The weather on the following day proved more propitious than had been expected. Though it did not clear up brightly, there was a cessation of the snowfall and the mists had disappeared, so that the morning seemed to promise a somewhat overcast, but, on the whole, fine day, favourable to sport and sportsmen.
At a very early hour Oswald left his room and turned his steps towards the main building, where the Count's apartments were situated. None of the guests were visible as yet, but downstairs the servants were busy preparing for the departure of the gentlemen, who were to set out immediately after breakfast.
Strange to say, Oswald found his cousin's room locked. It had never been Edmund's habit to ensure solitude by any such precautions. Not until his cousin had knocked repeatedly did he open the door.
'Oh, it is you, Oswald? You are here very early.'
His tone said plainly enough that the surprise was no pleasant one. Notwithstanding this, Oswald walked in.
'You are dressed, I see,' he said; 'so I am not disturbing you with this morning visit.'
The young Count was, indeed, fully equipped for the day, but he looked pale and haggard, and his eyes shone with an unnatural light. The traces of a wakeful night were but too visible on his features. He had evidently found neither sleep nor rest since the preceding evening.
'You have altered your mind, I suppose, and have come to say you will make one of the party,' he said lightly, evading the keen survey of the other's eyes by turning away and busying himself at his writing-table.
'No,' replied Oswald. 'You know that I must start again this afternoon. You may not have returned when I leave, so I wished to say good-bye to you now.'
'Must it be said in private?'
'Yes; for there is something else of importance I would speak of. You used not of old to avoid me so persistently, Edmund. I tried in vain to get hold of you yesterday evening. You were so completely taken up with your guests, and you seemed so excited, I had to give up all hope of finding a hearing, or of discussing with you any matters of business.'
'Matters of business? Ah, you mean that affair of the steward. Have you been so good as to speak to him for me?'
'I was compelled to do so, seeing that, in spite of my remonstrances, you would not stir a step. It all turned out precisely as I feared. When the man discovered that I was acquainted with the whole transaction, he desisted from lying. I gave him the choice of leaving Ettersberg this very day, or of submitting to a thorough investigation before a court of law. He naturally preferred the first alternative. Here is the document which empowered him to act in your name. He handed it over to me, but you will do well to have it properly cancelled. The intending purchaser has had notice already. I took down his address, thinking it might prove useful, and I have telegraphed to him that the sale of timber will not take place, that all authority is withdrawn from your agent, who had treated without your knowledge or consent. So this time the loss has been averted.'
He made this statement in a quiet, business-like tone, laying no stress on his own services, or on the diligent zeal which had brought about this happy result.
Edmund must, however, have felt how much he owed to his cousin's wise and thoughtful action. Perhaps the sense of obligation weighed upon him, for his answer was very brief.
'I am really most grateful to you. I knew you would understand these things far better than I, and would act more energetically.'
'In this instance it was for you to act,' said Oswald reproachfully. 'I allowed the steward to believe that at present I alone had cognizance of the intended fraud, that I called him to account on my own responsibility, and that I should not make any communication to you until he had taken his departure to-day--otherwise he would have thought it extraordinary that you should hold aloof from an affair which, after all, concerns yourself alone.'
'As I said to you yesterday, I was not in a mood, a frame of mind----'
'That I could see, and I make every allowance for the frame of mind, knowing, as I do, its cause and origin.'
'Its cause and origin? What do you mean? What do you know?'
'The reason of your strange reception, of your almost hostile attitude towards myself. This alone it is which brings me here. All misunderstandings must be cleared up between us, Edmund. Why this silence and concealment? Between true friends such as we are, frankness is best.'
The young Count leaned heavily against the table near at hand. He made no reply, but stood speechless and pale as death, staring at his cousin, who continued calmly:
'You need not withhold any accusation you may have to make. I can face it, can meet it without flinching. I love Hedwig, and am not ashamed to own it to you, for I have honestly, loyally struggled against the passion. When I saw it was not to be overcome, I went. Not a word on the subject has passed between us. If yesterday I was so far carried away as to allude to the state of my feelings, it was the first, it will be the last time. The unexpected meeting for a moment robbed me of my self-control, but it was only for a moment. I was myself again directly. If this is guilt in your eyes, it is guilt I am not afraid to confess, for I feel that in all points I can justify my conduct.'
This open, manly avowal had a most unlooked-for effect. Edmund listened as in a dream. The horrible shock of surprise, which quite paralyzed him at first, gradually passed away, but he evidently did not yet grasp the full purport of the words addressed to him.
'You love Hedwig? You? No, it is impossible. I do not believe it.'
'Had you not found it out?' said Oswald, dismayed in his turn. 'Was it not a feeling of jealousy which stood between us and estranged you from me?'
Edmund did not heed the question. His glowing eyes rested with an expression of terrible, unutterable suspense on Oswald's face, as he panted forth, in breathless agitation:
'And Hedwig--does she return the feeling? Does she love you?'
'I have said that no word of explanation has passed between us.'
'Words are not needed. You know, must know, if she cares for you, or not. That is felt in every glance, in every pulse.Ihave felt, I have known that she did not give me her whole wealth of love, that something stood between us, dividing us. Were you that barrier? Speak; I will have certainty, be the cost to me what it may.'
Oswald cast down his eyes.
'Hedwig will hold her promise sacred, as I do,' he replied, in a low voice.
The answer was unequivocal, and to it there was no rejoinder. For the next few minutes a terrible silence reigned. No sound was heard but that of the young Count's short, quick breathing.
'So this drop is added,' he said at length. Oswald looked at him anxiously. He had been prepared for a stormy scene, for passionate reproach and fierce anger. This stony resignation, so utterly at variance with Edmund's character, roused in him amazement and alarm.
'We shall conquer and live it down,' he said, taking up the thread again. 'We have never either of us thought of any further possibility. Were Hedwig free, I could entertain no hopes. I have always felt a contempt for adventurers who owe all to their wives, having themselves nothing to offer in return. Such a position would weigh me to the ground. I could not accept it, even at the hands of the woman I love. And my career is only just beginning. For years I must go on working for myself alone, whereas you have it in your power to confer in marriage the most brilliant advantages.'
The words were spoken innocently enough. They were intended to soothe, but how contrary was the effect produced! Edmund bounded, as it were, beneath the lash. His whole manner, his voice even was changed, as he burst forth, with scathing bitterness, with fierce, scornful rage:
'You mean to envy me, perhaps, to envy me my brilliant lot in life! I am a favourite of Fortune, am I not? All the good things of this world fall to my share? You were mistaken in your prophecy, Oswald. Fortune is fickle, and we two have changedrôles. Hedwig's love, at least, I still believed to be mine; of that one possession I thought myself sure. That, too, has been taken from me, taken from me by you. Oh, the measure is full, full to overflowing!'
'Edmund, you are half distracted,' said Oswald remonstratingly. 'Try to regain composure. We will speak of this more quietly----'
'Leave me,' Edmund interrupted. 'I can hear nothing now, endure nothing more. Your presence is intolerable to me. Go!'
Oswald drew nearer, seeking to pacify him, but in vain. In a fury, which bordered on madness, the Count thrust him back.'
'I will be alone, I tell you. Am I not even master here in my own rooms? Must I insult you to drive you from me?'
'That will not be necessary,' said Oswald, now grievously offended, and as he spoke, he drew himself up. 'I was not prepared for such a reception of my frank and loyal statement, or I should have been silent. You will see later on what injustice you have done me, but the knowledge will probably come too late to save our friendship. Good-bye.'
He went, casting not another glance behind him. Then Edmund sank into a chair. The blow which had just fallen was perhaps not the heaviest that had struck him in these latter days. Most direful of all had been the shock which in a moment had destroyed the son's love for, and proud trust in, his mother--not the heaviest, perhaps, but the last; and the last felled him to the ground.
An hour later the whole company had gathered in the dining-room, where breakfast was laid. The gentlemen were all in high spirits, for the weather promised excellent sport.
The Countess did the honours of the house with her accustomed grace. Whatever cares might be gnawing at her heart, she was too thorough a woman of the world to betray any emotion in the presence of strangers. Hedwig also forced herself to appear gay.
The conversation was most animated, and Oswald's grave taciturnity and reserve were not specially remarked, as they were considered natural to and customary with him.
Count Ettersberg himself appeared late on the scene. He excused himself by saying that he had been delayed, giving some necessary orders in reference to the day's sport; and he endeavoured to make up for his tardy arrival by redoubled efforts to charm and amuse his guests.
Edmund no longer looked pale and haggard, as he had looked an hour before. On the contrary, a hectic flush glowed in his cheeks, and a current of fire seemed to speed through his veins, while he exhibited an exuberant gaiety which could only be the product of over-excitement. He at once took the lead in the conversation, and his brilliant talk soon carried all the others away with it. Jests, repartees, and sparkling anecdotes followed quickly one upon the other. He seemed bent on convincing everyone about him of his cheerfulness and excellent humour, and so far as his guests were concerned, he succeeded in his aim.
The elder men, one and all landowners of the neighbourhood, thought they had never known the young Count so agreeable as on this occasion: the younger, stimulated by the effervescence of his wit, became witty in their turn. So the time sped quickly by, until the master of the house gave the signal for a general rising.
Oswald still continued very silent, but he kept a constant, anxious watch on his cousin. After all that had taken place between them, it was no matter of surprise to him that Edmund should seem to shun him even more persistently than yesterday, should even avoid addressing him directly; but he was not to be deceived by the other's assumed flippancy. After the scene of that morning, desperation alone could have produced such feverish excitement. Now only, when the first stings of wounded pride had passed, did the young man reflect how horror-stricken, how half-distraught Edmund had appeared on hearing his confession. He had had no suspicion, it seemed. His unaccountable behaviour had not been actuated by, was not owing to jealousy. If not to jealousy, to what then?
The company had now risen and were preparing to depart. The sportsmen took their leave of the ladies of the house, and said good-bye to Oswald, who was also to be left behind. Herr von Ettersberg was generally condoled with for having to return to the city so speedily, and to lose his chance of a day's shooting, and a few more polite speeches of a like nature were exchanged in all haste.
Edmund parted from Hedwig with some merry words, still showing the extreme and rather reckless gaiety which he seemed unable to put from him that morning.
As he passed his cousin, he called to him, 'Adieu, Oswald,' but so briefly and hastily as to preclude any reply. He evidently wished to avoid any further contact with the man by whom he considered himself injured. He went up to the Countess, who was talking to one of the gentlemen.
'I have come to say good-bye, mother.'
The words were spoken hurriedly, but something of the old tone was in them, of the tone which the mother's ear had so long sought in vain, and which now it instantly caught. Her eyes sought her son's; and meeting them, she no longer read there that shy avoidance which had so tortured her for months.
Today they had a different, an undefinable expression in which, however, there was no reproach. The hand the Countess extended to him trembled a little. A cold formal kiss imprinted on this hand was the only salute Edmund had for her now as he came and went. He stooped over it as usual, but suddenly the mother felt his arms close round her, felt his hot, quivering lips on her brow. It was their first embrace since the day on which he had discovered the fatal secret.
'Edmund?' whispered the Countess, with a half-tender, half-anxious inquiry in the murmured word.
Edmund made no reply. He held his mother tightly to him--but for a moment, yet enough to show her that the old love had blazed forth anew, ardent, mighty as ever. His lips touched hers, then he freed himself quickly and resolutely.
'Farewell, mother. I must go; it is more than time.'
He stepped back among his guests, who at once closed in upon him. In the general leave-taking, and in the noise and confusion which preceded their merry departure, all chance of saying another word to her son was lost to the Countess.
The sportsmen were gone at last. No one had noticed the short scene between mother and son, no one had seen anything unusual in their embrace--with one exception. Oswald's eyes had never quitted them for an instant. His strange, keen scrutiny was on the Countess now as she left the room.
It was her wish, no doubt, to escape being alone with her nephew. Hedwig had accompanied her lover downstairs, and was watching the departure from the entrance-door.
In the castle-yard all was life and animation. A number of sledges stood ready to receive the gentlemen, and to convey them to the neighbourhood of the somewhat distant covers which had been chosen for the day's sport. The servants were busily moving to and fro. The Count's chasseur, who had charge of the dogs, could hardly check their ardour, and even the horses gave signs of impatience at the long delay by pawing the ground and champing the bit.
Most restless of all were a pair of handsome black steeds harnessed to a small sledge which contained seats for but two persons. They were the restive, high-spirited animals which had brought about the accident on Stag's Hill. Since then the Countess, having once been exposed by them to imminent peril, had constantly used other horses for her daily drives. Could she have chosen, the black pair would, indeed, long ago have been banished from the stables; but Edmund had a strong predilection for the beautiful creatures, which certainly were matchless in their symmetry and grace. He had given special orders that they should be put to his own sledge to-day. It was his habit to drive himself, and he now advanced, ready to take the reins from the groom's hands.
All seemed ready for the start, yet some further delay occurred before the party actually set out. Some remark of Edmund's had called forth a debate, and much lively discussion was going on among the sportsmen. Evidently the pros and cons of a disputed question were being argued. A sound of loud voices and noisy laughter reached Oswald's ear as he stood at his post above, but the closed windows prevented his hearing the words used in the parley. The young Count was the most eager speaker. Some of the elder men present shook their heads and seemed to attempt dissuasion. At length a settlement was arrived at. All was made ready for the general departure, and Edmund mounted to his seat in the sledge. Strangely enough, he meant to drive alone. The place at his side remained unoccupied. At a sign from him the groom in attendance fell back, as he gathered up the reins and whip.
One more look from the sportsmen--one farewell salute in the direction of the great entrance-door where stood the castle's future mistress. Edmund, like the rest, turned and waved her a final adieu, but immediately his eyes were raised to the tier of windows above. These were his mother's rooms, and the Countess must have appeared at this moment, for her son's gaze was riveted on a certain point. He sent her a greeting far warmer and more heartfelt than that he had accorded to his betrothed. There came a momentary break in the gaiety he had so sedulously maintained, a glimpse as of some wild, unutterable sorrow. That farewell glance seemed almost to convey a mute, beseeching appeal for pardon. Then his lash descended so sharply that the fiery steeds reared high in the air, and the snow rose up in a small whirlwind about him, as they set off at full gallop. The other sleighs followed, and so amid noise and merriment the whole retinue departed.
Oswald turned from the window, struck by a sudden apprehension.
'That seemed like a farewell,' he murmured. 'What can it mean? What scheme can Edmund have in his head?'
He left the drawing-room, and was quickly passing through the antechamber when he met Everard, the old retainer, who had just left the courtyard.
'What caused the delay in starting?' asked Oswald hastily. 'What was the discussion about, and why did your master go off in his sledge alone?'
'It was about a wager,' said the old man, who looked greatly perturbed. 'The Count intends to drive over Stag's Hill.'
'Over that steep hill, just after a heavy downfall of snow? That must mean danger.'
'Yes; so most of the other gentlemen declared; but my master laughed at their fears. He said he would bet that by taking that road he should reach the rendezvous a good quarter of an hour before the rest of the party. It was of no use to remonstrate or retreat. Even Fräulein Hedwig tried in vain. The wager stands. If only he had any other horses to manage than those unruly black beasts....'
'By whose orders were those restive animals put to my cousin's sledge to-day? He generally drives the grays.'
'It was done by the Count's own order. He came down before breakfast to give the grooms their instructions.'
'And the man? Why was he left behind?'
'Also by the Count's directions. He said he wanted no attendant.'
Oswald said not another word. He left the old man standing where he was, and without further consideration or delay hurried across to his aunt's apartments. The Countess still watched at the window, though the cortége had long disappeared from sight. She knew nothing of the scene that had taken place that morning in her son's room; yet she seemed to have some foreboding sense, some vague dread upon her, for her hands were folded in mute anguish, and the face she turned towards the new-comer was perfectly ashy in its extreme pallor.
She started violently as Oswald came in thus, unexpected and unannounced. For the first time since he had left his old home at Ettersberg they met alone, and face to face.
On the preceding evening and that morning they had seen each other only in the presence of strangers, and their intercourse had been limited to a few formal words of greeting. The Countess looked for no mercy from the man whom she estimated as her bitterest enemy, and who certainly had ample cause to be so.
Though by an impulse of generosity he had parted with the weapon which would have proved most dangerous, its strength was known to him, and the knowledge gave him power enough over his aunt. But it was not this lady's habit to show herself weak, save only where her son was concerned, and now she at once roused her energies, and assumed a resolute attitude of defence. She stood cold and immovable, determined not to yield an inch, prepared for anything that might come.
But no syllable of that she feared and expected came from Oswald's lips. He only approached her quickly, and said, in a low and eager voice:
'What has happened to Edmund?'
'To Edmund? I do not understand you.'
'He is frightfully changed. Something must have occurred since I left. There is some trouble on his mind which harasses him, and at times seems almost to shake his reason. I thought at first I had guessed the cause of it, but I find now I was utterly mistaken. What has happened, aunt?'
Not a word passed the mother's set lips. Better than anyone she knew the piteous change which had come over her son, but to this man she could not, would not, confess it.
'Forgive me if I put a painful question,' went on Oswald. 'We have to fear, to guard against the worst; in such a case, all other considerations vanish. Before I left, I gave into your brother's charge a small packet. I told him expressly that it was to be delivered to you alone, that Edmund was not to know its contents. Can it be that, in spite of this ... can he have learned----'
He paused, unable to frame his question, and the marked agitation displayed by one usually so cold and self-possessed revealed to the Countess the true nature of the danger of which hitherto she had had but a dim foreboding. She gazed anxiously into Oswald's face, and in lieu of making answer, asked:
'Why did Edmund start alone? What was the meaning of that last look, that farewell gesture? You know it, Oswald.'
'I know nothing, but I fear the worst after the scene which took place between us this morning. Edmund has made a mad wager. He means to drive over Stag's Hill on such a day as this. By his express directions, the most unmanageable horses in the stables have been put to his sledge, and the groom has been left behind. You see, it is a question of life or death, and I must know the truth. Is Edmund acquainted with the contents of that packet?'
A faintly articulated 'Yes' was the reply wrung from the Countess's panting breast. With this one word she confessed all, gave herself over completely into the hands of her nephew; but at the moment no sense of this occurred to her. Her son's life was at stake. What cared the mother for her own ruin or shame?
'Good God! Then he has planned some terrible deed,' exclaimed Oswald. 'Now I see, I understand it all.'
The Countess uttered a shriek, as a full comprehension of that last farewell dawned suddenly on her also.
'I must go after him,' said Oswald, with quick determination, pulling the bell as he spoke. 'There is not a moment to lose.'
'I ... I will accompany you,' gasped the Countess, advancing a step; but she staggered and would have fallen, had not her nephew caught and supported her.
'Impossible, aunt. You could not bear it. Besides, all the sledges are out. There is not one at our disposal, and we could not get through the snow with a carriage. I will mount a horse and ride after him--ride for dear life. That is the one chance left us.'
He turned to Everard, who at that moment entered the room.
'Have the English chestnut saddled. Be as quick as possible. I must follow the Count at once.'
The old man withdrew hastily. He saw that an effort was to be made to avert some danger from his young master.
Oswald went up to the Countess, who sat trembling and pale as ashes, and essayed to reassure her.
'Try to be calm. Nothing is lost as yet. The chestnut is one of the swiftest horses in the stables, and if I take the road by Neuenfeld, I shall cut off a third of the distance. I must come up with Edmund.'
'And when you do come up with him!' cried the Countess despairingly. 'He will not listen to you any more than to me or to his affianced wife.'
'He will listen to me,' said Oswald, with profound emphasis; 'for I alone can put an end to the conflict raging within him. Had I this morning known the real situation, things would not have reached this pass. We have been friends from our earliest childhood. That must count. You will see, we shall win through this trouble yet. Courage, aunt. I will bring your son back to you.'
The young man's brave, resolute tone was not without its influence on the tortured mother. She clung to the hope held out to her, clung to the once dreaded, hated Oswald as to a last anchor of salvation. Not a word could she utter, but the look she cast up at him was so suppliant, so heart-rending, that Oswald, deeply moved, clasped her hand in his. In their anxiety about the one being they loved with almost equal fervour, the long-cherished enmity died out, the hatred and rancour of years were buried.
Oswald took the half-fainting lady in his arms, and gently placed her in an arm-chair--then he hurried out. The hope of achieving a rescue gave him courage and confidence; but to the mother who remained behind, the weight of anguish, the cruel suspense, proved well-nigh crushing. She knew but too well what had driven her son to his death; and this terrible consciousness, now brought home to her, put the last stroke to the torture of the past few weeks. Baron Heideck was right. The unhappy woman's punishment was greater even than her offence had been.
Everard had urged the grooms to the utmost alacrity. The horse was being led round as Oswald emerged from the castle. He swung himself into the saddle and galloped off.
It might safely be assumed that Edmund would choose the highroad. The way by Neuenfeld, though considerably shorter, ran for the most part through the forest, and was so narrow and uneven that it would have been hardly practicable with a sledge. To a horseman it offered no great difficulties, and the chestnut was, indeed, incomparably swift of pace. Its hoofs hardly touched the ground where the snow lay thick, but not so deep as to prove an obstacle. So the good steed pressed on through the woods all gaunt and rigid with frost and ice, through a village which lay, as it were, still sleeping in its winter shroud--onwards, onwards, with the speed of a bird, yet all too slowly for the craving impatience of him who rode.
There was not a doubt in Oswald's mind that some desperate deed was in contemplation, a deed it might yet be in his power to prevent. There must be some issue to this terrible situation. If Oswald raised no accusation, asserted no claim, none else had a right to do so. The world might be left in ignorance, as it had been heretofore. The two most nearly concerned might clasp hands and swear that the house of Ettersberg should henceforth boast two sons. Yet through all these plans and sanguine meditations came the remembrance of the evening which preceded Oswald's departure, the remembrance of Edmund's words still vibrating in his cousin's ears:
'I could not live with the knowledge of a secret shame. My conscience must be clear, and I must stand before the world with an unsullied brow.'
The path now issued into the highroad, where a free open view of the country round was to be had. Oswald drew rein a moment, and gazed about him searchingly--but in vain. He saw nothing but a broad, white expanse of plain, at some distance the dark firs on Stag's Hill standing out in sombre relief, and beyond them the lowering mists of an overcast winter forenoon.
All around was desolate; not a living creature was to be seen. The hope of barring Edmund's passage proved illusory. He must have passed long since. The track of his sledge was distinctly visible on the freshly-fallen snow.
Now for the first time Oswald's brave assurance threatened to desert him--he would not hearken to the sad presentiments which besieged him, but gave rein to his horse, and rode fleetly on until he reached the foot of the hill, and the ascending path before him brought him to a footpace.
Stag's Hill, though not very high, was excessively steep, and was esteemed an awkward bit of road, which, as a rule, drivers gladly avoided. To climb and descend in safety certainly required prudence. It was necessary to have the carriage well under control, to be sure of the horses, when this route was chosen. In wintertime the steep incline, covered with a sheet of snow and ice, was positively perilous, as Oswald soon found. More than once his horse stumbled, and but for his vigilance would have fallen. Happily, he was both a skilful and a prudent rider, and his accomplishment now stood him in good stead; but with every minute that elapsed, with every bend in the road which opened out fresh lengths without revealing the object of his search, his anxiety increased, waxed keener and keener. He urged on his horse with whip and spurs, granting neither to the animal nor to himself a moment's respite. One thought alone possessed his mind: 'I must find him!'
And he found him. With a snort and a last strong pull the horse now reached the summit, and trotted on a few minutes over the even ground. On the opposite side of this plateau the road declined again sharply. The track of the sledge was still visible, but about a hundred paces further on, just at the most precipitous part, the snow was ploughed up and much betrodden, as by the hoofs of rearing, plunging horses. The low hedge which bordered the road was broken through, torn down; the young firs on the hill-side were bent and broken as though a hurricane had passed over them, and in the depths below lay a dark, inert mass, sledge and horses, all together, borne down to a common destruction, dashed to pieces in that dizzy, dreadful fall.
At this sight Oswald forgot his caution. Reckless of the imminent peril to himself, he spurred his horse down the road at full speed. When he reached the valley below, he sprang from the saddle, and at once plunged into the ravine.
There he saw the shattered sledge, the horses lying, one beneath, one above--and at a little distance from these--Edmund, stretched motionless upon the ground. He had been flung from his seat in the fall--this and the snow, which here in the valley had drifted thick and deep, had preserved him from being absolutely mangled and mutilated; but the rocky ground had nevertheless wrought cruel injury, as was abundantly proved by the blood which streamed from a scalp-wound, reddening the white snow in a great circle about his head.
Oswald threw himself on his knees by his cousin's side, and strove to stanch the blood, to recall the unconscious man to life. At first, all his efforts were in vain, but after long minutes of weary watching and agonized suspense, Edmund opened his eyes. Their dull veiled look seemed, however, to lack all recognition. Slowly only, and by degrees, at the sound of Oswald's voice, as he put his anxious questions, did full consciousness return to the sufferer.
'Oswald,' he said, very softly, and his tone was the old loving tone he had ever been wont to use towards the friend of his youth. All the bitterness, the wild frenzied agitation of the last few hours, had died out from those pain-stricken but calm features.
'Edmund, why had you not confidence in me?' burst forth Oswald. 'Why have I only just heard of your trouble--of the trouble which drove you to this? I have ridden after you in all mad haste, but I come too late, too late perhaps by a very few minutes.'
Edmund's half-dimmed eyes gained life and fire again as he turned them towards the speaker.
'You know?'
'All!'
'Then you understand all,' said Edmund faintly. 'To have to lie to you, not to be able to meet your eye, that was the hardest trial I have had to bear. Now it is past. Today, this very day, you will be Master of Ettersberg.'
'At the cost of your life!' cried Oswald, in despair. 'I have known the secret long. That fatal picture had passed through my hands before you saw it. I kept it from you almost by force, for I knew that the sight of it would kill you. And it has been all in vain--the whole sacrifice has been in vain! One frank, outspoken word between us, this morning, and everything might have been settled and made smooth.'
Edmund replied with a sorrowful negative gesture.
'No, Oswald; that could never have been. I could not have borne the perpetual lie of such a life. I have tried for weeks, for months. You do not know what I have endured since the fearful hour of that discovery. Now all is well. You will enter upon your own, and my mother's name will remain unstained. It was the only way, the one solution!'
Oswald held the dying man in his arms. He saw that the time for help was past. It was impossible to stanch the blood, impossible to stay the fleeting life. He could but stoop to catch the last words from the lips which were about to close for ever.
'My mother--tell her. Icouldnot have borne it. Farewell!'
Edmund's voice died away. His beautiful dark eyes grew dim with the shadow of Death; but a few minutes more, and Oswald was kneeling on the snow-clad earth by a dead man's side. He pressed his lips on the cold, calm brow, and murmured to now unheeding ears the despairing cry of his heart:
'My God! my God! Must this be the end? Was there no other way--no other way?'
Twice the swallows had come and gone since the grave had closed on Edmund von Ettersberg. Now for the third time they arrived, bearing Spring upon their pinions; and as, after all the icy frost and snow of winter, the earth blossomed forth in newborn splendour, so the dark shadow of that grave, watered by many tears, was lightened, and from it there emerged a fair vision of human hope and happiness.
The death of young Count Ettersberg had caused the greatest consternation, and awakened general sympathy in the neighbourhood.
This universal mourning was due as much to Edmund's personal characteristics, which had endeared him to all, as to the frightful circumstances of his death. So young, so beautiful, rich and happy--his wedding-day so near! And for a mere mad frolic's sake, for a rash, senseless wager, to perish miserably, to be torn from his mother and his betrothed, without even seeing them or hearing their last farewell. It was a terrible fate!
How bright, how exuberantly gay the young Count had been the very morning on which the catastrophe befell! The darker, more secret sequence of events, none suspected. Edmund had gained his end. His mother remained spotless as before, and the rightful heir entered into possession of his own.
Many changes had been effected on the Ettersberg estates during the past two years. The present owner, Count Oswald, who on his cousin's death had succeeded to the title and the property took a serious view of the duties of his new position. Rarely indeed comes such a change in the life of a man as had come to him--a change so precipitate, so unexpected. Oswald, who had been bred in dependence and subordination, who, even when he shook off the fetters of that dependence, went forth to meet a life of care, of grave unflagging work, suddenly found himself transformed into the head of the house, the owner of wealthy family estates. His legal career was at an end before it had fairly begun. There was no failure of gratitude towards the friend in the great city who, in his need, had given him fatherly protection and assistance. Their relations continued excellent and affectionate as before; but, of course, a return to that sphere, to the life previously planned out for him, was not now to be thought of.
Other and greater tasks devolved upon Oswald, and he gave himself up to them with all the thoroughness and energy pertaining to his character. His strong hand grasped the helm in time to rescue the long-neglected estates from the ruin which seemed imminent. Gradually but surely he raised the value of the property until it reached its former zenith.
With but few exceptions, the reigning officials were superseded, and the system of administration underwent a complete change, while the large sums of money which in the old days had been called in to support the castle household on a lordly scale were now devoted to the restoration and improvement of the estates.
The new Master of Ettersberg led a solitary and retired life, and seemed at present in no way minded to select a companion or bring home a bride. This circumstance caused some wonderment in the neighbouring circles.
It was freely said that the Count, now in his nine-and-twentieth year, might think of marrying, ought to think of it, seeing that he was the last and only scion of the Ettersberg race. Plans were laid, and efforts were not spared to secure so brilliant aparti, but hitherto without avail.
Similar schemes and expectations were formed with regard to Brunneck. The hand of the young heiress was again disengaged, though at first a certain delicacy of feeling forbade would-be suitors to take advantage of the fact. Genuine and universal as had been the sympathy felt for Hedwig, it was considered inadmissible that this girl of eighteen should pass her life in sorrowing for the lover who had been taken from her; and many pretensions and desires, which that engagement had blighted, came to the front again.
They were, however, again doomed to disappointment, for Hedwig, by a decided step, withdrew herself from all possible overtures.
Before the period of mourning was over, she left Brunneck to accompany Edmund's mother on a visit to Italy. The Countess's health had quite given way beneath the shock of her son's death, and in spite of the most skilled advice, her malady made such serious progress that the doctors in consultation gave no hope save in a lengthened stay in the South.
It was thought an act of self-sacrifice on Fräulein Rüstow's part to leave her home, and even her father, that she might accompany the invalid--the good neighbours who thus judged being quite ignorant of the fact that Hedwig was longing to escape, to place the barrier of distance between herself and hopes which seemed to her an offence against the dead.
The two ladies had been absent almost a year and a half. In vain had the Councillor remonstrated and made impatient supplication for his daughter's return; his prayers found no favourable hearing. Hedwig had always given as a pretext the Countess's continued illness, declaring that she neither could nor would leave her in so piteous a condition. But now, at length, the travellers were at home once more. Rüstow, who had gone some stages on the road to meet them, brought his daughter straight back to Brunneck, whilst the Countess proceeded to Schönfeld, where, since Edmund's death, she had taken up her residence.
On the second day after the ladies' return, the Councillor was sitting as usual with his cousin in the veranda-parlour. He was full of delight at having his daughter with him again, and never weary of looking at her after their long separation. He declared that she had grown much more lovely, more sensible, more charming in every way, and the expression of his fatherly pride culminated in a solemn announcement that never again would he part with his darling as long as he lived.
For once his cousin actually agreed with him, admitting the improvement visible in Hedwig; but at these last words she shook her head and replied, with a certain meaning emphasis:
'You should not speak so decidedly, Erich. Who knows how long you will enjoy exclusive possession of Hedwig! That may be disputed you even here at Brunneck.'
'I shall not allow it,' interrupted Rüstow. 'I have no doubt that the Countess would like to have her over at Schönfeld for weeks at a stretch, but she will not have her way in this. I have been deprived of my child's society long enough, and mean to take a stand on my rights at last.'
'Count Ettersberg was at the station, I suppose, when you arrived with the travellers the day before yesterday?' said the lady.
'Certainly. It was very considerate, very proper of him to come himself to receive his aunt and take her over to Schönfeld. He was glad, too, to see Hedwig, and say a word of welcome to her on her return; but this, of course, was secondary.'
'Of course, quite secondary!' murmured Aunt Lina softly, but with an ironical twitch of the lips.
'The Count was not on particularly good terms with his aunt in the old days,' said Rüstow, turning to his cousin; 'but ever since her great misfortune he has shown her much kindness and attention. Indeed, I see a considerable alteration in that young man. He can even be pleasant and affable in his manners now, and as concerns his management of the Ettersberg property----'
'Yes, we are aware that he is an agricultural genius,' put in Aunt Lina. 'You discovered his talents in that line years ago, you know, when no one guessed that he was the future owner and Master of Ettersberg.'
'It would have been an unpardonable mistake if Fate had ordained that that man should be a lawyer,' said the Councillor solemnly. 'It always gratifies me when I remember what a clearance he made directly the reins fell into his hands, how quickly he put a stop to the old routine of reckless waste and mismanagement. He struck hard and struck home. In less than three months all the old worthless lumber had been thrown out. The parasites, which for years had clung to the good tree, sapping its strength, were destroyed. And how the man set to work when it came to ordering a new system! My spirit of enterprise is not small, but I believe I must yield the palm to him. I never should have imagined that in so short a time the estates could have been so raised in value. I ought to feel some annoyance, for hitherto Brunneck has passed for the model establishment of this part of the country, and now I suppose Ettersberg will be disputing its claim to the first rank.'
'And to a good many other things, I fancy. But you will take it all very patiently and quietly, Erich, for Count Oswald has always been a declared favourite of yours.'
'So he has, but I admit one great fault in him.
He will not marry. The whole neighbourhood is full of it. I shall take him to task seriously on the subject.'
'Do nothing of the sort,' said Aunt Lina. 'Interference is quite unnecessary, especially from you.'
Rüstow did not catch the hidden meaning of her words. He took them as expressing distrust in his skill and diplomacy, and was much offended in consequence.
'You think that where marriage is concerned, nobody but a woman has a right to speak. I will show you that I know what I am about. Count Oswald sets great store by my opinion.'
'I have not a doubt of it, on this subject more than on any other. I am convinced even that he will not marry without previously seeking your consent and approbation. You need not put yourself in a passion, Erich. I mean what I say--and there! why, there is the Count's carriage just turning into the courtyard. I knew very well he would be over here to-day.'
'How could you know that?' asked Rüstow, still angry at her supposed sarcasm. 'You have taken no interest whatever in my new steam-engine.'
'What steam-engine?'
'A new and most practical invention which I had down from town a little while ago. You were indifferent as usual. It failed to rouse your interest, but the Count, to whom I was explaining all the details when we met at the station the other day, is burning with desire to examine it.'
The old lady seemed to have her own ideas on the subject of this punctuality and burning zeal. She shrugged her shoulders significantly, as the Councillor hurried eagerly away to receive his visitor, in whose company he returned a few minutes later.
No striking change had taken place in Oswald's outward appearance, yet it produced an impression quite different from that of former days. With the pressure of untoward circumstances, with the fruitless, constant struggle against a galling chain, the bitterness of spirit had disappeared which once threatened to gain complete dominion over his proud and sensitive nature. Freedom and a new sense of personal importance had given him fuller development. The harsh expression had vanished from his features, the former coldness and abruptness from his speech and demeanour. He was not indeed possessed of that frank charm of manner with which Edmund had conquered all hearts, but his grave superior calm, his simple and yet imposing mien, showed that the present owner of Ettersberg was better fitted to rule and to command than his deceased cousin ever could have been. The Count, on this occasion, came of course solely and entirely to see the famous steam-engine, and to judge by a certain perturbed restlessness which he sought in vain to conceal, his interest in the useful invention must have been of an intense and all-absorbing character. Yet he listened with rather an absent air to the Councillor's florid description of his new treasure, and kept his eyes fixed on the door. He appeared to be momentarily expecting something, or some one; at length his patience gave way, and, turning to Aunt Lina, he observed in the most innocent and natural tone in the world:
'Fräulein Hedwig is out in the park, I suppose. I fancied I caught sight of her as I drove through.'
The old lady cast at him a glance which plainly said, 'If you had fancied that, you would not be herewith us now;' but aloud she replied, with an innocent simplicity equal to his own:
'I think you are mistaken. Count. My niece, I regret to say, has gone out to take a walk, probably to revisit some of the favourite old haunts which she has not yet seen since she came home.'
'Her favourite haunts!' The hint was sufficient for Count Oswald. He suddenly discovered that he had very little time at his disposal, and was bound to return to Ettersberg with all speed, but this availed him little. Rüstow took it as a fresh compliment to the steam-engine that, notwithstanding the urgent calls upon his time, his guest had come over to inspect and admire it. Inexorably he dragged him forth.
Oswald had to listen long to all the detailed explanations of this enthusiastic farmer, though in his impatience the ground on which he stood seemed to scorch his feet. At length he succeeded in getting free, and leaving the Councillor with a hurried good-bye, jumped into the carriage, which was waiting for him, and drove away.
Rüstow returned to the house a little put out at the unusual shortness and hasty nature of the visit vouchsafed him.
'There was nothing to be done with the Count to-day,' he said to his cousin. 'He seemed quite absent in his manner, and hardly looked at the engine, after all. Now he is rushing back to Ettersberg like the wind. It really was not worth while to come so far for such a flying visit.'
'It was too bad of you to torment him in that way,' remarked Aunt Lina, with sly malice. 'A full quarter of an hour you kept him standing there by your tiresome old steam-engine! He did not come to see that, bless you! and he is not driving back to Ettersberg now--not a bit of it, no more than I am!'
'Where in the world is he, then?' asked Rüstow, who was so overcome by these assertions that he overlooked the insulting word 'tiresome,' applied to his steam-engine.
'Very probably he is not driving at all. I dare say he has sent his carriage on into the village, and is taking a walk in the woods, or on the hills, or somewhere about. How can I tell in what direction Hedwig may be strolling?'
'Hedwig? What do you mean? You don't intend to say----'
'I intend to say that Hedwig is destined to become Countess Ettersberg, and that this time nothing can or will prevent it--depend upon it, I am right.'
'Lina, I really do believe you are going crazy,' exclaimed Rüstow. 'Why, they never could endure each other! They have been separated now for more than a year. In fact, since Edmund's death, they have only met about half a dozen times at the Countess's house at Schönfeld. It is impossible, absolutely impossible. This is just another of your foolish romantic notions.'
'Well, wait until they both come back,' said Aunt Lina emphatically. 'But in the meantime you may make up your mind to give the paternal benediction, for, rely upon it, it will be required of you. Count Oswald will hardly care to lose more time now, and certainly he has waited long enough. I think it was an overstrained feeling of delicacy on Hedwig's part which made her leave her home and father, just to prevent any earlier appeal from that quarter.'
'What? That is why she went to Italy with the Countess?' cried Rüstow, falling, as it were, from the clouds, 'You don't mean to pretend that this fancy existed during Edmund's lifetime?'
'This is no question of a mere fancy,' replied his cousin instructively; 'but of an ardent, unconquerable attachment which has, no doubt, cost them both much pain and many struggles. Hedwig, it is true, has never alluded to the subject by so much as a word. She has obstinately kept her confidence from me, but I could see how she was suffering, how hard it was to her to fulfil the promise which, without reflection, without full knowledge of her own heart, she had given to another. I do not doubt that she would have fulfilled it, but what the future consequences might have been both to herself and Oswald--that Heaven only knows!'
The Councillor folded his hands and gazed at his cousin with an expression of profound respect.
'And you found out all this by your own powers of observation? Lina, it strikes me that you are a wonderfully clever woman.'
'Ah, you have discovered that at length, have you?' asked the old lady, with gleeful satisfaction. 'It is rather late in the day for you to begin to recognise my talents.'
Rüstow made no reply, but his face literally beamed at the thought of having for a son-in-law his favourite, his genius--and in the joy of his heart he treated the speaker to a vigorous hug.
'I will admit them all, Lina. I will admit anything you like,' he cried. 'But this affair can hardly be settled so quickly as you say. How can the Count have gone after Hedwig? He does not know where she is, any more than we do.'
Aunt Lina escaped from his embrace, laughing.
'Ah, that is his business! We will rack our brains no further. Lovers have extraordinary luck in these matters. They are gifted with a species of second-sight which is very useful. I do not suppose that Count Oswald knows exactly the spot where Hedwig is, or he would hardly have come on to Brunneck first; but find her he will, you may be sure, be she hidden away in the thickest wood or perched on the top of the highest mountain. They will come back together, you may take my word for it, Erich.'
This prophecy, delivered with much deliberate confidence, was verified almost to the letter.
Oswald had, indeed, driven down to the village, but he had then sent on the carriage and had hurried towards the hills on foot. The faculty of 'second-sight' must have been well developed in him, for without a moment's vacillation, doubt or delay, he struck into a path which led direct to a certain wooded hill-side. His pace grew more eager, more rapid, as he neared his goal, and when at length he reached it, the object of his search was found. He had guessed that Hedwig's first ramble after her return home would take her to that spot.
Again the swallows came, in swift flight out of the far distance, back to their beloved woods, their old familiar haunts. With easy strokes they winged their way through the clear air, circling round tree and mountaintop, and then fluttering off in all directions to rejoice the whole countryside with their happy greetings, to be welcomed everywhere as the first messengers of spring.
But this time the earth was not wrapt in slumber or swathed in mist. It had long since wakened from its winter sleep. Through the sunlit forest might be seen the delicate green tracery of budding leaves. Verdure lay on field and meadow, peeping up, breaking through every clod, and over earth and sky streamed a sea of golden light. The breath, the pulse of spring was everywhere--on all sides jubilant voices sounded, hailing the new life.
So for the two human beings standing on that sunny height a true springtime had dawned. They had waited long for it, but now it had come to them in all its wealth and splendour. The words of love spoken here to-day must have been more ardent, more passionate, than those which three years before Hedwig had heard from other lips. Profoundly earnest they had certainly been. Oswald's face, as he bent over his betrothed, testified to this, as did the tears still glistening on Hedwig's lashes. Her dark-blue eyes had grown so deep in meaning, so full of soul and expression since they had learned to weep.
'I have had to wait so long,' said Oswald, and a slight accent of reproach mingled with the passionate tenderness of his tone. 'So long, so long! For more than a year you have held aloof from me, and I was not permitted even to write to you. Sometimes I thought I was altogether forgotten.'
Hedwig smiled, still through her tears.
'No, Oswald; you have not thought that. You knew surely and well that I suffered from the necessary silence and separation to the full as much as you--but I felt I owed that time of silence to Edmund's memory and to his mother's grief. You saw her when we arrived, and the sight will have explained to you why I could not have the courage to be happy while living at her side.'
'She is terribly changed, certainly. Her long sojourn in the South has brought about no real improvement, I fancy.'
'A postponement, at most. I fear she has returned hither only to die.'
'I knew that she would not survive the blow,' said Oswald. 'I feel so deeply what Edmund was to me, and how much more was he to his mother!'
Hedwig shook her head slightly.
'Sorrow one learns to bear, and it moderates with time, but the trouble that is gnawing at her heart has so sharp a tooth, it tortures and wastes her strength so constantly and cruelly, that I am sometimes tempted to think some other feeling must mingle with it--remorse, perhaps, or a sense of guilt!'
Oswald was silent, but the cloud which settled on his brow was answer enough.
'Before we started on our journey you made me promise that I would not distress the poor lady with questions,' the girl went on. 'I have kept my promise, and have never alluded to the doubts or the painful uncertainty which weigh on my mind. There is so much that is dark and enigmatic to me in all the circumstances connected with that terrible event. One thing only I divine, namely, that Edmund voluntarily sought his death. Why? To this hour the question has been left unanswered. It remains to me a mystery. There should be no secrets between us, Oswald. You must answer me now when I pray and entreat you to tell me the truth. I cannot, will not see that dark cloud upon your brow.'
She could use the language of entreaty now, could beseech with all the intensity and power of love; and here she was sure of victory. Oswald clasped her more tightly in his arms.
'No, my Hedwig, there must be nothing secret between us. All must be clear and open as day. But not now, and not here, can I disclose to you that sad story of guilt with all its fatal consequences. I cannot tell that story to my betrothed. When you are my wife, you shall hear what drove Edmund to his death, what is gradually, irresistibly drawing his mother after him to the grave. That dark shadow must not intervene to mar the brightness of this hour. So often have I dreamed of it, aye, dreamed from the moment your sweet face first dawned on me in the midst of that fierce snowstorm. You came to me, a spring-day personified, with all its promises of hope and happiness--though then, indeed, I could not, dare not hope those promises would ever be fulfilled.'
Hedwig looked up at him. She had not quite forgotten her old arch, sunny smile. It played about her lips with all its own bewitching charm as she replied:
'Why not? We met for the first time in a March storm, and here, on this very spot, when you were speaking so gloomily of life in general and of your own sad past, I proclaimed to you that Spring, bright happy Spring, would come at last.'
As an echo to her words sounded the low murmured greeting of the swallows fluttering overhead, as they had fluttered on that former day in the thick drizzling mist. But now they winged their airy flight in full sunshine. Higher and higher they soared, until they disappeared in the illimitable azure of the sky. These small feathered messengers, which bring to the earth after its long winter sleep a promise of new light and life, came this time charged with a still fairer mission. They brought ease to longing hearts, rest after a cruel fight, a whole springtime of peace and happiness to two loving human beings.