Two months had now passed since Oswald had taken up his abode in the
capital, where he had met with a most friendly welcome. His friend and
patron, Councillor Braun, ranked among the first jurisconsults of that
city, and this gentleman, happy to lend a helping hand to the son of
his deceased friend, stood warmly by him, advancing his interests, and
lending him all the assistance in his power. He comprehended and
sympathized with this young man in the resolution he had taken. It was
a worthy impulse, the old lawyer felt, which withdrew Oswald from a
life of dependence, easy and brilliant though it might be in outward
circumstances--a right feeling which made him prefer to work and
struggle on alone, rather than to receive constant benefits from his
relations, and submit, in return, to play a subordinate part through
life.
Herr Braun and his wife were childless, and their young guest was
received by them almost on the footing of a son. Oswald threw himself
zealously into the work before him, and the approaching examination
left him little leisure to ruminate on all that he had left at
Ettersberg; still, it surprised him greatly that no news from the
castle had reached him. Edmund had replied to his first long letter
full of details by only a few lines, the style of which seemed
strangely forced.
An excuse was offered for this brief note on the score of a maimed
hand, the writer's wound being not yet healed. Oswald was still
looking for a response to his second epistle, though weeks had elapsed
since it had been despatched.
The young man knew full well that by the return of that picture the
bridge of communication between himself and the Countess had been
broken once and for all, that she would now use every effort to loose
the bonds which bound him to her son; but it seemed impossible that
Edmund should succumb so quickly and completely to her influence.
Thoughtless as the young Count often showed himself, his friendship
for his cousin had ever been faithful and true. He could not have
forgotten the friend of his youth in the course of a few short weeks.
There must be something else that prevented his writing.
The first days of December had arrived. Oswald's examination was over;
he had passed it brilliantly, and was desirous of at once entering
upon his new career. But Councillor Braun declared decidedly that
after the exertions of the last few weeks the young man stood in need
of rest, that he must grant himself a respite, and remain on some
little while longer as a guest in his house.
Half reluctantly Oswald yielded. He felt himself that he required a
certain breathing-time after the constant study and strain, which had
lasted since the preceding spring.
In that passionate struggle for independence he had made almost too
great demands on his strength.
The great lawyer was in his consultation-room, where he had just
completed the business of the day, when Oswald came in with a letter,
which he placed on a pile of correspondence prepared for the post. It
was about the hour when the servant generally collected and despatched
it.
'Have you been writing to Ettersberg?' asked the old gentleman,
looking up.
Oswald replied in the affirmative. He had conveyed to Edmund the news
of his successful examination. An answer must come now at length, he
thought; this protracted silence began to cause him some uneasiness.
'We were talking of the Ettersberg property here, not long ago,' said
the lawyer. 'One of my clients intends to purchase timber from the
estate to a large amount, and he consulted me as to one or two points
in the bargain.'
Oswald's attention was roused at once. 'Purchase timber to a large
amount? There must be some mistake. So much wood has been cut down of
late years in the Ettersberg forests, that they now require great care
and the nicest handling. My cousin is aware of this; he could not
possibly have been persuaded into taking such a step.'
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. 'Nevertheless, I can assure you, it
is as I say. My client does not treat with the Count himself, but with
the bailiff. Of course, the man must be empowered to make such
arrangements.'
'The bailiff will be leaving his situation shortly,' remarked Oswald.
'He received notice to quit in the summer, having proved himself
flagrantly incompetent. He cannot, I should suppose, have been left in
possession of the extended powers Baron Heideck conferred on him years
ago. I imagined that Edmund would recall those when he took upon
himself the management of his own affairs. Suppose such not to have
been the case?'
'It would be an act of unpardonable negligence on the part of the
young Count,' replied the lawyer. 'To leave for months powers such as
these in the hands of a person whom he is about to dismiss, with whose
services he is dissatisfied! Do you really think it possible?'
Oswald was silent. He well knew Edmund's heedlessness and indifference
to all business matters, and was persuaded that he had left matters
exactly as he had found them.
'The sum in question is an important one,' went on the lawyer, who
understood his silence. 'Yet the price to be paid by the purchaser is
a very low one, immediate payment in cash being demanded.'
'I think there must be something more here than a mere assumption of
authority on the steward's part,' said Oswald uneasily. 'Hitherto he
has been looked upon as an honest man, but the fact that he is about
to lose his situation may tempt him to take fraudulent advantage of
the means at his command. My cousin has certainly not given his
consent to this bargain. Why, it would entail the devastation of his
forests! I am convinced that he knows nothing at all about it.'
'That may be--but if the man's powers are not cancelled, he will have
to recognise a transaction which is concluded in his name. You had
better telegraph to Ettersberg, and inquire how the matter stands.
Perhaps a timely warning may be of some avail.'
'No doubt, if timely it prove. When are the formalities of the sale to
be settled?'
'In two or three days. Probably the day after to-morrow.'
'Then I must go over to Ettersberg myself,' said the young man
resolutely. 'A mere telegram will serve us nothing. Immediate and
active steps must be taken, for as I understand the business, there is
an act of robbery in contemplation which we have to prevent. Edmund
unfortunately is too confiding in such matters, and will allow himself
to be deceived by all sorts of shifts and subterfuges until it is too
late to think of a remedy. I am at liberty just at present, and in
three days I can be back. It will certainly be best that I should see
my cousin and give him the necessary information, that he may act
without delay.'
Councillor Braun assented. The whole business, and especially the
hurried manner in which it was transacted, seemed to him suspicious in
the highest degree, and it pleased him that the young man, who had, so
to say, broken with his relations, should now so decidedly, and
without a moment's hesitation, interfere to protect them from loss and
injury.
In the course of that same evening Oswald made all preparations for
his improvised journey. Ettersberg was situated within easy reach of
the city. By taking the morning train he could be there by noon. Some
pretext could easily be found by which his visit to the castle could
be limited to a day or two at most, and the wedding, which at all
costs he was determined to avoid, was not to take place until
Christmas.
At Ettersberg nothing, of course, was known of this intended visit.
The dwellers at the castle had enough, and more than enough, to do
with the preparations for the coming wedding and for the accommodation
of the young couple in their future home. Many alterations were being
made on the _bel etage_, which was to be given up altogether to the
Count and his wife, and the necessary arrangements were as yet by no
means completed. Besides this, Schoenfeld had to be set in readiness
for the Dowager Countess, who intended to take up her residence there
directly after the wedding.
The Countess's resolve to leave Ettersberg after her son's marriage
had taken everyone by surprise. She had, it is true, occasionally
alluded to such a plan, but never in real earnest, and had always
submitted with a very good grace to Edmund's vehement protests against
the idea of a separation. Now both seemed to have altered their views.
The Countess suddenly announced that in future she should make her
home at Schoenfeld, a smaller dwelling which her husband had expressly
appointed her for a dower-house, and Edmund raised no objection
whatsoever. At Brunneck this sudden determination excited much
amazement and comment, but at the same time it gave entire
satisfaction. Ruestow had always feared for his daughter a life under
the same roof with her mother-in-law, and this unexpected turn of
events was too welcome and acceptable in itself for him to muse or
ponder much over the cause of it.
The last two months had sped by with wonderful rapidity, leaving
little or no time for meditation of any sort. First, there was Dornau
to take possession of, to restore and furnish throughout, before, as
Hedwig's dowry, it returned to Ettersberg for ever. What with this and
the preparations for the coming wedding, which was to be a very
brilliant affair, with the constant flow of visits and invitations
from all quarters--they had lived in a whirl of occupation and
excitement. Autumn was always the gay season here in the country.
Great hunts were held and shooting-parties organized by the landed
proprietors in the neighbourhood, and to these balls and other
festivities were naturally superadded. There had been an almost
uninterrupted series of fetes and entertainments ever since September.
If now and then, by some chance, the Brunneck family remained at home
without visitors, there was so much to talk over and to discuss that
anything like quiet domestic comfort was out of the question. Ruestow
had more than once declared that he could not hold out under such
pressure much longer, and that he wished to heaven the wedding were
over--then perhaps he might enjoy a little peace once more. The day of
the great event was already fixed; in three weeks' time the marriage
was to take place at Brunneck, and the newly-married couple would then
proceed to Ettersberg, their future home.
In the drawing-room at the castle, where the family generally
assembled when alone, the Countess sat with a book in her hand,
reading, or appearing to read. Hedwig, who was paying one of her
frequent visits to Ettersberg, stood by the window, looking out at the
snow-clad landscape. Winter had long ago set in, and to-day there was
a fine continuous fall of drizzling flakes which certainly did not
induce to outdoor exercise.
'Edmund is not coming back yet,' said the young lady, breaking a
silence which had lasted some considerable time. 'What an idea to ride
out in such weather as this!'
'You know that it is his daily habit,' replied the Countess, without
looking up from her book.
'But he has only taken up the habit of late. He used to be very
sensitive on the score of the weather, and a shower of rain would send
him home at once. Now he seems rather to prefer wild and stormy days
for rushing about the country, and he will stay out in the rain and
snow for hours together.'
The words, or rather their tone, betrayed a certain unmistakable
anxiety.
The Countess made no reply. She turned over the pages of her book,
apparently absorbed by its interest, but a close observer would have
remarked that she did not read a line.
Hedwig turned from the window, and, coming back into the room,
approached her hostess.
'Do you not think that Edmund is strangely altered, mamma? I have
noticed it for the last two months.'
'Altered? How? In what?'
'In everything.'
The Countess leaned her head on her hand, and again remained silent.
She clearly wished to avoid any discussion on this subject, but the
young girl held steadily to her point.
'I have been wishing to speak to you about this for some time, mamma.
I cannot conceal from you that Edmund's behaviour makes me feel very
uneasy--frightens me, in fact. He is so different from what he used to
be; so uneven and variable in mood and temper; so strange even in his
manner towards me. He seems feverishly anxious that all the
preparations for the wedding should be pushed on as quickly as
possible, and, on the other hand, there are times when he shows
himself to be quite indifferent, and so totally unsympathetic that I
have fancied he may wish the marriage to be deferred.'
'Set your mind at rest, my child,' said the Countess, in a tone which
was intended to be soothing, but which yet rang with concentrated
bitterness. '_You_ have not lost his love. His tenderness towards you
has suffered no change. I think you must feel this yourself. Edmund
does appear rather excitable just now, I admit. He has been too gay,
too much into company of late--indeed, we have all of us been involved
in a perfect whirl of dissipation. Really, these incessant _reunions_,
these meets, these dinners and evening parties, have hardly left us
time to breathe. You yourself have been rather overtaxing your
strength in this way, and it is not surprising if your nerves are a
little tried by overmuch excitement.'
'I would willingly have refused half the invitations,' said Hedwig,
with some emotion; 'but Edmund insisted on our accepting them. We have
had no peace ever since September, but have been fairly driven from
one fete, from one visit to another; and when we contrive to stay at
home, meaning to rest a little, Edmund comes with some new proposal,
or brings some new visitor to the house. It seems really as though he
could not bear to be quiet an hour either here or at Brunneck, as
though anything like solitude were a positive torture to him.'
The Countess's lips quivered, and accidentally, as it were, she turned
her face away, replying, however, with perfect outward composure:
'Nonsense! Why indulge in such silly fancies? Edmund has always been
fond of society, and you yourself formerly took delight in constant
gaiety and pleasure. I should not have expected such a complaint from
you, of all people. What has happened to produce such an alteration in
your feelings?'
'I am anxious about Edmund,' confessed the young girl; 'and I see
plainly that he takes no pleasure in all this dissipation, though he
seems to seek it so eagerly. There is something so unnatural, so
spasmodic in his mirth, that it gives me quite a pang to witness it.
Do not try to deny this either to me or to yourself, mamma. It is
impossible you should not have remarked the change. I fear that in
secret it troubles you as much as it troubles myself.'
'What avails my trouble or anxiety?' said the Countess, almost
harshly. 'Edmund cares nothing for either.' Then, with a quick
diversion, as though feeling that she had said too much, she added,
with assumed coldness, 'You must learn to understand your husband's
character and little ways without assistance from anyone else, my
dear. He is not quite so easy to manage as you perhaps imagined at the
outset. But he loves you--this is certain, and you will therefore have
no great difficulty in discovering the proper course to take. I have
made up my mind never to interfere between you. You see that I have
even abandoned the idea of living under one roof with my son and his
wife.'
The rebuff was plain enough. Hedwig felt chilled to the soul, as had
often been the case when she had attempted to win from her future
mother-in-law any mark of hearty confidence or affection. That
interview with Oswald had shown her what a rock lay ahead, and what a
rival she would have in the Countess; but on this occasion she felt
that the cool repellent answer had been prompted by some other motive
than mere jealousy. There was some secret misunderstanding between
Edmund and his mother.
Hedwig had long remarked this fact, though they strove outwardly to
preserve their old demeanour. In the first days of the engagement the
Countess had relinquished none of her claims, had shown herself by no
means inclined to yield to her successor the first place in her son's
affections. Why should she suddenly make open renunciation of her
influence? The step was little in accordance with her character.
In the eagerness of their talk, the two ladies had failed to hear the
sound of a horse's hoofs without. They turned in some surprise as the
door opened, and the young Count appeared. He had laid aside his hat
and overcoat, but a snowflake still hung here and there in his dark
hair, and his heated face showed how wild had been the ride from which
he had just returned. He came in quickly, and pressed his lips
hastily, almost roughly, to Hedwig's brow, as she went forward to meet
him.
'You have been out two whole hours, Edmund,' said the young girl, with
an accent of reproach. 'If the snow-storm had set in earlier, I should
not have let you go.'
'Why, do you want to make me effeminate? This is just the weather that
suits me.'
'How long has it suited you? Formerly you liked, you were satisfied
with nothing but sunshine.'
Edmund's face darkened at this remark, and he replied curtly:
'Formerly, perhaps. But we have changed all that.' Then he went up to
the Countess, and kissed her hand. There was, however, no attempt at
the affectionate embrace with which in the old days he had always
greeted her; as though accidentally, he avoided the armchair which
stood vacant between the ladies, and threw himself on a seat near
Hedwig. There was a certain nervous haste and restlessness in all his
movements which had never before characterized them, and a like
feverish excitableness was to be remarked in his voice and manner, as
in the course of conversation he passed from one subject to another,
never pursuing any for more than a few minutes.
'Hedwig was becoming very anxious at your long absence,' remarked the
Countess.
'Anxious?' repeated Edmund. 'What in the world could make you anxious,
Hedwig? Were you afraid I might be buried beneath a drift?'
'No; but I do not like these wild rides of yours about the country.
You have grown so extremely reckless and imprudent of late.'
'Nonsense! you are a dauntless horsewoman yourself, and never show the
smallest signs of fear when we ride out together.'
'When you are with me you are more careful, but whenever you go out
alone you rush along at a mad pace which is positively dangerous.'
'Bah, dangerous! No danger will touch me, you may rely upon it.'
The words conveyed none of the old merry, lighthearted confidence
wherewith the young Count had been wont to boast of his happy star. On
the contrary, they seemed rather to imply a challenge to Fate, a mute
impeachment of its hard decrees.
The Countess raised her eyes slowly, and fixed on her son a stern and
sombre gaze. He, however, seemed not to remark this, but continued
more lightly:
'It is to be hoped we may have finer weather for our shooting
to-morrow. I am expecting some gentlemen who will probably be here
this afternoon.'
'Why, two days ago the whole neighbourhood was gathered together for a
monster shooting-party here at Ettersberg, and the day after to-morrow
we are to have exactly the same affair over at Brunneck.'
'Does the invitation displease you?' asked Edmund jestingly, 'I
certainly ought first to have solicited the gracious permission of you
ladies, and really the thought of my omission overwhelms me with
confusion.'
'Hedwig is right,' said the Countess. 'You do exact too much of us all
just now. We have not had a day to ourselves for weeks, not one quiet
day without visitors to receive or visits to pay. I shall be glad to
retire into my nook at Schoenfeld and to leave you to continue this
fatiguing round of dissipation by yourselves.'
But a few months previously, such an allusion to the approaching
separation would have called forth from Edmund an energetic protest, a
warm appeal. He had always vowed that he could not live without his
mother. Now he was silent; by not a syllable did he gainsay her
resolution, nor did he reproach her for her longing to depart.
'Well, well, you need only see these gentlemen at dinner,' he said,
completely ignoring the last remark. 'They will be out in the woods
all day.'
'And you with them, I suppose,' said Hedwig. 'We hoped we might at
least have you for one day to ourselves.'
Edmund laughed outright. 'How very flattering! But your nature seems
to have undergone a wonderful change, Hedwig. In former times I never
remarked in you this romantic fancy for solitude. Have you grown
misanthropic?'
'No; I am only tired,' said the young girl, in a low voice, which
certainly bespoke profound weariness.
'How can a girl of eighteen feel tired when there is some pleasure or
a party in view?' Edmund returned in a tone of banter, and then went
on in the old vein, alternately teasing and coaxing his betrothed.
It was quite a firework-display of wit and humour, the jests following
each other in quick rocket-like succession, but the old spirit was
wanting to them. This was no longer the bright, saucy badinage in
which the young Count had so excelled of old.
Hedwig was right. There was something wild and spasmodic in his
gaiety, which was far too loud and tempestuous to be natural. His
mirth turned to mockery, his satire to a sneer. Then his laughter was
so shrill and his eyes shone with so feverish a glow that it was
almost painful to see and hear him.
Old Everard now came in, and announced that the messenger, who was
going over to Brunneck, was awaiting his orders without. Fraeulein
Ruestow had said there was a letter she desired to send. Hedwig rose
and left the drawing-room, and almost simultaneously Edmund stood up
and would have followed her out, but the Countess called him back.
'Have you anything to say to the messenger?'
'Yes, mother. I was going to send word over to Brunneck that they
might reckon on our coming the day after to-morrow.'
'That is quite understood. Besides, Hedwig has repeated it in her note
to her father. There is no necessity for you to add a message.'
'I obey orders, mother.'
The young Count, who had already gained the door, closed it rather
reluctantly, appearing undecided as to whether he should return to his
former seat or not.
'I give no orders,' said the Countess. 'I only mean that Hedwig will
in all probability not be absent more than five minutes, and that you
need not so anxiously seek a pretext for avoiding a _tete-a-tete_ with
me.'
'I!' exclaimed the Count. 'I have never----'
'You have never openly said as much,' his mother finished the phrase
for him. 'No, my son, but I see and feel full well how you shun my
company. And now I should not keep you with me had I not a request to
make. Give up this wild search after excitement--these furious,
protracted rides about the country. You will wear yourself out. Of my
anxiety I will not speak. You have long ceased to heed it; but you can
no longer deceive Hedwig with this constrained gaiety. She was
speaking to me on the subject before you came in, saying how uneasy
and unhappy she felt about you.'
The Countess spoke in a subdued tone. Her voice was low and lacked all
ring; yet there ran through it a subtle thrill of pain. Edmund had
drawn nearer slowly, and was now standing by the table before her. He
did not raise his eyes from the ground as he replied:
'Nothing ails me. You are both troubling yourselves most unnecessarily
on my account.'
The Countess was silent, but again there came that nervous working of
the lips which Hedwig's words had previously called forth. It told
what poor comfort this assurance gave her.
'Our present life is so busy and full of agitation,' went on Edmund.
'We shall all do better when Hedwig has fairly taken up her abode
here.'
'And I mine at Schoenfeld,' added the Countess, with profound
bitterness. 'Well, we have but an interval of a few weeks to pass.'
'Mother, you are unjust. Am I the cause of your leaving? This
separation takes place by your own express wish.'
'I saw that it was necessary for us both. We could not continue to
live on together, as we have lived during the past two months. You are
frightfully overwrought, Edmund, and I do not know how it will all
end, whether your marriage will produce some change in your frame of
mind. Perhaps Hedwig may succeed in making you calm and happy once
more. Your love for her is now my one hope ... for I ... my power is
over!'
Things must indeed have gone far when the proud woman, who had so long
triumphantly maintained the first place in her son's affections,
stooped to such an avowal as this. There was no bitterness and no
reproach in her words, but their tone betrayed such poignant grief
that Edmund, with quick remorse, went up to her and took her hand.
'Forgive me, mother. I did not mean to hurt you. Indeed, indeed, I
would not wound your feelings. You must be indulgent to me.'
He spoke with a touch of the old tenderness, and more was not needed
to make the Countess forget all the estrangement. She moved as though
she would have drawn her son to her breast, but it was not to be.
Edmund, yielding, as it were, to an irresistible impulse, recoiled
involuntarily; then, remembering himself at once, he bent over his
mother's hand and pressed his lips to it.
The Countess turned very pale, but she had been too long accustomed to
this shy avoidance, this horror of her embrace, to be offended by it.
So it had been for months, but the mother could not, or would not,
understand that her son's love was altogether lost to her.
'Think of my request,' she said, collecting her energies. 'Take some
care of yourself for Hedwig's sake. Show some prudence and moderation;
you owe it both to her and to yourself.'
Then she rose from her seat and left the room, hesitating yet a moment
on the threshold. Perhaps she hoped to be detained; if so, the hope
was futile. Edmund stood quite motionless, not looking up until she
had quitted the room.
Left thus alone, the young Count drew himself erect, gazed for some
minutes fixedly at the door through which his mother had passed, and
then, going up to the window, pressed his hot brow against the panes.
Now that he knew himself to be alone, the mask of gaiety with which he
sought to deceive those about him fell, and in its place came an
expression so gloomy, so despairing, that the Countess's anxiety
seemed but too fully justified. Sombre and terrible must have been the
thoughts which racked the young man's mind as he stood there, looking
out at the now thickly-falling snow. So completely was he absorbed by
them, that he did not hear the door open, and was only conscious of
another presence when the rustling of a dress near him roused him from
his brooding. Then he started and turned round.
'Ah, you are there, Hedwig. Have you told your father he may expect
us?'
Hedwig could hardly have caught sight of her lover's face, but from
the tone of his voice she became aware that for a moment he had given
up all feigning. Instead of replying to his question, she laid her
hand on his, and said very quietly:
'What is the matter with you, Edmund?'
'With me? nothing. I was inwardly swearing at the weather, which
promises us nothing good for to-morrow. I know what this driving snow
portends when once it fairly sets in among our mountains. Very
possibly we shall be blockaded to-morrow, and not able to get out into
the woods at all.'
'Well, give up your sport then. You take no real pleasure in it.'
Edmund frowned.
'Why should I not take pleasure in it?' he asked, in rather an angry
tone.
'That question I should put to you. Why have you lost pleasure in all
that you cared for formerly? Am I never to learn the trouble that is
tormenting you and weighing on your spirits? I have, it seems to me,
the best right to know it.'
'This is a regular inquisition,' cried Edmund, laughing. 'How can you
take a momentary caprice, a mere passing bout of ill-humour, so
seriously to heart? But I notice you have got into the way of striking
the pathetic chord on every possible occasion. If I would consent to
do my part, we should be a most sentimental couple; unfortunately, I
think that to be sentimental is invariably to be ridiculous.'
Hedwig turned away deeply wounded. It was not the first time that
Edmund had repelled her with harsh derision. He had so met her
every attempt to solve the strange riddle of his altered manner
and behaviour. It seemed as though he must defend his secret to the
death--defend it from her as from the rest of the world.
What a change had come over the youthful radiant pair, who had
accepted it as a matter of course that Fortune should shower on them
her best and brightest gifts, who had looked forward with such bright
assurance to the sunny future before them, and in whose playful mirth
hardly a shade of earnestness had mingled! They had both made
acquaintance with life's graver side, and if to the girl trouble were
as yet but a cold dim shadow, obscuring all the sunlight, in Edmund's
heart a flame had burst forth which burned with a consuming fire, and
ofttimes directed its intensity against those who were nearest to him.
Hedwig turned to go. But she had only time to take a few steps; then
Edmund's arm encircled her and held her fast.
'Have I pained you?' he asked. 'Scold me, Hedwig. Load me with
reproaches, but do not go from me in this way. That is more than I can
bear.'
The prayer for pardon was so passionate, so earnest, that the girl's
just anger gave way before it. She leaned her head on his shoulder,
and said:
'I think this habit of constant sarcasm is bad for you as well as
others. You do not know how harsh and cruel your words often sound.'
'I have been intolerably disagreeable of late, have I not?' said
Edmund, with an attempt at playfulness. 'After the wedding you will
see I shall be all the more charming. Then we will make our bow to the
gay world, retire from the hurly-burly, and shut ourselves up in our
fortress. Just at this present time I cannot bear tranquillity and
solitude. But I look forward with an intense longing to the day which
will unite us.'
'Do you really long for it?' asked Hedwig, looking fixedly at him.
'Sometimes, do you know, I have fancied you rather dreaded that day.'
The scarlet flush which mounted to the young man's brow almost seemed
to bear out her words; yet the passionate tenderness with which he
folded his betrothed to his heart gave them contradiction.
'Dread? No, Hedwig! We love each other, do we not? And your love is
given to me, to me personally, not to the Count Ettersberg, not to
the heir of these estates? You had so many suitors to choose from, so
many who could offer you wealth and fortune, and you chose me, because
... because you liked me best, was it not so?'
'Good heavens, how can such things come into your mind?' cried Hedwig,
half frightened, half offended. 'How can you imagine that I ever gave
them a thought?'
'I do not, I do not,' said Edmund, drawing a deep breath. 'And
therefore I hold fast to that which is mine, mine alone, and will
maintain it in the face of all. In your love, at least, I may believe.
That, at least, is no lie. If I were to be deceived here, if I must
doubt and despair of you--then the sooner I make an end of it, the
better.'
'Edmund, this wild talk of yours distracts me,' cried Hedwig, starting
back, scared by his vehemence. 'You are ill, you must be ill, or you
would not use such language.'
This anxious cry brought Edmund to his senses. He made a great effort
to regain composure, and even succeeded in forcing a smile as he
replied:
'Why, are you beginning that tale? A few minutes ago my mother was
lecturing me, saying I was excited and overwrought. And in fact it is
nothing more than that. I am nervous and unstrung, but the fit will
pass. Everything comes to an end, you know, sooner or later. Do not be
anxious, Hedwig. Now I must go and see if Everard has got all ready
for my expected guests. I forgot to give him any special orders.
Excuse me for ten minutes, will you? I shall be with you again
immediately.'
He released the girl from his arms and left her, once more breaking
off abruptly, fleeing, as it were, from further explanation or
discussion. It was impossible to solve the enigma. The Countess and
Edmund were alike impenetrable.
Hedwig returned to her former place, and sat, absorbed in troubled
meditation, resting her head on her hand. Edmund was concealing
something from her, yet his love for her had suffered no change or
diminution. It needed not the Countess's words to assure her of this;
her own feelings told her the fact far more convincingly. His
affection seemed indeed to have gained in intensity. She was more to
him now than in former days, when his mother stood so prominently in
the foreground; but the girl involuntarily trembled at meeting an
outburst of fervid passion there, where she had been wont to look only
for gay and sportive tenderness. How strange, how fitted to inspire
uneasiness had been Edmund's manner again to-day! Why did he so
vehemently demand an assurance that her love was given to him, to him
personally? And why would he 'make an end of it,' were he to be
deceived in this belief?
Hedwig felt that she should have thrown herself on her lover's breast,
and forced from him a frank and open confession.
Obstinately as he might withhold his confidence from her, he would
surely have given way, if she had prayed him with all the eagerness
and earnestness of heartfelt love--but this she could not bring
herself to do. Something like a secret consciousness of guilt
restrained her from using her full power. Yet she had valiantly fought
against the dreams which constantly brought before her another figure,
the figure of one who now was far away, and whom she would probably
never see again.
Oswald von Ettersberg since his departure had been completely lost
sight of. He might almost have vanished into space. The Countess never
voluntarily alluded to her nephew, and to some inquiries of Ruestow's
she had merely replied curtly and coldly that she believed he was
well, and satisfied with his new mode of life, but that he rarely
communicated with his relations. She evidently desired to avoid the
subject, and it was accordingly not again broached. The fact that
Edmund never mentioned the name of his cousin, from whom he had
hitherto been inseparable, that any allusion to the absent one
appeared unpalatable to him as to his mother, was just one of the many
eccentricities which now marked his behaviour. They had probably had
some fresh quarrel shortly before Oswald's departure, and it seemed
that the rupture between the cousins and old allies was this time
complete.
Weary of thinking, of pondering over mysteries she could not fathom,
Hedwig sat leaning back in her chair. She heard the door of the
anteroom open, heard the approach of footsteps, but, supposing that it
was Edmund coming back, she did not alter her attitude, and it was
only as the new-comer entered that she languidly turned her head in
his direction.
Then suddenly an electric thrill shot through the girl's frame.
Trembling, blushing to the temples, she sprang from her seat, her eyes
fixed on the door before her. Was it alarm, or was it joy that seized
upon her with such paralyzing might? She knew not--she rendered no
account to herself; but the name which burst from her lips, and the
tone in which it was uttered, betrayed all that she had long so
sedulously hidden.
'Oswald!'
Yes, it was Oswald who stood on the threshold. He must have been
prepared for the possibility of seeing her when he started on his
journey to Ettersberg, but this sudden meeting was quite unlooked for.
The flush which dyed his brow on beholding his cousin's promised wife
was evidence enough of this.
For a moment he waited, irresolute, but when his name struck on his
ear, pronounced in those accents, all hesitation was over. In an
instant he was at her side.
'Hedwig! Have I startled you?'
The question was well warranted, for Hedwig's perturbation was still
visible and extreme.
'Herr von Ettersberg! You appear so suddenly, so unexpectedly.'
'I could not send word of my coming. I am here on pressing business,
which made it necessary for me to see Edmund at once.'
He spoke, almost without knowing what he said, gazing fixedly the
while at the girl's face before him. The sight of her did away in a
moment with the ramparts which for months he had laboriously been
building up.
Hedwig moved as though to withdraw.
'I ... I will let Edmund know.'
'He has been informed of my arrival. Do not fly from me in this way,
Hedwig. Will you not grant me one minute?'
Hedwig paused. The sorrowful reproach in his tone chained her to the
spot, but she did not dare to make reply.
'I do not come voluntarily or in my own interest,' pursued Oswald.
'Tomorrow I shall leave again; I could not possibly divine that you
would be here at Ettersberg just at this time, or ... or I would have
spared us both this meeting.'
Us both! Through all his bitterness there gleamed a ray of
satisfaction. That unguarded exclamation of hers had changed a dim
half-knowledge into a certainty, and though he could fasten on it no
single hope, this certainty had in an instant become to him the one
all-precious thing in life, a possession he would have surrendered at
no price.
During their farewell interview, the young man had valiantly
maintained his self-control, but the joyful shock of this unexpected
meeting threatened to unseal his lips. The long-hidden passion in his
breast was fanned to a quick, sudden blaze. Hedwig read this in his
eyes, and the imminent danger gave her back her self-command, which
did not again desert her.
'We can, at all events, shorten this interview,' she said, speaking in
a low, steady tone, and turned to go. But Oswald followed.
'Will you leave me suddenly in this way? May I not say a word to
you--one word?'
'I fear we have already said too much. Let me go, Herr von Ettersberg.
Let me go, I entreat of you.'
Oswald obeyed. He stepped back to let her pass. She was right, he
felt, and it was well that she should be strong and prudent when his
prudence was on the verge of failing him. He looked after her
silently, with an expression of infinite sadness, but he would no
further detain her.
Hardly had Hedwig disappeared in the direction of the Countess's
apartments when Edmund came in from the other side. His cousin's
arrival had been notified to him, but his face showed no joyful
surprise. On the contrary, the young Count appeared disturbed, nay,
agitated. As Oswald hastened towards him, and held out his hand with
all the old friendly cordiality, he evaded taking it, and the welcome
he expressed was strangely forced and formal.
'What a surprise, Oswald! I did not think you intended to pay
Ettersberg a visit just now.'
'Am I unwelcome?' asked Oswald, astonished at and chilled by this
unwonted reception, and his outstretched hand fell to his side as he
spoke.
'No, certainly not!' cried Edmund hastily. 'Quite the contrary. I only
meant that you might have sent me word previously.'
'It was I who had the right to expect a letter,' said Oswald, with
some reproach in his tone. 'You only replied to my first by a few
lines: of my second you took no notice at all. I could understand your
silence as little as I now understand the manner of your welcome. Have
you been ill, or has anything happened?'
The young Count laughed--the loud derisive laugh which in these days
was so frequent with him.'
'What an idea! You see I am as well as I can be. It was only that I
had no time for writing.'
'No time?' said Oswald, much hurt. 'Well, I have found more leisure
for you, then, in spite of all the urgent claims my work makes upon
me. I have come now solely and entirely in your interest, not to pay
you a visit, but to guard and save you from certain loss. Have you
cancelled the powers formerly conferred on your land-steward?'
'What powers?' asked Edmund, who was absent and uneasy.'
He persistently avoided meeting his cousin's eye.
'The authority to act in your name, with which Baron Heideck, as your
guardian, thought fit to invest him, and by means of which the entire
management of the Ettersberg affairs was left in his hands. Does he
still hold the document which gave him this authority?'
'Probably. I have never asked him for it back.' Oswald frowned.
'How could you be so imprudent?' he said impatiently. 'How could you
continue to place confidence in a man whom you know to be unreliable?
In all probability you will find that he has grossly abused his trust.
Are you aware that the third part of your forests is doomed--that the
timber is to be cut down and sold?'
'Oh! Is that in contemplation?' Edmund replied, still absently. The
news seemed to make little or no impression on him.
'Do reflect,' insisted Oswald. 'If you know nothing of this
transaction, if it has been entered into without your consent, the
intent at robbery is as clear as day. The purchase-money, which is
fixed at an absurdly low figure, is to be paid in cash, and the
steward, no doubt, hopes to pocket it, and to be clear of the place
before the affair is found out. I heard of it accidentally. The
would-be purchaser consulted my friend Braun on the subject, and I
hurried over here at once, in the hope of saving you and Ettersberg
from this tremendous injury.'
Edmund passed his hand across his brow, as though it required an
effort on his part to follow the conversation.
'That was very kind of you! Did you really come expressly for that?
Well, we can talk it over another time.'
This utter lack of interest still further increased Oswald's
amazement, but what roused even greater anxiety in his mind was the
strangely-fixed and half-distraught expression of the young Count's
face. Evidently his thoughts were busy elsewhere.
'Edmund, have you not heard what I have been saying to you? This
matter is of the first importance--it will not brook the slightest
delay. You must at once rescind those powers, and you must make sure
of the rascal to whom they were committed, or you will be compelled to
recognise the bargain he has made. This bargain means ruin to your
forests, and considerable, perhaps irreparable, damage to the entailed
estates.'
'Ah, the entail,' repeated Edmund, who, of the whole exordium, seemed
only to have caught this word. 'True, the estates must not be injured.
I give this matter over into your hands, Oswald. You have taken it
up--go through with it.'
'I? How can I give orders, make arrangements regarding your property,
while you yourself are here present? I came merely to warn you, to
disclose to you the intended fraud. It is for you to take action--for
you, the master and owner of Ettersberg.'
A spasm passed across the young Count's face, telling of some racking
pain, dissimulated by an effort, and his eyes fell before Oswald's
astonished, questioning gaze. He pressed his lips together, and was
silent.
'Well?' asked Oswald, after a pause. 'Will you send for the steward
and speak to him?'
'If you think it advisable.'
'Of course I think it advisable. It must be done without delay.'
Edmund went up to the table, and was about to grasp the bell, when
Oswald, who had followed him, suddenly laid his hand on his shoulder,
and said, in an earnest, urgent tone:
'Edmund, what is your cause of complaint against me?'
'Against you? I have none. You must excuse me if I seem rather absent.
I am beset by all sorts of worries just now--disagreeables regarding
the management, with the people on the place. My head is full of it
all. You see by this incident with the steward what unpleasant things
are constantly turning up.'
'It is not that,' said Oswald decidedly. 'I feel that you have some
grudge against me personally. See how hearty and affectionate you were
towards me when we parted, and how differently you receive me now.
What has come between us?'
He grasped the young Count's shoulder as he put the last question, and
would have looked him scrutinizingly in the face, but Edmund tore
himself free with some violence.
'Do not tease me with all these absurd fancies and imaginings,' he
broke out hastily. 'Must I render you account of every word and every
glance?'
Oswald receded a step, and gazed at his cousin in amazement. He was
indeed more astonished than offended. This sudden outbreak, so
entirely unprovoked, as it seemed to him, was absolutely inexplicable.
At this moment the roll of approaching wheels and the barking of dogs
were heard outside. Edmund drew a deep breath, as though he had been
relieved of some unendurable pain.
'Ah, our guests are here! Forgive me, Oswald, if I leave you alone. I
am expecting some gentlemen who are to join our shooting-party
to-morrow. You will make one of us, will you not?'
'No,' said Oswald coldly. 'I did not come for my pleasure, and
to-morrow afternoon I must leave you again.'
'So soon? I am sorry for that, but of course you know best how much
time you have to spare. I will give orders for your room to be put in
readiness for you.'
He had already reached the threshold.
'One thing more, Oswald. Take the steward to task for me, will you? I
have no talent for that sort of thing, and no patience. I shall agree
to anything you may decide. Your orders will be equivalent to mine.
Goodbye for the present.'
The last words were spoken rapidly, with a feverish excitement of
manner which contrasted strangely with his former listless
indifference. Then he hurried away, as though the ground were
scorching his feet. Oswald stood there alone, hardly knowing whether
to be angry or alarmed at such a reception. What could it mean? There
could be but one explanation. Edmund had entered the drawing-room as
Hedwig quitted it. Possibly he might have approached some minutes
before and have partly overheard the short but pregnant conversation
that had taken place between the girl and himself. Although not a word
had fallen which could be construed into an understanding, there had
been enough to show how matters were between Oswald and his own
promised bride--enough to kindle a blaze of jealousy in the young
Count's breast. That would explain his shrinking from the hand Oswald
extended to him, his indifference to the money-loss with which he was
threatened, his vehement, excited manner. There could be no other
reading of the problem.
'So it was that,' said Oswald to himself. 'He must have overheard
something. Well then, he heard how innocent we both were with regard
to the meeting, and how we parted. I know myself to be free from
blame, and if we ever come to a discussion on the subject, I will meet
him and speak out frankly.'
Outside, in the courtyard, loud talk could now be heard, and a lively
interchange of greetings, Edmund's voice rising above all the others
as he welcomed his guests with noisy hilarity.
Oswald glanced out of the window. The gentlemen who had just alighted
were, one and all, old acquaintances of his, but he was not in the
humour to make polite speeches to them, or to run the gauntlet of
their questions. So he quickly left the drawing-room, and was on the
way to his old dwelling in the side-wing before the strangers had set
foot in the castle.