"So you really could not make up your mind to part with that unhappy picture! I thought it had been destroyed long ago. How could you be so mad as to keep it in your possession?"
"Do not scold me, Armand." The Countess"s voice was stifled as though by tears. "It is the only souvenir I have kept--the only one. It came to me with a last message from him, after ... after his death."
"And for the sake of this sentimental folly you conjure up a frightful danger, a danger which threatens ruin both to yourself and your son.
Do not these features speak clearly enough? Formerly, when Edmund was a child, the likeness was not so striking, so extraordinary; but now that he is nearly of the same age as ... as the other, it is positively d.a.m.ning. Your imprudence has cost you a lesson, however, and a hard one. You know into whose hands the picture fell?"
"I have known since yesterday evening. My G.o.d, what will come to us now?"
"Nothing," said Heideck coldly. "The fact of his surrendering it is ample proof of that. Oswald is too good a lawyer not to know that a mere likeness is no evidence, and that a charge cannot be founded on such testimony. Still, it was a generous act to give it back. Another man would have held possession of it, if only to hara.s.s and torment you. That picture must be destroyed."
"I will destroy it," said the Countess.
"No, I will do that myself," retorted her brother, replacing the little case carefully in his pocket. "I rescued you once from a very real danger, Constance; now I must stand between you and the remembrance of it, which may be almost as fatal. That ghost has been buried for years. Do not let it rise up again, or the whole fortune and happiness of Ettersberg may be wrecked. This unfortunate souvenir must disappear to-day. Edmund must have no more suspicion of the secret than his father had before him."
Involuntarily he raised his voice as he p.r.o.nounced these last words, but he ceased speaking suddenly, for at that very moment the door which led into the adjoining room was thrown open, and Edmund appeared on the threshold.
"What am I not to suspect?" he asked with quick vehemence.
The young Count had naturally not supposed that his mother"s prohibition of admittance extended to himself. He had crossed the anteroom softly, fearing to disturb her. The closed doors and the subdued tone in which the conversation had been carried on made it well-nigh impossible that he should have overheard more than his uncle"s last words. The expression of his face bore proof of this. It betokened astonishment, but no fear.
Nevertheless, the Countess bounded from her seat with a terrible start, and it required a mute but significant gesture of warning from her brother, a pressure of his hand upon her shoulder, to give her back her self-control.
"What is it I am not to suspect?" repeated Edmund, as he came quickly towards them. He addressed his question to the Baron.
"Is it possible that you can have been listening? asked the latter, his breath almost failing him as he thought of such a possibility.
"No, uncle," said the young Count angrily. "I am not in the habit of playing the spy or the listener. I merely caught your last words as I was opening the door. It is natural surely that I should like to know their meaning, and to learn what it is that has. .h.i.therto been kept secret from me as from my father."
"You heard me beg my sister not to mention the subject to you,"
replied Heideck, who had now recovered his composure. "I was alluding to a reminiscence of our youth which we shall do well to keep to ourselves. You know that our early days were pa.s.sed amid graver, sadder circ.u.mstances than yours. We had battles to fight and sacrifices to make whereof you can have no conception."
The explanation was plausible and appeared to find belief, but Edmund"s tone, though tender, was fraught with deep reproach, as he said, turning to the Countess:
"I could not have believed, mother, that you had a secret from me."
"Do not torment your mother now," interrupted Heideck. "You see how very unwell she is?"
"You should have spared her then, and not have called up painful reminiscences to-day," replied Edmund, rather warmly. "I came to tell you, mother, that Hedwig and her father are here. May I bring her to you? As you felt able to see my uncle, you will, I am sure, not refuse to receive us."
"Certainly," a.s.sented the Countess. "Indeed, I feel much better now.
Bring Hedwig to me at once."
"I will fetch her," said Edmund, and went; but before leaving the room he turned once again, and cast a strange scrutinising glance at his mother and uncle. There was no suspicion in his look, but, as it were, a vague presentiment of coming trouble.
The young Count had sent a message over to Brunneck on the preceding evening, with the news that he had been slightly wounded in the hand when out shooting, and therefore would not be able to pay his usual visit, adding that there was not the smallest cause for uneasiness.
This piece of intelligence had brought the Councillor and his daughter over to Ettersberg without loss of time. The sight of Edmund, who received them with all his wonted gaiety, soon set any remaining fears on his account at rest. Almost simultaneously with them came the neighbouring squire on whose estate the accident had occurred. He had driven over with his son to inquire after the patient.
Under these circ.u.mstances Baron Heideck"s first meeting with the new relations was more easy and unconstrained than it would otherwise have been. The young lady"s beauty was not without its influence on the rigid aristocrat, who, in spite of his prejudices, could not altogether withhold approval of his nephew"s choice. Towards the Councillor, Heideck did indeed preserve a cool and reserved, though a polite demeanour. The presence of strangers made the conversation more animated and general. Edmund alone appeared unusually silent and abstracted. He refused, however, to admit that this had anything to do with his wound, attributing the depression he could not disguise to his recent parting with Oswald. He would not confess even to himself that any other vague trouble was weighing on him.
The two neighbours did not remain very long, and an hour or so after their departure, Rustow and his daughter set out on their return-journey to Brunneck. Edmund lifted his betrothed into the carriage, and took a tender leave of her. Then he went away back to his own room, but he could feel settled nowhere; a strange restlessness was upon him which drove him from place to place. At length he threw himself upon the sofa, and tried to read, but he could not force his mind to follow the words or understand their sense. A most unwonted cloud lay on the young Count"s brow, usually so clear and serene; he had a sombre, hara.s.sed look as he sat brooding over the words he had heard spoken in his mother"s room. With painful persistency they recurred to his mind, strive as he might to turn his thoughts into another current. What was he not to know? What was it they were hiding so carefully from him?
Edmund was so little accustomed to bear the pressure of any care, to carry about with him any troublesome problem or doubt, that this condition soon became intolerable to him. He threw his book aside, sprang to his feet, and walked straight up to his uncle"s room.
Baron Heideck was lodged in the visitors" suite, situated in the upper story. Hither he had retired as soon as the guests drove off. He was standing before the fireplace, busily fanning the flames which had recently been kindled on the hearth, when his nephew entered. As the door opened, he looked round in surprise, and the surprise hardly appeared to be a pleasant one.
"Am I disturbing you?" asked Edmund, who noticed this.
"Oh, certainly not," said Heideck. "But it seems to me imprudent of you in your present condition to be wandering about the house instead of remaining quietly in your own room."
"I have the doctor"s permission to leave it, you know, and I wanted to speak to you for a few minutes. You have had a fire lighted, I see. Do you not find it too warm this mild weather?"
"I feel it rather chilly up here in these rooms, especially as evening draws on," replied Heideck, dropping into a chair near the fire, and motioning to his nephew to be seated opposite. Edmund, however, remained standing.
"I want you to give me some explanation of the words I chanced to overhear to-day," he began, without further preface. "I would not press the matter seriously at the time, my mother being present; she is really too unwell to be troubled in any way. But now we are alone and can speak more freely. I positively have no peace for thinking of it. Tell me what that speech of yours meant."
Heideck frowned. "I have already said that I was speaking of affairs relating to _our_ family. These affairs have long since been settled and forgotten, and the mention of them could only affect you painfully."
"But I am no longer a child," said Edmund, with unusual earnestness; "and I may now claim to be initiated into all the family affairs, without exception. You spoke of some shadow which might obscure the Ettersberg fortunes. At this present time I am Master of Ettersberg.
The matter therefore concerns me, and I have a right to inquire into it. In short, uncle, I am determined to know the meaning of all this."
The demand was made with an energy quite foreign to the young Count"s usual manner. Baron Heideck, however, merely shrugged his shoulders, and replied impatiently:
"What absurd questions, Edmund! How can you cling so pertinaciously to this fancy, or attach such importance to a mere word? It was just one of those expressions which escape one sometimes in the heat of conversation, but which have no real or deep significance."
"But you spoke in a very excited tone."
"And in spite of your protest against being thought a listener, you appear to have paused some minutes outside the door."
"Had I been willing to humiliate myself so far, I should probably have heard more, and should not now have to sue for information," returned Edmund angrily.
Heideck pressed his lips together, and for a moment remained silent, thinking, no doubt, what would have been the result if his nephew had really stooped to play the listener. He saw the necessity, however, of warding off any further attack; so he replied, with the coldest decision of manner:
"The matter in question affects me princ.i.p.ally, and I do not desire to discuss it further. I fancy you will accept this answer as final and sufficient, and that you will besiege neither your mother nor myself with useless inquiries on the subject. If you please, we will say no more about it."
To such a speech, delivered with firmness, and with all the authority of the ex-guardian, no reply was possible.
Edmund was silent, but he felt that he had not heard the truth; that, on the contrary, an endeavour was made to divert him from his search after it. He saw, however, that he should obtain nothing from his uncle, and that for the present he must abandon all attempt to solve the mystery.
Heideck seemed determined to put an end to the conversation. He seized the poker, and plied it in very demonstrative fashion, raking the coals vigorously, and repeatedly striking the stove in his efforts to quicken the flames. His whole manner testified to extreme impatience, and an irritation of spirit he with difficulty controlled.
Presently he bent imprudently forward over the fire, and as the blaze he had kindled suddenly burst forth, amid a shower of sparks, the Baron started back, hastily withdrawing his hand, and uttering a half-suppressed exclamation of pain.
"Have you burnt yourself?" asked Edmund, looking up.
Heideck examined his hand, which certainly showed a small red scar.
"The stoves here are so badly constructed," he cried petulantly, giving vent to his secret vexation, and still with the same nervous haste tore a handkerchief from his breast-pocket to apply to the little wound. The handkerchief brought with it another article, which fell on the floor, and rolled close to Edmund"s feet. Heideck stooped to pick it up, but it was too late; his nephew had been beforehand with him.
Already the miniature-case was in Edmund"s hands. The spring, long grown slack, had given way in the fall, and the cover had started open. A fate must have attached to this unhappy picture. Precisely as it was about to be destroyed, it thus fell into the hands of him who never should have beheld it!