Next morning the three gentlemen breakfasted alone, though Oswald's
departure had been fixed for the forenoon. Count Edmund paid no
attention whatever to the medical advice which would have confined him
to his room. He appeared with a bandaged hand, but in good health and
spirits, and laughed at the remonstrances of Baron Heideck, who
recommended more prudence and greater care. The Countess remained
invisible. She was suffering, it appeared, from a violent nervous
attack, resulting probably from the fright she had sustained on
hearing the first exaggerated account of her son's condition.
Edmund, who had paid a visit to his mother's room, had found her in a
state of intense nervous excitement, and to his inquiry as to whether
Oswald might take leave of her in person, she had replied decidedly
that she was far too unwell to admit anyone but her son. The young
Count was somewhat embarrassed when conveying this message to his
cousin. He felt that the refusal to say good-bye involved a slight,
and thought his mother might have exerted herself so far as to receive
her nephew, if only for a few minutes, before his departure.
Oswald, however, accepted the fiat with great calm, and without the
smallest show of surprise. He guessed, no doubt, what share the
disappearance of the miniature and its probable fate had in this
'nervous attack.' The Countess would certainly have heard from Everard
that her nephew had entered the room soon after she had left it, and
had remained there alone.
The conversation at breakfast was rather monosyllabic. Baron Heideck,
though he had ultimately acquiesced in Oswald's plans, was not
disposed to show any special heartiness towards the young relative who
had so resolutely set his will at defiance.
Edmund was disturbed, and unlike himself, being oppressed by the
thought of the coming separation, the full meaning of which he only
realized now that it was imminent. Oswald alone maintained his
accustomed calm and grave demeanour. They were on the point of leaving
the table, when the young Count was summoned away to see the doctor,
who had just arrived. Baron Heideck would have followed--he wished to
impress upon the medical man that greater strictness and vigilance
would be necessary with so heedless a patient; but a low word from
Oswald made him turn and pause. When they were alone together, the
latter drew from his breast-pocket a small and carefully-sealed
packet.
'I had hoped to see my aunt again before leaving,' he began. 'As
this will not now be possible, I must beg of you to take charge of a
last--a last commission for me. It is my express request that this
packet be delivered into the Countess's own hands, and that it be
given to her when she is alone.'
'What is this mysterious commission?' asked Heideck, in surprise. 'And
why do you choose me instead of Edmund?'
'Because it would hardly accord with my aunt's wishes that Edmund
should hear of the delivery or of the contents of this packet. I must
repeat my request that it be given her when no third person is
present.'
The icy tone in which these words were spoken, and the haughty,
menacing glance which accompanied them, were the only revenge the
young man permitted to himself. Heideck naturally did not understand
his meaning, but he perceived that the matter referred to was of no
ordinary nature, and he accepted the little parcel without more ado.
'I will undertake the commission,' he said.
'I thank you,' replied Oswald, stepping back, and showing by his
manner that the interview was at an end. There was indeed no time for
further conversation, as just then Edmund returned, accompanied by the
doctor, whom he insisted on taking round to see his mother. Her
condition made him anxious, he said.
The bulletins, however, proved favourable with regard to both
patients. The Count's wound turned out to be most insignificant, and
the Countess was merely suffering from a slight nervous attack, a
natural consequence of yesterday's fright. Rest and a few simple
remedies would restore them both, and Edmund even forced from the
doctor the admission that he might safely leave his room and accompany
his cousin to the carriage now waiting for him below.
Baron Heideck took a brief, cold leave of his nephew, but Edmund
showed himself greatly affected by the parting. He beset Oswald with
entreaties to come back to Ettersberg at all events for the wedding,
and promised in his turn shortly to pay a visit to the capital. Oswald
accepted it all with rather a sad smile; he knew that neither project
would hold good. The Countess would certainly find means to prevent
her son's intended journey. One last hearty embrace--then the carriage
rolled away, and Edmund, as he reentered the castle alone, felt a
desolate sense of the void left by his friend's departure.
More than a couple of hours passed by before Baron Heideck betook
himself to his sister's room to execute the commission which had been
confided to him. He had been in no special haste; knowing the terms on
which Oswald and his aunt stood, he thought it probable that this last
message was of no agreeable import, and that it might increase, rather
than lessen, the Countess's indisposition. Possessed by this idea, the
Baron had at first proposed to postpone the business to the following
day; but Oswald's look and tone, as he gave over the packet, had been
so peculiar and impressive, that he resolved to have the matter
cleared up without further delay. At his request, the Countess
dismissed her maid, with orders to admit no one, and the brother and
sister remained long closeted together.
The Countess sat on her sofa, looking very pale and worn. It was easy
to see what she had suffered since the preceding evening, all that she
was suffering now as she sat passive, allowing the stream of her
brother's reproaches to flow on without response. He stood before her
with the open packet in his hand, speaking in a rather subdued voice,
certainly, but with every evidence of great excitement.
'So you really could not make up your mind to part with that unhappy
picture! I thought it had been destroyed long ago. How could you be so
mad as to keep it in your possession?'
'Do not scold me, Armand.' The Countess's voice was stifled as though
by tears. 'It is the only souvenir I have kept--the only one. It came
to me with a last message from him, after ... after his death.'
'And for the sake of this sentimental folly you conjure up a frightful
danger, a danger which threatens ruin both to yourself and your son.
Do not these features speak clearly enough? Formerly, when Edmund was
a child, the likeness was not so striking, so extraordinary; but now
that he is nearly of the same age as ... as the other, it is
positively damning. Your imprudence has cost you a lesson, however,
and a hard one. You know into whose hands the picture fell?'
'I have known since yesterday evening. My God, what will come to us
now?'
'Nothing,' said Heideck coldly. 'The fact of his surrendering it is
ample proof of that. Oswald is too good a lawyer not to know that a
mere likeness is no evidence, and that a charge cannot be founded on
such testimony. Still, it was a generous act to give it back. Another
man would have held possession of it, if only to harass and torment
you. That picture must be destroyed.'
'I will destroy it,' said the Countess.
'No, I will do that myself,' retorted her brother, replacing the
little case carefully in his pocket. 'I rescued you once from a very
real danger, Constance; now I must stand between you and the
remembrance of it, which may be almost as fatal. That ghost has been
buried for years. Do not let it rise up again, or the whole fortune
and happiness of Ettersberg may be wrecked. This unfortunate souvenir
must disappear to-day. Edmund must have no more suspicion of the
secret than his father had before him.'
Involuntarily he raised his voice as he pronounced these last words,
but he ceased speaking suddenly, for at that very moment the door
which led into the adjoining room was thrown open, and Edmund appeared
on the threshold.
'What am I not to suspect?' he asked with quick vehemence.
The young Count had naturally not supposed that his mother's
prohibition of admittance extended to himself. He had crossed the
anteroom softly, fearing to disturb her. The closed doors and the
subdued tone in which the conversation had been carried on made it
well-nigh impossible that he should have overheard more than his
uncle's last words. The expression of his face bore proof of this. It
betokened astonishment, but no fear.
Nevertheless, the Countess bounded from her seat with a terrible
start, and it required a mute but significant gesture of warning from
her brother, a pressure of his hand upon her shoulder, to give her
back her self-control.
'What is it I am not to suspect?' repeated Edmund, as he came quickly
towards them. He addressed his question to the Baron.
'Is it possible that you can have been listening? asked the latter,
his breath almost failing him as he thought of such a possibility.
'No, uncle,' said the young Count angrily. 'I am not in the habit of
playing the spy or the listener. I merely caught your last words as I
was opening the door. It is natural surely that I should like to know
their meaning, and to learn what it is that has hitherto been kept
secret from me as from my father.'
'You heard me beg my sister not to mention the subject to you,'
replied Heideck, who had now recovered his composure. 'I was alluding
to a reminiscence of our youth which we shall do well to keep to
ourselves. You know that our early days were passed amid graver,
sadder circumstances than yours. We had battles to fight and
sacrifices to make whereof you can have no conception.'
The explanation was plausible and appeared to find belief, but
Edmund's tone, though tender, was fraught with deep reproach, as he
said, turning to the Countess:
'I could not have believed, mother, that you had a secret from me.'
'Do not torment your mother now,' interrupted Heideck. 'You see how
very unwell she is?'
'You should have spared her then, and not have called up painful
reminiscences to-day,' replied Edmund, rather warmly. 'I came to tell
you, mother, that Hedwig and her father are here. May I bring her to
you? As you felt able to see my uncle, you will, I am sure, not refuse
to receive us.'
'Certainly,' assented the Countess. 'Indeed, I feel much better now.
Bring Hedwig to me at once.'
'I will fetch her,' said Edmund, and went; but before leaving the room
he turned once again, and cast a strange scrutinising glance at his
mother and uncle. There was no suspicion in his look, but, as it were,
a vague presentiment of coming trouble.
The young Count had sent a message over to Brunneck on the preceding
evening, with the news that he had been slightly wounded in the hand
when out shooting, and therefore would not be able to pay his usual
visit, adding that there was not the smallest cause for uneasiness.
This piece of intelligence had brought the Councillor and his daughter
over to Ettersberg without loss of time. The sight of Edmund, who
received them with all his wonted gaiety, soon set any remaining fears
on his account at rest. Almost simultaneously with them came the
neighbouring squire on whose estate the accident had occurred. He had
driven over with his son to inquire after the patient.
Under these circumstances Baron Heideck's first meeting with the new
relations was more easy and unconstrained than it would otherwise have
been. The young lady's beauty was not without its influence on the
rigid aristocrat, who, in spite of his prejudices, could not
altogether withhold approval of his nephew's choice. Towards the
Councillor, Heideck did indeed preserve a cool and reserved, though a
polite demeanour. The presence of strangers made the conversation more
animated and general. Edmund alone appeared unusually silent and
abstracted. He refused, however, to admit that this had anything to do
with his wound, attributing the depression he could not disguise to
his recent parting with Oswald. He would not confess even to himself
that any other vague trouble was weighing on him.
The two neighbours did not remain very long, and an hour or
so after their departure, Ruestow and his daughter set out on their
return-journey to Brunneck. Edmund lifted his betrothed into the
carriage, and took a tender leave of her. Then he went away back to
his own room, but he could feel settled nowhere; a strange
restlessness was upon him which drove him from place to place. At
length he threw himself upon the sofa, and tried to read, but he could
not force his mind to follow the words or understand their sense. A
most unwonted cloud lay on the young Count's brow, usually so clear
and serene; he had a sombre, harassed look as he sat brooding over the
words he had heard spoken in his mother's room. With painful
persistency they recurred to his mind, strive as he might to turn his
thoughts into another current. What was he not to know? What was it
they were hiding so carefully from him?
Edmund was so little accustomed to bear the pressure of any care, to
carry about with him any troublesome problem or doubt, that this
condition soon became intolerable to him. He threw his book aside,
sprang to his feet, and walked straight up to his uncle's room.
Baron Heideck was lodged in the visitors' suite, situated in the upper
story. Hither he had retired as soon as the guests drove off. He was
standing before the fireplace, busily fanning the flames which had
recently been kindled on the hearth, when his nephew entered. As the
door opened, he looked round in surprise, and the surprise hardly
appeared to be a pleasant one.
'Am I disturbing you?' asked Edmund, who noticed this.
'Oh, certainly not,' said Heideck. 'But it seems to me imprudent of
you in your present condition to be wandering about the house instead
of remaining quietly in your own room.'
'I have the doctor's permission to leave it, you know, and I wanted to
speak to you for a few minutes. You have had a fire lighted, I see. Do
you not find it too warm this mild weather?'
'I feel it rather chilly up here in these rooms, especially as evening
draws on,' replied Heideck, dropping into a chair near the fire, and
motioning to his nephew to be seated opposite. Edmund, however,
remained standing.
'I want you to give me some explanation of the words I chanced to
overhear to-day,' he began, without further preface. 'I would not
press the matter seriously at the time, my mother being present; she
is really too unwell to be troubled in any way. But now we are alone
and can speak more freely. I positively have no peace for thinking of
it. Tell me what that speech of yours meant.'
Heideck frowned. 'I have already said that I was speaking of affairs
relating to _our_ family. These affairs have long since been settled
and forgotten, and the mention of them could only affect you
painfully.'
'But I am no longer a child,' said Edmund, with unusual earnestness;
'and I may now claim to be initiated into all the family affairs,
without exception. You spoke of some shadow which might obscure the
Ettersberg fortunes. At this present time I am Master of Ettersberg.
The matter therefore concerns me, and I have a right to inquire into
it. In short, uncle, I am determined to know the meaning of all this.'
The demand was made with an energy quite foreign to the young Count's
usual manner. Baron Heideck, however, merely shrugged his shoulders,
and replied impatiently:
'What absurd questions, Edmund! How can you cling so pertinaciously to
this fancy, or attach such importance to a mere word? It was just one
of those expressions which escape one sometimes in the heat of
conversation, but which have no real or deep significance.'
'But you spoke in a very excited tone.'
'And in spite of your protest against being thought a listener, you
appear to have paused some minutes outside the door.'
'Had I been willing to humiliate myself so far, I should probably have
heard more, and should not now have to sue for information,' returned
Edmund angrily.
Heideck pressed his lips together, and for a moment remained silent,
thinking, no doubt, what would have been the result if his nephew had
really stooped to play the listener. He saw the necessity, however, of
warding off any further attack; so he replied, with the coldest
decision of manner:
'The matter in question affects me principally, and I do not desire to
discuss it further. I fancy you will accept this answer as final and
sufficient, and that you will besiege neither your mother nor myself
with useless inquiries on the subject. If you please, we will say no
more about it.'
To such a speech, delivered with firmness, and with all the authority
of the ex-guardian, no reply was possible.
Edmund was silent, but he felt that he had not heard the truth; that,
on the contrary, an endeavour was made to divert him from his search
after it. He saw, however, that he should obtain nothing from his
uncle, and that for the present he must abandon all attempt to solve
the mystery.
Heideck seemed determined to put an end to the conversation. He seized
the poker, and plied it in very demonstrative fashion, raking the
coals vigorously, and repeatedly striking the stove in his efforts to
quicken the flames. His whole manner testified to extreme impatience,
and an irritation of spirit he with difficulty controlled.
Presently he bent imprudently forward over the fire, and as the
blaze he had kindled suddenly burst forth, amid a shower of sparks,
the Baron started back, hastily withdrawing his hand, and uttering a
half-suppressed exclamation of pain.
'Have you burnt yourself?' asked Edmund, looking up.
Heideck examined his hand, which certainly showed a small red scar.
'The stoves here are so badly constructed,' he cried petulantly,
giving vent to his secret vexation, and still with the same nervous
haste tore a handkerchief from his breast-pocket to apply to the
little wound. The handkerchief brought with it another article, which
fell on the floor, and rolled close to Edmund's feet. Heideck stooped
to pick it up, but it was too late; his nephew had been beforehand
with him.
Already the miniature-case was in Edmund's hands. The spring, long
grown slack, had given way in the fall, and the cover had started
open. A fate must have attached to this unhappy picture. Precisely as
it was about to be destroyed, it thus fell into the hands of him who
never should have beheld it!
'My likeness?' cried Edmund, in the greatest amazement. 'How did you
come by it, uncle?'
Every trace of colour had faded from the Baron's face, but it was only
for a moment. He felt how much was at stake. By a strenuous effort of
his will he succeeded in recovering outward calm, and taking advantage
of the error, replied:
'You seem surprised. Why should I not possess a portrait of you?'
As he spoke, he made an attempt to take the case from the young man's
hand, but the latter stepped back, and declined to surrender it.
'But I never sat for this portrait, and what is the meaning of this
uniform, which I have never worn?'
'Edmund, give me back that case,' said Heideck authoritatively,
stretching out his hand for it again--but in vain. Had it not been for
that previous occurrence in the Countess's room, Edmund would probably
have allowed himself to be deceived by any pretext invented on the
spur of the moment, for suspicion and distrust were far removed from
his open, ingenuous nature. But now both had been inoculated, now he
knew that some secret, some baneful secret, was being kept from him.
His instinct told him that it had some connection with this picture,
and he obstinately clung to the clue thus obtained, little dreaming as
yet, it is true, whither it would lead.
'How did you come by the picture, uncle?' he asked again, this time in
a somewhat louder key.
'That I will tell you when you have restored it to me,' was the sharp
reply.
For all answer, Edmund stepped from the centre of the room, growing
dark in the gathering twilight, to the window, where he could still
see clearly, and began to study the picture, trait by trait, and line
by line, as Oswald had studied it on the preceding day.
A long and troubled pause ensued.
Heideck convulsively grasped the back of the chair from which he had
sprung. He had no choice but to look on in silence; for he told
himself that any false step now, any attempt at forcible interference,
might be the ruin of them all; but the ordeal of suspense was hard to
bear.
'Are you satisfied?' he asked, when some minutes had elapsed; 'and do
you intend to restore to me my property?'
Edmund turned.
'That is not my portrait,' he said slowly, emphasising each word; 'but
it bears an extraordinary resemblance to myself, one which deceives at
the first glance. Whom does it represent?'
Baron Heideck had foreseen the question, and was prepared for it. So
he answered without hesitation:
'A relation of ours who has been dead many years.'
'An Ettersberg?'
'No; a member of my family.'
'Indeed. And why have I never heard of this relative, and of the
wonderful resemblance existing between him and me?'
'By mere accident, probably. Good heavens, you need not stare at the
picture so persistently! Such likenesses are frequent enough among
relations.'
'Frequent?' repeated Edmund mechanically. 'Was this the fatal souvenir
which must disappear to-day? Had you destined it to be consumed by
those flames? Was it for this you had the fire lighted?'
The young Count's deadly pallor, the faint accents of his voice,
showed that he felt himself to be nearing an abyss, though as yet he
could not fathom its depth. Heideck saw this, and made a last
desperate effort to drag him from the brink.
'Edmund, my patience is now thoroughly exhausted,' he said, taking
refuge in simulated anger. 'You cannot seriously suppose that I shall
make reply to this folly, or try to solve all the mad fancies of your
brain.'
'I demand that the secret of this portrait be made known to me,' cried
Edmund, summoning up all his energy. 'You must give me an answer,
uncle, now--at once, or you will drive me to extreme measures.'
Heideck racked his brain in vain to find a way out of the dilemma. He
was not skilful in lying, and felt, moreover, that his nephew would no
longer be deceived. The one chance left him was to gain time.
'You shall hear the story later on,' he said evasively. 'At this
moment you are too excited, you are still suffering from the effects
of your wound. This is not a fitting time to discuss such matters.'
'So you refuse to answer me,' Edmund broke out, with sudden fierce
vehemence. 'You cannot, or will not, reply. So be it. I will apply to
my mother, she shall give me an account of this.'
He rushed out of the room, and was down the stairs before his uncle
could check him. The Baron hastened after the young man, but the
pursuit was fruitless. When he reached his sister's room, Edmund had
already entered, and closed the door of the boudoir behind him. It was
impossible even to hear what was going on in the inner apartment.
Heideck saw that he must abstain from further interference. The matter
was taking its fated course.
'There will be a catastrophe,' he said to himself hoarsely. 'Poor
Constance! I fear that your punishment may prove greater than your
offence.'