The day on which the young Lord of Ettersberg attained his majority
had come and gone, being celebrated with much splendour. The Countess
judged this a fitting occasion for the display of all the grandeur of
which Ettersberg was capable, and displayed it accordingly was in
fullest measure. In the spacious, brilliantly lighted apartments of
the castle there gathered a gay and numerous throng, for whom the
fete, besides its more immediate cause, had yet another and a special
interest. The young couple, who had been quietly betrothed at Brunneck
some weeks previously, in the presence only of members of the two
families, now made their first appearance together in public, and were
accordingly overwhelmed by the congratulations of their friends. The
news of the engagement had, as may be supposed, created a considerable
stir in the neighbourhood; but the astounding fact was in some small
degree explained by a report of the incident which had brought it
about. It was easy to understand how the Countess, carried away by her
gratitude, had held out the hand of reconciliation to a man whose
courage and presence of mind had saved her life, how in such a moment
her class-prejudices had given way, and she had consented to an
alliance which, so it was said, she had at first vehemently opposed.
Equally intelligible was it that after such an episode the Councillor
should have yielded up his long-cherished grudge against the
Ettersberg family; especially as the Dornau lawsuit had been decided
in his favour, and his stubborn pride had thus received satisfaction.
On the whole, Count Edmund's choice provoked envy rather than hostile
attack, particularly among his younger compeers. The heiress of
Brunneck and Dornau was no unfitting consort, even for a Count von
Ettersberg. Similar marriages were constantly arranged where no such
romantic inclination prevailed, where the rich heiress was not, as in
this case, a youthful, beautiful, and accomplished lady.
But whatever might be the judgment passed on them in private, the
young engaged couple were, of course, met on all sides by flattering
speeches and the most amiable expressions of interest.
Baron Heideck did not honour the castle with his presence on the
occasion, though, in his quality of guardian to the heir, he had been
confidently expected. He did not surrender his point so easily as the
Countess, but persisted in his exclusive views. Fortunately, Edmund
had wisely arranged that the news of his engagement should reach his
uncle in the capital precisely at the time it was made generally
public. The Countess could not possibly recede now, and any
interference on her brother's part would come too late. Nevertheless,
the Baron wrote a stern letter, reproaching his sister with her weak
and foolish compliance, and would not understand how anyone could be
so carried away by the emotion of the moment as to offer up their
'principles.' He did not know how the mother's love had secretly been
at work, undermining her stern resolve, and paving the way for the
sudden concession. It so angered him that he went the length of
refusing to be present at the coming festivities. By his mother's
express wish, Edmund wrote to him, begging him to reconsider this
decision, but he merely sent a short cool note in reply, declaring
that his official duties would not permit him to leave town just then;
all the formalities attendant on the coming of age should be settled
by writing.
Edmund bore the blow with much philosophy, but the Countess was
greatly annoyed. She had always been guided by her brother's opinion,
and now felt his displeasure the more keenly that in her heart she
shared his way of thinking. She saw, however, that having gone so far,
the position she had taken up must be maintained before the world. So
she set herself to the task before her, and with much tact and
charming affability of manner convinced everyone that the consent,
which in truth circumstances had wrung from her, had been
spontaneously and freely given.
Supported by her son and his promised bride, the Countess received the
guests as they arrived. Her toilette was sumptuous and in finest
taste, and the fact that she was still a very beautiful woman had
never made itself so triumphantly manifest as on this occasion. At her
side stood her future daughter-in-law, radiant in all the bloom and
grace of early youth; yet the elder lady's beauty shone undimmed by
the contrast. Edmund's eyes rested now and again with loving
admiration on his handsome, proud mother, who seemed to claim his
attention in almost equal degree with his affianced bride.
'The Countess looks magnificent to-day,' said the Councillor, going up
to his cousin. 'Magnificent, upon my word! and she knows how to do
this sort of thing--that, one must admit. It is all proportionate and
on a grand scale, and the lady has a wonderful talent of making
herself the life and centre of the whole affair. She sees everything,
has something pleasant to say to everyone. Hedwig may learn much from
her in this respect.'
'You seem fond of extremes,' remarked Aunt Lina, who had retired to a
quiet corner seat, whence she could observe at ease all that was going
on. 'From a most unreasonable dislike you have gone over to boundless
admiration of the Countess. Why, I noticed you even kissed her hand
just now.'
'What, don't I please you even yet?' asked Ruestow, in a tone of
offence. 'You wrung from me a solemn promise that I would make myself
agreeable tonight, and now that I am doing everything in my power to
keep my word--making extraordinary efforts, in fact--you won't even
acknowledge it.'
Aunt Lina smiled rather mischievously.
'Oh, but indeed I do! I admire the "extraordinary efforts" quite as
much as the rest of the company, who really do not know what to make
of it. People are accustomed to see you shrouded in a sort of
thundercloud, and this sudden sunshine puzzles them. But I have one
question to ask, Erich. What has gone wrong between Hedwig and Oswald
von Ettersberg? They avoid each other openly in a manner which almost
courts attention.'
'Gone wrong? Nothing, so far as I know. Hedwig cannot endure this
cousin, and I fancy he does not care much for her.'
The last words betrayed some little pique. Evidently the Councillor
could not understand anyone not caring much for his daughter.
'But there must be some grounds for this mutual dislike. Young
Ettersberg's manners are not particularly agreeable, I must say.'
'Ah, but he has a real genius for farming and agriculture generally.
Now, if _he_ were the heir coming into his own, things would wear a
very different aspect here. He sees clearly how the estates are being
mismanaged; and the other day, when he was over at Brunneck, he gave
me some hints and information which will lead me to take serious steps
myself, if Edmund will not act. We talked the matter over thoroughly.'
'Yes, and at great length,' rejoined the lady. 'It almost seemed to me
as if Herr von Ettersberg held you to the conversation purposely, that
he might not have to listen to all Edmund's tender speeches to his
beloved.'
'I am afraid he has some nonsensical high-flying notions in his head,'
said Ruestow. 'The marriage does not meet with his high approval. I saw
that the very day of the accident. He received us here at Ettersberg,
and when Edmund lifted his future wife out of the carriage, my young
gentleman looked as if the skies had fallen upon him; he darted a
glance at the pair which by no means pleased me. However, he recovered
himself in a minute, and was very polite, expressing regret at his
aunt's accident, and wishes for his cousin's happiness, but in a cool,
half-hearted sort of way which showed that both were forced. He does
not appear to possess much heart, but a genius for farming he has, and
no mistake.'
'Did that flattering compliment refer to me?' asked Edmund, who just
then drew near with Hedwig, and overheard the last words.
Ruestow turned.
'To you, no! We were talking of your cousin. You, I am sorry to say,
have no practical gifts that I have been able to discover.'
'None in the world,' Edmund laughingly assured him. 'That was made
plain to me the other day when I was over at Brunneck, and you were
engrossed in one of your endless debates about forest-culture and
drainage. Hedwig and I only caught a word here and there, but that was
enough to make us yawn.'
'These are views which promise well for a landed proprietor, I must
say,' remarked the Councillor tartly. 'So our conversation made you
yawn, did it? Why, you and Hedwig had not a sensible word to say to
each other. I heard nothing but jokes and laughter. Yet you had every
cause to listen with attention. The state of the timber on your----'
'Oh, for Heaven's sake, spare me all that to-day,' broke in Edmund.
'If you really must talk on these subjects, I will bring you over the
genius you admire so much. Oswald is capable of discussing timber all
the evening. But where is he, I wonder? I have missed him for the last
quarter of an hour or so. Everard, have you seen Herr von Ettersberg?
Perhaps he is over in the ballroom.'
'No, Count, I have just come from there,' replied the old servant, who
was passing with a tray.
'Well, I shall have to go and look him up myself. One can never reckon
on Oswald on such occasions as this. He leaves the entire burden on
me. Come, Hedwig, dancing will begin soon; we ought to go and see that
all the necessary arrangements are made.'
So saying, the young Count placed Hedwig's hand within his arm, and
led her away to the ballroom, which lay at the other extremity of the
long and glittering suite of apartments.
The spacious ballroom was for the moment quite empty, as also was the
adjoining conservatory, and this fact probably had beguiled Oswald
into seeking a refuge there. The intention he had expressed of leaving
Ettersberg at once had been combated on all sides, and especially by
Edmund, who warmly insisted on his cousin remaining at the castle, and
besieged him perpetually with entreaties and reproaches. The Countess
even, and Baron Heideck, after due reflection, had decided that it
might be a serious matter to provoke an open rupture with this
rebellious nephew, and to launch him forth into the world in hostile
mood. They therefore also opposed his departure. The family
differences, which could not be healed, must at least be hidden from
others. No further opposition should thwart the young man's plans.
It was agreed that his future should be left altogether in his own
hands; so he had yielded to the pressure put upon him, and consented
to stay on until the autumn, according to his original intention.
Oswald was standing before a group of camellias, apparently absorbed
in the contemplation of their wealth of bloom. In reality he was
insensible to it, as to all else around him. The expression of his
countenance had little in common with the general rejoicing of the
day, which placed the young Lord of Ettersberg in full possession of
his own. An ominous frown contracted his brow, which had been smooth
enough as he mixed in the ranks of the company. It was one of those
moments when the mask of calm, imperturbable indifference was dropped.
This mask the habit of years and the young man's self-control had
enabled him to assume, but how foreign to his real nature was the
indifference he feigned might be seen from his heaving breast and
clenched teeth as he now stood alone, battling with himself. It had
been impossible to him to remain amid the brilliant throng. He felt he
must seek solitude, that he might draw breath freely, that he might
not stifle beneath the crowd of thoughts which surged wildly through
his mind. Was this really but the mean, bitter envy of an ingrate, who
repaid benefits received with hate, and could not forgive the Fortune
which favoured his cousin more highly than himself? Oswald's attitude
implied more than this. There was in it something of the proud
defiance with which a subdued and downtrodden right may at times
assert itself, something of unspoken yet menacing protest against all
the gay, splendid doings of the day.
'So here you are!' Edmund's voice broke in upon the stillness.
Oswald started and turned round, to behold the young Count standing in
the doorway. Edmund went up to him now quickly, and continued, in a
reproachful tone:
'You seem to look upon yourself quite in the light of a guest to-day!
You turn your back on the company and devote yourself to a quiet
inspection of these camellias, instead of helping me to do the honours
of the house.'
A moment had sufficed to restore to Oswald his wonted calm, but there
was a lurking bitterness in his tone as he replied:
'That, I imagine, is your business exclusively. Are you not the hero
of the day?'
'No doubt, in a double capacity,' replied Edmund lightly. 'As a man
coming into his property, and a man about to be married. In this last
quality, I have to read you a lecture. You have omitted to ask Hedwig
for a dance; yet you might have foreseen that she would be besieged by
petitions on all sides. Luckily, I interfered in your behalf, and have
secured for you the only waltz that was left at her disposal. I hope
you will duly appreciate my self-abnegation.'
It hardly seemed to be appreciated, or at least not in the measure
expected. Oswald's answer betrayed a marked coldness.
'You are very kind. To tell you the truth, it had been my intention
not to dance this evening.'
'Now this is too bad!' exclaimed his cousin angrily. 'It would be
shameful if you were to refuse now. Why should you? you used to dance
formerly.'
'Because my aunt would not excuse me. The duty was always an onerous
one. You know how little taste I have for dancing.'
Edmund shrugged his shoulders.
'No matter; this waltz you will have to undertake, whether you like it
or not. I have expressly retained it for you.'
'If Fraeulein Ruestow has consented----'
'"Fraeulein Ruestow"! Just the tone in which Hedwig said, "If Herr von
Ettersberg desires it"! How often have I asked you both to give up
this stiff form of address, and to behave towards each other as
relations should? But it seems to me that every time you meet you grow
more formal and freezing. This is getting quite unbearable.'
'I was not aware that I had been wanting in proper respect towards the
lady of your choice.'
'Oh no, certainly not. You are, on the contrary, so exceedingly
reverential to each other, that it chills the very blood in my veins
to listen to you. I really do not understand you, Oswald. The reserve
you affect towards Hedwig is so patent, so obvious, you positively
cannot complain if she is occasionally a little ... a little brusque
in her manner towards you.'
Oswald accepted the rebuke with perfect equanimity. His hand toyed,
absently as it were, with one of the flowering branches as he
replied:'
'Say no more about it, Edmund--be very sure that this reserve of mine
meets the lady's wishes exactly. As you have asked for a waltz in my
name, I shall claim it, of course, but you must not force me to take
any further part in the ball. It really was my intention not to dance
tonight at all.'
'All right,' said Edmund, who was as easily appeased as ruffled, and
whose anger never lasted long. 'If you are bent on depriving the
ladies of a partner, I cannot compel you to favour them, and nothing
shall induce me to put myself out of temper tonight. It really would
be thankless of me on such a day as this, a day which fulfils my
every wish. You see, Hedwig and I were right not to take a tragic
view of the situation, though Ruestow's deed of heroism settled the
matter more quickly than we had ventured to hope. The feud between the
houses is at an end, and our romance winds up to the merry tune of
wedding-bells. I knew it would be so!'
The fearless, happy confidence which marked the young Count's bearing,
and was to-day more strikingly expressed than ever, formed a strong
contrast to his cousin's almost gloomy gravity. Oswald's eyes rested
with a dark and moody gaze on the other's bright face.
'You are Fortune's favoured child,' he said slowly. 'All the good
things of this life fall to your share.'
'All?' repeated Edmund jestingly. 'No; you are in error there. My
future father-in-law's genuine admiration, for instance, is given to
you. He declares you are a heaven-born genius, extols your practical
notions, and no doubt in his heart regrets that you are not destined
to be his son-in-law in my stead.'
Harmless as was the jest, and lightly as the words were spoken, they
produced a visible and painful effect. Oswald's brow contracted
darkly, and he replied with much irritation:
'How often have I begged you to spare me this perpetual banter? Cannot
you desist from it for once, if it be only for a moment?'
Count Edmund, who greatly enjoyed the spectacle of his cousin's wrath,
broke into a fit of laughter.
'Make your mind easy,' he said. 'I should be the first to protest
against an exchange, and I hardly think Hedwig would be disposed to
agree to it. I have no intention of abdicating in your favour. But now
come. It is high time for us to return to the guests.'
Oswald, who had no further pretext for lingering behind,
obeyed the summons, and the two young men returned together to the
reception-rooms. Here the heir's absence had already been remarked.
The Countess's eyes were roving in impatient quest of her son, for she
was waiting to give the signal for the dancing to begin, and a cloud
lay on fair Hedwig's brow as the two gentlemen entered. The young lady
thought it most unnecessary that Edmund should go off in search of his
unsociable cousin, and could not excuse him for deserting her side for
such an object. She did not like this particular new relation, with
his icy hauteur and reserve, which never condescended to a word of
flattery or admiration, and therefore gave herself little trouble to
conceal from him the fact that the promise of a waltz had been almost
wrested from her. Oswald was constrained to utter some words of
thanks, but even in so doing he let it be seen that he was in reality
little moved by the high distinction conferred on him. No special
attention was vouchsafed his speech. Hedwig made a brief reply, cold
as the address had been, diligently studying the design of her fan as
she spoke, and then turned at once to her affianced husband. Poor
Edmund saw that his efforts to establish a friendship between his
cousin and future wife were worse than useless; they invariably
produced an effect contrary to that desired. He had to confess to
himself that this, his latest half-playful, half-serious attempt to
bring the two together, had resulted in a complete fiasco.
The ball now began in earnest, and soon all the younger members of the
company were taking part in its revels. Oswald von Ettersberg was the
one exception. He remained true to his resolution, and abstained from
dancing, to the great displeasure of the Countess. Since their last
interview, however, that lady had refrained from any attempt to
control her nephew, and she now allowed him to have his way in
silence. Edmund and Hedwig, on the other hand, gave themselves up
heart and soul to the pleasure of the hour. They both danced well, and
were passionately fond of the exercise. It would have been difficult
to find a handsomer couple than the young heir and his promised bride
as they floated through the room, radiant with youth, happiness, and
beauty, surrounded by the aureole of wealth and Fortune's fairest
gifts. Not a cloud dimmed the broad, sunshiny horizon of their future.
Baron Heideck himself must that evening have given in his adhesion,
have become reconciled to his nephew's choice, so charming did the
young girl appear in her dress of pale pink silk adorned with airy
white laces and roses strewn, as it seemed, with a random hand. Her
luxuriant curly hair, restrained by no net, but held together simply
by a flowering spray, waved over her shoulders in all its rich
abundance. A happy light shone in the dark-blue eyes, and the
beautiful face, slightly flushed by the rapid movement of the dance,
beamed with youthful excitement and delight--perhaps a little also
with gratified vanity, for it could not be doubtful that the young
lady was conscious of her all-conquering charms and of the triumph she
had that evening achieved.
To this triumph Edmund was by no means insensible. The evident
admiration which his betrothed excited on all sides flattered him most
agreeably. He was unremitting in his attentions to Hedwig, and
perfectly captivating in his general efforts to please. Oswald was
right. The Count was indeed the favoured child of Fortune--of Fortune,
which, in addition to all that had been his from birth, now set him
free to follow the dictates of his heart. Truly, all the good things
of this life fell to his share.
Three or four dances had gone by, and now came the waltz which Edmund
had solicited in his cousin's name. Oswald approached his fair
partner, and offered his arm with his accustomed cold politeness.
'You have not danced at all this evening, Herr von Ettersberg,' said
Hedwig, a little ironically. 'It seems that an exception is to be made
in my honour alone. Is it really true, as I heard a lady asserting
just now, that you positively detest dancing?'
'I may say, at least, that I am not fond of it,' he replied.
'Oh, then I am sincerely sorry that you should impose such a penance
on yourself on my account. It was Edmund's wish, I imagine, that we
should fulfil the demands of etiquette by going through this waltz
together?'
The sarcasm failed in its effect, for Oswald remained perfectly cool.
He evaded any direct reply to her rather captious remark, and answered
ambiguously:
'I hardly knew whether I was to accept Edmund's promise as sufficient.
I thought it advisable to assure myself personally of your consent,
Fraeulein.'
Hedwig bit her lip. Her supposition was confirmed. This most ungallant
new relation made no attempt to disguise from her that the arrangement
had been a master-stroke of Edmund's diplomacy, but coolly allowed her
to divine the fact. It almost seemed as though the young Count might
have to pay some penalty for this, for the young lady's lip curled
with a defiance of which he had already had some slight experience.
The promise she had given could not, however, be recalled without
absolute offence, especially as the dance had already commenced.
'I await your bidding,' said Oswald, pointing to the couples flying
past.
Hedwig made no reply, but placed her hand on his arm with an air of
resignation, and next moment they, too, were whirling through the
room.
That was a strange waltz, danced merely in satisfaction of
'etiquette.' Hedwig had purposed to make it as short and as formal as
possible, and yet something like confusion overcame her when her
partner placed his arm about her waist. Hitherto they had not even
shaken hands, but had restricted themselves to the severest outward
forms of politeness, and now suddenly they were so near, so near each
other! Up to this time Oswald had hardly noticed the girl's loveliness
by a glance. He had, almost purposely, abstained from looking at her,
and she had resented this as a sort of affront. But now his eyes were
riveted on her face, fascinated, as it seemed, by some spell he could
not break, and those eyes spoke quite another language from the
sternly-set lips. His breast heaved with a quick tempestuous movement,
and the arm which encircled the girl's slender figure trembled
perceptibly.
Hedwig felt this. She raised her eyes in surprised inquiry to his
face, and there met again that enigmatic expression which had so
startled her on a previous occasion when they had been left together
alone on the hill-side. She had not understood then the sudden, ardent
flash, the kindling gaze--often had she pondered over it, wondering
what it could purport--oftener than she cared to confess to herself;
now some notion of its meaning dawned upon her. No clear recognition
of the truth as yet, only a dim vague foreshadowing, which gradually,
very gradually, took form and substance. Vague as was the feeling, it
harassed and agitated her. Though the danger it seemed to imply as yet
menaced only from afar, it already exercised a magnetic influence,
which slowly, irresistibly drew her on and on towards the fatal orbit.
Mechanically, half as in a dream, the girl followed the windings of
the dance. The brightly lighted ballroom, the sparkling music, the gay
couples revolving round her--this all grew misty and unreal to her
dulled senses, receding, as it were, to an illimitable distance.
It seemed to Hedwig that a great gap separated her from these
surroundings, that she was alone with the man who held her in
his arms, alone beneath the spell of those eyes, from which she
strove to escape, but which held her ever inexorably fast. Suddenly,
in the midst of all these surging emotions, indefinite and most
unintelligible, a clear, strong ray of light streamed in upon her, a
prescience, as it were, of some hitherto unknown, but infinite,
amazing bliss.
The dance came to an end. It had hardly lasted ten minutes, and
yet had been too long for either of them. Once again their eyes
met--resting for a second or more, then Oswald bowed and stepped back.
'I thank you, Fraeulein,' he murmured.
Hedwig replied not a syllable. She merely inclined her head in
acknowledgment. No time could she have found, indeed, to answer, for
Edmund was already at her side, triumphing in the thought that he had
successfully carried out his plan, and much disposed to venture some
bantering remarks in consequence. But for once his mirth-loving humour
had to be restrained; for at the conclusion of the dance the couples
dispersed, and many ladies and gentlemen drew near their host. The
Count and his betrothed were quickly surrounded; their attention was
claimed on all sides, and a lively chatter soon set in about them.
Edmund was in brilliant vein, and soon became the soul and centre of
the group. Hedwig smiled too, and made reply when appealed to, but her
replies were faint, her smiles strangely forced. The radiant gaiety
she had shown throughout the evening had suddenly faded away, died
out. But a little while ago she had entered with the heartiest spirit
into all the animation and the pleasure, luxuriating in it as in her
true element; had moved through the bright and merry throng,
brightest, merriest of all; but now it had all grown strange and
indifferent to her. The light jests and flattering speeches that
buzzed about her ears seemed to her quite meaningless and inane. A
veil had fallen upon her soul, as it were, obscuring all the
brightness and splendour of the scene. It was only by a great effort
that she forced herself to play her part in it.
Oswald had taken advantage of the approach of strangers to beat a
retreat unnoticed, and to leave the ballroom. Count Edmund would have
been wiser not so pertinaciously to have insisted on having his own
way. He little guessed, indeed, that his cousin had refrained from
dancing simply and solely to avoid the duty which 'etiquette' marked
out for him, and which he could hope to escape in no other manner. And
now, after all, it had been forced upon him! Oswald could not but feel
that he had in some measure betrayed himself, and it availed little
that anger and self-reproach burned hot and fierce within him. That
which he had denied to his own thoughts, which nothing would induce
him to admit even to himself, had through that unhappy waltz become
clear to him as the noonday. He knew now how matters stood with him.
The solitude the young man so longed for was not yet to be accorded
him; for in one of the adjacent rooms he came upon Councillor Ruestow,
who was resting there, seeking to recruit, after his unusual and
amazing efforts at urbanity. He had surpassed himself this evening,
and had been almost knightly in his behaviour towards the Countess;
but the duty had become irksome to him after awhile, and he now
joyfully seized the opportunity which offered of having a little
sensible conversation. In an instant he had buttonholed Oswald, who
was of necessity compelled to stand and surrender.
'You were right, I am sorry to say,' remarked Ruestow, in the course of
their talk. 'In consequence of what you said to me, I have been
looking into the state of affairs here on the Ettersberg estates.
Things are, indeed, in a deplorable condition. I don't see one person
employed on the place who is worth his salt. The bailiff is totally
inefficient, and my lady, the Countess, has trusted to him entirely
for years. Well, I suppose one could not expect her to exercise much
supervision, but I shall take my son-in-law to task, I can tell you.
There has been no doing anything with him at present--his head is so
full of his marriage and all sorts of nonsense--but there must be an
end to this at last. He has to-day become the actual and sole master
here. With the possession comes the responsibility, and it is for him
now to see that all is set in order.'
'Edmund will not move a finger in the matter,' said Oswald. 'He will
promise anything you like, and will seriously intend to do as he
promises, but nothing will come of it. You may rely on what I say.'
Ruestow started at this strong assertion, which was made with much
decision of manner.
'You mean that Edmund is not equal to the task before him?' he asked
anxiously.
'No; his nature is excellent, most amiable, but he lacks energy, and
energy is here imperatively needed. You will have to take steps
yourself, Councillor, if you wish to save the property.'
'And how is it you have not done so before this? You must have seen on
your return how matters were going.'
'I have no right to interfere with other people's concerns.'
'Other people's concerns? Have not you been treated in all respects as
the son of the house whose name you bear?'
Oswald was silent. He could not explain to this gentleman the terms on
which he stood towards his aunt, or how little she would have brooked
any interference on his part; so after a moment he replied evasively:
'Early in the spring I spoke to my cousin about the mismanagement
reigning here, told him without any reticence whatever all I had
observed, and called upon him to take some active steps. I met with no
success. You can summon your paternal authority to your aid; and
Edmund will willingly agree to all you advise, if only you dispense
him from the obligation of doing anything himself.'
Ruestow looked concerned and thoughtful. He did not seem particularly
edified by the view of his son-in-law's character which Oswald's
words, perhaps unintentionally, afforded him.
'Edmund is still so young,' he said at length, half apologetically;
'and he has hitherto resided little on the estate. With possession,
pride and pleasure in his home will come to him, and interest in its
welfare will spring up. In the first place, however, the senseless
doings in the forests must be put a stop to.' Hereupon the Councillor
began to develop his plans and ideas with regard to the new system to
be pursued, and soon grew so absorbed by his subject that he failed to
remark how completely he had the conversation to himself. Only when
Oswald's answers, from being brief, became monosyllabic, when his
assent to the propositions advanced came fainter and fainter, was
Ruestow's attention aroused.
'Does anything ail you, Herr von Ettersberg?' he asked. 'You are
looking so pale.'
Oswald forced a smile, and passed his hand across his brow.
'Nothing of any importance. Merely a headache, which has been
tormenting me all day. If I could have chosen, I should not have
appeared at all this evening.'
'In that case you were wrong to dance,' said Ruestow. 'It was sure to
increase an ailment of that sort.'
The young man's lips quivered. 'You are right; I should not have
danced. But it will not happen again.'
His voice was so low and agitated that Ruestow grew really anxious, and
advised him to go out upon the terrace--he would get rid of his
headache sooner in the open air. Oswald hastily seized the proffered
pretext and went. The Councillor looked after him with a shake of the
head, a little regretful that the pleasant chat was over already.
Young Ettersberg's 'genius' had not displayed itself so obviously as
usual on this occasion.
So the ball spent its course, noisy and brilliant as a ball should be,
fully sustaining the castle's ancient renown for successful
hospitality. No doubt, the Countess was a past mistress in the art of
entertaining and in the ordering and arrangement of such festivities.
The night was far advanced when the carriages containing the last
departing guests rolled from the door, and the members of the family
separated almost immediately. Edmund went down to see the Councillor
and Fraeulein Lina off on their return-journey to Brunneck, and Hedwig,
who was to remain a few days longer with the Countess at Ettersberg,
said good-night at once and retired to her own room.'
The splendid apartments, lately the scene of so much animation, were
now empty and deserted, though still radiant with light and bright
with festive ornament. The Countess alone remained in them. She stood
before her husband's picture, absorbed, as it were, in thought. This
portrait had been a present to her on her marriage, and now filled a
prominent position in the great drawing-room. The face which looked
forth from that richly-gilt frame was mild and kindly in its
expression, but it was the face of an old man, and she who now stood
gazing upon it could yet lay claim to beauty. This proud and almost
royal woman, robed in rich satin, with diamonds of purest water
gleaming on neck and arms, would have been no fitting consort for an
old man even now, and five-and-twenty years had passed since this pair
had been affianced. The story, perhaps the sorrow, of a life lay in
that strange disparity between the lady and the picture.
A sense of this seemed to impress itself on the Countess in the
present hour. The look she fixed on the portrait before her grew more
absorbed, more gloomy, and when at length she turned from it and
surveyed the glittering vista of rooms, a very bitter expression
played about her lips.
The splendid surroundings testified so amply to the high position
attained by the Countess Ettersberg, a position in which she for years
had reigned alone and supreme. Perhaps some of the bitterness was due
to the thought that this sole supremacy was over now, that a new, a
younger mistress was to be introduced to the home; perhaps it was
awakened by other, sadder reminiscences. There were moments when this
haughty and self-confident woman, despite the brilliant _role_ which,
had been hers through life, could not forgive her Fate, or forget that
she had been--offered up.
Edmund's voice, addressing her on his return, roused the Countess from
her reverie.
'The worthy Councillor desires his compliments once more,' he
said gaily. 'You have made a conquest there, mother. He became
perfectly chivalrous in his homage to you, and was so extraordinarily
good-tempered throughout the evening, that I really hardly recognised
him.'
'It is less difficult to get on with him than I had expected,' replied
the Countess. 'He is rather rough and unpolished, certainly, but his
is a frank and vigorous nature, which one must just take with all its
peculiarities. Your future wife enjoyed one long triumph this evening,
Edmund. I must admit that her appearance acts as the best advocate for
your choice.'
Edmund smiled.
'Yes, Hedwig looked charming. In the whole assembly there was but one
lady who could compare with her--and that lady was my mother.'
His eyes rested with a look of affectionate admiration on the
beautiful face before him, saying plainly that his words were spoken
in no spirit of mere flattery. The Countess smiled in her turn. She
knew full well that she could yet outrival younger women, that even
her much-admired daughter-in-law would not place her in the shade. But
the transient satisfaction soon yielded to a deeper emotion, as she
held out her hand to her son and asked:
'Are you satisfied with your mother now?'
The young Count carried the hand to his lips, and kissed it fervently.
'Can you ask me that to-day, a day which has seen my every wish
fulfilled? I know that you made a great sacrifice in giving your
consent, and that you have had to fight many a battle with my uncle on
my behalf.'
The Countess repressed a sigh at this mention of her brother.
'Armand will never forgive me for yielding. Perhaps he is right! It
would have been my duty, no doubt, to maintain the traditions of our
house. And yet I could not resist your entreaties. I desired, at
least, to see _you_ happy.'
As she spoke, she glanced involuntarily at the old Count's portrait
hanging opposite. Edmund caught the look, and understood the thought
underlying the words.
'You were not happy?' he asked in a low tone.
'My husband never once in the whole course of my married life gave me
ground for complaint. He was always most kind and indulgent towards
me.'
'But he was an old man,' said Edmund, gazing up at his father's kindly
but withered features; 'and you were young and beautiful, like Hedwig,
and had a right to expect all happiness in life. My poor dear!' his
voice shook with suppressed emotion. 'It is only since I have been so
happy myself that I have understood how dreary and desolate your life
must have been, notwithstanding all my father's goodness. He could not
love you with the ardour of youth. You bore your lot bravely always,
but it must be a hard lot, nevertheless, to have constantly to listen
to the dictates of duty, and to stifle the voice which calls for a
fuller life and fuller happiness.'
He paused, for the Countess sharply withdrew her hand from his, and
turned away from him and the picture.
'Enough, Edmund!' she said, with a hasty gesture. 'You distress me.'
The son stood silent and confused. It was the first time he had
permitted to himself such an allusion, but he had not dreamed his
mother would be wounded by it.
'Forgive me,' he said, after a pause. 'I did not intend any reproach
to my father's memory. It assuredly was no fault of his if anything
were wanting to your contentment.'
'Nothing was wanting,' exclaimed the Countess, with a rush of genuine
feeling. 'Nothing, for I had you, my Edmund. You have been all in all
to me; you have made up to me for everything. I have desired no other
happiness since I have had my son's love. So far indeed'--here her
voice sank--'so far his love has been mine alone; now I must share it
with another, who henceforth will take the first place in his heart.'
'Mother!' broke in the young Count, half pleading, half reproachful.
'You will be to me still what you have ever been.'
The Countess shook her head gently.
'I have, of course, long known that the time would come when the
mother must make way for the wife; but now that it is here, it seems
hard--so hard to bear, that I sometimes seriously think of leaving
Ettersberg when you are married, and of going to live at Schoenfeld,
which you know was appointed me as a dower-house.'
'Never!' exclaimed Edmund, with vehemence. 'You cannot, will not, act
so unkindly by me. You must not leave me, mother. You know that I
cannot do without you, even though I have Hedwig. Much as I love her,
she would not make up to me for all that I should lose in you.'
The Countess heard these words with secret triumph. She knew that
Edmund was sincere in his speech; the present moment convinced her of
her power afresh. For his promised wife he had never anything but
light talk and merry jests; Hedwig knew only the pleasant but
superficial side of his character, which he showed to the world
generally. All the deeper, intenser feelings of his nature belonged
exclusively to his mother. As they flowed out towards her in all their
warmth and fulness, she triumphantly recognised the fact that the
first place in her son's heart was still hers.
She had indeed known it, felt sure of it all along, and perhaps to
this conviction Hedwig owed much of the friendly consideration which
the Countess had always shown her. A bride more ardently, more
passionately beloved would have found a redoubtable adversary in the
jealous mother; this young girl, who neither gave nor required any
great depth of affection, was endured because she did not endanger the
maternal sway.
'Hush, hush! do not let anyone hear you,' said the Countess playfully,
yet with a swift deep undercurrent of tenderness. 'It is not becoming
in an engaged man, and the lord of many broad acres, to declare that
he cannot do without his mother. Do you think, my dear, that it would
be easy for me to leave you?'
'Do you think I would let you go? The mere formal recognition of my
majority will not make a straw's difference in our position one
towards the other.'
'It will, Edmund,' said the Countess gravely. 'This day signifies to
you more than a mere form. Hitherto you have been my son, the heir,
over whom I exercised a guardian's authority. Henceforth you will be
the leading person, the head of the house. It now devolves on you to
represent the name and family of Ettersberg. May you sustain your rank
brilliantly and well, in all happiness and honour! Then no sacrifice
will have been too great. All that I have borne and suffered will seem
to me a light thing--for your sake.'
The words breathed of a great secret satisfaction. Perhaps they had
another and a deeper meaning than any Edmund attached to them. He
thought only of the sacrifice she had made in consenting to his
marriage, and, stooping, he kissed her brow, thereby expressing his
mute thanks.
The Countess warmly returned his embrace, but in the very act of doing
so she started, and clasped her arms tightly, eagerly about her son,
as though she would shield him from some danger.
'Why, what ails you?' asked Edmund calmly, following the direction of
her eyes. 'It is only Oswald.'
'Oswald! Yes, indeed,' murmured the Countess. 'He, and always he!'
The interruption was indeed caused by Oswald, who had opened the
glass-door leading from the terrace, and now, as he came in, appeared
much surprised at beholding his aunt and cousin.
'I thought these rooms were quite empty,' he said, going up to them.
'And I thought you had long ago retired to rest,' replied the
Countess. 'Where have you been?'
'In the park,' answered the young man laconically, not noticing the
sharpness of her tone.
'What, at this hour of the night?' cried Edmund. 'If it were not an
offence to attribute anything like mooning or romance to you, I should
believe that one of our fair ladies this evening had touched your
rebel heart. At such a time one feels instinctively a desire to sigh
out to the stars alone one's bliss or misery. Do my words displease
you again? Oswald, my mother has just solemnly proclaimed me head of
the house and representative-in-chief of the family. In this exalted
capacity, I now forbid me those black looks of yours, and call on you
to show a smiling countenance. I will have no clouds, nothing but
sunshine, in this my Castle of Ettersberg.'
He would have thrown his arms about his cousin's shoulder in the old
familiar fashion, but the Countess suddenly stepped between the two.
So energetic was this dumb protest against the young men's close
intimacy that Edmund involuntarily receded. Oswald coldly scanned his
aunt's face, and she returned the gaze. Neither of them spoke, but the
expression of undying, irreconcilable hatred which gleamed in their
eyes was eloquent enough.
'Sunshine alone?' repeated Oswald drily. 'I fear that you are
stretching the supremacy you enjoy under your own roof too far. To
command that is hardly possible even to the "head of the house," or to
the "representative-in-chief of the family." Goodnight, Edmund. I
will not intrude on you and my aunt any longer.'
He bowed to the Countess, without offering to kiss her hand, as usual,
and left the room. Edmund looked after him, half angry, half
surprised.
'Oswald grows harder in his manner and more unsociable day by day. Do
you not think so?'
'Why did you force him to remain on here?' said the Countess, curtly
and bitterly. 'You see how he repays your affection.'
The young Count shook his head. 'That is not it. This singular
behaviour of his has nothing to do with me. There is some trouble
weighing on Oswald. I can see it plainly, though he will not admit or
speak of it. To you he always shows the more unpleasant side of his
character, from some spirit of perversity, I suppose. I know him as he
really is, and that is why I am so fond of him.'
'And I hate him!' exclaimed the Countess. 'I know that he is secretly
hatching something against us at the present moment. Just as I was
about to give you my blessing, and wish you all happiness and joy in
the future, he rose up like a shadow, and stepped between us like a
messenger of evil tidings. Why did you keep him here when he wanted to
go? I shall not breathe freely until he has left Ettersberg.'
Edmund looked at his mother in real alarm. Passionate outbreaks were
so foreign to her nature that he positively hardly recognised her in
this mood. Her dislike to Oswald was no secret from him, but this
exceeding irritation he could in no way explain to himself.
The entrance of Everard and another servant here put an end to the
conversation. They had extinguished the lights in the ballroom, and
wished to continue and finish their work elsewhere. The Countess,
accustomed to control herself in the presence of her servants,
speedily recovered her usual composure of manner. After giving some
few orders, she took Edmund's arm and begged him to take her to her
room. Already she repented the vehemence of her speech to her son, and
to him as to herself the interruption came opportunely. They never
could, never would agree in their judgment of Oswald.
All grew quiet and dark in the state apartments. The doors were
closed, and the domestics had withdrawn. In Edmund's room and in his
mother's the lights were soon put out. Down the whole castle facade
two windows only gleamed brightly: that of the turret-chamber in the
side-wing where Oswald von Ettersberg had his lodging, and another in
the main building, situated very near the Countess's own bedroom.
The young affianced bride, the heroine of the evening, had not yet
retired to rest. She sat leaning back in a great armchair, her head
half buried in its cushions, unmindful of the fact that the laces
and roses adorning her dress were being unmercifully, irreparably
crushed. Before her on a table lay her lover's latest offering, a
costly pearl-necklace, which she had worn that day for the first time.
To these jewels, however, she vouchsafed not a glance, though but a
few days ago they had been received by her with great manifestations
of delight.
The evening had been plentiful in pleasure. Hedwig had made her
entrance into society as Edmund's promised wife, had appeared amid the
brilliant surroundings among which her future life would be passed. To
be mistress of Ettersberg was assuredly no unenviable lot, even for so
rich an heiress, so spoilt a child of Fortune, as Hedwig Ruestow. She
had never enjoyed such triumphs, never received so much homage, as had
been lavished on her tonight in her quality of the future Countess
Ettersberg.
Yet no happy smile, no sparkle of satisfied vanity, brightened the
girl's face. Motionless, with her hands folded in her lap, she sat
looking vaguely, dreamily before her into space. The veil still
shrouded her soul; the dream still held her enchained. It led her away
from the gaiety and glamour of the fete to a lonely wooded hill-side,
where, beneath a gray and cloudy sky, the swallows flitted through the
rain-charged air, piping their shrill greetings.
They really had brought spring upon their wings, those small, joyful
messengers. Beneath all the frost and rime the mighty work of
germination had been progressing, and everywhere around, noiselessly,
invisibly, mysterious forces had been active, weaving their wondrous
tissues. Yes; springtime, though tardy, surely comes to Mother Earth
and to her wearying, longing sons. Sad is it when the bright season is
too long delayed, when from despairing hearts the cry goes up, 'Too
late! too late!'