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