Fickle Fortune Part 31

'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 pa.s.sing 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 Fraulein 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 cortege 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 a.s.sumed a resolute att.i.tude 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 hara.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d! 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 rea.s.sure 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 pa.s.s. 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 a.s.sumed 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, a.s.serted 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 pa.s.sage proved illusory. He must have pa.s.sed long since. The track of his sledge was distinctly visible on the freshly-fallen snow.

Now for the first time Oswald's brave a.s.surance 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.