The little hunting lodge of Rodeck, which lay so white and silent in the
snow of that first December day, had seldom been witness to so great an
excitement as that occasioned by Baron Wallmoden's accident. It was
about noon when the two foresters appeared with their unconscious burden
in their arms. Hartmut Rojanow had seen at a glance what was to be done.
He had the injured man taken at once to Prince Adelsberg's room, sent
off a messenger for the nearest physician, and gave intelligent orders
concerning the sick man's treatment until the doctor should arrive.
Then, when the physician told him there was no hope, he dispatched old
Stadinger to Fürstenstein. Frau Regine only arrived in time to see her
brother die. Wallmoden never recovered consciousness after the fearful
shock of his fall; he lay upon the bed silent and motionless, breathing
with difficulty, and recognizing no one, and an hour later all was over.
Toward evening Herr von Schönau and Willibald returned to Fürstenstein.
Before starting for Rodeck a telegram had been dispatched to the embassy
telling of the accident, and now the head forester sent another
announcing its fatal termination.
Fran von Eschenhagen remained at Rodeck with her brother's widow. The
corpse would be taken to the city early in the morning and until then
the two women would remain with it. Adelheid, who had faced the danger
so bravely, and had done her duty, though there was little to do at her
husband's death bed, now when all was over, seemed to lose her strength.
She was bewildered by the sudden and terrible occurrence.
Hartmut Rojanow stood at his window in the second story, and glanced
across the desolate, bare forest, which, with its snowy mantle, had a
ghostly, uncanny look.
The night came down quickly, and the stars shed a faint light over the
tall, leafless branches. Yesterday the first snow storm of the season
had come, and everything as far as eye could reach was enveloped in an
icy mantle. The great level park before the castle was knee deep with
snow, and the broad branches of the fir trees bent to the earth with
their heavy white burden. The stars came out one by one and dotted the
heavens with their clear, quiet light, while far to the north a faint
rosy glow tinted the distant horizon like a first morning greeting in
the eastern sky. But it was night, a cold, icy winter night, upon which
no gleam of a new day could have fallen.
Hartmut's eyes rested on the distant shimmer, but he heeded not its
light; all was dark and gloomy within him this night. He had not spoken
to Adelheid von Wallmoden since the memorable day in the forest, until
he met her to-day walking beside her bleeding and unconscious husband,
whom they were bearing to his death bed. The moment forbade everything
but action, and Rojanow had not attempted to enter the sick room, but
had waited outside for the physician's reports. Neither had he showed
himself when Frau von Eschenhagen appeared, but he had spoken later with
Herr von Schönau and Willibald. Now all was over, Herbert von Wallmoden
was no longer numbered among the living, and his wife, his widow, was
free!
Hartmut breathed heavily at this thought, but it brought him no joy. His
feelings were changed since that hour when he had staked his all and
lost, for he loved this woman now, madly. This sudden death had showed
him the chasm which yawned between them, a chasm no less because
Adelheid's marriage bonds were broken. Her aversion had been for the man
who believed in nothing, and to whom nothing was sacred, and that man
was as great a scoffer, as great an unbeliever to-day as ever.
He had pleaded for forgiveness in the character to which he had given
her name in "Arivana," but that Ada had disappeared again in the heights
above after giving her warning cry, leaving to their fate the creatures
she had exhorted, with their earthly passionate hates and loves. Hartmut
Rojanow could not force the wild blood in his veins to run in quiet
grooves, he could not bend to a life of strict and narrow duty, and he
would not! What were the use of all those gifts which he felt were his,
if they did not lift him out of the old ruts, did not raise him above
the duties and limits of the commonplace world? He knew well that those
great blue eyes urged him to follow the paths which he hated so
bitterly, and which, he told himself over and over again, he could never
take.
The rosy shimmer yonder over the forest had grown deeper as it mounted
higher in the heavens. Unmovable it shone in the north, mysterious, far
and high--the great northern light in its dawning splendor!
A roll of carriage wheels and sound of horses' hoofs coming at great
speed waked Hartmut from his dream. It was past nine, who could be
coming at so late an hour? Perhaps the second physician, who had been
sent for early in the day, but had not yet answered the summons; perhaps
some one from Ostwalden, where the news had been sent late. The carriage
turned into the broad road, and came on crunching and cracking over the
icy ground, and drew up under the wide porte cochere at the side of the
house. Hartmut, who was virtually master of the place, left his room
and hastened to see who had come or what was wanted.
He had taken but a step or two down the stairs which led to the entrance
hall, when he stopped suddenly and held his breath with a gasp. There
sounded a voice which he had not heard for ten long years. It spoke in a
low, subdued tone, and yet he recognized it at the first word.
"I come from the Prussian Embassy," the new-comer explained. "We
received the telegram early this afternoon, and I started at once. How
is he? Can I see Herr von Wallmoden?"
Stadinger, who admitted the stranger, answered in a low tone. Hartmut
did not hear what he said, but could imagine from the next words:
"Then I come too late!"
"Yes, sir; the Baron died this afternoon." There was a short pause, then
the stranger said:
"Take me to his widow; tell her it is Colonel von Falkenried."
Stadinger led the way, and a tall figure wrapped in a military cloak
followed him; the man watching on the stairs could only recognize the
contour of the figure. The two had long since disappeared in the room
beneath, and yet Hartmut stood grasping the ballister, and looking down
into the semi-darkness with vacant eyes. When Stadinger came out again,
Hartmut retraced his steps slowly to his own room.
For a quarter of an hour he paced restlessly up and down. He was having
a hard, fierce struggle with himself; he had never yet bent his pride,
never been able to yield, and he must bend and bend low before this
deeply injured father; this much he knew. But the longing, the burning
longing to see and be with him again, finally gained the victory.
He threw back his head with sudden decision. "No, I will be no coward. I
will not avoid him. Now that we are under the same roof, within the same
four walls, I will venture. He is my own father and I am his son!"
From the castle clock of Rodeck sounded forth ten slow, heavy strokes.
Without in the forest all was still, and within was the silence of
death. The old steward and the servants had all gone to bed, as had also
Frau von Eschenhagen. She had had a long journey without rest, and one
painful excitement after another on this never-to-be-forgotten day, and
now nature demanded rest. Lights yet glimmered from a few windows, and
these belonged to Colonel von Falkenried's and Frau von Wallmoden's
rooms, which were only separated by a long, narrow ante-chamber.
Falkenried was to accompany Adelheid to the city to-morrow. He had seen
her and Regine, and then had stood for a long time beside the body of
his old friend, who had parted from him with a careless good-by but
yesterday; who had been so full of plans and projects of his hopes and
ambitions for the future. Now everything was at an end. There he lay,
cold and stiff upon the bier. Falkenried stood at the window in his own
room; even this fatal accident had not moved him from his icy calm; he
had long looked upon death as a happy release. Life was hard, very
hard--but not death.
He gazed out into the silent winter night. The whole northern sky was
aglow with the dark red flame which started out of the darkness like a
sheet of fire. The stars blinked faintly, as through a purple veil, and
far beneath them all the earth lay cold and white and still.
Falkenried was so deeply wrapt in thought that he did not notice the
opening and closing of the door of the adjoining room. Softly his own
room door opened, but he did not look up nor see the tall figure
standing on the threshold.
The Colonel still stood by the window, though his face was but half
turned toward it, and the flickering of the candle on the table shone
across it. How deep and sad were the lines around the mouth; how
fearfully furrowed the high forehead beneath the white hair. Hartmut
shuddered unconsciously--he had not thought to find the change so great
nor so painful. This man who was yet in his prime, looked old, so old.
And who had worked this change? Several minutes passed in silence, then
a sound was heard in the room, half aloud and breathless; only one word,
but that one full of inexpressible tenderness:
"Father!"
The colonel started as if a voice from another world had fallen on his
ear. Then he turned slowly, but with an expression as though he expected
really to see a vision from the spirit-land.
Hartmut took a few quick steps forward, and then stood still. "Father,
it is I. I come--"
He was silent, for now he met his father's eyes--those eyes which he so
dreaded; and meeting them, he was robbed of all courage to speak
farther. His head sank and he was silent.
Every drop of blood seemed to have left the colonel's face. He had not
known that his son was under the same roof with him, and was totally
unprepared for the meeting. But he made no outcry, showed no sign either
of anger or weakness. Still and stark he stood and looked upon him who
had once been his all. At last he raised his hand slowly, and pointed
toward the door:
"Go!"
"Father, hear me."
"Go, I say!" The order sounded threatening this time.
"No, I will not go!" cried Hartmut, passionately. "I know that
reconciliation can only come in this hour. I have wronged you deeply;
how deeply, how severely, I feel now for the first time. But I was only
a boy of seventeen, and it was my mother whom I followed. Remember that,
father, and forgive me, forgive your own son."
"You are the son of the woman whose name you bear; you are no son of
mine. No one devoid of honor can be a Falkenried."
The words were almost too much for Hartmut. The blood mounted hot and
wild to his brow--the brow so like his father's--and it required all his
strength to keep himself under control.
The two believed themselves to be alone in the silence of the night, for
all in the castle had retired to rest. They did not know that they had a
witness. Adelheid von Wallmoden had not retired to rest. She knew that
sleep would not come to her eyes, which had witnessed the dreadful
accident which left her a widow. Still clad in the dark traveling dress
which she had worn on that fateful journey, she sat in her room, when
the colonel's voice sounded on her ear. With whom could he be speaking
at that late hour? He knew no one, and yet his voice had a strange,
threatening sound. Puzzled and uneasy, the tired woman rose and stepped
into the ante-chamber which separated the two rooms, to see who it was.
She had no desire to overhear any conversation. She had a nervous
feeling that something new might have happened. Then a voice which she
knew only too well, said "Father," and that one word revealed to her
what the next few words confirmed. Like one possessed she stood still
and listened to all which came to her through the half-opened door.
"You make this hour very hard, father," Hartmut said, laboring to
control his voice, "but I think I hardly expected anything else.
Wallmoden has told you about me, I feel sure, and what I have sought,
and how I have succeeded. I bring you the poet's wreath, father, the
first which has fallen to my share. Learn to know my work, let it speak
to you, then you will realize how impossible it was for a man of my
temperament to live and breathe under the restrictions of a profession
which was death to every poetic feeling; then you will forgive your
unruly son for his boyish trick."
Hartmut Rojanow was himself again, and spoke with his old domineering
pride. His arrogant self-consciousness clung to him even in this hour.
He was the author of "Arivana," who acknowledged neither obligation nor
duty.
"The boyish trick," said Falkenried in a harder voice than ever. "Yes,
that's what they called it in order to make it possible for me to remain
in the service. I called it something else, and many of my comrades with
me. You would soon have been an ensign, in a few weeks you would have
been fleeing from the flag you had sworn to defend--I have never known
such another case. You had been well and carefully educated and I had
striven to instill into your mind the keenest sense of honor. You knew
only too well what you did, you were no longer a boy. He who flees like
a thief in the night from the service of his country is a deserter; he
breaks his word and he does not know what honor means. That is what you
did! But it comes easy for you, and such as you, to do such things."
Hartmut bit his lips and his whole body trembled at these merciless
words. His voice had a hollow, half suffocated sound as he answered:
"Listen, father, I cannot bear that. I have bowed before you, have plead
for forgiveness, and you drive me from you. It is the same cruel
hardness with which you once drove my mother away. It was your severity
alone which was accountable for her erratic life after you thrust her
from you and for mine through hers."
The colonel folded his arms and an expression of withering contempt
played round his lips.
"And you heard all this from her own lips? Possibly! No woman falls so
low that she reveals to her son the disgraceful truths of her life. I
would not soil your soul at that time with the truth, for you were yet
innocent and pure. Now you will understand me when I say that my honor
demanded the separation from your mother. The man who had stained it
fell by my hand, and she, as you know--I put her from me."
Hartmut grew deadly pale at this revelation. He had never known this,
never dreamed of such a thing, had in fact, believed that it was his
father's cruel disposition which had separated husband and wife.
The image of his mother whom he had so dearly loved, was suddenly and
ruthlessly despoiled of its purity and its charm, and in its place came
the desolating conviction that she whom he had trusted and followed had
been his destruction.
"I would have protected you from the poisonous atmosphere of such an
influence," continued Falkenried. "Fool that I was! Even without her
persuasion you were lost to me. You had your mother's features, and it
was her blood which flowed in your veins, and sooner or later you were
bound to come to your own. You became what you are--a homeless
adventurer who knows neither fatherland nor honor!"
"That is too much!" cried Hartmut, almost wild now. "I will not be so
insulted by any one, not even by you. I see now that no reconciliation
between us is possible. I will go, but the world will judge otherwise
than you. It has already crowned me, and I will force from it the
recognition which my own father denies me."
The colonel looked at his son, and there was something frightful in his
glance; then he said, slowly and distinctly, in his icy tone:
"Better be careful that the world does not learn that the 'laurel
crowned poet' was suborned in Paris for over two years--as a spy."
Hartmut started back as though shot.
"I? in Paris? you must be out of your mind."
Falkenried shrugged his shoulders contemptuously:
"Still acting a comedy? you need give yourself no trouble; I know all.
Wallmoden laid before me the proofs of the game which Zalika Rojanow and
her son played in Paris. I know the sources from which the money came on
which you lived after she had lost her fortune. She was greatly sought
after for her peculiar accomplishments, for she was very skillful. He
who paid the highest price--secured her services!"
Hartmut was completely overwhelmed.
This then was the solution of Wallmoden's riddle. He had not understood
the ambassador, and had thought his insinuations of a different nature.
He could understand his mother's hypocrisy now, her evasions, her kisses
and flatteries when he pressed her with questions. This last was indeed
the worst of all--and the last vestige of respect for her who had borne
him died within him as he listened to his father's recital.
The silence which ensued was awful. It continued for several minutes,
and when Hartmut spoke again his voice seemed to have lost all sound,
and the words came brokenly--scarcely audibly--from his lips:
"And you believe that I--that I--knew it?"
"I do," the colonel answered shortly.
"Father, you cannot, you must not believe that, it would be too
terrible. You must believe me when I tell you that I had not the
slightest premonition of such a disgrace. I believed that part of our
fortune was saved, I did indeed--you must believe that, father."
"No, you did not," responded Falkenried, more coldly than ever. Hartmut
threw himself upon his knees.
"Father, by all that is sacred in heaven and earth--oh, do not, do not
look at me that way--you will drive me mad. Father, I give you my word
of honor--"
A wild, hideous laugh from his father interrupted him.
"Your word of honor--you gave that at Burgsdorf. Let us end this comedy;
you cannot deceive me. You leave me with one lie, you return to me with
another. You have become the genuine son of your mother. Go your own
way, and I'll go mine. But one thing I tell you, I command you! Never
venture to connect the name of Falkenried with the dishonored name of
Rojanow. Never let the world know who you are. Remember this warning,
otherwise my blood be upon your head--for I will make an end of it all."
With a cry of despair, Hartmut sprang up and would have rushed to his
father, but the latter held him back with his hand.
"Perhaps you think that I love life. I have borne it because I must, and
I felt that it was my duty. But there is a point where duty ends, you
know it now--so act accordingly."
He turned his back to his son and stepped again to the window. Hartmut
spoke no word; in silence he turned and left the apartment.
The ante-chamber was not lighted, but the dim, distant light from the
northern sky fell upon the face of a woman, who stood pale as death near
the window, and whose eyes gazed with a look of indescribable anguish at
the face of the miserable man who entered the room. He saw her, and a
single glance told him that she knew all. His cup was full! The woman
whom he loved had been a witness to his terrible humiliation.
Hartmut never knew how he succeeded in leaving the castle; he only knew
that he was suffocating within four walls and must have air. But when he
realized where he was and who he was, he was lying in the deep snow at
the foot of an old fir tree. It was night in the forest, a cold, icy
night, the heavens were illuminated with a deep red glow which centered
in the north and sent up its long, gleaming sheet of flame.
* * * * *
It was summer again, the sultry July days were half over.
The forest trees cast long, cool shadows from their green and sombre
depths, while the sunbeams danced in and out among the branches through
all the silent, bright days.
Ostwalden, the estate which Herbert von Wallmoden had purchased
immediately before his death, had been empty and deserted until within
the past few days, when the young widow, accompanied by her
sister-in-law, Frau von Eschenhagen, had arrived. Adelheid had left the
South German capital soon after her husband's death, and had gone to her
old home accompanied by her brother, who had hastened to her side as
soon as he heard of the sad accident. Her short marriage had only lasted
eight months and now in her twentieth year she wore the weeds of
widowhood.
Regine had been easily persuaded to accompany her sister-in-law. She had
never changed her ultimatum regarding her return to Burgsdorf, and it is
needless to add, Willibald had not changed. Adelheid asked her to go
home with her and she had gone, feeling that her threat had as yet borne
no fruit.
Frau von Eschenhagen believed she could effect a revolution of feeling
in Willibald's heart by this move. But his newly acquired firmness had
not been fleeting, though he tried every argument to persuade his mother
to return to Burgsdorf and to think kindly of his future wife--but all
to no purpose. Regine had no thought of yielding an inch, and now,
mother and son had not seen one another for many months.
There had been no formal betrothal to Marietta. Willibald felt that he
owed his cousin and uncle the consideration of not having a second
betrothal follow so closely upon the first. Then Marietta's contract
with the Court theatre bound her for the next six months, and as her
engagement was a secret there, it was thought advisable to keep it so
until she had left the theatre forever. The young singer had but just
returned to her grandfather's house, where Willibald was also expected
soon. Frau von Eschenhagen knew nothing of all this, or she would hardly
have accepted an invitation which brought her into the neighborhood of
Waldhofen.
The day had been hot and sunny, but the late afternoon hours brought a
refreshing breeze, and swayed the drooping branches of the trees which
overhung and shaded the road leading from Ostwalden through the Rodeck
forest. Along this road, two men were trotting their horses; the one in
gray jacket and hunting cap was the head forester, Herr von Schönau, the
other in a light summer riding suit, which set off his slender figure
to advantage, was Prince Adelsberg. They had met accidentally, and soon
discovered that they were bound for the same place.
"I did not dream of meeting your Highness here," said Schönau. "I
understood you were not coming to Rodeck at all this summer. I saw
Stadinger day before yesterday and he certainly didn't expect you then."
"Stadinger made a great hue and cry because I came upon him so
unexpectedly," answered the prince. "To hear him you'd think it was his
own castle and I was intruding. And then I walked from the station, and
he considered that a most undignified proceeding. But the heat at Ostend
was unbearable; the sun just poured down on the strand, and an
irresistible longing came over me for my own cool forest home. Thank the
Lord, I am rid of the heat and noise of that Babel at last."
His Highness had not cared in this instance to tell the truth. A certain
attraction in his immediate neighborhood, of which he heard
accidentally, had started him from the North Sea at a moment's notice.
Stadinger in a report which he sent his master concerning certain
matters at Rodeck, had mentioned that preparations were being made at
Ostwalden for the reception of the young widow. And it was in
consequence of his own gossipy letter that the steward was disagreeably
surprised by the prince's sudden appearance. The head forester seemed
somewhat sceptical about the prince's fancy for his "cool forest home,"
for he said banteringly:
"Then I am greatly surprised that our Court remains so long at Ostend.
The duke and duchess are there, and Princess Sophie with a royal niece,
a kinswoman of her late husband, I hear."
"Yes, with her niece." Prince Egon turned suddenly and looked at his
companion.
"Herr von Schönau, I see you are about to congratulate me. If you do
I'll demand satisfaction on the spot, right here in the middle of the
forest."
"I don't intend to get into any difficulty with you," laughed his
hearer. "But the papers speak very openly of an impending betrothal at
Court, and that the duchess and Princess Sophie are charmed with the
prospect."
"My beloved aunt has many desires which I fear will never be gratified,"
said the prince, coolly. "Her obedient nephew doesn't always fall in
with her views, and that's the case in this affair. I went to Ostend
because I had to; in other words, because the duke invited me, and I
could not refuse; but the air did not agree with me, and I prize my
health above all things. I didn't feel well from the first, so at last I
resolved--"
"To break loose," interrupted the head forester. "That was very like
your highness, but how will you calm your kinsfolk at Court?"
"Oh, well, I can make it all right with them if they feel aggrieved. As
far as that goes," continued the prince, with seeming frankness, "I made
up my mind last winter to spend part of the summer here, and when
Stadinger wrote me that some alterations were going on, I determined to
come on to Rodeck myself to superintend them."
"Superintend the putting up of a new chimney?" questioned the head
forester in surprise. "The old one smoked last winter, so Stadinger
determined to put in a new one, but that don't require any attention
from you."
"What does Stadinger know about it ?" said the prince angrily. He wished
the "old bear" would hold his tongue about what went on at Rodeck. "I
have many changes in view. We are pretty near our destination, I see."
With that he started his horse on at a faster gait, and the head
forester followed his example, for Ostwalden lay before them. The great
building which Herr von Wallmoden would have made so magnificent, had he
lived, was an old, rambling castle, with two high towers, one on either
side, which gave the building a very picturesque appearance, surrounded
as it was by a wild, partially overgrown park. The present mistress of
the place, so it was said, intended to make few changes, but she would
not sell the place. What mattered a country-seat more or less to the
heiress of the Stahlberg millions.
The gentlemen found on their arrival that Frau von Wallmoden was walking
in the park, and Frau von Eschenhagen was in her room. The young prince
announced that he would seek the lady of the house, while the head
forester turned his steps toward his sister-in-law's room.
He had not seen Regine since the previous winter. As he entered the room
he said in his wonted hearty manner:
"Here I am. I didn't think it worth while being announced to my
sister-in-law, although she does avoid my house with contempt. I don't
believe in hunting pretexts for quarrels, so have ridden over in this
hot sun to have an explanation."
Regine reached out her hand to him. A passing glance would reveal no
change in her in these last six or seven months; she was the same
strong, determined woman as ever. But there was a change, nevertheless.
Heretofore her severity and harshness had always been tempered by a
certain winning cheerfulness, but that was gone now. She had not
yielded, but--she had suffered. She was estranged, perhaps forever, from
her only son, who was the idol of her mother's heart.
"I have nothing against you, Moritz," she said heartily. "I knew you
would be true to the old friendship in spite of all that you and your
daughter were made to suffer; but of course it is very painful for me to
go to Fürstenstein; you must see that."
"On account of the broken engagement? Well you can console yourself
about that. You saw and heard at the time how good naturedly Toni took
the matter. She played the _rôle_ of guardian angel much better than
that of sweetheart, and she wrote you several times that she had no
regrets and so did I. But, I am sorry to say, our assurances have
amounted to nothing."
"No, but I know how to appreciate your rare generosity."
"Rare generosity!" repeated her brother-in-law laughing. "Well, perhaps
a jilted bride and her father do not always want to speak a good word
for a recreant lover, but that is not the case this time, and who knows
but we may be able to persuade the mother to see as we do. Toni and I
have both remarked that Will never was a man until now, and
that--forgive me, Regine, but I must say it--he owes his manhood to
little Marietta."
Frau von Eschenhagen's brow darkened at this remark; she did not see fit
to answer it though, but showed that she wanted to avoid further
discussion by asking, in a changed tone:
"Has Toni come back yet? I heard from Adelheid that she had been
visiting in the city, but was expected any day."
Herr von Schönau, who in the meantime had ensconced himself in a
comfortable chair, answered:
"Yes, she came home yesterday--and with an escort, too. She brought a
young man with her who was to be her future husband, she declared, and
as he declared so too, with great positiveness, there was nothing left
me but to say, yes and Amen."
"What's that? Toni engaged again?" exclaimed Frau Regine in surprise.
"Yes, this time she did it all herself. I knew nothing of it. But you
see, she took it into her head that she must be loved to distraction;
nothing less romantic would do for her. Well, Herr von Walldorf seems to
answer all her requirements. He related to me with the greatest
satisfaction how he fell on his knees and assured her he could not live
without her, and how she gave him a similar touching assurance, with
more to the same effect. Yes, Regine, the day has gone by when we can
keep the children in leading strings. When they get ready, they want to
choose their own partners for life and I must say they're not far
wrong."
The last sentence was uttered with seeming carelessness, but Regine
understand it fully. Thoughtfully she repeated:
"Walldorf? The name is strange to me. When did Toni meet him?"
"He is a friend of my son and came home with him on his last visit. As a
result of that visit, I met the mother, and she invited Toni to spend a
few weeks with her, and that's where all the courting was done. But I
have no reason to feel dissatisfied. Walldorf's a handsome fellow, and
lively, and head over heels in love; he seems a little light and frothy
now, but that will disappear when he gets a sensible wife like Toni.
These model sons are not always to my taste; they get too skittish when
they break loose. We have an example of that in Will. Walldorf will
resign in the Autumn. I won't have my Toni marrying a lieutenant; I will
buy them an estate and they will be married at Christmas."
"I am greatly rejoiced on Toni's account," said Frau von Eschenhagen,
heartily. "You take a great load from my heart by this news."
"And now," said the head forester, nodding to her, "you should follow my
example and take a load from the heart of another betrothed couple. Be
reasonable, Regine, and give in. Little Marietta is a dear, good girl,
if she has sung in a theatre. Every one speaks highly of her. You need
never be ashamed of your daughter-in-law."
Regine rose suddenly and pushed her chair back with a violent movement.
"I beg you, Moritz, once for all, to spare me such requests. I will
stand by my word. Willibald knows the conditions under which I shall
return to Burgsdorf. If he does not fulfill them, we are better apart."
"It will be a long time before he will do that," said her
brother-in-law, dryly. "When a man is asked to abandon the woman he
loves for a mother's whim, he's not apt to do it if he's made of the
right stuff."
"You express yourself very freely," said Frau Regine, angrily. "But what
does a man know of a mother's love or of the gratitude of children? You
are all an ungrateful, heedless, selfish--"
"Hold! I have something to say for my own sex," von Schönau began
excitedly. Suddenly, however, he leaned forward and said in a changed
tone:
"We haven't seen each other for seven months, Regine, so don't let's
quarrel the very first day we meet. We can do that any time, you know.
We won't discuss that obstinate heir of Burgsdorf, but speak of
ourselves. How do you like life in the city? To me you hardly seem
contented."
"I am very well contented," declared Regine with great decision. "All I
miss is the work; I am not accustomed to an idle life."
"Of course you miss it. You always have been at the head of a great
establishment, and that's where you should be now, so I--"
"Don't begin again, I beg you."
"No, I don't mean Burgsdorf this time," said von Schönau, looking down
at his riding boots. "I only meant--you're all alone in the city, and
I'm all alone at Fürstenstein, and when Toni marries, it will be very
weary. Would it not be better--oh, I've said it all to you
before--perhaps you won't, perhaps you have a better offer in view,
but--wouldn't it be better to have a triple instead of a double
marriage?"
Frau von Eschenhagen looked darkly on the ground and shook her head.
"No, Moritz, I never was less in the humor for marrying than now."
"Another refusal !" cried the head forester impatiently. "This makes the
second time. First you would not have me because you had your son and
your beloved Burgsdorf to look after, now you won't have me because you
are not in the humor. Humors have nothing to do with marrying, only
common sense; but when a woman hasn't any sense, and is too stubborn
to--"
"You're in a very flattering mood, I must say," interrupted Regine,
thoroughly aroused now. "It would be a very peaceful marriage, with you
wagging your sharp tongue all the time."
"It wouldn't be peaceful. I never expected that," Schönau declared, "but
neither would it be monotonous. I believe we could endure one another.
Now, once for all, Regine, will you have me or will you not?"
"No, I don't care to enter into a marriage of endurance."
"So be it!" cried the head forester, furious now as he jumped up and
seized his hat. "If it gives you such pleasure to be eternally saying
no, why say it. Willibald will marry and he is right, and now I'll do
everything to hurry on his marriage just to annoy you." So saying he
left the room in a violent temper, slamming the door behind him as he
went, while Frau Regine remained behind equally irritated. These two
were apparently fated to quarrel whenever they met; it seemed a
necessity of their natures, but no quarrel was so bitter that peace
could not be established at their next meeting.
In the meantime Prince Adelsberg had found Frau von Wallmoden in the
park. He begged her to continue her walk, and now the two were
sauntering under the cool dark shadows of the great lindens, whose
spreading branches protected them from the sun's rays, which beat down
so fiercely on the neighboring meadows.
Egon had not seen the young wife since her husband's death. He had made
a formal visit of condolence at that time, but Eugen Stahlberg had
received him in his sister's stead, and immediately after the brother
and sister had left for the North. Adelheid still wore deep mourning,
but Prince Egon thought the sombre attire and black veil under which her
fair hair gleamed like a halo, only enhanced her beauty.
His glance frequently sought the fair young face, and each time he asked
himself what change had come over it; he felt there was a change, but
could not define wherein it lay. Egon had only seen her when her cold,
proud reserve held every one in check. Now all coldness had disappeared,
he saw and felt it, and yet there seemed a mystery about her which he
could not unravel.
She could not be grieving for a husband old enough to be her father,
who, even had he been nearer her own age, was of a cold, guarded nature,
and could not inspire the love of a fresh young girl. And yet there was
something in the face which told of sorrow, of a deep and voiceless woe.
"If this icy exterior could be broken through one would find warmth and
life beneath," Prince Egon had declared more than once, half jestingly.
Now this transformation had been partially effected, slowly, almost
imperceptibly. But this soft, half-pained expression, which had taken
the place of the haughty, cold one, this sorrowful glance, gave the
young widow the one charm which had been lacking--gentleness.
The conversation had been about trifling every-day matters, inquiries
and answers concerning the court and the harmless gossip of the day.
Egon repeated the story he had already related to the head forester
about the heat of Ostend, and his desire for solitude in his little
woodland home. His listener's fleeting smile showed him that she was as
incredulous as Herr von Schönau had been; perhaps she too had read the
newspaper statements concerning the royal niece at Ostend. He was angry,
and was puzzling his brain to know how he could broach the subject, and
correct the error into which the papers had led her, when Adelheid asked
suddenly:
"Will your highness be alone all summer at Rodeck? Last year you had a
guest with you."
A shadow darkened the prince's face, and he forgot the correction which
he was about to make concerning his reported betrothal.
"You mean Hartmut Rojanow ?" he said very seriously. "He will scarcely
join me; he is in Sicily at present, or was, at least, a couple of
months ago. Since then I have not heard from him, and don't even know
where to write."
Frau von Wallmoden stooped to pluck a flower which grew in her way, as
she said quietly:
"I believed you were in constant correspondence with one another."
"I hoped to be when we parted, but the fault is not on my side. Hartmut
has become an unsolvable riddle to me lately. You witnessed the
glittering success of his 'Arivana' on that first night; which success
has been repeated in many cities since then; the drama has fairly taken
the people by storm, and the poet who has done it all flees from the
world, even from me, and buries himself, God knows where. I cannot
understand it. Upon my soul, I cannot understand it."
Adelheid plucked the petals of her flower as they walked on slowly, then
said in a low tone, as she looked with intense interest into the
prince's face:
"And when did Herr Rojanow leave Germany?"
"In the beginning of December. Shortly before that he had gone to Rodeck
to spend a few days; that was immediately after 'Arivana' was brought
out. I thought it was a whim of the moment and said little, but suddenly
he came back to me in the city in a state of excitement which fairly
frightened me, and announced that he was going to leave Germany and
travel. He wouldn't listen to reason, wouldn't answer a question, and
was off like a thunder-bolt. He had been gone weeks before I heard from
him again; since then I have had some letters, few and far between. He
was in Greece for several months, then he went to Sicily, and now for
two months I have been waiting anxiously for news."
Egon spoke in an anxious tone. No need to ask how painfully this
separation from his dearest friend affected him.
He little knew that the woman by his side could have solved the riddle
for him. She knew what drove poor, unsatisfied Hartmut from land to
land, knew the blemish that soiled the poet's name. This was the first
news she had heard of him since that fatal night at Rodeck, when all had
been revealed to her.
"I presume poets are formed of different clay from common mortals," she
said slowly, as she scattered the leaves before her. "That's the only
reason one can ascribe for their vagaries."
The young prince shook his head sadly.
"No, it is not that; his peculiarities spring from some other source. I
have felt confident for a long time that there is something dark and
mysterious in Hartmut's life, but I never could ascertain what it was.
He would allow no allusions to his past. I have often broached the
subject, but he resented all reference to it. There seems to be a
veritable sword of Damocles hanging over him, and when in some happy
moment he thinks he has escaped, he looks up, and there it hangs as
usual gleaming above his head. I was more impressed than ever with that
idea when he last parted from me, he was so excited--almost
insane--nothing could hold him back. I cannot tell you how sad I am
about him. For more than two years we lived together. I learnt to know
and appreciate his warm heart, and responsive, genial nature. Now
everything is desolate and dreary without him, and all the rich coloring
seems to have gone out of my life."
They had reached the limit of the park and remained standing for a
moment now. Before them lay a long stretch of meadow with a hot
afternoon sun streaming down on it, while a background of forest-clad
mountains rose high and green in the distance. Adelheid had listened
silently, and now her sad glance rested on the far mountain heights.
Suddenly she turned and held out her hand to her companion.
"I believe you to be a very self-sacrificing friend. Herr Rojanow should
not desert so true a comrade. Perhaps you could save him from
this--sword of Damocles."
Egon could hardly credit his senses.
This warm hand pressure, the sad, tender glance from the eyes brimming
with tears, and the almost passionate earnestness with which she spoke,
surprised and enchanted him. He grasped her hand and pressed it with
fervor to his lips.
"If I could ever do anything for Hartmut, I would do it gladly. Rest
assured your plea for him will spur me on. While I am here you must
allow me the neighborly privilege of coming to Ostwalden frequently. Do
not say no for I am all alone at Rodeck, and I came here solely for the
purpose--"
He stopped suddenly, feeling that the time had not yet come when he
could reveal to her why he had come, and he saw that no such confession
would avail him now. Adelheid drew her hand back quickly, and stepped
back; for a moment the old icy manner was upon her again.
"Of avoiding the heat and noise of Ostend; so you have already
explained." She said very coldly.
"That was only a pretext," responded the prince earnestly. "I left
Ostend because of certain reports which were being circulated concerning
me. When I saw myself figuring in the newspapers, I determined to make
an end of it. These reports were altogether groundless, as far as I was
concerned. I give you my word for it, Baroness."
He had at least taken advantage of this opportunity to explain how
untrue were all rumors concerning his engagement to his aunt Sophie's
niece. Frau von Wallmoden was distant and formal as she replied:
"Why does your Highness deem it necessary to make this declaration to
me? It was only a report, I fancy. It is understood, I believe, that you
have resolved never to give up your freedom. I think we must return to
the castle now? You say my brother-in-law has come with you, and I must
see him."
Egon turned with her, and as they sauntered back resumed his light,
gossipy chatter. As soon as possible he made some excuse for leaving,
and as Adelheid bade him good-bye, she gave him a courteous invitation
to call again, and that was to him the important thing.
"My cursed hastiness!" he muttered, as he rode away. "I'll keep away for
a couple of weeks. As soon as any one approaches a step near, she turns
into ice again"--but here the prince's face lighted--"but the ice is
beginning to melt. I saw it and felt it in her tone and glance. I will
have patience--the prize is worth a struggle!"
Egon von Adelsberg little thought that every glance, every tone had been
inspired by the memory of another, and that the invitation to repeat his
visit had only been spoken because the fair chatelaine of Ostwalden
hoped to hear from her guest the news of a distant wanderer.