My first impulse was to turn my horse’s head and ride off with all speed in the contrary direction, but bethinking me that they would never dare to make an attempt upon my liberty in the streets of an orderly city, I resolved to continue on my way, and pay no heed to them as I passed. And this I began to do, walking my horse slowly, so that they night not think I had any fear of them.
Otto was stationed at the head of the troop, a few paces in advance of the rest, and I was wellnigh abreast of him before any of the servants perceived who passed them. Even then ’twas myself who invited their attention. For turning my head I saw the Countess just within the gates of the garden. She was habited in a riding-dress, and was taking leave of a gentleman who was with her.
On the instant I stopped my horse.
“Here, Otto!” I cried, and flinging the reins to him, I jumped to the ground.
I heard him give a startled exclamation, but I stayed not to cast a glance at him, and walked instantly forwards to where Ilga stood. I was within two paces of her before she turned and saw me. She reached out a hand to the gate, and so steadying herself looked at me for a little without a word. I bowed low, and took another step towards her, whereupon she turned again to her companion and began to speak very volubly, the colour going and coming quickly upon her face. For my part I made no effort to interrupt her. I had schooled myself to think of her as one whom I should never see again, and here we were face to face. I remained contentedly waiting with my hat in my hand.
“You have been long in Innspruck?” she asked of me at length, and added, with some hesitation, “Mr Buckler?”
“Three months, madame,” I replied.
“But you are leaving?”
She looked across to my horse, which Otto was holding.
A small valise, containing the few necessaries I possessed, was slung to the saddle-bow.
“I return to England,” said I.
She presented me to the gentleman who talked with her, but I did not catch his name any more than the conversation they resumed. ’Twas enough for me to hear the sweet sound of her voice; as, when a singer sings, one is charmed by the music of his tones, and recks , little of the words of his song. At last, however, her companion made his bow. Ilga stretched out her hand to him and said,—“You will come, then, to Lukstein?” and detaining him, as it seemed to me, she added, “I would ask Mr Buckler to came, too, only I fear that he has no great opinion of our hospitality.”
“Madame,” I replied simply, “if you ask me, I will come.”
She stood for the space of some twenty seconds with her eyes bent upon the ground. Then, raising her face with a look which was wonderfully timid and shy, she said,—“You are a brave man, Mr Buckler;” and after another pause, “I do ask you.”
With that she crossed the road and mounted upon her horse. I did the same, and the little cavalcade rode out from Innspruck along the highway to Landeck. The Countess pressed on ahead, and thinking that she had no wish to speak with me, I rode some paces behind her. Behind me came Otto and the servants. Otto, I should say, had resumed his old impenetrable air. He was once more the servant, and seemed to have completely for gotten our companionship in Captivity Hollow. Thus we travelled until we came near to the village of Silz.
Now all this morning one regretful thought had been buzzing in my head. ’Twas an old thought, one that I had lived with many a month. Yet never had it become familiar to me; the pain which it brought was always fresh and sharp. But now, since I saw Countess Lukstein again, since she rode in front of me, since each moment my eyes beheld her, this regret grew and grew until it was lost in a great longing to speak out my mind, and, if so I might, ease myself of my burden. Consequently I spurred my horse lightly, and as we entered Silz I drew level with the Countess.
“Madame,” I said, “I see plainly enough that you have no heart for my company, neither do I intend any idle intrusion. I would but say two words to you. They have been on my lips ever since I caught sight of you on the Hofgarten; they have been in my heart for the weariest span of days. When I told you that I entered Castle Lukstein alone, God is my witness that I spoke the truth. No woman was with me. I championed no woman; by no ties was I bound to any woman in this world. This I would have you believe; for it is the truth. I could not lie to you if I would; it is the truth.”
She made me no answer, but bowed her head down on her horse’s mane, so that I could see nothing of her face, and thinking sadly that she would not credit me, I tightened my reins that I might fall back behind her. It may be that she noticed the movement of my hands. I know not, nor, indeed, shall I be at any pains to speculate upon her motive. ’Twas her action which occupied my thought then and for hours afterwards. She suddenly lifted her face towards me, all rosy with blushes and wearing that sweet look which I had once and once only remarked before. I mean when she pledged me in her apartments in Pall Mall.
“Then,” says she, “we will travel no farther afield to-day,” and she drew rein before the first inn we came to. I was greatly perplexed by this precipitate action, also by the word she used, inasmuch as we were not travelling afield at all, but on the contrary directly towards her home. Besides, ’twas still early in the afternoon. Howbeit, there we stayed, and the Countess retiring privately to her room, I saw no more of her until the night was come. ’Twas about eleven of the clock when I heard a light tap upon my door, and opening it, I perceived that she was my visitor. She laid a finger upon her lip and slipped quietly into the room. In her hand she held her hat and whip, and these she laid upon the table.
“You have not inquired,” she began, “why I asked you to return with me to Lukstein, what end I had in view.”
“In truth, madame,” I replied, “I gave no thought to it; only—only—”
“Only I asked you, and you came,” she said in a voice that broke and faltered. “Even after all you had suffered at my hands, even in spite of what you still might suffer, I asked you, and you came.”
She spoke in a low wondering tone, and with a queer feeling of shame I hastened to reply.
“Madame, if you were in my place, you would understand that there is little strange in that.”
“Let me finish!” she said. “Lord Elmscott and your friend, Mr Larke, are awaiting you at Lukstein. When your friend returned to England without you, he could hear no word of you. He had no acquaintance with Lord Elmscott, and did not know him at all. He met Lord Elmscott in London this spring for the first time. It appears that your cousin suspected something of the trouble that stood between you and me, but until he met Mr Larke he believed you were travelling in Italy. Mr Larke gave him the account of your first journey into the Tyrol. They found out Sir Julian’s attorney at Bristol, and learned the cause of it from him. They came to Lukstein two months ago, and told me what you would not. I went up to the hills myself to bring you home; you had escaped, and your—the men had concealed your flight in fear of my anger. Lord Elmscott went to Meran, I came to Innspruck, and we arranged to return after we had searched a month. The month is gone. They will be at Lukstein now.”
So much she said, though with many a pause and with so keen a self-reproach in her tone that I could hardly bear to hear her) when I interrupted,—“And you have been a month searching for me in Innspruck?”
She took no heed of my interruption.
“So, you see,” she continued, “I know the whole truth. I know, too, that you hid the truth out of kindness to me, and—and—”
She was wearing the gold cross which I had sent to her by Otto’s hand. It hung on a long chain about her neck, and I took it gently into my palm.
“And is there nothing more you know?” I asked.
“I know that you love me,” she whispered, “that you love me still. Oh, how is it possible?” And then she raised her eyes to mine and laid two trembling hands upon my shoulders. “But it is true. You told me so this afternoon.”
“I told you?” I asked in some surprise.
“Ay, and more surely than if you had spoken it out. That is why I stopped our horses in the village. It is why I am with you now.”
She glanced towards her hat and whip, and I under stood. I realised what it would cost her to carry me back as her guest to Lukstein after all that had passed there.
I opened the door and stepped out on to the landing. A panel of moonlight was marked out upon the floor. ’Twas the only light in the passage, and the house was still as an empty cave. When I came back into the room Ilga was standing with her hat upon her head.
“And what of Lukstein?”
“A sop to Father Spaur,” she said, with a happy laugh, and reaching out a hand to me she blew out the candle, I guided her to the landing, and there stopped and kissed her.
“I have hungered for that,” said I, “for a year and more.”
“And I too,” she whispered, “dear heart, and I too,” and I felt her arms tighten about my neck. “Oh, how you must have hated me!” she said.
“I called you no harder name than ‘La belle dame sans merci,’” said I.
We crept down the stairs a true couple of runaways. The door was secured by a wooden bar, I removed the bar, and we went out into the road. The stables lay to the right of the inn, and leaving Ilga where she stood, I crossed over to them and rapped quietly at the window. The ostler let me in, and we saddled quickly Ilga’s horse and mine. I gave the fellow all of my three months savings, and bidding him go back to his bed, brought the horses into the road.
I lifted Ilga into the saddle. “So,” she said, bending over me, and her heart looked through her eyes, “the lath was steel after all, and I only found it out when the steel cut me.”
And that night we rode hand in hand to Innspruck. Once she trilled out a snatch of song, and I knew indeed that Jack Larke was waiting for me at Lukstein, for the words she sang were from an old ballad of Froissart:
Que toutes joies et toutes honneurs Viennent d’ames et d’amours.