On other occasions the Prince fell to talking mysteriously about the "Owl Chamber" in the Old Schloss, and confided to her that recently noises had again been heard in it, pointing to events of moment in his, Klaus Heinrich's, family. Then Imma Spoelmann laughed, and, pouting and wagging her head from side to side, gave him a scientific explanation of the noises, just as she had done in connexion with the secrets of the barometer. Nonsense, she said; it must be that that part of the lumber-room was ellipsoidal, and a second ellipsoidal surface with the same curvature and with a sound-source at the focus existed somewhere outside, the result being that inside the haunted room noises were audible which could not be distinguished in the immediate neighbourhood.

Klaus Heinrich was rather crestfallen over this explanation, and loath to give up the common belief in the connexion between the lumber-room and the fortunes of his house.

Thus they conversed, and the Countess too took part, now sensible, now confused; Klaus Heinrich took considerable pains not to rebuff or chill her by his manner, and addressed her as "Frau Meier" whenever she appeared to think it necessary for her protection against the plots of the wicked women. He recounted to the ladies his unreal life, the gala suppers at the students' clubs, the military banquets, and his educational tour; he told them about his relations, about his once-beautiful mother, whom he visited now and then in the "Segenhaus,"

where she kept dismal court, and about Albrecht and Ditlinde. Imma Spoelmann in her turn related some incidents in her luxurious and singular youth, and the Countess often slipped in a few dark sayings about the horrors and secrets of life, to which the others listened with serious and thoughtful faces.

They took special delight in one kind of game--guessing existences, making estimates to the best of their knowledge of the people they happened to see in the citizen world--a strange and curious study of the pa.s.sers-by from a distant standpoint, from the terrace or from horseback. What kind of young people might these be? What did they do?

Where did they come from? They were certainly not apprentices, perhaps technical students or budding foresters, to judge by certain signs; maybe they belonged to the agricultural college; at any rate stout fellows enough, though rather rough, with sound careers before them. But that little untidy thing who strolled past looked like a factory hand or dressmaker's a.s.sistant. Girls like her always had a young man in their own cla.s.s, who took them out to tea in the parks on Sundays. And they exchanged what they knew about people in general, discussed them like connoisseurs, and felt that this pastime brought them closer together than any amount of riding or lawn tennis.

As for the motor drive, Imma Spoelmann in the course of it explained that she had only invited Klaus Heinrich to it so as to let him see the chauffeur, a young American in brown leather, who, she declared, resembled the Prince. Klaus Heinrich objected with a smile that the back of the driver's neck did not enable him to express an opinion on the matter, and asked the Countess to say what she thought. She, after long denying the likeness in polite embarra.s.sment, at last, on Imma's insistence, with a side glance at Klaus Heinrich, agreed to it.

Then Miss Spoelmann said that the grave, sober, and skilful youth had originally been in her father's personal service, driving him daily from Fifth Avenue to Broadway and back. Mr. Spoelmann, however, had insisted on extraordinary speed, like that of an express train, and the intense strain put upon a driver by such speed in the crowded streets of New York had proved at last too much for the youth. As a matter of fact no accident had happened; the young man had stuck to it and done his deadly duty with amazing care. But in the end it had often happened that he had to be lifted down in a faint from his seat at the end of a run--a proof of the inordinate strain to which he had been daily subjected. To avoid having to dismiss him, Mr. Spoelmann had made him his daughter's special chauffeur, and he had continued to act in that capacity in their new abode.

Imma had noticed the likeness between Klaus Heinrich and him the first time she saw the Prince. It was of course a similarity not of features, but of expression. The Countess had agreed with her. Klaus Heinrich said that he did not in the least object to the likeness, as the heroic young man had all his sympathy. They then discussed further the difficult and anxious life of a chauffeur, without Countess Lowenjoul taking any further part in the conversation. She did not prattle during this drive, though later she made a few sensible and pointed remarks.

For the rest, Mr. Spoelmann's craze for speed seemed to have descended in some measure to his daughter, for she never lost an opportunity of repeating the wild gallop she had started on their first ride; and as Klaus Heinrich, stimulated by her gibes, urged the amazed and disapproving Florian to the top of his speed, so as not to be left behind, the gallop always degenerated into a race, which Imma Spoelmann always started at unexpected and arbitrary moments. Several of these struggles took place on the lonely river-edged causeway, and one in particular was long and bitter. It happened after a short talk about Klaus Heinrich's popularity, which was begun brusquely, and broken off as brusquely, by Imma Spoelmann. She asked suddenly: "Is it true what I hear, Prince, that you are so tremendously popular with the people? That you have won all their hearts?"

He answered: "So they say. It must be some characteristics, not necessarily good ones. What's more, I'm not sure whether I believe it, or even ought to be glad of it. I doubt whether it speaks for me. My brother, the Grand Duke, declares in so many words that popularity is hog-wash."

"H'm, the Grand Duke must be a fine man: I've got a great respect for him. So we see you in an atmosphere of adulation, and everybody loves you ... go on!" she cried suddenly, and gave Fatma a cut with her white switch. The mare started, and the race began.

It lasted a long time. Never before had they followed the stream so far.

The view on the left had long become shut in. Lumps of earth and gra.s.s flew from under the horses' hoofs. The Countess had soon dropped behind.

When at last they reined in their horses, Florian was trembling with exhaustion, and the riders themselves were pale and panting. They rode back in silence.

Klaus Heinrich received a visit at the "Hermitage" from Raoul Ueberbein the afternoon before his birthday this year. The Doctor came to wish him many happy returns, as he expected to be prevented by his work from doing so on the morrow. They strolled round the gravel path at the back of the park, the tutor in his frock-coat and white tie, Klaus Heinrich in his summer coat. The gra.s.s stood ready for cutting under the perpendicular rays of the midday sun, and the limes were in flower. In one corner, close by the hedge which divided the park from the unlovely suburbs, stood a little rustic temple.

Klaus Heinrich was telling of his visits to "Delphinenort," as this topic lay nearest his heart. He spoke quite clearly about them, but did not tell the doctor any actual news, for the latter showed that he knew all about them. How was that? Oh, from various sources. Ueberbein had never started the subject. So people in the town concern themselves about it?

"Heaven forbid, Klaus Heinrich, that anybody should give a thought to it, either to the rides, or to the teas, or to the motor drive. You don't suppose that that sort of thing is expected to set tongues wagging!"

"But we're so careful!"

"'We' is rich, Klaus Heinrich, and so is the carefulness. All the same, his Excellency von k.n.o.belsdorff keeps himself accurately posted in all your goings-on."

"k.n.o.belsdorff?"

"k.n.o.belsdorff."

Klaus Heinrich was silent; then asked: "And what is Baron k.n.o.belsdorff's att.i.tude towards what he learns?"

"Well, the old gentleman hasn't yet had a chance of interfering in the developments."

"But the public opinion?--the people?"

"The people of course hold their breath."

"And you, you yourself, my dear Doctor Ueberbein?"

"I'm waiting for the tureen-lid," answered the doctor.

"No!" cried Klaus Heinrich joyfully. "No, there'll be no tureen-lid this time, Doctor Ueberbein, for I am happy, oh so happy, whatever happens--can you understand? You taught me that happiness was no concern of mine, and you pulled me up short when I tried to come by it; and right thankful I was to you for doing so, for it was horrible, and I shall never forget it. But this is no case of high jinks at a citizens'

dance, which leave one humiliated and heavy at heart; this is no breaking out and running off the rails and humiliation! For can't you see that she of whom we are speaking belongs neither to the citizens'

dance, nor to the aristocratic 'Pheasants,' nor to anything in the world but to me--that she is a Princess, Doctor Ueberbein, and as good as me, and there can be no question here of a tureen-lid? You have taught me that it is silly to maintain that we're all only ordinary men, and hopeless for me to act as if we were, and that the happiness I would gain by doing so is forbidden to me and must bring me to shame in the end. But this is not that silly and forbidden happiness. It is my first taste of the happiness which is allowed me, and which I may hope for, Doctor Ueberbein, and yield myself to without misgiving, whatever comes of it...."

"Good-bye, Prince Klaus Heinrich," said Doctor Ueberbein, though he did not at once leave him, but continued walking at his side with his hands clasped behind him and his red beard sunk on his breast.

"No," said Klaus Heinrich. "No, not good-bye, Doctor Ueberbein. That's just it. I mean to remain your friend, you who have had such a hard time, and have shown such pride in your duty and destiny, and have made me proud too in treating me as a companion. I have no intention of resting on my oars, now that I have found happiness, but will remain true to you and to myself and to my exalted calling...."

"It cannot be," said Doctor Ueberbein in Latin, and shook his ugly head with its protruding, pointed ears.

"It can be, Doctor. I'm sure it can, they're not incompatible. And you, you ought not to show yourself so cold and distant at my side, when I am so happy, and, what's more, it's the eve of my birthday. Tell me--you've had so many experiences and seen so much of the world in all its aspects--have you never had any experiences in this direction? You know what I mean--have you never had an attack like this of mine?"

"H'm," said Doctor Ueberbein, and pressed his lips together, till his red beard rose, and the muscles knotted in his cheeks. "No doubt I may have had one once, _sub rosa_."

"I thought so! Tell me about it, Doctor Ueberbein. You must tell me about it!"

The hour was one of quiet sunshine, and the air full of the scent of limes. So Doctor Ueberbein related an incident in his career on which he had never touched in previous accounts, though it had perhaps a decisive influence on his whole life. It had occurred in those early days when the Doctor was teacher of the young idea and at the same time working on his own account, when he used to draw in his waist-belt and give private lessons to sleek tradesmen's children, so as to get money to buy books with. With his hands still behind him and his beard sunk on his breast, the doctor related the incident in a sharp and incisive tone of voice, pressing his lips close together between each sentence.

At that date fate had forged the closest ties between him and a woman, a lovely, fair lady who was the wife of an honourable and respected man and the mother of three children. He had entered the family as tutor to the children, but had subsequently been a constant guest and visitor, and with the husband too had reached a footing of mutual confidences.

The feelings of the young tutor and the fair wife for each other had been long unsuspected, and longer still unexpressed in words; but they grew stronger in the silence, and more overpowering, till one evening hour when the husband had stayed late at his office, a warm, sweet, dangerous hour, they burst into flames and were near to overwhelm them.

In that hour their longing had cried aloud for the happiness, the tremendous happiness, of their union; but, said Doctor Ueberbein, the world could sometimes show a n.o.ble action. They felt ashamed, he said, to tread the mean and ridiculous path of treachery, and to "clap horns,"

as the phrase goes, on the honest husband; while to spoil his life by demanding release from him as the right of pa.s.sion was equally not to their taste. In short, for the children's sake and for that of the good, honest husband, whom they both respected, they denied themselves. Yes, that's what happened, but of course it needed a good deal of stern resolution. Ueberbein continued to visit the fair lady's house occasionally. He would sup there, when he had time, play a game of cards with his two friends, kiss his hostess's hand, and say good night.

But when he had told the Prince this much, he concluded in a still shorter and sharper tone than he had begun, and the b.a.l.l.s of muscle at the corners of his mouth showed more prominently than before. For the hour which saw their act of renunciation, in that hour Ueberbein had said a final farewell to all happiness--"dalliance with happiness," as he had since called it. As he failed, or refused, to win the fair lady, he swore to himself that he would honour her, and the bonds which bound him to her, by achieving something and making himself felt in the field of hard work. To this he had dedicated his life, to this alone, and it had brought him to what he was. That was the secret, or at least a contribution of the riddle of Ueberbein's unsociability, unapproachableness, and earnest endeavour. Klaus Heinrich was quite frightened to see how unusually green his face was when he took his leave with a deep bow, saying: "My greetings to little Imma, Klaus Heinrich."

Next day the Prince received the congratulations of the staff at the Schloss, and later those of Herr von Braunbart-Sch.e.l.lendorf and von Schulenburg-Tressen in the Yellow Room. In the course of the morning the members of the Grand Ducal House came to the "Hermitage" to pay their respects, and at one o'clock Klaus Heinrich drove to luncheon with Prince and Princess zu Ried-Hohenried, meeting with an unusually warm reception from the public on the way. The Grimmburgers were mustered in full force in the pretty palace in the Albrechtstra.s.se. The Grand Duke too came, in a frock-coat, nodded his small head to each member of the party, sucking his lower lip against his upper the while, and drank milk-and-soda during lunch. Almost immediately after lunch was finished he withdrew. Prince Lambert had come without his wife. The old habitue of the ballet was painted, hollow-cheeked, and slovenly, and his voice sounded sepulchral. He was to some extent ignored by his relations.

During luncheon the conversation turned for a while on Court matters, then on little Princess Philippine's progress, and later almost exclusively on Prince Philipp's commercial schemes. The quiet little man talked about his breweries, factories, and mills, and in particular about his peat-cuttings. He described various improvements in the machinery, quoted figures of capital invested and returns, and his cheeks glowed, while his wife's relations listened to him with looks of curiosity, approval, or mockery.

When coffee had been served in the big flower-room, the Princess, holding her gilded cup, went up to her brother and said: "You have quite deserted us lately, Klaus Heinrich."

Ditlinde's face with the Grimmburg cheek-bones was not so transparent as it had once been. It had gained more colour since the birth of her daughter, and her head seemed to be less oppressed by the weight of her fair hair.

"Have I deserted you?" he said. "Forgive me, Ditlinde, perhaps I have.

But there were so many calls on my time, and I knew that there were on yours too; for you are no longer confined to flowers."

"True, the flowers have had to take a less prominent place, they don't get much thought from me now. A fairer life and flowering now occupies all my time. I believe that's where I have got my red cheeks from, like dear Philipp from his peat (he ought not to have talked about it the whole of luncheon, as he did; but it's his hobby), and it is because I was so busy and rushed that I was not cross with you for never showing yourself and for going your own way, even though that way seemed to me rather a surprising one."

"Do you know what it is, Ditlinde?"

"Yes, though unfortunately not from you. But Jettchen Isenschnibbe has kept me well posted--you know she is always a fund of news--and at first I was horribly shocked, I don't deny it. But after all they live in Delphinenort, he has a private physician, and Philipp thinks they are in their way of equal birth with ourselves. I believe I once spoke disparagingly about them, Klaus Heinrich; I said something about a Croesus, if I remember rightly, and made a pun on the word 'taxpayer.'

But if you consider them worthy of your friendship, I've been wrong and of course withdraw my remarks, and will try to think differently about them in future. I promise you. You always loved rummaging," she went on, after he had laughed and kissed her hand, "and I had to do it with you, and my dress (do you remember it--the red velvet?) suffered for it. Now you have to rummage alone, and G.o.d grant, Klaus Heinrich, that it won't bring you any horrible experience."

"I really believe, Ditlinde, that every experience is fine, whether it be good or bad. But my present experience is splendid."

At half-past five the Prince left the "Hermitage" again, in his dogcart, which he drove himself, with a groom at his back. It was warm, and Klaus Heinrich was wearing white trousers with a double-breasted coat. Bowing, he again drove to the town, or more precisely to the Old Schloss. He did not enter the Albrechtstor, however, but drove in through a side door, and across two courtyards till he reached that in which the rose-bush grew.