Kitabı oku: «Fickle Fortune», sayfa 9

The carriage passed the corner of the park. Oswald turned and looked back once more. There at some little distance above him, on a small wooded eminence, he caught sight of a slender girlish figure–and in a trice all the wise comfort he had been administering to himself, all his fine resolutions for the future, melted away, fell to pieces. Once more–just once! Reflection, prudence vanished at the thought. In a second Oswald had called to the coachman to stop, and had sprung out of the carriage.

The man drove on to the village, with instructions to wait there. Oswald entered the park by a side-gate, and proceeded towards the raised terrace; but as he approached the goal before him, his pace slackened, and when at length he mounted the steps, and Hedwig came forward to meet him, he had fully recovered his usual calmness of demeanour. He was, as it seemed, simply obeying the dictates of courtesy which called on him to stop and say a word of leave-taking to his cousin's future wife.

'I have just paid my farewell visit to your father,' he began; 'and I could not omit saying good-bye to you in person, Fräulein.'

'You are leaving shortly?' inquired Hedwig.

'The day after to-morrow.'

'Edmund told me that your departure was imminent. He will miss you sadly.'

'And I him; but in this life we cannot stay to consult our feelings. When Fate decrees a separation, we must perforce submit and obey.'

The remark was intended to be playful, but the young man's voice thrilled with a certain sadness. His gaze rested on Hedwig as she stood before him, leaning slightly against the wooden railing. The Councillor's anxiety must have been exaggerated. His daughter appeared rosy and blooming, full of grace and charm as ever.

No tittle of change could be detected in her outward appearance, and yet she seemed quite other than the merry capricious fairy who had emerged so unexpectedly before two travellers from the clouds of drifting, driving snow. The flower which has blossomed in the full sunshine, but on which suddenly a shadow falls, remains in form and hue the same; it sends forth the same fragrance, only the sunlight has gone from it. Such a shadow now lay on the face of Count Ettersberg's happy, much-envied chosen bride, and the dark blue eyes had a dewy shimmer, as though they had learned a trick which so long had been unknown to them–the trick of tears.'

'The separation will be painful to you, then?' Hedwig said, continuing the conversation.'

'Certainly. In the great city, a longing will often come over me, a longing for Edmund and … for the dear old mountains.'

'And none for Ettersberg?'

'None.'

The answer was so brief and decided that the girl looked up in surprise. Oswald noticed this, and added, by way of amendment:

'Forgive me. I forgot that Ettersberg will shortly be your home. I was thinking only of the circumstances which have made my sojourn there a painful one, and which no doubt have long been known to you.'

'But surely the circumstances you speak of have been modified. The family now place no obstacle in the way of your future career.'

'No; I have forcibly secured for myself freedom of action; but it cost a conflict, and to contend with my aunt is no light task, as you will one day find out for yourself.'

'I?' asked Hedwig, in surprise. 'I trust no contention may ever arise between me and my mother-in-law!'

She drew herself up as she spoke, and measured her companion with a half-proud, half-angry glance. He replied firmly and quietly:

'It may perhaps seem indelicate in me to touch on this subject, and it may be that you will altogether reject my interference as unwarranted, but I cannot go without uttering at least one word of warning. My aunt often speaks of leaving Ettersberg after her son's marriage–of retiring to her house of Schönfeld. Edmund opposes this plan vehemently, and hitherto you have lent him your support. Do so no longer; on the contrary, persuade him, if possible, to let his mother go. You owe it to him and to yourself, for both his happiness and yours are at stake. There will be no room at Ettersberg for a young mistress, so long as the Countess retains her position there–and in your case, grafted on an old enmity is a new and strong prejudice which you will find it hard to encounter.'

'I really do not understand you, Herr von Ettersberg,' said Hedwig, not a little agitated. 'Prejudice? Enmity? You cannot possibly be alluding to that foolish lawsuit about Dornau?'

'Not to the suit itself, but to the hostile feeling which gave rise to it. You probably do not know who strengthened and confirmed your grandfather in his harsh obduracy, and induced him finally altogether to ignore his daughter's marriage with a commoner. But your father knows, and he is mistaken if he thinks that the Countess has outlived her prejudices. She gave her consent to this union in a moment of surprise, moved by a sudden burst of gratitude towards the man who had saved her life, moved, above all, by her great love for her son. What would she not do or surrender for his sake? But sooner or later she will repent the concession, if she does not repent already, and it is not Edmund, but you, who will be made to suffer for it.'

Hedwig listened with increasing agitation. The difficulties now so boldly and mercilessly set before her had become dimly apparent to herself, especially in these later days–but dimly only; she had as yet formed no clear idea of the situation.

'So far, I have had no reason to complain of Edmund's mother,' she said hesitatingly. 'She has always been most courteous and kind to me.'

'And heartily affectionate?'

The young girl was silent.

'Do not think I am influenced in my judgment by my own personal relations towards my aunt,' pursued Oswald. 'I assuredly would not take upon me to sow distrust, did I not know how misleading too guileless a confidence may here prove. You are entering on a difficult position. The ground at Ettersberg is perilous ground for you, and it is right you should be warned before you set foot on it. Your mother fought a hard fight for her wedded happiness, but at least she had in her husband a firm stay and valiant defender. In your case the struggle will begin only after the marriage, but I fear it will not be spared you; for you are entering the bigoted and narrow-minded circle from which she escaped, and it remains to be seen whether Edmund will afford you the support of which you will stand in need. At all events, it is best to rely on one's self. Again I entreat of you on no consideration to consent to the plan of a joint household. You and your mother-in-law cannot live under one roof–Edmund must give up the idea.'

Hedwig shook her head slightly. 'That will be difficult, if not impossible. He loves his mother so well–'

'More than his affianced wife!' concluded Oswald emphatically.

'Herr von Ettersberg!'

'My words hurt you, Fräulein? No doubt the fact is a painful one, but you must learn to look the truth in the face. Hitherto you have heedlessly toyed with Edmund's love, and have met with sportive homage and mere trifling in return. All the deeper feelings of his nature you have left to his mother, who has well known how to pursue her advantage. Edmund is capable of something better than superficial, playful tenderness. Beneath that gay exterior lie warm affections–I might almost say strong passions–but they must be awakened, and so far his mother alone has fathomed these depths. Make sure now of that which is yours by right. The power of a first and early love is in your hands as yet. When that fair glamour has spent itself, it may be too late.'

He had spoken with great earnestness, but with his wonted utter disregard of any susceptibilities he might wound. Every word fell on his listener's ear with strong, unsparing emphasis, and flattering the words certainly were not. But a few months previously Hedwig would either have resented such a warning as an offence, or have laughed it away in happy, lighthearted confidence–now she listened in silence, with bowed head. He was right, she felt it; but why must these counsels come to her from his lips, why must she hear these cruel words from him?

'You are silent,' said Oswald, when he had waited in vain for an answer. 'You reject my advice, you think my interference uncalled for and impertinent.'

'No,' replied Hedwig, drawing a deep breath. 'On the contrary, I thank you, for I feel all the importance of such a warning coming from you.'

'And what it costs me to speak it?'

The words rushed to Oswald's lips, but he did not pronounce them. Perhaps his thought was divined, nevertheless.

The little terrace on which the two were standing rose out of a group of thickly clustering bushes, and offered a fine panoramic view of the surrounding country. Over broad meadows and green wooded hills the eye could wander away to the lofty mountain-summits which were in reality far distant, but which in that clear atmosphere seemed to have advanced their posts and to have drawn quite near. The particular spur of forest which formed the boundary between the Ettersberg and Brunneck domains could plainly be distinguished, and the gaze of both Oswald and Hedwig sought this spot. It was the first time they had met alone since their memorable interview on yonder hill-side. A whole summer-time lay between then and now, and much, how much besides!

Raw and inclement had been that spring-day, void of warmth and sunshine. Leaves and blossoms still shrank, hiding in their sealed retreat. The landscape was shrouded in fog and raincloud, and those happy heralds, the swallows, had pierced their way through masses of dense mist, ere they emerged suddenly in the gray distance. Yet those winged messengers had borne spring on their swift pinions–none knew this better than the two who now stood speechless side by side. They had seen how the great transformation scene may be effected in a night, how grandly, victoriously Nature works when she rallies to the task before her.

Now it was autumn–a beautiful clear day, indeed, with soft mild air and bright sunshine, but still autumn. The foliage, still thick on bough and branch, had that faint gleam of russet which foretells a speedy fall. The gay wealth of flowers had vanished from the meadows, all but the pale saffron, which yet glimmered here and there, and the swallows, streaking the sky in long flights, were gathering for their journey southwards. Farewell was written everywhere on Nature's countenance, as on the two sorrowing human hearts–farewell to summer, home, and happiness.

Hedwig first broke the oppressive silence which had followed her last words.

'The swallows are leaving us too,' she said, pointing upwards. 'They are on the wing.'

'I go with them'–Oswald completed her meaning–'but there is this difference … I shall not return.'

'Not return? You will come back to Ettersberg sometimes, will you not?'

She put the question with a certain eager anxiety. Oswald looked down.

'I hardly think that will be possible. I shall not have much leisure, and besides–when a man cuts himself adrift from old ties, and changes his way of life entirely, as I am about to do, it is best for him to remain away, and to devote all his energies to the sphere he has just entered. Edmund cannot be made to understand this. He hardly appreciates, as yet, the claims of duty.'

'And yet he is more anxious about you and your future than you believe,' interposed Hedwig.

Oswald smiled half disdainfully.

'He may spare himself any anxiety. I am not one to undertake a task beyond my strength, and then to abandon it feebly halfway. What I have begun I shall carry through, and, come what may, I shall, at least, have shaken off from me the bonds of dependence.'

'Did these bonds weigh so heavily on you?'

'Yes; with a crushing weight.'

'Herr von Ettersberg, you are unjust to your family.'

'And ungrateful,' added Oswald, with a sudden outburst of bitterness. 'You have heard that frequently from my aunt, no doubt–and she may possibly be right from her point of view. Perhaps I ought to have submitted myself more docilely to the yoke laid upon me, and patiently played out the rôle assigned to me by Fate. But then, you see, I could not. You do not know what it is constantly to bend to the will of another, when your own judgment has long been formed, to be thwarted in every effort, checked in every aspiration, not even to have the right of reply and remonstrance. I know that my future is uncertain, that it may be thorny, that I shall need all the energy and strength of will I possess, in order to succeed; but it will be my future, my own life, which I may shape and order as I please, unfettered by the galling chain of benefits conferred. And if I fail in the career I have marked out for myself, I shall, at least, have gained the right to fashion my own destiny.'

He drew himself up as he spoke these last words, and his chest heaved with a great sigh of satisfaction and relief. It seemed as though in this moment the great load he had borne so silently, but with so much grievous suffering, fell from the young man's shoulders. He stood bold and defiant, ready to accept the world's challenge, and to fight the battle before him to the bitter end. It was easy to see that he was one fitted to wrestle with Fortune, however hostile and uncompromising her attitude towards him might be.

Hedwig now for the first time understood how the iron had entered his soul, understood what this proud, unbending nature had endured from a position which many were disposed to envy, because it implied a share in the Ettersberg greatness and splendour.

'And now I must say good-bye to you,' Oswald began again, but the ring had died out of his voice now; it was very low and subdued. 'I came to take leave of you.'

'Edmund will expect you in December, if only for a few days,' said Hedwig, half hesitatingly. 'He counts on your being present at–at our wedding.'

'I know it, and know that he will think me coldhearted and unkind if I stay away. He must interpret it as he will. I can but submit.'

'So you will not come?'

'No.'

Oswald added no single word of pretext, for none would have found belief; but his eyes, resting full on Hedwig's face, gave the explanation of his curt, harsh-sounding answer. His meaning was understood. He read this in the look which met his; but fierce and poignant as might be the pain of parting in these two young hearts, no word was spoken, no outward manifestation of it was made.

'Goodbye, then, Herr von Ettersberg,' said Hedwig, offering him her hand.

He stooped, and pressed his hot, quivering lips on the trembling hand extended to him. That pressure was the only betrayal of how matters stood with Oswald. Next minute he released the little palm, and stepped back.

'Do not forget me quite, Fräulein,' he said. 'Good-bye.'

Hedwig was alone again. Involuntarily she grasped the bushes to draw them aside, and so once more gain sight of his departing figure, but it was too late. As the boughs closed again, the first faded leaves fell in a shower on the young girl's head. She shrank beneath them, as at some grave warning or reminder. Yes, there could be no mistake; autumn had come, though the whole landscape before her lay bathed in golden sunshine.

That rough, stormy spring day had been so rich in promise, with all its unseen magic movement, with its thousand mysterious voices whispering around. Now all these sounds had ceased. Nature's fair life had bloomed, and was slowly waning towards dissolution. The world was hushed and seemingly deserted.

Hedwig, pale and mute, stood leaning against the terrace railing. She did not move, did not weep, but with a sad ineffable longing in her eyes gazed over at the distant chain of mountains, and then up at the clouds, where the migratory birds swarmed, streaming hither and thither in long flights. Today the swallows swept not to the earth with loving greetings and pleasant messages of happy days to come. They passed high overhead, far, far beyond reach, flitting away into the blue distance, and their faint piping was borne down but as a vague murmur half lost in the immeasurable space. It was a last low echo of the word which here below had been spoken in the keen anguish of parting, an echo of the melancholy word Farewell.

CHAPTER IX

The following day, the last Oswald was to spend at Ettersberg, brought a somewhat unlooked-for visitor. Count Edmund, though his coming was hourly expected, had not returned from his shooting expedition when Baron Heideck suddenly arrived in the forenoon, straight from town. He had thought fit to absent himself in demonstrative fashion from the festivities held to celebrate his nephew's coming of age. The announcement of the young gentleman's approaching marriage, then publicly to be made, should not, he decided, receive the sanction of his presence; but when more than two months had elapsed, he determined to pay a brief visit to his relations at the castle. Though the fact of the engagement could not now be altered, an animated discussion on the subject seemed to have taken place between the brother and sister. They had remained more than an hour closeted together, and Heideck's reproaches took the more effect that Edmund's mother already secretly repented of her precipitate action in the matter, though as yet she would not admit it openly.

Finally the Countess, in evident perturbation, retired to her own room. Seating herself before her writing-table, she pressed a hidden spring, which opened its most secret drawer. The interview she had had with her brother must have borne upon, or at least have reawakened, memories of the past, for very certainly the article which the Countess took from that small compartment was a souvenir of distant, bygone days. It was a small leather case, a few inches long, containing apparently a portrait which perhaps for years had remained in its hiding-place untouched. That it belonged to a remote period was proved by its old-fashioned shape and faded exterior. The Countess held it open before her, and as she sat gazing fixedly down on the features thus exposed to view, her countenance assumed an abstracted air most unfamiliar to it.

She was lost in one of those vague, half-unconscious reveries which altogether efface the present, and carry the dreamer away to a far-distant past. Obliterated memories troop back upon the mind, forgotten joys and sorrows revive in all their old intensity, and forms that have long lain beneath the sod rise, move, and live again.

The Countess did not notice how the minutes sped by, lengthening into hours as she sat there, wrapt in contemplation. She started, half frightened, half annoyed, when, without any previous warning, the door of the room was suddenly thrown open. Quick as thought, she closed the little case and placed her hand upon it, while the angry look in her eyes seemed to inquire what the interruption could mean.

The intruder was old Everard, who came in with a haste much at variance with his usual formal, solemn demeanour. He was evidently agitated, and he began his report at once without waiting to be questioned by his mistress.

'The Count has just returned, my lady.'

'Well, where is he?' asked the mother, accustomed always to be her son's first thought.

'In his room,' stammered Everard. 'Herr von Ettersberg was at the door when the carriage drove up, and he helped the Count to mount the stairs.'

'Helped him upstairs?' The Countess's face blanched to a deadly pallor. 'What do you mean by that? Has anything happened?'

'I fear so, my lady,' said the old retainer hesitatingly. 'The groom said something about an accident out shooting. A gun was accidentally discharged, and the Count was wounded.'

He could not tell his tale at length, for the Countess sprang up with a cry of alarm. Asking no question, listening to no further word, the agonized mother rushed into the antechamber, whence a corridor led direct to her son's room.

The old servant, who had completely lost his head and was as terrified as his mistress, would have rushed after her; but just at that moment Oswald entered the boudoir by an opposite door.

'Where is my aunt?' he asked hastily.

'With the Count by this time, I think,' said Everard, pointing in the direction she had taken. 'My lady was so shocked when I told her about the accident, she hastened to him at once.'

Oswald frowned. 'How could you be so imprudent!' he said, with an impatient gesture. 'The Count's wound is not at all serious. I came myself to assure my aunt that there is not the smallest cause for anxiety.'

'Thank God, thank God!' breathed Everard, with a great sigh of relief. 'The groom was saying–'

'The groom has grossly exaggerated the affair,' Oswald interrupted him. 'Your master is very slightly injured–wounded in the hand, nothing more. It was quite unnecessary to alarm the Countess in this way. Go now and let Baron Heideck know the true state of the case, that he may not be startled in like manner by the news of some dangerous injury.'

Everard withdrew to fulfil his mission, and Oswald was about to leave the room, when his eyes, wandering with a casual and indifferent glance towards the writing-table, fell on the small case which lay thereon.

Curiosity did not rank among Oswald's failings, and he would have thought it impertinent to examine even that which lay open to view in his aunt's room. But now he was misled by a very pardonable error. Only the day before he had begged the Countess to make over to him a portrait of his father, which had been in the possession of the late Count Ettersberg, and was, no doubt, still to be found among his personal belongings. Now that he was leaving the old home, Oswald wished to take this souvenir with him, and the Countess had been quite willing to accede to his wish, promising to look for the portrait. It appeared, so he said to himself, that she had been successful in her quest.

In this certain presumption, Oswald took up the picture. He had but a dim remembrance of it, and really did not know if it were enclosed in a frame or in a case. The faded appearance of the little étui seemed to confirm his belief, so he opened it.

The case contained a portrait, certainly–a miniature painted on ivory–but it was not the one he sought. At the first glance Oswald started, surprised in the highest degree.

'Edmund's likeness!' he murmured, under his breath. 'Strange that I should never have seen it before. Besides, he has never worn uniform, to my knowledge.'

With ever-increasing astonishment he examined first the miniature, which so unmistakably portrayed the young Count's features, and then the old-fashioned and discoloured case wherein it had evidently long lain enclosed. He had alighted on an enigma.

'What can it mean? The portrait is an old one. That is plain from its colouring, and from the shape of the case–yet it represents Edmund as he now appears. To be sure, it is not quite like him, it has an expression, a look which is not his, and … Ah!'

This exclamation burst from his lips with sudden vehemence. In an instant the young man's eyes were opened. With the vividness of lightning, the truth flashed upon him, the perception of all that was, and had been. The enigma was solved. Hastily he strode up to a life-size portrait of Edmund, an oil-painting which hung in the Countess's boudoir, and with the open case in his hand, began comparing the two, feature by feature, line by line.

Lines and features proved identical; there were the same dark hair and eyes, but with a difference, a marked difference of expression. The resemblance to Edmund was so extraordinary that he might have sat for the miniature, and yet the face depicted in it was not his, but another's. Another's, differing from the young Count's most essentially, as a prolonged examination abundantly showed.

'So I was right!' said Oswald, in a low hoarse tone. 'Right in my suspicion after all!'

There was neither triumph nor malicious satisfaction in his tone. On the contrary, it conveyed a certain unfeigned horror; but as he caught sight of the secret compartment now standing open, every other feeling was merged in sudden, bitter anger.

'Yes,' he murmured. 'She hid it well–so well, that no eyes but hers would ever have beheld it, had not her mortal fear on Edmund's account for once robbed her of all prudence and power of reflection. To think that it should fall into my hands! This surely is more than a mere accident. I think'–here Oswald drew himself up to a proud and menacing attitude–'I think I have a right to ask whom this picture represents, and I shall retain possession of it until an answer to my plain question be given me.'

So saying, he thrust the little case into his breast-pocket, and quickly left the room.

The alarming report which Everard had conveyed to the Countess turned out to be a most exaggerated one. The accident that had befallen Edmund was of no serious importance. While scrambling through, or over, a hedge, his gun had been accidentally discharged, but fortunately the shot had only grazed his left hand. The injury was very slight, hardly deserving to be called a wound, yet the whole castle was in commotion about it. Baron Heideck hastened to his nephew's room, and the Countess could find neither rest nor peace until the doctor, sent for in post-haste, had assured her positively there was no cause for uneasiness, and that the lesion would be healed in a few days.

Edmund himself took the matter most lightly. He laughed and joked with his mother about her anxiety until it yielded beneath his cheery influence, protested strongly against being treated as a disabled man, and was with difficulty prevailed on to listen to the doctor, who prescribed absolute rest and quiet.

Evening closed in. Oswald was alone in his own room, which he had not left since his great discovery of the morning. The lamp burning on the table threw but a partial light over the apartment, which was large and rather sombre at night, with its heavy leather hangings and deep bay-window. The furniture was massive and good, as in every room throughout the house, but it had not been renewed for years, and was in strong contrast to the bright and handsome appointments of the main building, and especially of that part of it dedicated to the young Count's use. The nephew, the offshoot of a younger branch, had been banished to a distant wing. In this, as in all else, his inferiority to the heir must be well marked; he must stand back, yielding the precedence to the master of the house.

So the Countess had ordered it, and the temper of Oswald's mind was such that under no circumstances could he have brought himself to seek aid or protection from Edmund, or to complain to him of the constant mortifications to which he was subjected.

The side-table was strewn with letters and papers which Oswald had intended to set in order before leaving. Now he gave them not a thought. With restless steps he paced to and fro in the room, the excessive pallor of his countenance and his heaving breast telling of the terrible agitation that reigned within him. The dim tormenting doubt which had beset his soul for years, the vague presentiment which he had driven from him only by the full exercise of his powerful will, now stood revealed as truth. Though the actual course events had taken and the story of that portrait were as yet unknown to him, the always-recurring suspicions had resolved themselves into a certainty, calling up within him a perfect storm of contradictory emotions.

Oswald paused before the writing-table, and again took up the fatal portrait which lay there among the papers.

'After all, what avails this?' he said bitterly. 'I indeed, for my own part, require no further proof, but all corroboration is wanting, and the one person who could afford it will certainly keep silence. She would die rather than make a confession which would bring ruin on herself and on her son, and I cannot compel her to speak–I must not, could not, offer up the honour of our name, even though it be a question of the heirship of Ettersberg. Yet full and complete knowledge I must have–I must, cost what it may.'

He slowly closed the case and laid it down again, still standing before it, musing profoundly, moodily.

'Perhaps there might be a way, one single way. If I were to go to Edmund with this picture, and were to call upon him to explain, to inquire into the facts of the case, he could force the truth from his mother if he seriously set himself to the task, and he would so set himself if once I introduced the suspicion to his mind. I know him well enough to be sure of that. But what a terrible blow it would be to him–to him, with his sensitive notions of honour, with his candid, open nature, which has never condescended to a lie. To be hurled suddenly from a position which, in the fulness of his happiness and prosperity, must appear absolutely safe; to be branded as the instrument, perhaps the accomplice, of a fraud!–I think the knowledge of this would kill him.'

Love for the friend of his youth stirred in his breast, regaining all its old force and fervour, but with it awoke other and hostile emotions which clamoured to be heard. They recalled to him the deep-dyed treachery of which he had been the victim, and as he vacillated still, sought to influence him by counsels such as these:

'Will you really keep silence, and eschew the revenge which Fate has placed in your hands? Will you go hence with sealed lips, go out to a dark uncertain future, submit yourself to strangers, work your way up with much toil and weariness of spirit, perhaps perish in the vain struggle, while, if you will, you may be master here on the land which belongs to you of right? Shall the woman who has been your bitterest enemy triumphantly retain her power and endow her son with all the good things of this life, while you are oppressed and kept down, thrust out from the home of your fathers? Who has thought of your feelings, of your inward conflicts? Use the weapons chance has given you. You know the joints in the enemy's armour. Strike home!'