Читать книгу: «Fickle Fortune», страница 12

CHAPTER XII

Two months had now passed since Oswald had taken up his abode in the capital, where he had met with a most friendly welcome. His friend and patron, Councillor Braun, ranked among the first jurisconsults of that city, and this gentleman, happy to lend a helping hand to the son of his deceased friend, stood warmly by him, advancing his interests, and lending him all the assistance in his power. He comprehended and sympathized with this young man in the resolution he had taken. It was a worthy impulse, the old lawyer felt, which withdrew Oswald from a life of dependence, easy and brilliant though it might be in outward circumstances–a right feeling which made him prefer to work and struggle on alone, rather than to receive constant benefits from his relations, and submit, in return, to play a subordinate part through life.

Herr Braun and his wife were childless, and their young guest was received by them almost on the footing of a son. Oswald threw himself zealously into the work before him, and the approaching examination left him little leisure to ruminate on all that he had left at Ettersberg; still, it surprised him greatly that no news from the castle had reached him. Edmund had replied to his first long letter full of details by only a few lines, the style of which seemed strangely forced.

An excuse was offered for this brief note on the score of a maimed hand, the writer's wound being not yet healed. Oswald was still looking for a response to his second epistle, though weeks had elapsed since it had been despatched.

The young man knew full well that by the return of that picture the bridge of communication between himself and the Countess had been broken once and for all, that she would now use every effort to loose the bonds which bound him to her son; but it seemed impossible that Edmund should succumb so quickly and completely to her influence.

Thoughtless as the young Count often showed himself, his friendship for his cousin had ever been faithful and true. He could not have forgotten the friend of his youth in the course of a few short weeks. There must be something else that prevented his writing.

The first days of December had arrived. Oswald's examination was over; he had passed it brilliantly, and was desirous of at once entering upon his new career. But Councillor Braun declared decidedly that after the exertions of the last few weeks the young man stood in need of rest, that he must grant himself a respite, and remain on some little while longer as a guest in his house.

Half reluctantly Oswald yielded. He felt himself that he required a certain breathing-time after the constant study and strain, which had lasted since the preceding spring.

In that passionate struggle for independence he had made almost too great demands on his strength.

The great lawyer was in his consultation-room, where he had just completed the business of the day, when Oswald came in with a letter, which he placed on a pile of correspondence prepared for the post. It was about the hour when the servant generally collected and despatched it.

'Have you been writing to Ettersberg?' asked the old gentleman, looking up.

Oswald replied in the affirmative. He had conveyed to Edmund the news of his successful examination. An answer must come now at length, he thought; this protracted silence began to cause him some uneasiness.

'We were talking of the Ettersberg property here, not long ago,' said the lawyer. 'One of my clients intends to purchase timber from the estate to a large amount, and he consulted me as to one or two points in the bargain.'

Oswald's attention was roused at once. 'Purchase timber to a large amount? There must be some mistake. So much wood has been cut down of late years in the Ettersberg forests, that they now require great care and the nicest handling. My cousin is aware of this; he could not possibly have been persuaded into taking such a step.'

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. 'Nevertheless, I can assure you, it is as I say. My client does not treat with the Count himself, but with the bailiff. Of course, the man must be empowered to make such arrangements.'

'The bailiff will be leaving his situation shortly,' remarked Oswald. 'He received notice to quit in the summer, having proved himself flagrantly incompetent. He cannot, I should suppose, have been left in possession of the extended powers Baron Heideck conferred on him years ago. I imagined that Edmund would recall those when he took upon himself the management of his own affairs. Suppose such not to have been the case?'

'It would be an act of unpardonable negligence on the part of the young Count,' replied the lawyer. 'To leave for months powers such as these in the hands of a person whom he is about to dismiss, with whose services he is dissatisfied! Do you really think it possible?'

Oswald was silent. He well knew Edmund's heedlessness and indifference to all business matters, and was persuaded that he had left matters exactly as he had found them.

'The sum in question is an important one,' went on the lawyer, who understood his silence. 'Yet the price to be paid by the purchaser is a very low one, immediate payment in cash being demanded.'

'I think there must be something more here than a mere assumption of authority on the steward's part,' said Oswald uneasily. 'Hitherto he has been looked upon as an honest man, but the fact that he is about to lose his situation may tempt him to take fraudulent advantage of the means at his command. My cousin has certainly not given his consent to this bargain. Why, it would entail the devastation of his forests! I am convinced that he knows nothing at all about it.'

'That may be–but if the man's powers are not cancelled, he will have to recognise a transaction which is concluded in his name. You had better telegraph to Ettersberg, and inquire how the matter stands. Perhaps a timely warning may be of some avail.'

'No doubt, if timely it prove. When are the formalities of the sale to be settled?'

'In two or three days. Probably the day after to-morrow.'

'Then I must go over to Ettersberg myself,' said the young man resolutely. 'A mere telegram will serve us nothing. Immediate and active steps must be taken, for as I understand the business, there is an act of robbery in contemplation which we have to prevent. Edmund unfortunately is too confiding in such matters, and will allow himself to be deceived by all sorts of shifts and subterfuges until it is too late to think of a remedy. I am at liberty just at present, and in three days I can be back. It will certainly be best that I should see my cousin and give him the necessary information, that he may act without delay.'

Councillor Braun assented. The whole business, and especially the hurried manner in which it was transacted, seemed to him suspicious in the highest degree, and it pleased him that the young man, who had, so to say, broken with his relations, should now so decidedly, and without a moment's hesitation, interfere to protect them from loss and injury.

In the course of that same evening Oswald made all preparations for his improvised journey. Ettersberg was situated within easy reach of the city. By taking the morning train he could be there by noon. Some pretext could easily be found by which his visit to the castle could be limited to a day or two at most, and the wedding, which at all costs he was determined to avoid, was not to take place until Christmas.

At Ettersberg nothing, of course, was known of this intended visit. The dwellers at the castle had enough, and more than enough, to do with the preparations for the coming wedding and for the accommodation of the young couple in their future home. Many alterations were being made on the bel étage, which was to be given up altogether to the Count and his wife, and the necessary arrangements were as yet by no means completed. Besides this, Schönfeld had to be set in readiness for the Dowager Countess, who intended to take up her residence there directly after the wedding.

The Countess's resolve to leave Ettersberg after her son's marriage had taken everyone by surprise. She had, it is true, occasionally alluded to such a plan, but never in real earnest, and had always submitted with a very good grace to Edmund's vehement protests against the idea of a separation. Now both seemed to have altered their views. The Countess suddenly announced that in future she should make her home at Schönfeld, a smaller dwelling which her husband had expressly appointed her for a dower-house, and Edmund raised no objection whatsoever. At Brunneck this sudden determination excited much amazement and comment, but at the same time it gave entire satisfaction. Rüstow had always feared for his daughter a life under the same roof with her mother-in-law, and this unexpected turn of events was too welcome and acceptable in itself for him to muse or ponder much over the cause of it.

The last two months had sped by with wonderful rapidity, leaving little or no time for meditation of any sort. First, there was Dornau to take possession of, to restore and furnish throughout, before, as Hedwig's dowry, it returned to Ettersberg for ever. What with this and the preparations for the coming wedding, which was to be a very brilliant affair, with the constant flow of visits and invitations from all quarters–they had lived in a whirl of occupation and excitement. Autumn was always the gay season here in the country. Great hunts were held and shooting-parties organized by the landed proprietors in the neighbourhood, and to these balls and other festivities were naturally superadded. There had been an almost uninterrupted series of fêtes and entertainments ever since September. If now and then, by some chance, the Brunneck family remained at home without visitors, there was so much to talk over and to discuss that anything like quiet domestic comfort was out of the question. Rüstow had more than once declared that he could not hold out under such pressure much longer, and that he wished to heaven the wedding were over–then perhaps he might enjoy a little peace once more. The day of the great event was already fixed; in three weeks' time the marriage was to take place at Brunneck, and the newly-married couple would then proceed to Ettersberg, their future home.

In the drawing-room at the castle, where the family generally assembled when alone, the Countess sat with a book in her hand, reading, or appearing to read. Hedwig, who was paying one of her frequent visits to Ettersberg, stood by the window, looking out at the snow-clad landscape. Winter had long ago set in, and to-day there was a fine continuous fall of drizzling flakes which certainly did not induce to outdoor exercise.

'Edmund is not coming back yet,' said the young lady, breaking a silence which had lasted some considerable time. 'What an idea to ride out in such weather as this!'

'You know that it is his daily habit,' replied the Countess, without looking up from her book.

'But he has only taken up the habit of late. He used to be very sensitive on the score of the weather, and a shower of rain would send him home at once. Now he seems rather to prefer wild and stormy days for rushing about the country, and he will stay out in the rain and snow for hours together.'

The words, or rather their tone, betrayed a certain unmistakable anxiety.

The Countess made no reply. She turned over the pages of her book, apparently absorbed by its interest, but a close observer would have remarked that she did not read a line.

Hedwig turned from the window, and, coming back into the room, approached her hostess.

'Do you not think that Edmund is strangely altered, mamma? I have noticed it for the last two months.'

'Altered? How? In what?'

'In everything.'

The Countess leaned her head on her hand, and again remained silent. She clearly wished to avoid any discussion on this subject, but the young girl held steadily to her point.

'I have been wishing to speak to you about this for some time, mamma. I cannot conceal from you that Edmund's behaviour makes me feel very uneasy–frightens me, in fact. He is so different from what he used to be; so uneven and variable in mood and temper; so strange even in his manner towards me. He seems feverishly anxious that all the preparations for the wedding should be pushed on as quickly as possible, and, on the other hand, there are times when he shows himself to be quite indifferent, and so totally unsympathetic that I have fancied he may wish the marriage to be deferred.'

'Set your mind at rest, my child,' said the Countess, in a tone which was intended to be soothing, but which yet rang with concentrated bitterness. 'You have not lost his love. His tenderness towards you has suffered no change. I think you must feel this yourself. Edmund does appear rather excitable just now, I admit. He has been too gay, too much into company of late–indeed, we have all of us been involved in a perfect whirl of dissipation. Really, these incessant réunions, these meets, these dinners and evening parties, have hardly left us time to breathe. You yourself have been rather overtaxing your strength in this way, and it is not surprising if your nerves are a little tried by overmuch excitement.'

'I would willingly have refused half the invitations,' said Hedwig, with some emotion; 'but Edmund insisted on our accepting them. We have had no peace ever since September, but have been fairly driven from one fête, from one visit to another; and when we contrive to stay at home, meaning to rest a little, Edmund comes with some new proposal, or brings some new visitor to the house. It seems really as though he could not bear to be quiet an hour either here or at Brunneck, as though anything like solitude were a positive torture to him.'

The Countess's lips quivered, and accidentally, as it were, she turned her face away, replying, however, with perfect outward composure:

'Nonsense! Why indulge in such silly fancies? Edmund has always been fond of society, and you yourself formerly took delight in constant gaiety and pleasure. I should not have expected such a complaint from you, of all people. What has happened to produce such an alteration in your feelings?'

'I am anxious about Edmund,' confessed the young girl; 'and I see plainly that he takes no pleasure in all this dissipation, though he seems to seek it so eagerly. There is something so unnatural, so spasmodic in his mirth, that it gives me quite a pang to witness it. Do not try to deny this either to me or to yourself, mamma. It is impossible you should not have remarked the change. I fear that in secret it troubles you as much as it troubles myself.'

'What avails my trouble or anxiety?' said the Countess, almost harshly. 'Edmund cares nothing for either.' Then, with a quick diversion, as though feeling that she had said too much, she added, with assumed coldness, 'You must learn to understand your husband's character and little ways without assistance from anyone else, my dear. He is not quite so easy to manage as you perhaps imagined at the outset. But he loves you–this is certain, and you will therefore have no great difficulty in discovering the proper course to take. I have made up my mind never to interfere between you. You see that I have even abandoned the idea of living under one roof with my son and his wife.'

The rebuff was plain enough. Hedwig felt chilled to the soul, as had often been the case when she had attempted to win from her future mother-in-law any mark of hearty confidence or affection. That interview with Oswald had shown her what a rock lay ahead, and what a rival she would have in the Countess; but on this occasion she felt that the cool repellent answer had been prompted by some other motive than mere jealousy. There was some secret misunderstanding between Edmund and his mother.

Hedwig had long remarked this fact, though they strove outwardly to preserve their old demeanour. In the first days of the engagement the Countess had relinquished none of her claims, had shown herself by no means inclined to yield to her successor the first place in her son's affections. Why should she suddenly make open renunciation of her influence? The step was little in accordance with her character.

In the eagerness of their talk, the two ladies had failed to hear the sound of a horse's hoofs without. They turned in some surprise as the door opened, and the young Count appeared. He had laid aside his hat and overcoat, but a snowflake still hung here and there in his dark hair, and his heated face showed how wild had been the ride from which he had just returned. He came in quickly, and pressed his lips hastily, almost roughly, to Hedwig's brow, as she went forward to meet him.

'You have been out two whole hours, Edmund,' said the young girl, with an accent of reproach. 'If the snow-storm had set in earlier, I should not have let you go.'

'Why, do you want to make me effeminate? This is just the weather that suits me.'

'How long has it suited you? Formerly you liked, you were satisfied with nothing but sunshine.'

Edmund's face darkened at this remark, and he replied curtly:

'Formerly, perhaps. But we have changed all that.' Then he went up to the Countess, and kissed her hand. There was, however, no attempt at the affectionate embrace with which in the old days he had always greeted her; as though accidentally, he avoided the armchair which stood vacant between the ladies, and threw himself on a seat near Hedwig. There was a certain nervous haste and restlessness in all his movements which had never before characterized them, and a like feverish excitableness was to be remarked in his voice and manner, as in the course of conversation he passed from one subject to another, never pursuing any for more than a few minutes.

'Hedwig was becoming very anxious at your long absence,' remarked the Countess.

'Anxious?' repeated Edmund. 'What in the world could make you anxious, Hedwig? Were you afraid I might be buried beneath a drift?'

'No; but I do not like these wild rides of yours about the country. You have grown so extremely reckless and imprudent of late.'

'Nonsense! you are a dauntless horsewoman yourself, and never show the smallest signs of fear when we ride out together.'

'When you are with me you are more careful, but whenever you go out alone you rush along at a mad pace which is positively dangerous.'

'Bah, dangerous! No danger will touch me, you may rely upon it.'

The words conveyed none of the old merry, lighthearted confidence wherewith the young Count had been wont to boast of his happy star. On the contrary, they seemed rather to imply a challenge to Fate, a mute impeachment of its hard decrees.

The Countess raised her eyes slowly, and fixed on her son a stern and sombre gaze. He, however, seemed not to remark this, but continued more lightly:

'It is to be hoped we may have finer weather for our shooting to-morrow. I am expecting some gentlemen who will probably be here this afternoon.'

'Why, two days ago the whole neighbourhood was gathered together for a monster shooting-party here at Ettersberg, and the day after to-morrow we are to have exactly the same affair over at Brunneck.'

'Does the invitation displease you?' asked Edmund jestingly, 'I certainly ought first to have solicited the gracious permission of you ladies, and really the thought of my omission overwhelms me with confusion.'

'Hedwig is right,' said the Countess. 'You do exact too much of us all just now. We have not had a day to ourselves for weeks, not one quiet day without visitors to receive or visits to pay. I shall be glad to retire into my nook at Schönfeld and to leave you to continue this fatiguing round of dissipation by yourselves.'

But a few months previously, such an allusion to the approaching separation would have called forth from Edmund an energetic protest, a warm appeal. He had always vowed that he could not live without his mother. Now he was silent; by not a syllable did he gainsay her resolution, nor did he reproach her for her longing to depart.

'Well, well, you need only see these gentlemen at dinner,' he said, completely ignoring the last remark. 'They will be out in the woods all day.'

'And you with them, I suppose,' said Hedwig. 'We hoped we might at least have you for one day to ourselves.'

Edmund laughed outright. 'How very flattering! But your nature seems to have undergone a wonderful change, Hedwig. In former times I never remarked in you this romantic fancy for solitude. Have you grown misanthropic?'

'No; I am only tired,' said the young girl, in a low voice, which certainly bespoke profound weariness.

'How can a girl of eighteen feel tired when there is some pleasure or a party in view?' Edmund returned in a tone of banter, and then went on in the old vein, alternately teasing and coaxing his betrothed.

It was quite a firework-display of wit and humour, the jests following each other in quick rocket-like succession, but the old spirit was wanting to them. This was no longer the bright, saucy badinage in which the young Count had so excelled of old.

Hedwig was right. There was something wild and spasmodic in his gaiety, which was far too loud and tempestuous to be natural. His mirth turned to mockery, his satire to a sneer. Then his laughter was so shrill and his eyes shone with so feverish a glow that it was almost painful to see and hear him.

Old Everard now came in, and announced that the messenger, who was going over to Brunneck, was awaiting his orders without. Fräulein Rüstow had said there was a letter she desired to send. Hedwig rose and left the drawing-room, and almost simultaneously Edmund stood up and would have followed her out, but the Countess called him back.

'Have you anything to say to the messenger?'

'Yes, mother. I was going to send word over to Brunneck that they might reckon on our coming the day after to-morrow.'

'That is quite understood. Besides, Hedwig has repeated it in her note to her father. There is no necessity for you to add a message.'

'I obey orders, mother.'

The young Count, who had already gained the door, closed it rather reluctantly, appearing undecided as to whether he should return to his former seat or not.

'I give no orders,' said the Countess. 'I only mean that Hedwig will in all probability not be absent more than five minutes, and that you need not so anxiously seek a pretext for avoiding a tête-à-tête with me.'

'I!' exclaimed the Count. 'I have never–'

'You have never openly said as much,' his mother finished the phrase for him. 'No, my son, but I see and feel full well how you shun my company. And now I should not keep you with me had I not a request to make. Give up this wild search after excitement–these furious, protracted rides about the country. You will wear yourself out. Of my anxiety I will not speak. You have long ceased to heed it; but you can no longer deceive Hedwig with this constrained gaiety. She was speaking to me on the subject before you came in, saying how uneasy and unhappy she felt about you.'

The Countess spoke in a subdued tone. Her voice was low and lacked all ring; yet there ran through it a subtle thrill of pain. Edmund had drawn nearer slowly, and was now standing by the table before her. He did not raise his eyes from the ground as he replied:

'Nothing ails me. You are both troubling yourselves most unnecessarily on my account.'

The Countess was silent, but again there came that nervous working of the lips which Hedwig's words had previously called forth. It told what poor comfort this assurance gave her.

'Our present life is so busy and full of agitation,' went on Edmund. 'We shall all do better when Hedwig has fairly taken up her abode here.'

'And I mine at Schönfeld,' added the Countess, with profound bitterness. 'Well, we have but an interval of a few weeks to pass.'

'Mother, you are unjust. Am I the cause of your leaving? This separation takes place by your own express wish.'

'I saw that it was necessary for us both. We could not continue to live on together, as we have lived during the past two months. You are frightfully overwrought, Edmund, and I do not know how it will all end, whether your marriage will produce some change in your frame of mind. Perhaps Hedwig may succeed in making you calm and happy once more. Your love for her is now my one hope … for I … my power is over!'

Things must indeed have gone far when the proud woman, who had so long triumphantly maintained the first place in her son's affections, stooped to such an avowal as this. There was no bitterness and no reproach in her words, but their tone betrayed such poignant grief that Edmund, with quick remorse, went up to her and took her hand.

'Forgive me, mother. I did not mean to hurt you. Indeed, indeed, I would not wound your feelings. You must be indulgent to me.'

He spoke with a touch of the old tenderness, and more was not needed to make the Countess forget all the estrangement. She moved as though she would have drawn her son to her breast, but it was not to be. Edmund, yielding, as it were, to an irresistible impulse, recoiled involuntarily; then, remembering himself at once, he bent over his mother's hand and pressed his lips to it.

The Countess turned very pale, but she had been too long accustomed to this shy avoidance, this horror of her embrace, to be offended by it. So it had been for months, but the mother could not, or would not, understand that her son's love was altogether lost to her.

'Think of my request,' she said, collecting her energies. 'Take some care of yourself for Hedwig's sake. Show some prudence and moderation; you owe it both to her and to yourself.'

Then she rose from her seat and left the room, hesitating yet a moment on the threshold. Perhaps she hoped to be detained; if so, the hope was futile. Edmund stood quite motionless, not looking up until she had quitted the room.

Left thus alone, the young Count drew himself erect, gazed for some minutes fixedly at the door through which his mother had passed, and then, going up to the window, pressed his hot brow against the panes. Now that he knew himself to be alone, the mask of gaiety with which he sought to deceive those about him fell, and in its place came an expression so gloomy, so despairing, that the Countess's anxiety seemed but too fully justified. Sombre and terrible must have been the thoughts which racked the young man's mind as he stood there, looking out at the now thickly-falling snow. So completely was he absorbed by them, that he did not hear the door open, and was only conscious of another presence when the rustling of a dress near him roused him from his brooding. Then he started and turned round.

'Ah, you are there, Hedwig. Have you told your father he may expect us?'

Hedwig could hardly have caught sight of her lover's face, but from the tone of his voice she became aware that for a moment he had given up all feigning. Instead of replying to his question, she laid her hand on his, and said very quietly:

'What is the matter with you, Edmund?'

'With me? nothing. I was inwardly swearing at the weather, which promises us nothing good for to-morrow. I know what this driving snow portends when once it fairly sets in among our mountains. Very possibly we shall be blockaded to-morrow, and not able to get out into the woods at all.'

'Well, give up your sport then. You take no real pleasure in it.'

Edmund frowned.

'Why should I not take pleasure in it?' he asked, in rather an angry tone.

'That question I should put to you. Why have you lost pleasure in all that you cared for formerly? Am I never to learn the trouble that is tormenting you and weighing on your spirits? I have, it seems to me, the best right to know it.'

'This is a regular inquisition,' cried Edmund, laughing. 'How can you take a momentary caprice, a mere passing bout of ill-humour, so seriously to heart? But I notice you have got into the way of striking the pathetic chord on every possible occasion. If I would consent to do my part, we should be a most sentimental couple; unfortunately, I think that to be sentimental is invariably to be ridiculous.'

Hedwig turned away deeply wounded. It was not the first time that Edmund had repelled her with harsh derision. He had so met her every attempt to solve the strange riddle of his altered manner and behaviour. It seemed as though he must defend his secret to the death–defend it from her as from the rest of the world.

What a change had come over the youthful radiant pair, who had accepted it as a matter of course that Fortune should shower on them her best and brightest gifts, who had looked forward with such bright assurance to the sunny future before them, and in whose playful mirth hardly a shade of earnestness had mingled! They had both made acquaintance with life's graver side, and if to the girl trouble were as yet but a cold dim shadow, obscuring all the sunlight, in Edmund's heart a flame had burst forth which burned with a consuming fire, and ofttimes directed its intensity against those who were nearest to him.

Hedwig turned to go. But she had only time to take a few steps; then Edmund's arm encircled her and held her fast.

'Have I pained you?' he asked. 'Scold me, Hedwig. Load me with reproaches, but do not go from me in this way. That is more than I can bear.'

The prayer for pardon was so passionate, so earnest, that the girl's just anger gave way before it. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and said:

'I think this habit of constant sarcasm is bad for you as well as others. You do not know how harsh and cruel your words often sound.'

'I have been intolerably disagreeable of late, have I not?' said Edmund, with an attempt at playfulness. 'After the wedding you will see I shall be all the more charming. Then we will make our bow to the gay world, retire from the hurly-burly, and shut ourselves up in our fortress. Just at this present time I cannot bear tranquillity and solitude. But I look forward with an intense longing to the day which will unite us.'