Fickle Fortune

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.