The following day, the last Oswald was to spend at Ettersberg, brought
a somewhat unlooked-for visitor. Count Edmund, though his coming was
hourly expected, had not returned from his shooting expedition when
Baron Heideck suddenly arrived in the forenoon, straight from town. He
had thought fit to absent himself in demonstrative fashion from the
festivities held to celebrate his nephew's coming of age. The
announcement of the young gentleman's approaching marriage, then
publicly to be made, should not, he decided, receive the sanction of
his presence; but when more than two months had elapsed, he determined
to pay a brief visit to his relations at the castle. Though the fact
of the engagement could not now be altered, an animated discussion on
the subject seemed to have taken place between the brother and sister.
They had remained more than an hour closeted together, and Heideck's
reproaches took the more effect that Edmund's mother already secretly
repented of her precipitate action in the matter, though as yet she
would not admit it openly.
Finally the Countess, in evident perturbation, retired to her own
room. Seating herself before her writing-table, she pressed a hidden
spring, which opened its most secret drawer. The interview she had had
with her brother must have borne upon, or at least have reawakened,
memories of the past, for very certainly the article which the
Countess took from that small compartment was a souvenir of distant,
bygone days. It was a small leather case, a few inches long,
containing apparently a portrait which perhaps for years had remained
in its hiding-place untouched. That it belonged to a remote period was
proved by its old-fashioned shape and faded exterior. The Countess
held it open before her, and as she sat gazing fixedly down on the
features thus exposed to view, her countenance assumed an abstracted
air most unfamiliar to it.
She was lost in one of those vague, half-unconscious reveries which
altogether efface the present, and carry the dreamer away to a
far-distant past. Obliterated memories troop back upon the mind,
forgotten joys and sorrows revive in all their old intensity, and
forms that have long lain beneath the sod rise, move, and live again.
The Countess did not notice how the minutes sped by, lengthening into
hours as she sat there, wrapt in contemplation. She started, half
frightened, half annoyed, when, without any previous warning, the door
of the room was suddenly thrown open. Quick as thought, she closed the
little case and placed her hand upon it, while the angry look in her
eyes seemed to inquire what the interruption could mean.
The intruder was old Everard, who came in with a haste much at
variance with his usual formal, solemn demeanour. He was evidently
agitated, and he began his report at once without waiting to be
questioned by his mistress.
'The Count has just returned, my lady.'
'Well, where is he?' asked the mother, accustomed always to be her
son's first thought.
'In his room,' stammered Everard. 'Herr von Ettersberg was at the door
when the carriage drove up, and he helped the Count to mount the
stairs.'
'Helped him upstairs?' The Countess's face blanched to a deadly
pallor. 'What do you mean by that? Has anything happened?'
'I fear so, my lady,' said the old retainer hesitatingly. 'The groom
said something about an accident out shooting. A gun was accidentally
discharged, and the Count was wounded.'
He could not tell his tale at length, for the Countess sprang up with
a cry of alarm. Asking no question, listening to no further word, the
agonized mother rushed into the antechamber, whence a corridor led
direct to her son's room.
The old servant, who had completely lost his head and was as terrified
as his mistress, would have rushed after her; but just at that moment
Oswald entered the boudoir by an opposite door.
'Where is my aunt?' he asked hastily.
'With the Count by this time, I think,' said Everard, pointing in the
direction she had taken. 'My lady was so shocked when I told her about
the accident, she hastened to him at once.'
Oswald frowned. 'How could you be so imprudent!' he said, with an
impatient gesture. 'The Count's wound is not at all serious. I came
myself to assure my aunt that there is not the smallest cause for
anxiety.'
'Thank God, thank God!' breathed Everard, with a great sigh of relief.
'The groom was saying----'
'The groom has grossly exaggerated the affair,' Oswald interrupted
him. 'Your master is very slightly injured--wounded in the hand,
nothing more. It was quite unnecessary to alarm the Countess in this
way. Go now and let Baron Heideck know the true state of the case,
that he may not be startled in like manner by the news of some
dangerous injury.'
Everard withdrew to fulfil his mission, and Oswald was about to leave
the room, when his eyes, wandering with a casual and indifferent
glance towards the writing-table, fell on the small case which lay
thereon.
Curiosity did not rank among Oswald's failings, and he would have
thought it impertinent to examine even that which lay open to view in
his aunt's room. But now he was misled by a very pardonable error.
Only the day before he had begged the Countess to make over to him a
portrait of his father, which had been in the possession of the late
Count Ettersberg, and was, no doubt, still to be found among his
personal belongings. Now that he was leaving the old home, Oswald
wished to take this souvenir with him, and the Countess had been quite
willing to accede to his wish, promising to look for the portrait. It
appeared, so he said to himself, that she had been successful in her
quest.
In this certain presumption, Oswald took up the picture. He had but a
dim remembrance of it, and really did not know if it were enclosed in
a frame or in a case. The faded appearance of the little _etui_ seemed
to confirm his belief, so he opened it.
The case contained a portrait, certainly--a miniature painted on
ivory--but it was not the one he sought. At the first glance Oswald
started, surprised in the highest degree.
'Edmund's likeness!' he murmured, under his breath. 'Strange that I
should never have seen it before. Besides, he has never worn uniform,
to my knowledge.'
With ever-increasing astonishment he examined first the miniature,
which so unmistakably portrayed the young Count's features, and then
the old-fashioned and discoloured case wherein it had evidently long
lain enclosed. He had alighted on an enigma.
'What can it mean? The portrait is an old one. That is plain from its
colouring, and from the shape of the case--yet it represents Edmund as
he now appears. To be sure, it is not quite like him, it has an
expression, a look which is not his, and ... Ah!'
This exclamation burst from his lips with sudden vehemence. In an
instant the young man's eyes were opened. With the vividness of
lightning, the truth flashed upon him, the perception of all that
was, and had been. The enigma was solved. Hastily he strode up to a
life-size portrait of Edmund, an oil-painting which hung in the
Countess's boudoir, and with the open case in his hand, began
comparing the two, feature by feature, line by line.
Lines and features proved identical; there were the same dark hair and
eyes, but with a difference, a marked difference of expression. The
resemblance to Edmund was so extraordinary that he might have sat for
the miniature, and yet the face depicted in it was not his, but
another's. Another's, differing from the young Count's most
essentially, as a prolonged examination abundantly showed.
'So I was right!' said Oswald, in a low hoarse tone. 'Right in my
suspicion after all!'
There was neither triumph nor malicious satisfaction in his tone. On
the contrary, it conveyed a certain unfeigned horror; but as he caught
sight of the secret compartment now standing open, every other feeling
was merged in sudden, bitter anger.
'Yes,' he murmured. 'She hid it well--so well, that no eyes but hers
would ever have beheld it, had not her mortal fear on Edmund's account
for once robbed her of all prudence and power of reflection. To think
that it should fall into my hands! This surely is more than a mere
accident. I think'--here Oswald drew himself up to a proud and
menacing attitude--'I think I have a right to ask whom this picture
represents, and I shall retain possession of it until an answer to my
plain question be given me.'
So saying, he thrust the little case into his breast-pocket, and
quickly left the room.
The alarming report which Everard had conveyed to the Countess turned
out to be a most exaggerated one. The accident that had befallen
Edmund was of no serious importance. While scrambling through, or
over, a hedge, his gun had been accidentally discharged, but
fortunately the shot had only grazed his left hand. The injury was
very slight, hardly deserving to be called a wound, yet the whole
castle was in commotion about it. Baron Heideck hastened to his
nephew's room, and the Countess could find neither rest nor peace
until the doctor, sent for in post-haste, had assured her positively
there was no cause for uneasiness, and that the lesion would be healed
in a few days.
Edmund himself took the matter most lightly. He laughed and joked with
his mother about her anxiety until it yielded beneath his cheery
influence, protested strongly against being treated as a disabled man,
and was with difficulty prevailed on to listen to the doctor, who
prescribed absolute rest and quiet.
Evening closed in. Oswald was alone in his own room, which he had not
left since his great discovery of the morning. The lamp burning on the
table threw but a partial light over the apartment, which was large
and rather sombre at night, with its heavy leather hangings and deep
bay-window. The furniture was massive and good, as in every room
throughout the house, but it had not been renewed for years, and was
in strong contrast to the bright and handsome appointments of the main
building, and especially of that part of it dedicated to the young
Count's use. The nephew, the offshoot of a younger branch, had been
banished to a distant wing. In this, as in all else, his inferiority
to the heir must be well marked; he must stand back, yielding the
precedence to the master of the house.
So the Countess had ordered it, and the temper of Oswald's mind was
such that under no circumstances could he have brought himself to seek
aid or protection from Edmund, or to complain to him of the constant
mortifications to which he was subjected.
The side-table was strewn with letters and papers which Oswald had
intended to set in order before leaving. Now he gave them not a
thought. With restless steps he paced to and fro in the room, the
excessive pallor of his countenance and his heaving breast telling of
the terrible agitation that reigned within him. The dim tormenting
doubt which had beset his soul for years, the vague presentiment
which he had driven from him only by the full exercise of his powerful
will, now stood revealed as truth. Though the actual course events had
taken and the story of that portrait were as yet unknown to him, the
always-recurring suspicions had resolved themselves into a certainty,
calling up within him a perfect storm of contradictory emotions.
Oswald paused before the writing-table, and again took up the fatal
portrait which lay there among the papers.
'After all, what avails this?' he said bitterly. 'I indeed, for my own
part, require no further proof, but all corroboration is wanting, and
the one person who could afford it will certainly keep silence. She
would die rather than make a confession which would bring ruin on
herself and on her son, and I cannot compel her to speak--I must not,
could not, offer up the honour of our name, even though it be a
question of the heirship of Ettersberg. Yet full and complete
knowledge I must have--I must, cost what it may.'
He slowly closed the case and laid it down again, still standing
before it, musing profoundly, moodily.
'Perhaps there might be a way, one single way. If I were to go to
Edmund with this picture, and were to call upon him to explain, to
inquire into the facts of the case, he could force the truth from his
mother if he seriously set himself to the task, and he would so set
himself if once I introduced the suspicion to his mind. I know him
well enough to be sure of that. But what a terrible blow it would be
to him--to him, with his sensitive notions of honour, with his candid,
open nature, which has never condescended to a lie. To be hurled
suddenly from a position which, in the fulness of his happiness and
prosperity, must appear absolutely safe; to be branded as the
instrument, perhaps the accomplice, of a fraud!--I think the knowledge
of this would kill him.'
Love for the friend of his youth stirred in his breast, regaining
all its old force and fervour, but with it awoke other and
hostile emotions which clamoured to be heard. They recalled to him
the deep-dyed treachery of which he had been the victim, and as he
vacillated still, sought to influence him by counsels such as these:
'Will you really keep silence, and eschew the revenge which Fate has
placed in your hands? Will you go hence with sealed lips, go out to a
dark uncertain future, submit yourself to strangers, work your way up
with much toil and weariness of spirit, perhaps perish in the vain
struggle, while, if you will, you may be master here on the land which
belongs to you of right? Shall the woman who has been your bitterest
enemy triumphantly retain her power and endow her son with all the
good things of this life, while you are oppressed and kept down,
thrust out from the home of your fathers? Who has thought of your
feelings, of your inward conflicts? Use the weapons chance has given
you. You know the joints in the enemy's armour. Strike home!'
These accusatory voices had justice on their side, and they found but
too responsive an echo in Oswald's breast. All the mortifications, all
the humiliations he had suffered rose up before him afresh, and stung
his soul with keen and cruel stabs. That which he had endured for
years, with inward chafing, it is true, but yet mutely, accepting it
as a decree of Fate, goaded him to wild rebellion and fury now that he
recognised the treachery that had been at work. Gradually every other
feeling was stifled by the bitterness and fierce hate raging within
him. The Countess would certainly have trembled, could she at this
moment have beheld her nephew's countenance. He could not meet her
face to face, but he knew the spot where she was vulnerable.
'There is no other way,' he said resolutely. 'To me she will not yield
an inch. She will defy me to her last breath. Edmund alone is able to
extract her secret from her, therefore he must be told. I will no
longer be the victim of a fraud.'
A light, rapid step in the corridor outside interrupted the young
man's train of thought. With a quick movement he pushed the miniature
out of sight beneath the papers on the writing-table, and cast an
angry, impatient glance towards the door; but he started perceptibly
as he recognised his visitor.
'Edmund--you here?'
'Well, you need not look scared, as though you had seen a ghost,' said
the young Count, closing the door. 'I still number among the living,
and have come expressly to prove to you that, in spite of my so-called
wound, you have no chance of coming into the property as yet.'
Little did Edmund guess the effect this harmless jest and the fact of
his appearance at that precise moment had upon his cousin. It was only
by a violent effort that Oswald regained his self-control. His voice
was hoarse with emotion as he replied:
'How can you be so imprudent as to come through these long cold
corridors! You were ordered not to leave your room to-day.'
'Pooh! what do I care for the doctor's orders?' said Edmund
carelessly. 'Do you think I mean to be treated as an invalid, because
I have got a scratch on my hand? I have put up with all their nonsense
a few hours to please my mother, but I have had enough of it now. My
servant has instructions to say that I am asleep, should anyone
inquire after me. I came over here to have a chat with you, old
fellow. I cannot possibly stay away from you on this, the very last
evening you have to spend at Ettersberg.'
These words were spoken with such heartiness that Oswald involuntarily
turned away.
'Let us go back to your room, at least,' he said hastily.
'No; we are not so likely to be disturbed here,' persisted Edmund,
as he threw himself into an armchair. 'I have so many things to
say to you--for instance, how I came by this famous wound, which has
set all Ettersberg in an uproar, though it is nothing more than a
pin-scratch.'
Oswald's eyes wandered uneasily to the papers, beneath which the
portrait lay concealed.
'How you came by it?' he repeated absently. 'I thought your gun was
fired accidentally, as you were getting over a hedge.'
'Yes; that is what we told the servants, and my mother and uncle are
not to hear any other version of the affair. But I need not make a
secret of it to you. I was out this morning with one of the men who
joined our shooting-party--with Baron Senden.'
'With Senden?' said Oswald, becoming attentive. 'What was the quarrel
between you?'
'He made use of an expression which displeased me. I called him to
account at once; one word led to another, and finally we agreed to
settle our little difference by meeting this morning. You see no great
damage has been done. I shall perhaps have to wear my hand in a sling
for a week or so, and Senden has got off as cheaply, with just a graze
on the shoulder.'
'So that is why you stayed all night? Why did you not send a message
over to me? I would have gone to you.'
'To act as second? That was not necessary. Our host offered me his
services--and as the mourning relative you could always arrive time
enough.'
'Edmund, do not speak so lightly on grave subjects,' said Oswald
impatiently. 'A duel always involves the hazard of a life.'
Edmund laughed.
'Good heavens! I ought to have made my will, I suppose, have summoned
you to my side to take a solemn leave of you, and have left a touching
message of farewell for Hedwig? Bah! the thing is to keep one's self
as cool as possible, and just trust to one's luck for the rest.'
'You do not appear to have taken your adversary's words so coolly.
What was the real ground of offence?'
The young Count's face darkened, and he replied with some warmth of
tone:
'The subject of our old Dornau lawsuit was broached. They were joking
me about my very practical idea of uniting the contending parties in
matrimony. I laughed with them and entered quite freely into the
spirit of the joke, until Senden remarked very pointedly that as the
two properties were to be joined together so peaceably at last, the
great efforts formerly made to this end turned out, after all, to have
been unnecessary; it was so much trouble wasted.'
'You know that the Baron proposed to your future wife and was
refused,' said Oswald, with a shrug of the shoulders. 'He naturally
feels a certain degree of irritation, which he cannot help showing on
every occasion.'
'His remark was levelled at my mother,' said Edmund warmly. 'It is no
secret that she opposed the marriage between her cousin and Herr
Ruestow, and openly declared herself on the side of the angry father.
She has, as you know, a lofty idea of her class-privileges, and she
then felt it incumbent on her to uphold the principles she professes.
This is why I esteem so highly the sacrifice she is now making for me.
Senden's speech implied that she had been actuated by interested
motives, and had influenced Uncle Francis in the making of his will,
in the hope that Dornau might fall to me. Could I submit to that, I
ask it of you?'
'You go too far. I do not believe that Senden had any such
_arriere-pensee_.'
'No matter, I understood him in that sense. Why did he not recall his
words when I asked for an explanation? It may be that I was rather too
warm, but on that point I can brook no insinuations. You reproach me
frequently with my heedlessness and frivolity, Oswald, but even they
have a limit. Once past that boundary, I am apt to take matters even
more to heart than you.'
'I know,' said Oswald slowly. 'There are two subjects on which you
feel seriously and deeply--the point of honour and--your mother.'
'The two are one,' retorted Edmund sharply.
'He who offends her by even the shadow of a suspicion rouses all the
spirit in me, and makes me desperate.'
He sprang up as he spoke, and stood before his cousin, drawn up to his
full height. The habitual gay, careless expression had vanished from
his features, giving place to one of set, stern gravity, and his eyes
flashed in his passionate excitement.
Oswald was silent. He was standing by the writing-table, and had
already grasped the papers, ready to push them aside and draw forth
the picture, but as the young Count's last words fell on his ear he
paused involuntarily. Why must such a discussion have arisen at this
precise moment?
'It never occurred to me that any such interpretation could be placed
on that will,' went on Edmund; 'or I should at once, at the time of my
uncle's death, have refused the bequest, and never should have allowed
the suit to be instituted. If Hedwig and I had remained strangers, and
the court had awarded Dornau to me, I believe the calumny would have
thriven and prospered, until they had made me out to be the accomplice
of a fraud.'
'It is possible to be the victim of a fraud,' said Oswald in a low
tone.
'The victim?' repeated the young Count, stepping quickly up to his
cousin. 'What do you mean by that?'
Oswald's hand rested heavily on the papers which overlay his great
secret, but there was nothing to indicate the emotion within him. His
voice was cold and unmoved, as he replied:
'Nothing. I am not alluding to Dornau. We know perfectly well that my
uncle acted in accordance with his own will and judgment--but the
instrument was drawn up in favour of a nephew, passing over the
daughter and her rights. Calumny, of course, takes advantage of the
scope afforded it, and hints at undue influence. In such a case, it
would, no doubt, be considered only natural that a mother should lay
aside any scruples, and act in the interest of her son.'
'But that would have been fortune-hunting of the most flagrant
description,' cried Edmund, blazing up anew. 'I really do not
understand you, Oswald. How can you speak so indifferently of such a
possible view of the case, of the disgrace it would entail? How should
you qualify a scheme formed to oust the rightful heir that another
might succeed to his place and property? I should call it a swindle, a
dishonourable, an infamous action, and the mere thought that such a
suspicion should be coupled with the name of Ettersberg makes my blood
boil within me.'
Oswald's hand slid slowly from the table, and he stepped back a little
into the shadow, beyond the circle irradiated by the lamp.
'Any such suspicion would do you the keenest injustice, truly,' he
said emphatically; 'but the world is generally prompt to think evil.
No doubt, it often makes evil discoveries. In our sphere especially
there are so many dark family histories which lie hidden for years,
and then suddenly one day spring to light. So many, who hold a
brilliant position and enjoy great consideration, carry about with
them the consciousness of guilt which would utterly crush and
annihilate them, were it to be found out.'
'Well, I could not do it,' said the young Count, turning his frank,
handsome face full upon his cousin. 'I must bear an unsullied brow
before the world, must feel myself to be without reproach, that I may
breathe freely, and boldly meet the slander I despise--there would be
no living for me else. Dark family histories! They are, no doubt, more
plentiful than we wot of, but I would suffer no such lurking shadow in
our annals, not though I myself must set to work to drag it to light.'
'And suppose silence were imposed on you--for the sake of the family
honour?'
'It would probably kill me; for to live with the knowledge that there
was a stain on our escutcheon would be, I think, to me a thing
impossible!'
Oswald passed his hand across his brow, which was covered with a
cold sweat. In keen and terrible suspense he followed his cousin's
every movement. Perhaps no interference of his would be necessary;
perhaps accident might relieve him of the onerous task which he felt
must be fulfilled in one way or another. Edmund had gone up to the
writing-table, and as he spoke on, he took up some of the papers
unthinkingly, and threw them aside without looking at them. One minute
more and he would probably discover the little case, the shape of
which must necessarily attract his attention--and then--then would
come the catastrophe.
'At all events, it will be seen what view I take of such innuendoes,
and the lesson Senden has had will serve for others. Nothing is sacred
to calumny, no object, however pure and lofty, not even one which to
most minds is the ideal of all that is good.'
'Ideals may fade, idols crumble to the dust,' remarked Oswald. 'You
have had no experience of that at present.'
'I was speaking of my mother,' said the young Count, with deep
feeling.
Oswald made no reply, but it was well that he was standing in the
shade; at least the other saw not the torture this interview inflicted
on him. It happened so rarely that Edmund appeared in serious mood,
and to-day of all days he was grave and earnest of speech, showing the
deeper side of his nature. And all the time his right hand was busy,
mechanically turning over the papers on the table, approaching nearer
and nearer the fatal spot. Oswald's arm twitched, ready to drag the
unsuspecting man back from the abyss which yawned before him--but he
checked the impulse, and remained motionless in his place.
'You can understand now why I desire to keep this meeting from my
mother's knowledge, notwithstanding its harmless issue.' Edmund
continued. 'She would inquire, as you do into its origin, and the
truth might wound her. Whilst I am to the fore not the very shadow of
offence shall come near her. I would give my life rather than hear her
aspersed by a calumnious word--give my life, aye, readily, willingly.'
Separately, one by one, he had taken up the papers and thrown them
aside. Now he had come to the last sheet, that beneath which the
picture lay, but suddenly Oswald's hand was upon his, grasping it with
a grasp of iron, and impeding any further movement.
'What is it?' asked Edmund in astonishment. 'What is the matter with
you?'
For all answer, Oswald threw his arm about him and drew him away.
'Come, Edmund, let us go to the sofa yonder.'
'What, you draw me violently from the table simply for that? One would
have thought a mine was about to explode. Have you any combustibles,
any train laid over there?'
'Possibly,' said Oswald, with a strange smile. 'Let those papers be.
Come.'
'Oh, you need fear no indiscretion on my part,' declared the Count,
with a sudden outbreak of tetchiness. 'There was no need to place your
hand on your papers in that prohibitory manner. I did not look at
them, and if I touched them, I did it mechanically. You appear to have
secrets, and I, no doubt, am disturbing you when you would wish to be
sorting your letters and putting them in order. It will be better for
me to go.' He moved away, as though to leave the room; but Oswald held
him by the arm, though he tried angrily to free it.
'No, Edmund, you must not leave me so--not to-day, old fellow.'
'Indeed, it is the last evening you have to spend here,' said Edmund,
half wrathful, half appeased. 'You are doing all you can to show me
how little that affects you.'
'You do me injustice. The separation is more painful to me than you
can imagine.'
Oswald's voice shook so audibly that Edmund looked at him in surprise,
and all his anger vanished.
'Why, what ails you, Oswald? You are as pale as death, and have seemed
so strange all the evening. But I can guess: you have been searching
among these letters and papers, which, no doubt, belonged to your
parents, and they have awakened many sad memories.'
'Yes, much that is very sad,' said Oswald, drawing a deep breath; 'but
it is over now. You are right, they were old memories which put me out
of tune. I will drive the troubling thoughts from me, and altogether
make an end of them now.'
'Then I really will go,' declared Edmund. 'I forgot that you might
still have much to arrange and set in order. We shall meet to-morrow
morning. Good-night, Oswald.'
He held out his hand to his cousin, but the latter, assuredly for the
first time in his life, took him in his arms, and held him for a
moment in a tight embrace.
'Goodnight, Edmund. I have often seemed harsh and cold in return
for your warm and hearty friendship, yet you have been very dear to
me--how dear I hardly knew myself until this hour.'
'The hour of parting,' said Edmund, half reproachfully, as he
cordially returned the embrace. 'But for that, the confession would
never have passed your lips. No matter, I have always felt, known how
you cared for me in your heart of hearts.'
'Not fully, perhaps. I did not know it myself until to-day. But go
now. With that wound of yours, you really should not stay up longer.
Go and rest.'
Passing his arm round his cousin's shoulder, he walked with him to the
door and down the corridor. There they parted; but as the young Count
retraced his steps to his own room, Oswald stood again before his
writing-table, holding the portrait in his hand. Once more he
contemplated it, then closing the case with a firm pressure, he said
under his breath:
'It would be his death. I will not reign as master of Ettersberg at
that price.'