Was everything to be forever reminding him of that odious scene?--In Prague he had fancied that he should soon be able to shake off the hateful sensation produced by the interview with Capriani, just as we all overcome the nervous shudder, caused by some revolting spectacle. But no! for three days it had lasted and he could not rid himself of it,--on the contrary this hateful sensation was growing more defined.
Of course he did not frame his suspicion in words, he was ashamed of it; he called it an idée fixe, resulting from nervous irritability still remaining from a slight sunstroke which he had had the year before, but for all that, he could not away with it. Countless memories of trifling events, dating from earliest childhood, crowded upon his mind, all pointing, with a sneer, one way. There was a lump in his throat, a weight as of lead upon his heart; the pain waxed more and more intolerable. He could have leaped out of the carriage and have flung himself down in the road with his face in the very dust, in an agony of shame and horror!
For the first time in his life he was reluctant to go home; he was afraid of meeting his mother. There was a kind of relief in the thought that she was not expecting him, and would not come to meet him. He clinched his hands tightly, and gazed abroad, striving by the sight of distinct, familiar objects, to exorcise the evil phantoms that possessed his soul. But everything that his eyes beheld was stamped with ugliness and dejection. The leaves on the trees were limp and dusty. The grain, lodged by the storms, lay on the ground, half rotted in its own luxuriance. The farmers could recall no former year so rich in promise, so poor in fulfilment.
When at length he reached the castle, he could hardly bring himself to ask after his mother, or to go and look for her. How could he, while his mind was filled with such vile abomination? He went up to his room, where the first object that met his eyes was the white death-mask upon the wall. He grew dizzy, a black, crimson-edged cloud seemed to rise before him; he flung open the window,--the air cooled by the sunset, and laden with the fragrance of flowers, played about him, and refreshed him,--he breathed more freely.
Just then a soft, gentle sound fell upon his ear--his mother's voice! He shivered nervously from head to foot. How sweet, how noble was that voice!
"So, so, old friend; fine, good Darling! Bravo, old dog, bravo!"
These words spoken with caressing tenderness, reached him through the silence. He leaned out of the window--there she sat in a large wicker garden-chair, playing with his Newfoundland, that, with huge forepaws upon her lap, was looking familiarly into her face. Her full, elegant figure, about which some soft, black material fell in graceful folds, stood out against the background of a clump of pale purple phlox in luxuriant bloom. Oswald watched her in silence; the beautiful placid expression of her features, the rich harmony of her voice, the tender grace of her movements, as she passed her hands lovingly over the dog's head and neck,--all appealed to him. He never could tire of watching those hands. So slender and delicate that a girl of eighteen might have coveted them, there was something more about them than mere physical beauty, something clinging, pathetic, which is never found in the hands of young girls or of childless women. They were true mother-hands,--hands with an innate genius for soothing caresses; Oswald recalled the time when he had been extremely ill, and those delicate, white hands had tended him day and night with untiring patience and unsurpassable skill;--he could even yet feel their touch upon his suffering, weary limbs.
And this saint,--his mother, his glorious, incomparable mother,--he had presumed to sully by such vile suspicions! He, her son!
Without another thought he hurried down into the park. He saw her at a distance. The dog was lying quiet at her feet; she sat with hands clasped in her lap, and in her half-closed eyes there lay the look of the visionary, dim or far-seeing, always beholding more, or less than the actual. The dog heard his master's step and began to wag his tail, then rose, barking with joy, and ran to meet Oswald.
"Ossi!" and the Countess opened her arms to him. Not even from his betrothed had he ever heard a tone of welcome so fervent, and as his mother clasped him close, and kissed him, he felt as if God Himself had laid His hand upon his sore heart and healed it. Gone were all his evil surmises, all fled, leaving only a sensation of angry self-reproach.