'No, Oswald; you have not thought that. You knew surely and well that I suffered from the necessary silence and separation to the full as much as you--but I felt I owed that time of silence to Edmund's memory and to his mother's grief. You saw her when we arrived, and the sight will have explained to you why I could not have the courage to be happy while living at her side.'
'She is terribly changed, certainly. Her long sojourn in the South has brought about no real improvement, I fancy.'
'A postponement, at most. I fear she has returned hither only to die.'
'I knew that she would not survive the blow,' said Oswald. 'I feel so deeply what Edmund was to me, and how much more was he to his mother!'
Hedwig shook her head slightly.
'Sorrow one learns to bear, and it moderates with time, but the trouble that is gnawing at her heart has so sharp a tooth, it tortures and wastes her strength so constantly and cruelly, that I am sometimes tempted to think some other feeling must mingle with it--remorse, perhaps, or a sense of guilt!'
Oswald was silent, but the cloud which settled on his brow was answer enough.
'Before we started on our journey you made me promise that I would not distress the poor lady with questions,' the girl went on. 'I have kept my promise, and have never alluded to the doubts or the painful uncertainty which weigh on my mind. There is so much that is dark and enigmatic to me in all the circumstances connected with that terrible event. One thing only I divine, namely, that Edmund voluntarily sought his death. Why? To this hour the question has been left unanswered. It remains to me a mystery. There should be no secrets between us, Oswald. You must answer me now when I pray and entreat you to tell me the truth. I cannot, will not see that dark cloud upon your brow.'
She could use the language of entreaty now, could beseech with all the intensity and power of love; and here she was sure of victory. Oswald clasped her more tightly in his arms.
'No, my Hedwig, there must be nothing secret between us. All must be clear and open as day. But not now, and not here, can I disclose to you that sad story of guilt with all its fatal consequences. I cannot tell that story to my betrothed. When you are my wife, you shall hear what drove Edmund to his death, what is gradually, irresistibly drawing his mother after him to the grave. That dark shadow must not intervene to mar the brightness of this hour. So often have I dreamed of it, aye, dreamed from the moment your sweet face first dawned on me in the midst of that fierce snowstorm. You came to me, a spring-day personified, with all its promises of hope and happiness--though then, indeed, I could not, dare not hope those promises would ever be fulfilled.'