LONG, weary days wore by in the quaint old city and in the trampled fields without, where two armies stood at gaze. The August sun blazed down with its scorching, pitiless fire, aggravating the sufferings which a multitude of human beings, packed together in a space too narrow for health or comfort, could not hope to escape. The worst evils were not yet; but they cast their shadows before. There was no actual famine, but there was a painful scarcity of food. Fifty thousand pounds of bread, sent every day from the city into the Swedish camp, “irritated rather than appeased hunger.” There was no actual pestilence, but there was sickness of many kinds. In both camps the horses were dying quickly for want of pasturage, and the presence of the dead endangered the living. Even the bright waters of the Pegnitz, tainted by the dead bodies which were flung into them, carried disease and contamination wherever they went.
The suffering town bore itself right bravely. Its internal arrangements seem to have been admirable. The rich helped the poor; the healthy ministered to the sick. In all works of public usefulness or of charity the Lübelings were well to the front; and by the fever-stricken couch, or in the abodes of want and misery, none were more assiduous or more helpful than Gertrud von Savelburg and her young friend Giovana Graham.
Gertrud could scarcely labor thus for others without some lightening of her own burdens. “He who measures oil,” says the Spaniard, “gets some on his fingers”; and those who bring to 'their fellows the oil of joy for mourning are sure to be blessed by some precious drops remaining with themselves. Her heart, drawn insensibly out of the dungeon of its cold, despairing sorrow, was occupied with the interests and concerns of others, while her hands were busy with labors for their good. Her letter to her cousin in Frankfurt was enough to show that healing influences were at work even then. She was experiencing the consolation wherewith a merciful God has lightened woman's heavy share in the primeval curse.
“A child's kiss
Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad;
A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;
A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
Of service which thou renderest.”
But work—even work for others, or for God―is, after all, a palliative, not a cure, for the stricken soul. It is not our own busy hands that can bind up our own broken hearts. “He,” and He alone, “bindeth up the broken in heart, and giveth medicine to heal their diseases.” It is receiving, not giving, that brings peace; His work, not ours, that satisfies the deepest wants of our nature. This Gertrud had still to learn. She was willing, as far as she knew how, to help her fellow-men, and she often did it very efficiently. But as yet her eyes were holden, so that she saw not, standing beside her, One mighty to save upon whom help was laid for her.
There is a kind of dignity lent by sorrow even to characters otherwise ordinary; and Gertrud von Savelburg could never have been an ordinary character. Wherever her footsteps trod, “reverence mutely given” went with her. Thus it happened that, though everyone around her was soon aware of the gallant Scotchman's chivalrous devotion, no one ventured a jest, or even a hint on the subject, in her presence. She pursued her way with a quiet unconsciousness that was very characteristic. It never seemed to cross her mind that she was richly endowed with grace and beauty, and in years still comparatively young. She had no thought of any personal history belonging to her, except in the past.
To this unconsciousness poor Charlie Graham owed a few weeks of delusive happiness. Greatly was Jeanie troubled about him, when once Hugh's communication had opened her eyes to the real state of affairs. Looking, as she did, upon the Lady of Savelburg as a kind of princess, gracious indeed and beneficent, but exalted, she was in an agony of apprehension whenever her uncle came to the Lübeling Haus (and that was quite as often as his military duties permitted), lest he should compromise himself by some imprudent betrayal of what she considered his presumptuous folly.
She was uneasy also about Hugh, whose candid nature quickly led him to betray that “he had a secret, and that he was keeping it.” She little dreamed its real importance; but she feared that the boy had been led into some clandestine acquaintance, which was injuring him. Nor was she blind to the real fault of Hugh's character; true and deep love is seldom “blind,” as men falsely feign, but of exquisite and keen discernment. Naturally self-reliant, Hugh had acted for himself at an age when most children simply obey orders. Instead of being severely punished and sent back with a humble apology to the Marquis of Hamilton when he quitted his service, on his own responsibility, he had been allowed to suppose that he had done a noble and manly thing. It is true that the rash step had been really overruled for his good. He was far better off in the pure and healthful moral atmosphere of the Swedish camp than he would have been in the English general's corrupt, luxurious little court. But it did not follow that because, in homely phrase, he had “fallen on his feet” after his first daring leap in the dark, he would be so fortunate or so favored another time.
Yet, in spite of these anxieties, Jeanie was not really unhappy. Those long midsummer weeks, which wore by so slowly in the trembling city and the two crowded camps over which the angels of famine and pestilence were hovering with swords half drawn, were not sorrowful weeks in the young life of Giovana Graham. Her sympathies with those around her were quick and keen; she failed not to weep with those who wept, and yet all the time “beneath the tears the smiles flowed on.”
There was gladness in her heart like the gladness of the springtime, when the wine of a new, fresh life is thrilling the veins of every tree and flower. She often went about the house singing the beautiful German hymns of which her new friends possessed a rich store, and which they had gladly imparted to her, making her familiar especially with the songs of faith and hope Paul Gerhardt was just then pouring forth— “words of the wise,” heard “in quiet” amidst the storm and shock of contending armies. Fraulein Gertrud, moreover, had given her a Nuremberg hymnbook, containing treasures gathered from many sources. One favorite she was especially fond of singing,—
“When my heart with longing sickens,
Hope again my courage quickens,
For my wish shall be fulfilled,
If it please His love most tender;
Life and soul I all surrender
Unto Him on whom I build.”
But the “wish” that was to “be fulfilled” was seldom her own. It was to the wish of August von Lübeling that her thoughts were sure to turn―that strong, passionate desire of his heart, a place in the service of the king. No personal hope or dream mingled with it in her mind; she only wished him to attain it because it was the desire of his heart, and because she thought God meant him to accomplish great and noble things.
One day Charles. Graham rode in hot haste from the camp to the town, and, entering the Lübeling Haus without ceremony, as he was wont to do, went to the room where his nephew and niece were usually to be found. He was so fortunate as to meet the Lady of Savelburg there also. News from the camp was always welcome, and happened just then to be rather scarce; so, after receiving his homage with courteous indifference, she inquired, with some appearance of interest, what was doing.
“Great things are doing, or, to speak more truly, are preparing,” answered Graham, with much animation. “His Majesty seems to have at last determined, God being his helper, to strike a decisive blow.”
“Then he means to give battle!” exclaimed the three listeners almost at once.
“He means to attack Wallenstein in his lines, and dislodge him,” replied Graham; and the next moment he had to repeat the information to August, who, hearing he was in the house, came eagerly to learn the news.
“I only marvel,” said August, “that he did not attempt it a month ago.”
“And I marvel,” remarked Gertrud, “that he attempts it now.”
“There are reasons for both,” explained Graham. “You know well that Wallenstein's forces hitherto have been greatly superior to ours. But now we are strengthened by the arrival of the Chancellor Oxenstiern, with his gallant army of six-and-twenty thousand; while our adversary is weakened by the loss of Holk and his contingent, whom he sent away.”
“Why was he the fool to do that?” asked Hugh.
“My boy, the Duke of Friedland is no fool, but a great genius, else would he not be chosen out of all the world to measure his skill against the king's. He sent Holk away on account of the scarcity of food and forage, which we understand he feels more than we do.”
“Uncle, if there is to be a battle, I will go back with you and see it,” said Hugh impetuously.
“You will do nothing of the kind. You are far better here; and, as you ought to know, you would see nothing in the camp, the schools being always kept well out of danger.”
Then, turning to Fraulein Gertrud, “You remember, noble lady, the craggy eminence surrounded by woods and crowned with a strong fortress, which was shown you from the camp—called Altenberg?”
“Yes; we were told it was one of Wallenstein's strongest posts.”
“His very strongest. He has entrenched himself there behind three barriers of trees; and has been heard, after his boastful fashion, to say that the Almighty Himself― But I will not stain my lips with his profanity. What is more to the purpose, I hear my friend Colonel Monro is to lead the attack upon the stronghold, which is truly the post of honor and danger; and that his force is to be composed altogether of commanded musketeers.”
“Commanded?” Jeanie repeated inquiringly.
“Oh, picked men! chosen for their merit out of all the regiments. Every baby knows that,” Hugh explained to her.
“And I have good hope of the very distinguished honor of a place amongst them,” continued Graham, with becoming modesty.
“Then I envy you with all my heart!” cried August, in great excitement. “Tell me, are you in a hurry back to the camp?”
“Yes, indeed. I have scarce a minute longer to stay, and I must ride hard for it then. There is much to be done.”
“Stay at least till I come back. I will not keep you a moment.” He darted off, and Charles Graham turned once more to the Lady of Savelburg.
“I am indeed to be envied, noble lady,” he said, “and most of all for a reason I have not told you yet. Amongst the redoubled warriors who hold the fort of Altenberg against us is that creature of Wallenstein's who dares to call himself Lord of Savelburg. If this sword avails me anything, it shall find its way to his heart. I have sworn it.”
“I am bound to thank you, sir, for a vow which no doubt was kindly and courteously meant, as towards me,” Gertrud answered, with some coldness and loftiness of manner. “But you err in thinking that the death of the stranger upon whom Wallenstein has been pleased to bestow the patrimony of our house could give me pleasure, or indeed affect me in any way. How should it? The man has done me no wrong. Savelburg had ceased to be ours long ere it became his.”
“But he has dared to assume that title,” said Graham, looking rather disconcerted.
“It signifies nothing to me. And you, sir, who have the Protestant cause, and its noblest champion, the King of Sweden, to fight for, need condescend to no motives less great or less worthy to nerve your arm in the day of battle. Now, as you are pressed for time, I will leave you with the children, to whom no doubt you have much to say. God prosper your arms, and give victory to the right.”
Thinking, perhaps, that she had been rather harsh, she extended her hand to him, which he kissed with much reverence, and then found himself alone with Hugh and Jeanie.
For some moments he did not speak, but stood gazing moodily at the door through which she had passed. Hugh broke the silence.
“You will send for me, uncle?” he said, in his native tongue. “I am quite strong now—able to march anywhere.”
“Yes,” returned Graham, in the same language. “When we beat Wallenstein, our camp breaks up, of course. And it is time—lest we starve ourselves, or reduce our friends here to starvation. Those honored with His Majesty's confidence tell us that the sufferings with which the city is threatened have had no small share in determining his present plan. In the meantime, Jeanie, a soldier's movements are uncertain, and the king has just given us all a month's pay. So take this”; and he put a purse of rix-dollars into her hand.
Jeanie was too wise to decline it, though for herself she did not need anything, as Fraulein Gertrud liberally supplied her wants. She knew it was good and right for him to give it; and she could use it with advantage either for himself or for Hugh, as occasion offered. So she thanked him warmly, throwing into her manner a double portion of affectionate cordiality, because she saw he had been hurt by the coldness of her friend.
At that moment a servant entered, bearing wine and Leb-küchen. “Junker August bids me tell you”, he said, “that he waits for you in the courtyard. The Herr Baron has given him leave to ride with you to the camp.”
“All the better for me,” said Graham, as he quaffed his stirrup-cup. “Good-bye, Jeanie. God bless thee, my bonny bairn! Hugh, my laddie, hold thyself in readiness to come at a moment's notice when I send for thee.”