At this moment the door opened and the butler entered, bearing upon a
waiter a card. He presented it to Hartmut, who refused it with an
impatient gesture.
"Did I not tell you that I did not wish to see any one else to-day? I
wish to remain undisturbed."
"I told the gentleman so," replied the servant, "but he begged me to at
least give you his name--Willibald von Eschenhagen."
Hartmut started suddenly from his reclining position. He could not
believe that he had heard aright.
"What is the gentleman's name?"
"Von Eschenhagen--here is the card."
"Ah, let him enter, instantly!"
The servant departed, and Willibald entered the next moment, but
remained standing at the door in uncertainty. Hartmut had sprung up and
looked toward him. Yes, there were the same familiar features--the
dear, well-known face, the honest blue eyes of his friend, and with the
passionate cry, "Willy--my dear old Willy, is it you! You come to me?"
he threw himself stormily upon his breast.
The young lord, who had no idea how strangely his appearance at this
moment fitted into his friend's dreams of his youth, was most perplexed
over this reception. He remembered how domineering Hartmut had always
been to him, and how he had made him feel his mental inferiority at
every opportunity. He had thought yesterday that the highly honored
author of Arivana would be still more imperious and haughty, and now he
found an overflowing tenderness.
"Are you glad, then, at my coming, Hartmut?" he asked, still somewhat
doubtful. "I was almost afraid it would not be acceptable."
"Not acceptable, when I see you now after a lapse of ten long years!"
cried Hartmut reproachfully, and he drew his friend down beside him,
questioning him and covering him so with affection that Willy lost all
embarrassment and also returned to the old familiarity. He said that he
was in town for only three days and that he was on his way to
Furstenstein.
"Oh, yes; you are betrothed," joined in Rojanow. "I heard at Rodeck who
was to be the Chief Forester's son-in-law, and have also seen Fraulein
von Schonan. Let me congratulate you with all my heart."
Willibald accepted the good wishes with a peculiar face, and looked to
the floor as he replied, half audibly: "Yes, but to tell the truth,
mamma made the engagement."
"I should have known that," said Hartmut, laughing, "but you have at
least said 'Yes' without being forced?"
Willy did not answer. He studied the carpet intently and suddenly asked
quite disconnectedly: "Hartmut, how do you do when you compose poetry?"
"How do I do?" Hartmut with an effort suppressed his laughter. "Really
that is not easy to tell. I do not believe that I can explain it
sufficiently."
"Yes, it is a funny condition to make poetry," assented the young man
with a sad shake of the head. "I experienced it last night when I
returned from the theatre."
"What! You compose poetry?"
"And such poetry!" cried Willy in high satisfaction, but added in
somewhat subdued tones: "Only I cannot find rhymes, and it also sounds
quite different from your verses. To tell the truth, it did not run
right, and I want to ask you how you do the affair. You know it is not
to be anything grand like your Arivana--only just a little poem."
"Of course to 'her,'" finished Hartmut.
"Yes, to her," assented the young lord with a deep breath, and now his
listener laughed aloud.
"You are a model son, Willy, one must confess. It does happen sometimes
that one is betrothed at paternal or maternal command, but you
dutifully fall in love with your bride-elect besides, and even compose
poetry to her."
"But it is not to the right one," exclaimed Willibald suddenly, with
such a strained expression that Rojanow looked at him in perplexity. He
really believed that his friend was not in his senses; and Willibald
must also have felt that he was making a peculiar impression. He
therefore began an explanation, but anticipated himself so much and was
so vague, that the affair became only the more tangled.
"In fact, I have had an encounter with a fellow this morning who dared
to insult a young lady--Fraulein Marietta Volkmar, from the Court
Theatre. I knocked him to the ground and I would do it again to him or
to anybody who gets too near Fraulein Volkmar."
He stretched out his arm so threateningly that Hartmut caught it
quickly and restrained him.
"Well, I do not intend to get near her--you can spare me for the
present. But what is Marietta Volkmar to you--the little mirror of
virtue of our opera--who has so far been considered unapproachable?"
"Hartmut, I request that you speak of this lady with reverence. In
short, this Count Westerburg has challenged me. I am going to exchange
shots with him, and hope to give him a good reminder."
"Well, you really are making good progress in romance," said Hartmut,
who listened with ever-increasing interest. "You have been here only
three days and have commenced with a quarrel which ends in a challenge,
and are the knight and protector of a young singer--have a duel for her
sake. Willy, for heaven's sake, what will your mother say?"
"This concerns an affair of honor, and my mother cannot interfere
here," declared Willy with a really heroic effect, "but now I must get
a second here, where I am quite a stranger and do not know a soul.
Uncle Herbert must not hear anything about it, of course, or he would
interfere with the police. So I decided to come to you and ask you if
you would render me this service."
"That was what brought you," said Rojanow, in a tone of painful
disappointment. "I really believed old friendship had done it; but,
nevertheless, of course, I am at your command. What weapons does the
challenge demand?"
"Pistols!"
"Well, you know what to do with them. We practiced often enough with a
target at Burgsdorf, and you were a good shot. I shall look up the
second of your opponent to-morrow morning and send you word then. I
have to do that in writing, as I do not enter the house of Herr von
Wallmoden."
Willy only nodded. He thought Wallmoden's hostility was being
reciprocated, but deemed it best not to make any inquiries upon this
point.
"Very well, just write me," he replied. "Arrange things as seems best
to you; I shall be satisfied with everything; I have no experience in
such things. Here is the address of the second, and now I must go. I
have several things to put in order yet, in case the worst happens."
He arose and extended his hand to his friend in farewell, but Hartmut
took no notice of it. His eyes were fixed on the floor, as he said in
low, hesitating tones: "One thing more, Willy. Burgsdorf is so near
Berlin. Perhaps you often see----"
"Whom?" asked Willibald, as Hartmut paused.
"My--my father."
The young lord became visibly embarrassed at the question. He had
avoided the mention of Falkenried during the conversation, but did not
seem to be aware of his near arrival.
"No," he said, finally; "we hardly ever see the Colonel."
"But does he not come to Burgsdorf as of old?"
"No, he has become very unsocial. But I happened to see him in Berlin
when I went to meet Uncle Herbert."
"And how does he look? Has he aged any during these last years?"
Willibald shrugged his shoulders.
"Of course he has aged; you would hardly recognize him with his white,
hair."
"White hair!" Hartmut burst forth. "He is hardly fifty-two years old.
Has he been ill?"
"Not that I know of. It came quite suddenly--in a few months--at the
time when he asked for his discharge."
Hartmut blanched, and his eyes were strained fixedly upon the speaker.
"My father sought a discharge? He who is a soldier through, body and
soul; to whom his vocation---- In what year was it?"
"It did not come to an issue," said Willy, pacifyingly; "they did not
let him go, but removed him to a distant garrison, and he has been in
the Ministry of War for three years."
"But he wanted to leave--in what year?" panted Rojanow, in a sinking
voice.
"Well, at the time of your disappearance. He believed his honor
demanded it, and, Hartmut, you ought not to have done that to your
father--not that. He almost died from it."
Hartmut made no answer, no attempt to defend himself; but his breast
heaved in deep, unsteady breaths.
"We will not speak of it," said Willibald, stopping short; "it cannot
be changed now. I shall expect your letter to-morrow. Get everything in
order. Good night."
Hartmut did not seem to hear the words--did not notice the departure of
his friend. He stood there immovable, with eyes on the floor, and only
after Willibald had long disappeared did he straighten himself slowly
and draw his hand across his brow.
"He wished to leave!" he murmured; "to leave the army because he
thought his honor demanded it. No--no, not yet. I must go to Rodeck."
The honored poet, upon whose brow Fate was pressing the first laurel
wreath--who only yesterday had challenged the whole world in this
victorious knowledge--dared not meet the eye of his father. He fled
into solitude.