Next morning the three gentlemen breakfasted alone, though Oswald's departure had been fixed for the forenoon. Count Edmund paid no attention whatever to the medical advice which would have confined him to his room. He appeared with a bandaged hand, but in good health and spirits, and laughed at the remonstrances of Baron Heideck, who recommended more prudence and greater care. The Countess remained invisible. She was suffering, it appeared, from a violent nervous attack, resulting probably from the fright she had sustained on hearing the first exaggerated account of her son's condition.

Edmund, who had paid a visit to his mother's room, had found her in a state of intense nervous excitement, and to his inquiry as to whether Oswald might take leave of her in person, she had replied decidedly that she was far too unwell to admit anyone but her son. The young Count was somewhat embarrassed when conveying this message to his cousin. He felt that the refusal to say good-bye involved a slight, and thought his mother might have exerted herself so far as to receive her nephew, if only for a few minutes, before his departure.

Oswald, however, accepted the fiat with great calm, and without the smallest show of surprise. He guessed, no doubt, what share the disappearance of the miniature and its probable fate had in this 'nervous attack.' The Countess would certainly have heard from Everard that her nephew had entered the room soon after she had left it, and had remained there alone.

The conversation at breakfast was rather monosyllabic. Baron Heideck, though he had ultimately acquiesced in Oswald's plans, was not disposed to show any special heartiness towards the young relative who had so resolutely set his will at defiance.

Edmund was disturbed, and unlike himself, being oppressed by the thought of the coming separation, the full meaning of which he only realized now that it was imminent. Oswald alone maintained his accustomed calm and grave demeanour. They were on the point of leaving the table, when the young Count was summoned away to see the doctor, who had just arrived. Baron Heideck would have followed--he wished to impress upon the medical man that greater strictness and vigilance would be necessary with so heedless a patient; but a low word from Oswald made him turn and pause. When they were alone together, the latter drew from his breast-pocket a small and carefully-sealed packet.

'I had hoped to see my aunt again before leaving,' he began. 'As this will not now be possible, I must beg of you to take charge of a last--a last commission for me. It is my express request that this packet be delivered into the Countess's own hands, and that it be given to her when she is alone.'

'What is this mysterious commission?' asked Heideck, in surprise. 'And why do you choose me instead of Edmund?'

'Because it would hardly accord with my aunt's wishes that Edmund should hear of the delivery or of the contents of this packet. I must repeat my request that it be given her when no third person is present.'

The icy tone in which these words were spoken, and the haughty, menacing glance which accompanied them, were the only revenge the young man permitted to himself. Heideck naturally did not understand his meaning, but he perceived that the matter referred to was of no ordinary nature, and he accepted the little parcel without more ado.

'I will undertake the commission,' he said.

'I thank you,' replied Oswald, stepping back, and showing by his manner that the interview was at an end. There was indeed no time for further conversation, as just then Edmund returned, accompanied by the doctor, whom he insisted on taking round to see his mother. Her condition made him anxious, he said.

The bulletins, however, proved favourable with regard to both patients. The Count's wound turned out to be most insignificant, and the Countess was merely suffering from a slight nervous attack, a natural consequence of yesterday's fright. Rest and a few simple remedies would restore them both, and Edmund even forced from the doctor the admission that he might safely leave his room and accompany his cousin to the carriage now waiting for him below.

Baron Heideck took a brief, cold leave of his nephew, but Edmund showed himself greatly affected by the parting. He beset Oswald with entreaties to come back to Ettersberg at all events for the wedding, and promised in his turn shortly to pay a visit to the capital. Oswald accepted it all with rather a sad smile; he knew that neither project would hold good. The Countess would certainly find means to prevent her son's intended journey. One last hearty embrace--then the carriage rolled away, and Edmund, as he reentered the castle alone, felt a desolate sense of the void left by his friend's departure.

More than a couple of hours passed by before Baron Heideck betook himself to his sister's room to execute the commission which had been confided to him. He had been in no special haste; knowing the terms on which Oswald and his aunt stood, he thought it probable that this last message was of no agreeable import, and that it might increase, rather than lessen, the Countess's indisposition. Possessed by this idea, the Baron had at first proposed to postpone the business to the following day; but Oswald's look and tone, as he gave over the packet, had been so peculiar and impressive, that he resolved to have the matter cleared up without further delay. At his request, the Countess dismissed her maid, with orders to admit no one, and the brother and sister remained long closeted together.

The Countess sat on her sofa, looking very pale and worn. It was easy to see what she had suffered since the preceding evening, all that she was suffering now as she sat passive, allowing the stream of her brother's reproaches to flow on without response. He stood before her with the open packet in his hand, speaking in a rather subdued voice, certainly, but with every evidence of great excitement.

'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 damning. 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 God, 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 harass 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 pronounced 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 hitherto 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 passed amid graver, sadder circumstances 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,' assented 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 circumstances 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, RÜstow 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, harassed 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 principally, 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!

'My likeness?' cried Edmund, in the greatest amazement. 'How did you come by it, uncle?'

Every trace of colour had faded from the Baron's face, but it was only for a moment. He felt how much was at stake. By a strenuous effort of his will he succeeded in recovering outward calm, and taking advantage of the error, replied:

'You seem surprised. Why should I not possess a portrait of you?'

As he spoke, he made an attempt to take the case from the young man's hand, but the latter stepped back, and declined to surrender it.

'But I never sat for this portrait, and what is the meaning of this uniform, which I have never worn?'

'Edmund, give me back that case,' said Heideck authoritatively, stretching out his hand for it again--but in vain. Had it not been for that previous occurrence in the Countess's room, Edmund would probably have allowed himself to be deceived by any pretext invented on the spur of the moment, for suspicion and distrust were far removed from his open, ingenuous nature. But now both had been inoculated, now he knew that some secret, some baneful secret, was being kept from him. His instinct told him that it had some connection with this picture, and he obstinately clung to the clue thus obtained, little dreaming as yet, it is true, whither it would lead.

'How did you come by the picture, uncle?' he asked again, this time in a somewhat louder key.

'That I will tell you when you have restored it to me,' was the sharp reply.

For all answer, Edmund stepped from the centre of the room, growing dark in the gathering twilight, to the window, where he could still see clearly, and began to study the picture, trait by trait, and line by line, as Oswald had studied it on the preceding day.

A long and troubled pause ensued.

Heideck convulsively grasped the back of the chair from which he had sprung. He had no choice but to look on in silence; for he told himself that any false step now, any attempt at forcible interference, might be the ruin of them all; but the ordeal of suspense was hard to bear.

'Are you satisfied?' he asked, when some minutes had elapsed; 'and do you intend to restore to me my property?'

Edmund turned.

'That is not my portrait,' he said slowly, emphasising each word; 'but it bears an extraordinary resemblance to myself, one which deceives at the first glance. Whom does it represent?'

Baron Heideck had foreseen the question, and was prepared for it. So he answered without hesitation:

'A relation of ours who has been dead many years.'

'An Ettersberg?'

'No; a member of my family.'

'Indeed. And why have I never heard of this relative, and of the wonderful resemblance existing between him and me?'

'By mere accident, probably. Good heavens, you need not stare at the picture so persistently! Such likenesses are frequent enough among relations.'

'Frequent?' repeated Edmund mechanically. 'Was this the fatal souvenir which must disappear to-day? Had you destined it to be consumed by those flames? Was it for this you had the fire lighted?'

The young Count's deadly pallor, the faint accents of his voice, showed that he felt himself to be nearing an abyss, though as yet he could not fathom its depth. Heideck saw this, and made a last desperate effort to drag him from the brink.

'Edmund, my patience is now thoroughly exhausted,' he said, taking refuge in simulated anger. 'You cannot seriously suppose that I shall make reply to this folly, or try to solve all the mad fancies of your brain.'

'I demand that the secret of this portrait be made known to me,' cried Edmund, summoning up all his energy. 'You must give me an answer, uncle, now--at once, or you will drive me to extreme measures.'

Heideck racked his brain in vain to find a way out of the dilemma. He was not skilful in lying, and felt, moreover, that his nephew would no longer be deceived. The one chance left him was to gain time.

'You shall hear the story later on,' he said evasively. 'At this moment you are too excited, you are still suffering from the effects of your wound. This is not a fitting time to discuss such matters.'

'So you refuse to answer me,' Edmund broke out, with sudden fierce vehemence. 'You cannot, or will not, reply. So be it. I will apply to my mother, she shall give me an account of this.'

He rushed out of the room, and was down the stairs before his uncle could check him. The Baron hastened after the young man, but the pursuit was fruitless. When he reached his sister's room, Edmund had already entered, and closed the door of the boudoir behind him. It was impossible even to hear what was going on in the inner apartment. Heideck saw that he must abstain from further interference. The matter was taking its fated course.

'There will be a catastrophe,' he said to himself hoarsely. 'Poor Constance! I fear that your punishment may prove greater than your offence.'