what became of it?”
“I think he left it on the table of the room where we were,” said Jeanie, a vivid flush mounting to her cheek at the sudden recollection of the talk Hugh's entrance had interrupted. It seemed as if years, instead of hours, had passed since then.
“Can you fetch it? Take this lamp with you, and try.”
Jeanie hesitated, endeavoring to recall circumstances which she had scarcely noticed at the time and reproaching herself bitterly for her carelessness in not having herself examined the note. “I fear I shall not find it,” she said at last. “For I remember now that August, who was with us at the time, took it up, and what became of it afterward I cannot tell;―however, I will try.” She took the lamp, which was fortunately a small one, and left the room.
In a few minutes she returned with a crumpled scrap of paper. “This tells nothing,” she said mournfully, as she gave it to her uncle. “But I ought to have looked at it myself. It is not your writing.”
“Not so very unlike it, though. You might have looked at it ten times over without being the wiser. However, give it to me.”
“I think,” said Jeanie, “it were better I should keep it, and show it to the baron. He may do something, being here, whilst you, with the army, far away”― Her voice faltered broke with emotion, as the thought of her uncle's departure brought home the dreary sense of solitude to her aching, troubled heart. Hugh was gone, she knew not whither; her uncle was going; and also that true-hearted boyish friend who, as she well knew, would have stood loyally by her side in every danger and difficulty.
“I daresay you are right. But do not make yourself unhappy about Hugh. The boy will turn up somewhere before long, and not a hair the worse; I am sure of that.”
Jeanie by no means shared his confidence; if indeed that confidence was real, and not assumed, wholly or in part. in order to reassure her A sudden flash of intuition led her to suspect a connection between her brother's disappearance and the mysterious visits she knew he had received during her occasional absences, and about which the usually frank, communicative boy had maintained such an obstinate and provoking silence.
While she pondered, the great clock in the hall struck two. Graham started. “I have not an instant to lose,” he said. “We march at five.”
Unnerved for the moment by the agitation through which she had passed, Jeanie clung to him, weeping and trembling. It seemed as though she would have held him back, and kept him with her. “It is dreadful for you to go away in the midst of all this trouble!” she sobbed. “Oh, uncle, ought you not rather to ask for a furlough, and stay to seek your brother and your brother's son? The one may be dying, for aught we know, the other in some sore peril.”
“Now, Jeanie lass, I never knew you to say a foolish thing before in all your days. My bairn, I wear the king's uniform, and I am bound to render him true service, though I die for it, and though all dear to me die too. He needs true service now, if he ever did. And, whatever comes, I maun do my duty, and trust God for the rest.”
Even in the midst of sorrow and perplexity, these brave words sent a thrill of joy to the heart of Giovana Graham. Her uncle had not been wont in other days to speak thus of trusting God. Were faith and confidence in an earthly king unconsciously leading his thoughts higher? Her courage rose to meet his, and, regaining her self-possession, she said, as she embraced him affectionately, “Yes, dear uncle, we will trust God. He will make darkness light, and crooked places straight for us—and for Hugh.” Only at the last word did her voice falter a little.
“Mind, Jeanie, if you should succeed, through the baron, in learning aught of your father, try to communicate with him, and to show him such love and duty as you can.”
“Such as I can,” said Jeanie rather sadly.
“With us,” resumed her uncle, “communication will, I hope, be regular and easy, through General Kniphausen and the Swedish garrison. If Hugh is with the army, as he is almost sure to be, I will not fail to let you know as quickly as I can. You, on your part, will write also?”
“Without fail. God go with you, dear uncle.”
“Amen. However it may be with a sinful, faulty man such as I am, it is at least a comfort to know that He goes forth with our armies. And that I think He does. May He abide with you, dear bairn, and bring us both out of all our troubles! Good-bye.”
In another moment he was gone. The rapid steps of two horses—his own and that of his orderly, who had waited outside―woke the echoes of the silent street; he was soon at the gate, showing the sleepy warder the pass with which the Swedish camp-master-general had furnished him for the occasion; and, always lavish in small expenses, consoling the official for his broken slumbers with a couple of his not too numerous rix-dollars. Jeanie by this time was on her knees in her own chamber, trying to lay before her one unfailing Friend all the distracting and perplexing events of that day of many emotions. It was truly a day much to be remembered; a day “not clear nor dark,” but one in which strong light and deep shadow chased each other swiftly over the firmament of her life. Which should prevail—the sunshine or the clouds?