Fickle Fortune

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.'

'Do you really long for it?' asked Hedwig, looking fixedly at him. 'Sometimes, do you know, I have fancied you rather dreaded that day.'

The scarlet flush which mounted to the young man's brow almost seemed to bear out her words; yet the passionate tenderness with which he folded his betrothed to his heart gave them contradiction.

'Dread? No, Hedwig! We love each other, do we not? And your love is given to me, to me personally, not to the Count Ettersberg, not to the heir of these estates? You had so many suitors to choose from, so many who could offer you wealth and fortune, and you chose me, because … because you liked me best, was it not so?'

'Good heavens, how can such things come into your mind?' cried Hedwig, half frightened, half offended. 'How can you imagine that I ever gave them a thought?'

'I do not, I do not,' said Edmund, drawing a deep breath. 'And therefore I hold fast to that which is mine, mine alone, and will maintain it in the face of all. In your love, at least, I may believe. That, at least, is no lie. If I were to be deceived here, if I must doubt and despair of you–then the sooner I make an end of it, the better.'

'Edmund, this wild talk of yours distracts me,' cried Hedwig, starting back, scared by his vehemence. 'You are ill, you must be ill, or you would not use such language.'

This anxious cry brought Edmund to his senses. He made a great effort to regain composure, and even succeeded in forcing a smile as he replied:

'Why, are you beginning that tale? A few minutes ago my mother was lecturing me, saying I was excited and overwrought. And in fact it is nothing more than that. I am nervous and unstrung, but the fit will pass. Everything comes to an end, you know, sooner or later. Do not be anxious, Hedwig. Now I must go and see if Everard has got all ready for my expected guests. I forgot to give him any special orders. Excuse me for ten minutes, will you? I shall be with you again immediately.'

He released the girl from his arms and left her, once more breaking off abruptly, fleeing, as it were, from further explanation or discussion. It was impossible to solve the enigma. The Countess and Edmund were alike impenetrable.

Hedwig returned to her former place, and sat, absorbed in troubled meditation, resting her head on her hand. Edmund was concealing something from her, yet his love for her had suffered no change or diminution. It needed not the Countess's words to assure her of this; her own feelings told her the fact far more convincingly. His affection seemed indeed to have gained in intensity. She was more to him now than in former days, when his mother stood so prominently in the foreground; but the girl involuntarily trembled at meeting an outburst of fervid passion there, where she had been wont to look only for gay and sportive tenderness. How strange, how fitted to inspire uneasiness had been Edmund's manner again to-day! Why did he so vehemently demand an assurance that her love was given to him, to him personally? And why would he 'make an end of it,' were he to be deceived in this belief?