Fickle Fortune

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 changed rôles. 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.'