Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
no gutcheck/jeebies/gutspell
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/3935129
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
FICKLE FORTUNE.
FICKLE FORTUNE.
BY
E. WERNER,
AUTHOR OF
'UNDER A CHARM,' 'NO SURRENDER,' 'SUCCESS,' ETC.
From the German
BY
CHRISTINA TYRRELL.
_A NEW EDITION_.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1888.
[_All Rights Reserved_.]
FICKLE FORTUNE.
CHAPTER I.
'This is what they are pleased to call spring in these parts! The snow
drifts thicker and thicker every minute, and the delightful north-east
wind comes in vigorous blasts which threaten to carry us away into
space, post-chaise and all. It is perfectly maddening.'
The carriage, one of the occupants of which thus gave vent to his
ill-humour, was in truth working its way slowly and with difficulty
through the accumulated snow on the high-road. Notwithstanding all
their efforts, the horses could only advance at a foot-pace, so that
the patience of the two travellers seated in the interior of the
vehicle was put to a severe test.
Of these, the younger, who was attired in an elegant travelling-suit,
far too light of texture, however, for the occasion, could certainly
not be more than four-and-twenty years of age. All the hopefulness and
confidence, or rather the bright audacity of youth beamed in his frank
handsome face, in the dark eyes, which were bold and clear as though
no trace of a shadow had ever clouded them. There was something
peculiarly winning and agreeable about the young man's whole
appearance, but he seemed highly impatient of the delay which now
occurred in his journey, and gave expression to his annoyance in every
possible way.
His companion, on the other hand, appeared altogether calm and
indifferent, as he sat, wrapped in his cloak, leaning well back in the
other corner of the carriage. But a few years older than his friend,
he possessed little of the latter's attractiveness. He was of
powerful, rather than of graceful, build, and he bore himself with an
ease which was almost nonchalance. His face would have passed muster
as being, at least, full of character, though it could lay claim
neither to beauty nor regularity of outline, but it was spoiled by an
expression of stern reserve which chilled and repelled.
The deeper bitterness of life, its harsher experiences, could hardly
have come home to one so young, and yet there was a look which spoke
of these, a something not to be defined or accurately traced, which
set on the countenance its own distinctive mark, and made the man
appear much older than he really was. The abundant dark hair
harmonised with the bushy dark eyebrows, but the eyes themselves were
of that uncertain hue which is not generally approved. They made,
indeed, scant appeal to the sympathies, expressing none of the happy
vivacity, none of those passionate emotions wherein, as a rule, youth
is so rich. Their cold unmoved survey was hard, and hardness
characterised the young man's entire appearance and demeanour.
The gentleman above described had hitherto sat silent, looking out at
the hurrying, driving snow; but now he turned, and in answer to his
companion's impatient exclamation, said:
'You forget that we are no longer in Italy, Edmund. In our climate,
and especially here among the mountains, March counts among the winter
months.'
'Ah me, my beautiful Italy! There we left all bathed in sunshine and
fragrant with flowers, and here at home we are received by a snowstorm
imported direct from the North Pole, You seem, however, to find no
fault with the temperature. The whole journey has been nothing to you
but just a troublesome task to be got through. Don't deny it, Oswald.
Could you have chosen, you would rather have stayed at home with your
books.'
Oswald shrugged his shoulders.
'What I wished, or did not wish, was not taken into consideration. It
was decided that you were not to travel without a companion. I
therefore simply had to obey orders.'
'Yes, you were given to me as a Mentor,' laughed Edmund; 'charged with
the high mission of watching over me, and, at need, of applying a
salutary check.'
'In which I certainly have not succeeded. You have committed follies
innumerable.'
'Bah! of what use is it to be young and rich, if one is not to enjoy
life? I must say this, I have always had to enjoy it by myself. You
have not been a good comrade to me, Oswald, my friend. What made you
always draw back into your shell in that obstinate, sombre fashion?'
'Because I knew, and know, that what is permitted to the heir of
Ettersberg, or what, at most, will be condoned with a few tender
reproaches, would be esteemed a crime in me,' was the brusque reply.
'Nonsense!' cried Edmund. 'You know very well that I should have taken
the whole responsibility on myself. As it is, I must take all the
blame. Well, the judgment on my backslidings will not be over-severe,
I warrant, whereas, when you on our return publicly announce your
plans for the future, you may hold yourself prepared for a storm.'
'I know that,' replied Oswald laconically.
'But I shall not stand by you this time as I did before, when you so
decidedly refused to enter the army,' went on the young Count. 'I got
you through that, for I naturally thought you would go into a
Government office. We all thought so, looked upon it as a thing
decided, and now you suddenly come forward with this insane idea of
yours.'
'The idea is neither so new nor so insane as you suppose. It had
germinated and taken root in my mind when I began my University career
with you. I have directed all my studies with a view to it; but as I
wished to avoid a useless conflict lasting through years, I have been
silent until now, when the time for the decision has come.'
'I warn you, this project of yours will set the whole family in
commotion. And I must say it is a most extraordinary one. Think of an
Ettersberg turning barrister, and taking up the defence of any thief
or forger who comes in his way! My mother will never hear of it, and
she will be perfectly right. Now, if you were to enter a Government
office----'
'Years must elapse before I should have mounted the first grades, and
during that time I must be altogether dependent on you and your
mother.'
This was said in so harsh and curt a tone that Edmund drew himself up
quickly.
'Oswald, have I ever let you feel that?'
'You--never! But your very generosity makes me feel it more.'
'So here we are on the old ground again! You are capable of doing the
most idiotic thing in the world, merely to shake off this so-called
dependence. But what is the matter, I wonder? Why has the carriage
stopped? I really believe we are fast in the snow here on the
main-road.'
Oswald had already let down the window, and was looking out.
'What is up?' he asked.
'We are stuck,' was the phlegmatic reply of the post-boy, who seemed
to consider the thing as perfectly natural.
'Oh, we are stuck, are we!' repeated Edmund, with an irritated laugh.
'And the man informs us of it with that sweet philosophic calm. Well,
granted we are stuck. What is to be done?'
Oswald made no reply, but opened the carriage-door and stepped out.
The situation could be taken in at a glance; agreeable it certainly
was not. From the spot they had reached, the road descended in a steep
incline, and the narrow defile through which they must pass was
completely blocked by an enormous drift. There the snow lay several
feet high, and presented so compact a mass that to get through it
seemed impossible. The coachman and horses must have become aware of
this simultaneously, for the latter ceased all exertion, and the
former sat with drooping whip and reins, gazing at his two passengers
as though he expected from them counsel or assistance.
'This confounded post-chaise!' burst forth Edmund, who had followed
his companion's example and alighted in his turn. 'Why the deuce had
not we our own horses sent out to meet us! We shall not reach
Ettersberg now before dark. Driver, we must get on!'
'There is no getting on, sir,' replied the latter, with imperturbable
serenity. 'You, gentlemen, can see it for yourselves.'
The young Count was about to make an angry retort, when Oswald laid
his hand on his arm.
'The man is right. It really is not to be done. With these two horses
only we cannot possibly advance. There is nothing left us but to stop
here a while in the carriage, and to send the post-boy on to the next
station to procure us a relay.'
'So that we may be snowed up here meanwhile. Rather than that, I would
go on to the post-house on foot.'
Oswald's eyes travelled with a somewhat sarcastic glance over his
comrade's dress, which was suited only to a railway _coupe_ or a
carriage.
'You propose going through the woods on foot in that attire? Along a
path where one sinks to the knee at every step? But you will take cold
standing here exposed to this sharp wind. Have my cloak.'
So saying, and without more ado, he unfastened his cloak, and placed
it about the Count's shoulders, the latter protesting violently, but
in vain.
'Do not give it to me; you will have no protection yourself against
the wind and weather.'
'Nothing hurts me. I am not delicate.'
'And, in your opinion, I am?' inquired Edmund tetchily.
'No, only spoilt. But now we must come to some decision. Either we
must stay here in the carriage and send on the post-boy, or we must
endeavour to push forwards by the footpath. Decide quickly. What is to
be done?'
'What an abominable way you have of summing up things!' said Edmund,
with a sigh. 'You are constantly setting one an alternative----choose
this or that. How do I know if the footpath is practicable?'
Here the discussion was interrupted. The snorting of horses and the
thud of hoofs on the snow were heard at some little distance, and
through the mist and falling flakes a second carriage could be seen
approaching. The powerful animals which drew it overcame with
tolerable ease the difficulties of the way, until they reached the
formidable descent. Here they, too, came to a stand. The coachman drew
rein, contemplated the block before him with an ominous shake of the
head, and then turned to speak to some one inside the carriage. His
report was evidently as unsatisfactory as that delivered by the
post-boy, and was received with a like impatience. The answer, which
came in a clear, youthful voice, was given sharply and with much
energy:
'It is all of no use, Anthony. We must get through.'
'But, Fraeulein, if it can't be done!' objected the coachman.
'Nonsense! it _must_ be done. I will just look for myself.'
No sooner were the words spoken in a most decided tone than they were
carried into effect. The carriage-door flew open, and a young lady--a
lady of whose youth there could be no possible doubt--sprang out.
She appeared to be familiar with the March temperature of this
mountainous country, and to have taken the necessary precautionary
measures, for her costume was one suited to winter. She wore a dark
travelling-dress, and over it a fur-trimmed jacket well buttoned about
her slender figure, while securely pinned about her hat was a thick
veil which covered head and face. The fact that on alighting her foot
sank into the soft snow almost to the border of her boot seemed in no
way to affect her. She advanced valiantly a few steps, then stopped on
beholding another carriage drawn up just before her own.
The attention of the two gentlemen had, of course, also been
attracted. Oswald, indeed, merely bestowed a cursory glance on the
new-comer, and then addressed his mind again to the critical situation
in which they found themselves; but Edmund, on the other hand, at once
lost all interest in it.
He left to his companion any further consideration of the difficulty.
In an instant he was at the stranger's side, and, executing a bow as
elaborate as though they had been in a drawing-room, spoke thus:
'Pardon me, Fraeulein, but I perceive we are not the only persons
surprised by this incomparable spring weather. It is always
consolatory to meet with companions in misfortune; and as we are
exposed to a like danger, that of being completely, hopelessly snowed
up, you will allow us to offer you our aid and assistance.'
In making this chivalrous offer. Count Ettersberg lost sight of the
fact that he and Oswald were as yet helpless themselves, having found
no way of overcoming the obstacle in their path. Unfortunately, he was
at once taken at his word, for the young lady, no whit abashed by a
stranger's address, replied promptly in her former decided tone:
'Well, have the kindness then to make us a way through the snow.'
'I?' asked Edmund, dismayed. 'You wish me to----'
'I wish you to make us a road through the snow--most certainly I do,
sir.'
'With the utmost pleasure, Fraeulein, if only you will be so good as to
tell me how I am to set about it.'
The toe of her little boot tapped the ground vigorously, and there was
some slight asperity in her reply.
'I fancied you might have found out that already, as you proffered
your help. Well, we must get through some way, no matter how it is
managed.'
With this, the speaker threw back her veil, and proceeded to inspect
the situation. The withdrawal of that dark blue gauze revealed
features of such unwonted loveliness that Edmund, in his surprise,
forgot to make response. A fairer sight, indeed, could hardly have
been beheld than the face of this young girl, rose-tinted by the
action of the keen mountain air. Her brown curly hair peeped and
struggled rebelliously out of the silken net which sought to confine
it. Her eyes, of the deepest, deepest blue, were not serene and calm
as blue eyes are expected to be; on the contrary, they gleamed and
sparkled with the saucy merriment which youth and happiness alone can
give. Every smile brought a charming, delicious little dimple into
either cheek, but there was an expression about the small mouth which
hinted at waywardness and defiance; and it might well be that in that
little head, beneath those rebellious locks, there lodged a child's
caprice, all a child's manifold wilful conceits. Perhaps it was
precisely this which gave to the face its own peculiar, piquant charm,
which fascinated irresistibly, and forced those who had once looked to
look again.
The young lady was by no means unaware of the impression her
appearance had created. To the consciousness of it was due, no doubt,
the involuntary smile which now chased the petulance from her
features. Edmund's silence was not of long duration. Timidity and a
want of self-confidence were not among his failings, and he was about
to renew the attack with a well-turned compliment when Oswald came up
and spoke.
'The difficulty can be overcome,' he said, bowing slightly to the
stranger. 'If you, Fraeulein, will allow us to harness your horses
to our team, it will be possible in the first place to get the
post-chaise through the snow, and then to proceed with your carriage
in its track.'
'Uncommonly practical!' said Edmund, who was considerably annoyed at
being thus interrupted, at the check to his compliment, and to the
further development of his many delightful qualities. The young lady
appeared somewhat surprised at the curt dry tone in which the proposal
was made. The highly unpractical admiration of herself manifested by
Count Ettersberg was evidently more to her taste than the cold
commonsense of his companion.
She replied, speaking rather shortly in her turn:
'Pray do exactly as you think best.' Then she instructed the coachman
to obey the gentleman's orders, and turning to her carriage, prepared
to seek a shelter therein from the persistent, thickly-falling snow.
Edmund promptly followed. He felt it incumbent on him to help her in,
after which he took up his station on the carriage-step, in order to
keep her informed of the progress of the business which Oswald had
energetically taken in hand.
'Now the procession has started,' he began his report, the
carriage-window having been lowered to facilitate communication. 'They
can hardly advance even with the double team. Ah, there, as they go
downhill, things look serious. The ramshackle old post-chaise cracks
and shakes at every joint; the two men are as awkward in driving as
they can possibly be. It is lucky that my companion is commandant of
the troop. If there is a thing he thoroughly understands, and in which
he excels, it is the art of commanding! Upon my word, they are making
a breach in the snow-rampart! They will manage it. Oswald is over
yonder already, pointing out to them the direction they are to take.'
'While you are securely posted on my carriage-step,' remarked the
young lady, rather caustically.
'Why, Fraeulein, you would not require of me to leave you all alone
here on the highroad,' said Edmund, taking up his defence. 'Some one
must stay here to protect you.'
'I do not think there is any danger of an attack by robbers. Our
highways are safe, so far as I know. But you seem to have a fancy for
your point of vantage.'
'Whence I enjoy so charming a prospect, yes.'
This too gallant speech was evidently distasteful, for instantaneously
the dark blue veil was lowered, and the vaunted prospect disappeared
from view. Count Edmund was a little discomfited. He saw his error,
and grew more respectful.
A quarter of an hour had well-nigh elapsed before the chaise could be
got over the difficult ground. At length it stood secure on the other
side. Oswald retraced his steps, and the coachman followed with the
horses. Edmund was still on the carriage-step. He had, as it seemed,
received absolution for the impertinence of which he had been guilty,
for a most animated conversation was going on between the lady and her
self-appointed guardian. The former took, however, a certain malicious
pleasure in concealing her features from view. Her veil was still
closely drawn when Oswald again approached.
'I must beg of you to alight, Fraeulein,' he said. 'The descent is
rather precipitous, and the snow is deep. Our post-chaise was several
times within an ace of being overturned, and your carriage is much
heavier. It might be a risk for you to remain in it.'
'What an idea, Oswald!' cried Edmund. 'How can this lady pass along
such a road on foot? It is impossible!'
'Not so, only rather uncomfortable,' was the unmoved reply. 'The
carriages will have formed some sort of a track; if we follow in that,
the journey will really not be so difficult as you imagine. Of course,
if the lady is afraid to venture----'
'Afraid?' she interrupted, in an angry tone. 'Pray, sir, do not
attribute any such excessive timidity to me. I shall most certainly
venture, and that at once.'
So saying, she jumped out of the carriage, and next minute was braving
the elements on the open road. Here the wind caught the veil which had
been so persistently held down, and it fluttered high in the air.
True, the little hand clutched quickly at the truant gauze, but it had
wound itself about the hat, and the attempt to regain control of it
failed signally; to the great satisfaction of Count Edmund, who was
now able to enjoy the 'prospect' without let or hindrance.
Meanwhile the horses had been harnessed to the second carriage. Ruts
having previously been made in the snow, the journey this time was
more easily performed. Nevertheless, Oswald, who followed closely in
the wake of the vehicle, was constantly obliged to offer his guidance
and assistance. The driving snow knew no intermission, and the great
white flakes whirled round and round, chased by the wind. The high
dyke-walls on either side of the road were seen but indistinctly as
through a veil, while all further prospect was completely blotted out,
hidden in dense mist. It needed the elastic spirits of youth to
support with philosophy so severe an ordeal, to find in it food for
mirth. Fortunately, this talismanic quality was possessed by the two
younger travellers in a high degree. The difficult progress, in the
course of which they sank at each step ankle-deep into the snow, the
incessant struggle with the wind, all the difficulties, great and
small, which had to be overcome, were to them an inexhaustible source
of merriment. Their lively talk never flagged an instant. Repartees
flowed backwards and forwards rocketwise. Each joke was caught in its
passage, and sent back with interest. Neither would allow the other to
have the last word, and all this badinage went on as unrestrainedly,
in as frank and natural a manner, as though the two had been
acquainted for years.
At length the journey was performed, and the summit of the opposite
hill reached in safety. Here the road branched off in two directions,
and no further obstruction was to be apprehended. The carriages stood
side by side, and the respective teams were speedily harnessed in
their proper order.
'We shall have to part company now,' said the young lady, pointing to
the divergent routes. 'You, no doubt, will continue along the
highroad, while my destination lies in the other direction.'
'At no very great distance, I hope,' said Edmund quickly. 'I beg
pardon, but all the small misadventures of this journey have done away
with anything like etiquette. We have not even told you our names.
Under the very exceptional circumstances, you will allow me,
Fraeulein'--here a violent gust of wind blew the cape of his cloak
about his ears, and dashed a shower of wet flakes in his face--'you
will allow me to introduce myself, your humble servant. Count Edmund
von Ettersberg, who at the same time has the honour of presenting his
cousin, Oswald von Ettersberg. You will excuse the reverence which
should accompany these words. Our friend Boreas is capable of
prostrating me at your feet in the snow.'
The young lady started at the mention of his name.
'Count Edmund? The heir of Ettersberg?'
'At your service.'
The stranger's lips twitched as with a strong inclination to laughter
forcibly restrained.
'And you have acted as my protector? We have mutually helped each
other in need with our horses. Oh, that is admirable!'
'My name would appear to be familiar to you,' said Edmund. 'May I in
my turn learn----'
'Who I am? No, Count, you certainly will not learn that now. But I
would advise you not to mention this meeting of ours at Ettersberg,
for, innocent as we are in the matter, the avowal would, I think, at
once place us both beyond the pale of the law.'
Here the young lady's self-control gave way, and she broke out into
such a peal of merry laughter that Oswald looked at her in surprise.
Not a whit disconcerted, Edmund immediately adopted the same tone.
'It seems that there exists between us a certain secret connection of
which I had no idea,' he said. 'The secret, however, appears to be of
a cheerful nature, and though you decline to raise the veil of your
incognito, you will, I am sure, permit me to enjoy my share of the
joke,' whereupon he joined in her merriment, laughing as heartily and
extravagantly as herself.
'The carriages are ready,' said Oswald, breaking in upon this noisy
gaiety. 'It is time, I think, for us to be setting out again.'
The two suddenly ceased laughing, and looked as though they considered
such an interruption to be most unmannerly. The young lady threw back
her head with an angry toss, looked at the speaker from head to foot,
and then without more ado turned her back on him, and walked towards
the carriage. Edmund naturally accompanied her. He pushed aside the
coachman, who was standing by the wheel ready to assist, lifted his
beautiful _protegee_ in, and closed the door.
'And I really am not to hear whom chance has thrown in my way in this
kind, but all too transitory, manner?' he asked, with a profound bow.
'No, Count. Possibly some explanation may be given you at home--that
is, if my _signalement_ be known there. I, most certainly, shall not
solve the enigma. One question more, however. Is your cousin always as
polite and as sociable as he has shown himself to-day?
'Ah, you would say that he has not opened his lips once during the
whole of our walk. Yes, that is unfortunately his way with strangers.
As for any sense of gallantry, of deference towards ladies!' Edmund
sighed. 'Ah, you little know, Fraeulein, what efforts I have to make,
how often I have to intervene and make amends for his utter deficiency
in that respect.'
'Well, you seem to accept the task with much self-abnegation,' replied
the young lady mischievously; 'and you have an extraordinary
predilection for mounting carriage-steps. Why, you are up there
again!'
Edmund certainly was up there, and would probably long have retained
the position, had not the coachman, who now grasped the reins, given
visible signs of impatience. The beautiful unknown graciously inclined
her head.
'Many thanks for your kindness. Adieu.'
'Adieu, for the present only, I may hope,' cried Edmund eagerly.
'For heaven's sake, hope nothing of the kind. We must forego any such
wild notion. You will see it yourself before long. Adieu, Count von
Ettersberg.'
These farewell words were followed by the musical, merry laugh. The
horses pulled with a will, and the young man had only just time to
jump from his standing-point on the step.
'Will you have the kindness to get in at last?'--this in the
remonstrant tones of Oswald's voice. 'You were in such a great hurry
to reach home, you know, and we are considerably behind time now.'
Edmund cast one more glance at the carriage which was whirling from
him his charming new acquaintance. Presently it disappeared among the
trees. Then he obeyed his cousin's summons.
'Oswald, who was the lady?' he asked quickly, as the post-chaise in
its turn began to move onwards.
'Why on earth ask me? How should I know?'
'Well, you were long enough away with the carriage. You might have
inquired of the coachman.'
'It is not my way to question coachmen. Besides, the matter possesses
little interest for me.'
'Well, it possesses a good deal for me,' said Edmund irritably. 'But
it is just like you. You don't consider it worth while to put a
question, though of course, as you are full well aware, one would
like to have the matter cleared up. I really don't quite know what to
make of the girl. She emits sparks, so to say, at the slightest
contact--she attracts and repels in a breath. One minute you feel as
if you may address her with perfect unconstraint, and the next you
find yourself scared back to the most respectful distance. A most
seductive little witch!'
'Exceedingly spoilt and wilful, I should say,' remarked Oswald drily.
'What an abominable pedant you are!' cried the young Count. 'You have
always some fault to find. It is precisely her capricious, merry
wilfulness which makes the girl so irresistible. But who in the world
can she be? I saw no crest on the carriage-panels. The coachman wore a
plain livery without any particular badge. Some middle-class family in
the neighbourhood, evidently; and yet she seemed to know us very well.
Why refuse to give her name? why that allusion to some connection
existing between us? In vain I rack my brains to find some
explanation.'
Oswald, who seemed to think such mental exertion on his cousin's part
most unnecessary, leaned back in his corner in silence, and the
journey was continued without further obstacle, but with the tedious
slowness which had characterised it throughout. To the Count's great
annoyance, instead of the four horses they desired and expected, two
only could be had at each relay. In consequence of the downfall of
snow, the available animals at each post-house had been put into
requisition, so that the travellers had lost fully a couple of hours
on the road since they started from the railway-station at noon. It
was growing dark when the carriage at length rolled into the courtyard
of Castle Ettersberg, where their arrival had evidently long been
looked for. The portals of the spacious and brilliantly lighted hall
were thrown open, and at the sound of approaching wheels a goodly band
of servants hastened to receive their master. One of these, an old
retainer, who, like the rest, wore the handsome Ettersberg livery,
came straight up to the carriage.
'Good-evening, Everard,' cried Edmund joyfully. 'Here we are at last,
in spite of snow and stress of weather. All is well at home, I hope.'
'Quite well, the Lord be praised. Count! but her ladyship was growing
very anxious at the delay. She was afraid the young gentlemen had met
with a mishap.'
As he spoke, Everard opened the carriage-door, and at that moment a
lady of tall and imposing stature, clad in a dark silk robe, appeared
at the head of a flight of steps which led from the entrance-hall into
the interior of the castle. To spring out of the carriage, to rush
into the hall and bound up the steps, was, for Edmund, the affair of
an instant. Next minute he was fast in his mother's embrace.
'Dearest mother, what happiness to see you again at last!'
There was nothing in the young Count's exclamation of that light, airy
playfulness which had marked his every utterance hitherto. His tone
was genuine now, coming from the heart, and a like passionate
tenderness thrilled the voice and illumined the features of the
Countess as she folded her son in her arms again, and kissed him.
'My Edmund!'
'We are late, are we not? The block on the roads and the detestable
arrangements at the post-houses are to blame for it. Moreover, we had
a little adventure by the way.'
'How could you travel at all in such weather?' said the Countess, in a
tone of loving reproach. 'I was hourly expecting a telegram to say
that you would stay the night in B----, and come on here to-morrow.'
'What! Be separated from you four-and-twenty hours longer?' Edmund
broke in. 'No, mother, I certainly should not have agreed to that, and
you did not believe it of me either.'
The mother smiled. 'No; and for that very reason I have been in
distress about you for several hours. But come now, you must need some
refreshment after your long and arduous journey.'
She would have taken her son's arm to lead him away, but he stood
still, and said a little reproachfully:
'You do not see Oswald, mother.'
Oswald von Ettersberg had followed his cousin in silence. He stood a
little aside in the shadow of the great staircase, only emerging from
it now as the Countess turned towards him.
'Welcome home, Oswald.'
The greeting was very cool--cool and formal as the salute by which the
young man responded to it. He just touched his aunt's hand with his
lips, and as he did so, her glance travelled over his attire.
'Why, you are wet through!' she exclaimed in surprise. 'How came that
to be?'
'Oh, I forgot to tell you!' cried Edmund. 'When we had to alight, he
gave me his cloak, and braved the storm himself without it. Oswald,'
he went on, turning to his cousin, 'I might have given it back to you
in the carriage at least; why did you not remind me of it? Now you
have been sitting a whole hour in that wet coat. I do trust you will
take no harm from it.'
He took off the cloak hastily, and passed his hand inquiringly over
Oswald's shoulder, which certainly bore evidence of a good wetting.
The other shook him off.
'Don't. It is not worth speaking of.'
'I really think not,' said the Countess, to whom this kindly concern
on her son's part was evidently distasteful. 'You know that Oswald is
not susceptible to the influence of the weather. He must change his
clothes, that is all. Go, Oswald; but no, one word more,' she added
carelessly, and, as it were, by an afterthought: 'I have this time
given you another room, one situated over yonder, in the side-wing.'
'For what reason?' asked Edmund, surprised and annoyed. 'You know that
we have always had our rooms together.'
'I have made some alterations in your apartments, my son,' said the
Countess, in a tone of much decision; 'and they have obliged me to
take possession of Oswald's room. He will have no objection, I am
sure. He will find himself very comfortably lodged over yonder in the
tower-chamber.'
'No doubt, aunt.'
The reply sounded quiet and indifferent enough, yet there was
something in its tone which struck on the Count's ear unpleasantly.
He frowned, and would have spoken again, but glancing at the servants
standing round, he suppressed the remark he had been about to make.
Instead of pursuing the discussion, he went up to his cousin and
grasped his hand.
'Well, we can talk this over later on. Go now, Oswald, and change your
clothes at once--at once, do you hear? If you keep those wet things on
any longer, you will give me cause for serious self-reproach. Do it to
please me; we will wait dinner for you.'
'Edmund, you seem to forget that I am waiting for you.'
'One minute, mother. Everard, light Herr von Ettersberg to his room,
and see that he has dry clothes ready without delay.'
So saying, he turned to his mother, and offered his arm to lead her
away. Oswald had responded by no single syllable to all the concern on
his account so heartily expressed. He stood for a few seconds, looking
after the two as they departed; then, as the old servant approached,
he took the candelabrum from his hand.
'That will do, Everard; I can find my way alone. Look after my trunk,
will you?'
He turned into the faintly illumined corridor which led to the
side-wing of the castle. The wax tapers he carried threw their clear
light on the young man's face, from which, now that he was alone, the
mask of indifference had dropped. The lips were tightly compressed,
the brows contracted, and an expression of bitterness, almost of hate,
distorted his features, as he murmured to himself under his breath:
'Will the day never come when I shall be free?'