Kitabı oku: «Fickle Fortune», sayfa 8

'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 brilliant rôle which, 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 see you happy.'

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!'

CHAPTER VIII

The Ettersberg festivities had taken place at midsummer, and now a September sun shone over the land. The young master had taken the reins, but it could not be said that any material change for the better was noticeable in the management of his estates. On the contrary, all remained in statu quo. Rüstow's urgent persuasion so far prevailed that the land-steward received notice to leave; but it was arranged that he should continue in office until after the new year, and though some restraint had become so necessary, none was laid either on him or any of the other officials. Count Edmund judged it superfluous–he knew it was most inconvenient–to trouble himself about such matters. He always lent a willing ear to his father-in-law's plans and projects, agreed with him on all points, and regularly gave him an assurance that he would see about it all 'to-morrow'; but that morrow never came. Oswald's prediction was verified. The Councillor soon found out that he must intervene himself, if any good were to be effected.

Edmund, for his part, would have been quite satisfied to let Rüstow act for him, but the latter encountered unexpected resistance from the Countess, who thought it highly unnecessary that anyone should now attempt to tutor her son, and was not disposed to yield up to the future father-in-law an authority she had hitherto exercised herself.

Besides this, the changes the Councillor proposed making were by no means to the lady's taste. Rules and arrangements which might be suitable for plain Brunneck would not fittingly serve aristocratic Ettersberg. The number of persons employed on the estates might be greater than was required, the system prevailing might be a costly and a comparatively unproductive one, but so it had been for long years. It was all part of the large and liberal style in which they were accustomed to live. Any limitation of the staff, that fretting and minute attention to all the details of management which Rüstow advocated, appeared to the Countess as a species of degradation; and hers being still the casting-vote at the castle, the opposition carried the day. Already there had been some lively skirmishes of debate between the reigning mistress and the Councillor, and though Edmund promptly interfered on these occasions and made peace, a certain amount of acrimonious feeling lingered on both sides.

Rüstow's admiration for the grand and haughty dame had considerably diminished since he had discovered how grandly she could assert and defend her own privileges; and the Countess, for her part, now declared that the Councillor was really too peculiar, and that it was impossible to accept all his whims without remark. In short, the harmony of their relations was disturbed, and there were clouds on the hitherto clear sky, clouds which seemed to menace the family peace.

Oswald had consistently held himself aloof from all these discussions. He seemed to look on himself as a stranger in the house he was so soon to leave. Moreover, his legal studies absorbed all his time, and afforded him a pretext for withdrawing from society, and declining most of the invitations with which the young engaged couple and their families were overwhelmed.

The end of September had now arrived, and with it the date appointed for his departure. All his preparations were made, the necessary farewell visits had been duly rendered, and his journey was fixed for the day after the morrow. One thing alone had been left undone. He must still pay his respects at the Brunneck manor-house, and take leave of the family there. In view of the connection now existing between the houses, this duty could not be avoided, though Oswald had postponed its fulfilment to the last moment. He had intended to drive over in Edmund's company, but the Count, it appeared, had agreed to join a shooting-party on that very day, so his cousin had no alternative but to proceed on his expedition alone. Despite the Councillor's friendly and oft-repeated invitations, Oswald had not set foot in the house since the day of the betrothal, at which ceremony he had been compelled to assist. Nevertheless, he had met his cousin's affianced wife on several occasions, for Hedwig now frequently came over to Ettersberg with her father. Part of the castle was already being put in readiness for the accommodation of the young married couple.

The Master of Brunneck was sitting in the veranda-parlour, reading his newspapers, while his cousin, stationed before a side-table, took up and carefully examined first one and then another of several elegant articles of toilette which lay spread out before her. They were patterns of new fashions, which had just arrived from town, and were destined to form part of Hedwig's trousseau, now in active course of preparation.

The Councillor did not appear to be much interested in his reading. He turned over the pages absently, and at length looked up from his paper, and said in an impatient tone:

'Have not you made your choice, or done looking over those things yet, Lina? Why don't you get Hedwig to help you?'

Aunt Lina shrugged her shoulders.

'Hedwig has declared, as usual, that she intends to leave it all to me. I must make a selection by the light of my own unaided judgment.'

'I don't understand how it is the girl shows so little interest in these matters. They all relate to her own trousseau, and formerly dress was to her an affair of state.'

'Formerly–yes,' said Aunt Lina emphatically.

A pause ensued. The Councillor seemed to have something on his mind. Presently he laid aside his newspaper, and stood up.

'Lina, I have something to say to you–Hedwig does not quite please me.'

'Nor me either,' murmured the old lady; but she avoided looking at her cousin, and kept her eyes fixed on a lace-pattern she had taken up.

'Not?' cried Rüstow, who always grew quarrelsome when he was at all worried. 'Now I should have thought her present manner would have been exactly what you would like. According to you, Hedwig was always too superficial and light-minded; now she is growing so wonderfully profound in her feelings that she is forgetting how to laugh. Why, she is never contradictious, never up to tricks of any sort! Upon my word, it is enough to drive one mad!'

'What, that she has given up contradiction, and all her foolish tricks?'

Rüstow took no notice of this ironical interruption. He went up to his cousin, and posted himself before her in a menacing attitude.

'What has happened to the girl? What has become of my merry, saucy Hedwig, my madcap who was never weary of frolic and fun? I must and will know.'

'You need not look at me so fiercely, Erich,' said Aunt Lina calmly. 'I have not injured your child in any way.'

'But you know what has brought about the change,' cried the anxious father, in a dictatorial tone. 'You can, at least, explain to me what it all means.'

'I cannot do that, for your daughter has not made me her confidante. Don't take the matter so much to heart. Hedwig has certainly grown grave and pensive of late, but you must remember she is about to take a most important step, to leave her father's house and enter upon new relationships and new surroundings. She may have much to fight through and to overcome, but when once she is married, a sense of duty will sustain her.'

'A sense of duty?' repeated the Councillor, petrified with amazement. 'Why, has not this love-affair of hers been a perfect romance? Have not they got their own way in spite of the Countess and of me? Is not Edmund the most tender, the most attentive lover the world ever saw? And you talk about a sense of duty! It is a very excellent thing in its way, no doubt, but when a young woman of eighteen has nothing warmer than that to offer her husband, you may reckon with certainty on a miserable marriage. Take my word for it.'

'You misunderstand me,' said his cousin soothingly. 'I only meant that Hedwig would be brought face to face with life's graver side and with its duties when she goes to live at Ettersberg. The situation does not appear to me so simple, the future so smooth and thornless, as we at first supposed.'

Rüstow did not observe that a trap was laid for him, a palpable effort made to lead him from the topic under discussion. He followed up the seemingly careless remark at once, and with some warmth.

'No, truly not. If things go on in this way, the Countess and I will come to words again. Whatever I do, or propose doing, I am met and stopped by those confounded uppish notions of hers, to which everything else must be kept subordinate. There is no making the woman understand that the ruin impending over the property can only be averted by strong and timely measures. No, all must go on in the old routine! The most necessary reforms are rejected if they, as she thinks, in any way diminish the glory of the house, or impair the halo surrounding it. The actual owner and master does just nothing at all. He thinks he has made the greatest effort that can be demanded of him, if he holds half-an-hour's interview with his steward. Beyond this he ventures not, but simply kneels and adores his wonderful mamma, whom he looks on as the embodiment of all wisdom and perfection. Hedwig will have to make very sure of her husband, if she does not mean to be altogether thrust into the background by her mother-in-law.'

The Councillor would probably have continued in this strain, disburdening his heart of its pent-up fears and anxieties, but he was interrupted by the sound of approaching wheels.

Aunt Lina, who was standing by the window, looked out.

'It is Herr von Ettersberg,' said she, returning that gentleman's salutation.

'Oswald?' inquired Rüstow in surprise. 'Ah, he has come to say good-bye, no doubt. I know he was to leave one of these days. Let Hedwig be sent for. She is somewhere out in the park.'

The old lady hesitated. 'I don't know–I rather think Hedwig intended going for a walk. It will not be so easy to find her; besides, you and I are both here to receive him.'

'I must say it would be more than impolite if Hedwig failed to appear when a near relation of her future husband comes to take leave of us,' said Rüstow angrily. 'The man shall go out, at least, and see if she is in the park. If he finds her, he can let her know who is here.'

He stretched out his hand to the bell, but Aunt Lina was too quick for him.

'I will send out after her. You stay and receive Herr von Ettersberg.'

So saying, she left the room, returning after the lapse of a few minutes. She knew very well that Hedwig was in the park, yet no order to seek her out was given, no summons was sent her.

Meanwhile Oswald had entered the house. He came, as had been rightly guessed, to take leave, but much pressing business awaited him at home. Some preparations for his journey were yet unmade, which must be completed that day; he could therefore only pay a flying visit. A little commonplace chat ensued. The Councillor regretted much that his daughter had gone out for a walk. He had sent into the park after the truant, but presumably the man had failed to find her. Oswald, in return, expressed polite regret, begged that her father would present his kind regard to the young lady and say good-bye for him. In a brief quarter of an hour the visit was concluded. Rüstow looked on with a heavy heart at his favourite's departure, but Aunt Lina, on the other hand, drew a deep breath of relief when the carriage rolled out of the courtyard.

Oswald leaned back in the corner of the barouche. He was glad that this leave-taking was over, immensely glad–or so, at least, he told himself. He had long feared this hour–feared and yet longed for it. No matter, it was best so. The farewell, which accident had denied him, would have been but one pang more, and a useless one. Now the struggle of many days and weeks was at an end; a struggle which none had witnessed, but which had shaken the young man's being to its very centre, and had threatened completely to unhinge him. It was high time he should go. Distance would enfeeble, and perhaps ultimately break, the spell; and even were it not broken, a partition-wall of defence would be erected. Now he must throw all his energy into the new life before him, must zealously work, wrestle, and, if possible, forget. While Oswald thus reasoned with himself, his heart beat wildly, despairingly, in his breast, reminding him that he had looked forward to this one last pang as to a last gleam of happiness. Was he not going–going never to return?