March and the greater part of April had gone by; snowstorms and sharp
frosts were things of the past. Nevertheless, spring came but tardily.
The country, which at this season of the year is usually decked in
vernal bloom, looked bare and desolate. Warmth and sunshine were
well-nigh unknown, and for weeks together the weather continued as
ungenial as it well could be.
To all outward appearance, the hostile relations between Ettersberg
and Brunneck remained unmodified. The lawsuit dragged its weary length
along, both parties maintaining their original position, and no
attempt at a compromise was, or seemed likely to be, made. The
Countess furnished all instructions in her son's name, that young
gentleman taking not the smallest interest in the affair; and the
Councillor represented his daughter, a minor, who naturally could have
no opinion in the matter.
It had been so from the beginning, therefore the delegation of
authority was accepted as a thing of course.
But the principal persons concerned, the real opponents in this legal
warfare, were by no means so passive as they appeared to be; and the
parents, while pursuing their own determined course, upholding their
'principles' with the utmost persistency, little guessed what was
preparing for them in secret.
Ruestow himself had been absent from Brunneck during the last few
weeks. Some business connected with a great industrial enterprise of
which he was one of the promoters had called him to the capital. His
counsel and aid were needed and sought in high quarters; unlooked-for
delays occurred, and his stay, which was to have been a short one, had
extended over an entire month.
When Count Ettersberg, after an interval of a week, repeated his visit
to Brunneck, he found the master of the house absent. Fraeulein Hedwig
and her aunt were at home, however, and Edmund naturally made the most
of his opportunity and ingratiated himself with the two ladies. This
second visit was promptly succeeded by a third and a fourth; and from
this time forward, by some remarkable accident, it invariably happened
that when the ladies drove out, took a walk, or paid a visit in the
neighbourhood, the young Count would be found at the same hour on the
same road. By this fortunate chance, greetings were frequently
exchanged, and meetings of varying duration occurred. In short, the
friendly intercourse proposed some time before was thriving and
prospering exceedingly.
The Councillor knew nothing of all this. His daughter did not consider
it necessary to mention the matter in her letters, and Edmund pursued
the same tactics with regard to his mother. To his cousin he had,
indeed, imparted with triumphant glee the fact of that first invasion
of the enemy's camp; but as Oswald made some rather sharp observations
on the subject, describing any intercourse with Brunneck during the
progress of the lawsuit as improper in the highest degree, no further
communications were vouchsafed him.
On a rather cool and cloudy morning towards the end of April, Count
Edmund and Oswald sallied out into the woods together. The Ettersberg
forests were of great extent, stretching away to, and partly clothing,
the low chain of hills which acted as advanced sentinels to the
mountain-range beyond. The two gentlemen bent their steps in the
direction of the rising ground. They had evidently something more than
a pleasant walk in view, for they carefully surveyed the trees and the
land as they advanced, and Oswald frequently addressed his cousin in
terms of urgent appeal.
'Now just look at these woods! It really is astounding to see how
things have been mismanaged here during the last few years. Why, they
have cut down half your timber for you. I cannot understand how you
were not at once struck by the fact yourself. You have been riding
about all over the place nearly every day.'
'Oh, I did not think about it,' said Edmund. 'But you are right, it
does look rather queer. The steward declares, I believe, that he had
no other way of covering the deficit in the receipts.'
'The steward declares just what seems good to him, and as he stands
high in favour with your mother, she accepts it all and gives him full
tether, allowing him to act as he sees fit.'
'I will talk to my mother about it,' declared the young Count. 'It
would be a great deal better, though, if you would do it yourself. You
can explain these matters much more clearly and cogently than I can.'
'You know that I never offer advice to your mother on any subject. She
would consider it an unjustifiable piece of impertinence on my part,
and would reject it accordingly.'
Edmund made no reply to this last observation, the truth of which he
no doubt recognised.
'Are you of opinion that the steward is dealing unfairly by us?' he
asked, after a short pause.
'Not that precisely, but I consider him to be incompetent, wholly
unfitted for the position of trust he occupies. He has no initiative,
no method or power of keeping things together. As it is with the
forests, so is it with all under his rule. Each man on the place does
what seemeth best in his own eyes. If matters are allowed to go on in
this way, I tell you they will absolutely ruin your property. Look at
Brunneck; see the order that reigns there. Councillor Ruestow draws as
much from that one estate as you from the whole Ettersberg domain,
though the resources here are incomparably greater. Hitherto you have
had to confide in others. You have been absent for years, first at the
University, then abroad; but now you are on the spot--you are here
expressly to look after your property for yourself. Energetic measures
must at once be taken.'
'Good heavens! what discoveries you have made during the six weeks we
have spent at home!' said Edmund, in a tone of sincere admiration. 'If
it is all as you say, I certainly shall have to take some steps; but
I'll be hanged if I know how I ought to begin!'
'First of all, dismiss those employes who have proved themselves
incapable; put men of more power and intelligence in their place. I
almost fear that you will have to change the entire staff.'
'Not for the world! Why, that would give rise to perplexities and
disagreeables without end. It is painful to me to see all new faces
about me, and it would take months before they settled down into
harness, and got used to their work. Meanwhile, all the burden would
fall upon me. I should have to do everything myself.'
'That is what you are master for. You can at least command those
beneath you.'
Edmund laughed.
'Ah, if I had your special liking and talent for command! In a month
you would have metamorphosed Ettersberg, and in three years you would
make of it a model establishment after the pattern of Brunneck. Now,
if you were going to stay by me, Oswald, it would be different. I
should have some one to back and support me then; but you are
determined to go away in the autumn, and here shall I be all alone
with unreliable or strange new servants to deal with. Pretty prospect,
I must say! I have not formally taken possession yet, and the whole
concern has become a worry to me already.'
'As Fate has willed that you should be heir to the estates, you must
perforce bear the heavy burden laid upon you,' said Oswald
sarcastically. 'But once more, Edmund, it is high time something
should be done. Promise me that you will proceed to action without
delay.'
'Certainly, certainly,' assented the young Count, who had visibly had
enough of the subject. 'As soon as I can find time--just now I have so
many other things to think of.'
'Things of more importance than the welfare of your estates?'
'Possibly. But I must be off now. Are you going straight back home?'
The question was a particularly pointed one. Oswald did not notice
this; he had turned away in evident displeasure.
'Certainly. Are not you coming with me?'
'No, I am going over to the lodge. The forester has my Diana in
training, and I must go over and have a look at her.'
'Must your visit be made now?' asked Oswald, in surprise. 'You know
that the lawyer is coming over from town at twelve o'clock to-day, to
hold a conference with you and your mother on the subject of the
lawsuit, and that you have promised to be punctual?'
'Oh! I shall be back long before then,' said Edmund lightly. 'Good
bye for the present, Oswald. Don't look so black at me. I give you my
word that I will have a thorough good talk with the steward to-morrow,
or the day after. Any way, I will have it out with him, you may depend
upon it.'
So saying, he struck into a side-path, and soon disappeared among the
trees.
Oswald looked after him with a frowning brow.
'Neither to-morrow, nor the next day, nor, in fact, ever, will a
change be made. He has some fresh folly in his head, and Ettersberg
may go to the dogs for anything he cares. But, after all'--and an
expression of profound bitterness flitted like a spasm across the
young man's face--'after all, what is it to me? I am but a stranger on
this soil, and shall always remain so. If Edmund will not listen to
reason, he must take the consequences. I will trouble myself no
further about the matter.'
But this was more easily said than done; Oswald's gaze constantly
wandered back to the mutilated forest, where such cruel gaps were to
be seen. His anger and indignation at the senseless, purposeless work
of devastation he beheld on all sides grew too strong to be subdued,
and instead of returning home, as he had intended, he continued on his
way uphill, to inspect the state of the woods on the higher ground.
What he there saw was not of a consoling nature. Everywhere the axe
had been at its work of destruction, and not until he reached the
summit could a change be noted. Here, on the heights, began the
Brunneck territory, where a different and a better order of things
prevailed.
A wish to draw a comparison first drew Oswald on to the neighbour's
land, but his anger swelled high within him as he paced on through the
noble woods and carefully preserved plantations, with which, in their
present maimed condition, the Ettersberg forests could certainly not
compare. What a great work the energy and activity of one man had
effected here at Brunneck, and how, on the other hand, had Ettersberg
fallen! Since the old Count's death, the care of the estates had been
left almost entirely in the hands of employes. The Countess, an
exalted lady who from the day of her marriage had known nothing, seen
nothing but wealth and splendour, considered it a matter of course
that the administration of affairs should be conducted by
subordinates, and that the family should be troubled on such subjects
as little as possible. Moreover, the establishment was kept up on a
costly footing; the sums for its maintenance had to be found, and, of
course, the estates must be made to provide them--it signified little
how. The Countess's brother, Edmund's guardian, lived in the capital.
He filled a high office under the State, and was much taken up by the
duties and claims of his position. He interfered but rarely; never
except in special cases when his sister desired his counsel and
assistance. Her husband's testamentary arrangements had vested all
real authority in her. There would, of course, be an end to all this
now that Edmund was of age; but proof had just been forthcoming of
what might be expected from the young heir's energy and concern for
the welfare of his estates. Oswald told himself, with bitter vexation
of spirit, that he should see one of the finest properties of the
country drift on to certain ruin, owing entirely to the heedlessness
and indifference of its owner; and the thought was the more galling to
him that he felt assured a swift and energetic course of action might
still repair the mischief that had been done. There was yet time. Two
short years hence it might possibly be too late.
Absorbed by these reflections, the young man had plunged deeper and
deeper into the woods. Presently he stopped and looked at his watch.
More than an hour had passed since he had parted with Edmund--the
young Count must long ere this have turned his face homewards. Oswald
determined that he also would go back, but for his return he chose
another and a somewhat longer route. No duty called him home. His
presence at the conference to be held that day was neither necessary
nor desired. He was therefore free to extend his walk according to his
fancy.
Those must have been singular meditations which occupied the young
man's mind as he paced slowly on. The forests and the steward's
mismanagement had long ago passed from his thoughts. It was some other
hidden trouble which knit his brow with that menacing frown, and lent
to his face that harsh, implacable expression--an expression that
seemed to say he was ready to do battle with the whole world. Dark and
troubled musings were they, revolving incessantly about one haunting
subject from which he strove in vain to tear himself free, but which,
nevertheless, held him more and more captive.
'I will not think of it any more,' he said at length, half aloud. 'It
is always the same thing, always the old wretched suspicion which I
cannot put from me. I have nothing--absolutely nothing to confirm it,
or to base it upon, and yet it embitters my every hour, poisons every
thought--away with it!'
He passed his hand across his brow, as though to scare away all
tormenting fancies, and walked on more quickly along the road, which
now took a sharp turn and suddenly emerged from the forest. Oswald
stepped out on to an open hill-summit, but stopped suddenly, rooted to
the ground in astonishment at the unlooked-for spectacle which
presented itself.
Not twenty paces from him, on the grassy slope close to the border of
the forest, a young lady was seated. She had taken off her hat, so a
full view of her face could be obtained--and he who had once looked on
that charming face, with its dark beaming eyes so full of light, could
not readily forget it.
The young lady was Hedwig Ruestow, and close by her, in most suggestive
proximity, lounged Count Edmund, who certainly could not have paid his
visit to the forester in the interval. The two were engaged in an
animated conversation, which did not, however, appear to turn on
serious or very important topics. It was rather the old war of
repartee which they had waged with so much satisfaction to themselves
on the occasion of their first meeting, the same exchange of banter,
of merry jests accompanied by gleeful laughter; but to-day their
manner told of much familiarity. Presently Edmund took the hat from
the girl's hand and threw it on to the grass; after which, lifting the
little palms to his lips, he imprinted on them one fervid kiss after
the other, Hedwig offering no opposition, but accepting it all as the
most natural thing in the world.
For some moments the amazed spectator stood motionless, watching the
pair. Then he turned and would have stepped back among the trees
unnoticed, but a dry bough crackled beneath his feet and betrayed him.
Hedwig and Edmund looked up simultaneously, and the latter sprang
quickly to his feet.
'Oswald!'
His cousin saw that a retreat was now impossible. He therefore
reluctantly left his position and advanced towards the young people.
'So it is you, is it?' said Edmund, in a tone which vacillated between
annoyance and embarrassment. 'Where do you come from?'
'From the woods,' was the laconic reply.
'I thought you said you were going straight home.'
'I thought you were going over to the forester's lodge, which lies in
the opposite direction.'
The young Count bit his lips. He was, no doubt, conscious that he
could not pass off this meeting as an accidental one. Moreover, those
fervent kisses must have been witnessed--so he resolved to put as good
a face upon it as possible.
'You know Fraeulein Ruestow, having been present at our first meeting; I
therefore need not introduce you,' he said lightly.
Oswald bowed to the young lady with all a stranger's frigid courtesy.
'I must apologize for intruding,' he said. 'The interruption was most
involuntary on my part. I could have no idea that my cousin was here.
Allow me to take my leave at once, Fraeulein.'
Hedwig had risen in her turn. She evidently was more keenly alive to
the awkwardness of the situation than Edmund, for her cheeks were
suffused by a flaming blush, and her eyes sought the ground.
Something, however, in the tone of this address, which, though polite,
was icy in its reserve, struck her disagreeably, and she looked up.
Her glance met Oswald's, and there must have been that in the
expression of his face which wounded her and called her pride into
arms; for suddenly the dark blue eyes kindled with indignant fire, and
the voice, which so lately had rung out in merry jest and silver-clear
laughter, shook with emotion and anger as she cried:
'Herr von Ettersberg, I beg of you to remain.'
Oswald, on the point of departure, halted. Hedwig went up to the young
Count, and laid her hand on his.
'Edmund, you will not let your cousin go from us in this manner. You
will give him the necessary explanation--immediately, on the spot. You
must see that he--that he misunderstands.'
Oswald, involuntarily, had drawn back a step, as the familiar 'Edmund'
met his ears. The Count himself seemed somewhat taken aback by the
determined, almost authoritative tone which he now heard probably for
the first time from those lips.
'Why, Hedwig, it was you yourself who imposed silence on me,' he said.
'Otherwise I should certainly not have kept the fact of our attachment
secret from Oswald. You are right. We must take him into our
confidence now. My severe Mentor is capable else of preaching us both
a long sermon, setting forth our iniquity. We will therefore go
through the introduction in due form. Oswald, you see before you my
affianced wife and your future relation, whom I herewith commend to
your cousinly esteem and affection.'
This introduction, though decidedly meant in earnest, was performed in
the Count's old light, jesting tone; but the gay humour, which Hedwig
was usually so prompt to echo, seemed to jar upon her now almost
painfully. She stood quite silent by her lover's side, watching with
strange intensity the new relative opposite, who was mute as herself.
'Well?' said Edmund, surprised and rather hurt at this silence. 'Have
you no congratulations to offer us?'
'I must in the first place sue for pardon,' said Oswald, turning to
the young girl. 'For such a piece of news, I certainly was not
prepared.'
'That is entirely your own fault,' laughed Edmund. 'Why did you
receive my communication so ungraciously when I told you about my
first visit to Brunneck? There was every prospect for you then of
filling the post of confidant. But I must say, Hedwig, we are not
lucky as regards our rendezvous. This is the first time we have met
alone, unsheltered by Aunt Lina's protecting wing--and behold, we are
overtaken by this Cato! The philosopher's face is so eloquent of
horror at witnessing an act of homage on my part that we are obliged
at once to soothe him back into calm by notifying to him our
engagement. You may recall your little pleasantry about the
"intrusion," my dear fellow, and proceed to express--rather
tardily--your wishes for our happiness.'
'I congratulate you,' said Oswald, taking his cousin's proffered hand;
'and you too, Fraeulein.'
'How very monosyllabic! Can it be that we are to have a foe in you?
That would be the drop too much. It will be quite enough for us to
meet the opposition which our beloved parents will in all probability
offer to our plans. We shall be between two fires, and I hope, at
least, to be able to count on you as an ally.'
'You are aware that I have no influence with my aunt,' said Oswald
quietly. 'In that quarter you must trust to your own powers of
persuasion alone. But precisely for this reason you should avoid
giving your mother any extra cause for offence, and offend her you
certainly will, if you are not present at to-day's conference. Your
lawyer must be waiting at Ettersberg at the present moment, and you
have a good hour's walk before you. Excuse me, Fraeulein, but I am
forced to remind my cousin of a duty which he appears to have entirely
lost sight of.'
'Is there a conference at the castle to-day?' asked Hedwig, who had
remained wonderfully quiet during the last few minutes.
'Yes, about the Dornau business,' said Edmund, laughing. 'We are still
at open feud--irreconcilable enemies, you know. In your company I had
certainly forgotten all about lawsuits and appointments. It is
fortunate that Oswald has reminded me of them. I must perforce be
present to-day, and concoct plans with my mother and the lawyer for
snatching Dornau from the enemy. They little dream that we settled the
matter in dispute long ago by the unusual, but highly practical,
compromise of a betrothal.'
'And when will they hear this?' inquired Oswald.
'As soon as I know how Hedwig's father takes the affair. He came back
yesterday, and that is why we wanted some quiet talk together, to draw
up the plan of the campaign. Ettersberg and Brunneck will thrill with
horror at the news, no doubt, and do the Montague and Capulet business
yet a little longer; but we shall take care there is no tragic ending
to the drama. It will wind up to the tune of wedding-bells.'
He spoke with such gay confidence, and the smile with which Hedwig
answered him was so superb and assured of victory, that it was evident
the parents' opposition was not looked upon by the young people as a
real obstacle, likely to involve any serious conflict. They were fully
conscious of their power and influence where father and mother were
concerned.
'But now I really must go home,' cried Edmund, making a start. 'It is
true that I should not rouse my lady-mother's displeasure just now,
and nothing displeases her more than to be kept waiting. Excuse me,
Hedwig, if I leave you here. Oswald will replace me, and will
accompany you back through the wood. As you are so soon to be related,
you must become better acquainted with him. He is not always so
taciturn as he appears at a first meeting. Oswald, I solemnly entrust
my affianced wife to your protection and knightly conduct. So
farewell, my charming Hedwig!'
He carried the girl's hand tenderly to his lips, waved an adieu to his
cousin, and hurried away.
The two who were left were, it seemed, not agreeably surprised by the
Count's sudden arrangement. They certainly did not fall into the tone
of cousinly familiarity so promptly as he had wished. A cloud rested
on the young girl's brow, and Oswald's manner showed as yet little of
the chivalrous gallantry which had been enjoined upon him. At length
he spoke:
'My cousin has kept his acquaintance with you so secret, that the
disclosure he has just made took me altogether by surprise.'
'You made that sufficiently evident, Herr von Ettersberg,' replied
Hedwig. It was strange how lofty and decided a tone she could adopt
when really serious and in earnest.
Oswald approached slowly. 'You are offended Fraeulein, and justly
offended, but the greater blame rests with Edmund. He ought never to
have exposed his betrothed, his future wife, to such misconceptions as
that of which I was guilty.'
At this allusion a crimson flush again mounted to Hedwig's cheek.
'The reproach you address in words to Edmund is in reality aimed at
me, for I was a consenting party. My imprudence was only made manifest
to me just now by your look and tone.'
'I have already apologized, and now once more I pray to be forgiven,'
said Oswald earnestly. 'But ask yourself, Fraeulein, what a stranger,
to whom a frank, straightforward explanation could not have been
given, would have thought of this meeting? I say again, my cousin
should not have induced you to agree to it.'
'Edmund always speaks of you as his Mentor,' exclaimed Hedwig, with
unmistakable annoyance. 'It seems that, as I am engaged to be married
to him, I also am to enjoy the privilege of being ... educated by
you.'
'I merely wished to warn, and by no means to offend you. It is for you
to judge in what spirit you should take the warning.'
She made no reply. The grave earnestness of his words was not without
effect upon her, though it did not altogether calm her ruffled spirit.
Hedwig picked up her hat, which lay neglected on the ground, and sat
down in her former place to rearrange the crushed flowers. The fresh
and dainty spring headgear had suffered a little from its contact with
the grass, still damp with mist and rime; such a hat was, indeed,
hardly suited to the inclement April day. Spring comes tardily among
the mountains, and this year especially she showed no smiling
countenance. Her advent was heralded by rain and tempest. To frosty
nights succeeded days of mist, through which the pale sunshine gleamed
but fitfully.
On this day the sky was as usual shrouded in masses of gray cloud. A
wall of fog shut out the distant horizon, and the air was close and
laden with moisture. The woods were still bare and leafless; in the
undergrowth alone signs of the first tender green could be seen
sprouting timidly forth. Each leaflet, each bud, had to struggle for
existence, with difficulty holding its own in that raw, keen
temperature. The scene altogether was cheerless and desolate.
Oswald made no attempt to renew the conversation, and Hedwig, for her
part, showed but little inclination to pursue it. After a while,
however, the silence became oppressive to her, and she ventured the
first remark that suggested itself.
'What a miserable April! Anyone would think we were in cold, foggy
autumn, with winter closing in upon us. We are to be cheated this year
of all our spring delights.'
'Are you so fond of spring?' asked Oswald.
'I should like to know who is not fond of it? When one is young,
flowers and sunshine seem necessary as the air we breathe. One cannot
do without them. But perhaps you are of a different opinion.'
'It all depends. Flowers and sunshine do not come with every spring;
nor are they given to everyone in their youth.'
'Were they not given to you?'
'No.'
The negative was very harsh and decided. Hedwig glanced up at the
speaker; it occurred to her, perhaps, that he was austere and
undelightful as the spring day which excited her displeasure. What a
contrast was there between this conversation and the sparkling,
playful babble in which the young engaged pair had so recently
indulged here, on the self-same spot! Even the 'plan of campaign' to
be undertaken against their parents had been sketched out in a spirit
of drollery, amid endless pleasantries, and any lurking anxiety as to
the issue had been chased away by jests and laughter. But now, with
Oswald von Ettersberg standing before her in his cold unyielding
attitude, not only all the merriment, but all desire for it, had
vanished as by enchantment. This solemn strain of talk seemed to come
as a matter of course, and the young girl even experienced a certain
attraction in it and desire to pursue it.
'You lost your parents early? Edmund has told me so; but at Ettersberg
you found a second home and a second mother.'
The stern, aggressive look, which for a while had disappeared, showed
itself again in the young man's face, and his lips twitched almost
imperceptibly.
'You mean my aunt, the Countess?'
'Yes. Has she not been a mother to you?' Again there came that slight
spasmodic working about the corners of the mouth, which was anything
rather than a smile, but his voice was perfectly calm, as he replied:
'Oh, certainly. Still, there is a difference between being the only
child of the house--beloved as you and Edmund have been--and a
stranger admitted by favour.'
'Edmund looks on you exactly as a brother,' interrupted the young
girl. 'It is a great grief to him that you are meaning to leave him so
soon.'
'Edmund appears to have been very communicative with regard to me,'
said Oswald coldly. 'So he has told you of that already, has he?'
Hedwig flushed a little at this remark.
'It is natural, I think, that he should make me acquainted with the
affairs of the family I am likely to enter. He mentioned this fact to
me, lamenting that all his efforts to induce you to remain at
Ettersberg had failed.'
'To remain at Ettersberg?' repeated Oswald, with unfeigned
astonishment. 'My cousin could not possibly have been in earnest. In
what capacity would he have me remain there?'
'In your present capacity of a friend and near relation, I suppose.'
The young man smiled bitterly.
'Fraeulein, you have probably no idea of the position occupied by so
superfluous a member of a family, or you would not expect me to hold
out in it longer than necessity compels. There may be men who,
accepting the convenient and pleasant side of such a life, could shut
their eyes to its true significance; I have been absolutely unable to
do so. Truly, it never was my intention to remain at Ettersberg and
now I would not stay, no, not for the whole world!'
He spoke the last words with fire. His eyes kindled with a strange
lightning-like gleam, of which one would not have supposed those cold
orbs capable. It flashed on the young girl and was gone, and who
should determine the true meaning of it?
To Hedwig, accustomed to read in other glances a tender homage and
admiration, which this certainly did not convey, the look remained
problematical.
'Why not now?' she asked in surprise. 'What do you mean by that?'
'Oh, nothing, nothing! I was alluding to family affairs which are
unknown to you as yet.'
Evidently he repented his hasty error; as though in anger at himself,
he fiercely snapped to pieces a branch which he had torn from a
neighbouring bush.
Hedwig was silent, but the explanation did not suffice her. She felt
there must have been other grounds for the sudden vehemence and bitter
emphasis with which he had spoken those words. Was it the thought of
her entering the family which had roused him thus? Did this new
relation intend to take up a hostile attitude towards her from the
very first? And what did that strange, that enigmatic glance portend?
She sat thinking over all this, while Oswald, who had turned away,
looked persistently over in the opposite direction.
Suddenly, from the higher ground, a low, far-off sound was wafted
down. It was like the chirping of many birds, and yet consisted in a
single note, long drawn out.
Hedwig and Oswald looked up simultaneously. High in the air above them
hovered a swallow. As they looked, it directed its course downwards,
shooting by them so close that it almost brushed their foreheads in
its arrow-like swiftness. Quickly following the first came a second
and a third, and presently out of the misty distance a whole flight
was seen emerging. On they came, nearer and still nearer, winging
their way rapidly through the moist, heavy air. Then, circling above
the woods and hilltops, they dispersed fluttering about in all
directions, joyfully greeting, as it were, the old home they had found
again. Here, with their gracious, hopeful message, were the first
harbingers of spring.
The lonely hill-side had suddenly grown animated, a scene of movement
and of life. Restlessly, incessantly, the swallows darted hither and
thither, sometimes high overhead at an unattainable distance, then
quite low to the ground, almost touching the soil. Backwards and
forwards shot the pretty slender creatures on facile wings, so swiftly
that the eye could hardly follow them; and all the while the air was
resonant with that low happy piping which has nothing in common with
the nightingale's trill or the lark's ecstasy of song, and which yet
is sweeter to man's ears than either, because it is the herald's note,
proclaiming the approach of Spring, and bearing her first message to
fair nature, fresh from the long winter trance.
Hedwig had started from her reverie. All else was suddenly forgotten.
Bending eagerly forwards, with a glad radiance in her eyes, she
watched the tiny newcomers; then, with all the delight, the joyful
excitement of a child, she cried:
'Oh, the swallows, the swallows!'
'Truly, they are here,' assented her companion, 'and fortunate they
may consider themselves in receiving so hearty a welcome.'
The cool observation fell like a chilling hoarfrost on the girl's
innocent joy. She turned and measured the sober spectator at her side
with an indignant glance.
'To you, Herr von Ettersberg, it appears inconceivable how one can
rejoice over anything. It is not one of your failings, and I dare say
the poor swallows to you signify nothing--you have never bestowed the
smallest attention on them.'
'Oh, pardon me! I have always envied them for their distant
journeyings, their free powers of flight, which nothing shackles or
restrains. Ah, liberty! there is nothing better, no higher good in
life than liberty!'
'No higher good?'
The question was put in a tone of anger and indignation, making the
answer seem all the colder and more decided.
'None, in my estimation, at least.'
'Really, one would think you had hitherto been languishing in chains,'
said Hedwig, with unconcealed irony.
'Must one breathe dungeon-air in order to long for freedom?' asked
Oswald in the same tone, only that his irony amounted to scathing
sarcasm. 'The accidents of life often forge fetters which weigh more
heavily than the real iron chains of a captive.'
'Then the fetters must be shaken off.'
'Quite true, they must be shaken off. Only that is much more easily
said than done. They who have never been otherwise than free, hardly
prize their liberty, looking upon it as a thing of course. They cannot
understand how others will strive and struggle for years, will stake
life itself to secure that precious guerdon. But, after all, the
efforts matter little, if the end be but attained.'
He turned away, and seemed to be attentively watching the swallows in
their rapid flittings to and fro. A fresh silence ensued, lasting
longer, and putting Hedwig's patience to a still severer test than
those which had previously occurred. These lapses in the conversation
were strange and intolerable to her. Really, this Oswald von
Ettersberg was an audacious personage. In the first place he presumed
to reprimand her with regard to her meeting with Edmund; then he
declared sharply, and with an emphasis which was almost insulting,
that nothing should now induce him to remain on in his cousin's house;
then he began to talk of dungeons and all sorts of disagreeable
things, and finally lapsed into absolute silence, giving himself up to
his meditations as completely as though a young lady, his cousin's
promised wife, were not in his company. Hedwig thought the measure of
his rudeness was filled, and she rose to go.
'It is time for me to be returning,' she remarked shortly.
'I am at your service.'
Oswald moved forward, intending to escort her, but she waved him back
with an ungracious gesture.
'Thank you, Herr von Ettersberg. I know the way perfectly.'
'Edmund expressly charged me to see you home,' objected Oswald.
'And I release you from the obligation,' rejoined the young lady, in a
tone which plainly said the young Count's wishes were not as law to
her when opposed to her own will. 'I came alone, and will go back
alone.'
Oswald retreated at once.
'Then you must make haste to reach Brunneck,' he said coolly. 'The
clouds are gathering yonder, and in half an hour we shall have rain.'
Hedwig looked inquiringly at the threatening clouds. 'I shall be home
long before then; and if it comes to the worst, I think nothing of
being caught in a spring shower. The swallows have reappeared, you
know--have told us that spring is coming at last.'
The words were spoken almost in a tone of challenge, but the gauntlet
was not taken up. Oswald merely bowed with an air of constrained
politeness, thereby forfeiting the young lady's last remnant of
indulgence. She, in return, strove to infuse the utmost chilliness
into her parting salutation, after which she hastened away, light and
swift of foot as a roe.
This haste was not induced by fear of rain, for when she had left the
hill-side well behind her, Hedwig slackened her pace. She only wished
to get out of the neighbourhood of this unbearable 'Mentor,' who had
tried to extend his system of education to her, and had been guilty of
considerable rudeness in the attempt. He had not even raised any
serious objection when she declined his escort. She had fully meant
it, but the merest politeness demanded some words of regret at her
decision. Yet there had been nothing of this; he was visibly delighted
at being relieved of a troublesome office. This spoilt young lady,
whose beauty, and perhaps also whose wealth, had won for her on all
sides attention and lavish homage, looked on such indifference almost
in the light of an insult, and she had not fully recovered from the
vexation it caused her when she issued from the forest and saw
Brunneck lying before her in close vicinity.
Oswald, remaining behind alone, seemed altogether to forget the rain
he had prophesied. He stood motionless, with folded arms, leaning
against the trunk of a tree, and made no sign of setting out
homewards.
The clouds grew heavier and more lowering; the whole forest was now
shrouded in mist, and the swallows almost swept the ground with their
wings as they shot by to and fro. Patches of white might here and
there be seen bearing witness still to the night's hoarfrost; but
beneath, amidst all this mist and rime, a great work was going on. The
life-germs hidden away in a thousand unsuspected buds and leafless
branches were secretly, silently stirring; it wanted but the first
balmy breath, the first glow of sunshine, to awaken all Nature from
her long slumber. Ungenial as the air might be, there was in it just a
touch, a faint suggestion of spring, and a whisper of spring ran
through the bare forest. All around mysterious powers were active,
weaving their chains, arraying their forces, unseen, unheard, yet felt
and understood even by the lonely self-absorbed man who stood gazing
dreamily out into the cloudy distance.
A while ago, as he pursued his solitary way through the woods, all had
been void and desolate. Not a sound had reached his ears of the
language which was now so distinct and eloquent to him. He knew not,
or would not know, what had so suddenly opened his understanding; but
the harsh, aggressive look died out of his face, and with it faded
away the remembrance of a dreary, joyless youth--faded away the
rancour and bitterness of spirit which dependence and neglect had
engendered in a proud, strong nature. The soft, half-unconscious
dreams, which visit others so frequently, had spun their magic web
around the cold, impenetrable Oswald. It was, perhaps, his first
experience of them, but the spell was therefore the more irresistible.
Overhead the swallows were still busy, flitting incessantly to and fro
through the heavy, rain-charged air. The happy chirping of their tiny
throats, the wonderful whisperings about him, the low voice in his own
breast, all repeated in constant refrain that message which other lips
had so triumphantly proclaimed: 'Spring is coming, really coming to us
at last.'