All grew quiet and dark in the state apartments. The doors were closed, and the domestics had withdrawn. In Edmund's room and in his mother's the lights were soon put out. Down the whole castle façade two windows only gleamed brightly: that of the turret-chamber in the side-wing where Oswald von Ettersberg had his lodging, and another in the main building, situated very near the Countess's own bedroom.
The young affianced bride, the heroine of the evening, had not yet retired to rest. She sat leaning back in a great armchair, her head half buried in its cushions, unmindful of the fact that the laces and roses adorning her dress were being unmercifully, irreparably crushed. Before her on a table lay her lover's latest offering, a costly pearl-necklace, which she had worn that day for the first time. To these jewels, however, she vouchsafed not a glance, though but a few days ago they had been received by her with great manifestations of delight.
The evening had been plentiful in pleasure. Hedwig had made her entrance into society as Edmund's promised wife, had appeared amid the brilliant surroundings among which her future life would be passed. To be mistress of Ettersberg was assuredly no unenviable lot, even for so rich an heiress, so spoilt a child of Fortune, as Hedwig Rüstow. She had never enjoyed such triumphs, never received so much homage, as had been lavished on her tonight in her quality of the future Countess Ettersberg.
Yet no happy smile, no sparkle of satisfied vanity, brightened the girl's face. Motionless, with her hands folded in her lap, she sat looking vaguely, dreamily before her into space. The veil still shrouded her soul; the dream still held her enchained. It led her away from the gaiety and glamour of the fête to a lonely wooded hill-side, where, beneath a gray and cloudy sky, the swallows flitted through the rain-charged air, piping their shrill greetings.
They really had brought spring upon their wings, those small, joyful messengers. Beneath all the frost and rime the mighty work of germination had been progressing, and everywhere around, noiselessly, invisibly, mysterious forces had been active, weaving their wondrous tissues. Yes; springtime, though tardy, surely comes to Mother Earth and to her wearying, longing sons. Sad is it when the bright season is too long delayed, when from despairing hearts the cry goes up, 'Too late! too late!'
[CHAPTER VIII.]
The Ettersberg festivities had taken place at midsummer, and now a September sun shone over the land. The young master had taken the reins, but it could not be said that any material change for the better was noticeable in the management of his estates. On the contrary, all remained in statu quo. Rüstow's urgent persuasion so far prevailed that the land-steward received notice to leave; but it was arranged that he should continue in office until after the new year, and though some restraint had become so necessary, none was laid either on him or any of the other officials. Count Edmund judged it superfluous--he knew it was most inconvenient--to trouble himself about such matters. He always lent a willing ear to his father-in-law's plans and projects, agreed with him on all points, and regularly gave him an assurance that he would see about it all 'to-morrow'; but that morrow never came. Oswald's prediction was verified. The Councillor soon found out that he must intervene himself, if any good were to be effected.
Edmund, for his part, would have been quite satisfied to let Rüstow act for him, but the latter encountered unexpected resistance from the Countess, who thought it highly unnecessary that anyone should now attempt to tutor her son, and was not disposed to yield up to the future father-in-law an authority she had hitherto exercised herself.
Besides this, the changes the Councillor proposed making were by no means to the lady's taste. Rules and arrangements which might be suitable for plain Brunneck would not fittingly serve aristocratic Ettersberg. The number of persons employed on the estates might be greater than was required, the system prevailing might be a costly and a comparatively unproductive one, but so it had been for long years. It was all part of the large and liberal style in which they were accustomed to live. Any limitation of the staff, that fretting and minute attention to all the details of management which Rüstow advocated, appeared to the Countess as a species of degradation; and hers being still the casting-vote at the castle, the opposition carried the day. Already there had been some lively skirmishes of debate between the reigning mistress and the Councillor, and though Edmund promptly interfered on these occasions and made peace, a certain amount of acrimonious feeling lingered on both sides.
Rüstow's admiration for the grand and haughty dame had considerably diminished since he had discovered how grandly she could assert and defend her own privileges; and the Countess, for her part, now declared that the Councillor was really too peculiar, and that it was impossible to accept all his whims without remark. In short, the harmony of their relations was disturbed, and there were clouds on the hitherto clear sky, clouds which seemed to menace the family peace.