"Yes, and now we have to go to the Court besides," said Hartmut in a weary voice. The prospect seemed to have no charm for him.

"We must, indeed. The ill.u.s.trious ladies and gentlemen wish also to bring their homage to the poet--my most gracious aunt at their head.

You know she is a kind of _bel-esprit_, and believes to have found a kindred soul in you. Thank G.o.d, she does not order me to her side so continually, and perhaps through this she will forget those unfortunate schemes for my marriage. But you seem to be very unappreciative of the ducal favors which rained upon you yesterday. What is the matter? You hardly answer. Are you not well?"

"I am tired. I wish I could escape all this noise and flee to the quiet of Rodeck."

"Rodeck! Ah, it must be charming there at present, with the November fogs, and the wet, leafless forests! Brrr! a real spook's haunt!"

"Nevertheless, I have a real longing for that gloomy solitude, and I shall go there soon for a few days. I hope you have no objections?"

"I have very many objections to it," exclaimed Egon, indignantly. "What notion is this, I beg of you? Now, when the whole town lifts the poet of Arivana upon the shield, will you withdraw your honored presence and escape all the triumphs and attentions to bury yourself alive in a haunted little forest nook, which is only bearable in sunshine!

Everybody will find it incomprehensible."

"I don't care. I need solitude now. I go to Rodeck."

Egon shook his head. Although he was accustomed to seeing his friend act in this domineering, inconsiderate manner whenever the notion seized him, and had himself spoiled him in this respect with all his might, the present idea seemed too preposterous.

"I believe my most gracious aunt is right," he said half reproachfully, half jestingly. "She remarked yesterday at the theatre, 'Our young poet has caprices like all of his cla.s.s.' I think so, too. What is the matter now, really, Hartmut? Yesterday and to-day you beamed with triumph, and now I have left you hardly an hour, when I find you in a regular attack of melancholy. Have the papers annoyed you? Perhaps it is some malicious, envious critic?"

He pointed to the writing table, where the evening papers lay.

"No, no," returned Rojanow quickly. But he turned his head so that his face was in shadow. "The papers contain only general remarks so far, and they are all flattering. You know that I am subject to such moods, which often overcome me without cause."

"Yes, I know that, but now that good luck overwhelms you on all sides, those moods should absent themselves. But you really look haggard--that comes from the excitement through which both of us have pa.s.sed during these last few weeks."

He bent over his friend with concern, and Hartmut, in rising regret for his brusque manner, stretched out his hand.

"Forgive me, Egon. You must have patience with me--it will pa.s.s off."

"I hope so, for I want to do proud with my poet to-night. But I will go now, so that you can rest. Do not let anybody disturb you. We have still three hours before we have to go."

The Prince left the room. He had not seen the bitter expression trembling around Hartmut's mouth when he spoke of his overwhelming good fortune, and yet he had spoken the truth. Fame was happiness--perhaps the highest in life--and to-day had confirmed the triumph of yesterday, until suddenly, an hour ago, a sharp discord had fallen into the flattering tune.

The young poet had scanned the papers which he found upon his table on his return. They did not contain explicit remarks about Arivana, but recognized unanimously the great success and powerful impression of the work, and promised detailed criticism the next day.

Suddenly, in turning to the last page, Hartmut came upon a name, at the sight of which intense, anxious surprise overwhelmed him.

The next moment, however, he recognized that he was not the one concerned in the article. It stated that the last journey of the Prussian Amba.s.sador to Berlin seemed to have been of greater importance than was at first supposed. In an audience with the Duke immediately after his return, Herr von Wallmoden had apparently brought some very important things to light; and now, a high-standing Prussian officer, who was the bearer of important messages to His Highness, was expected.

It doubtless concerned military matters, and Colonel Hartmut von Falkenried would arrive in a few days.

Hartmut dropped the paper as if it had suddenly become red-hot iron.

His father would come to this place and would certainly hear everything from Wallmoden--_must_ hear everything. The chance of meeting was then very probable.

"When you shall have gained a great, proud future, approach him again and ask if he still dares to despise you."

Zalika had whispered it to her son when he struggled against flight--against the breaking of his word of honor. Now the beginning of his future was made. The name Rojanow already bore the laurel of the poet, and with that the whole past was erased. It should be--it must be! This conviction flashed in the glance which Hartmut had thrown so triumphantly up to the Amba.s.sador's box yesterday.

But now, when it meant the meeting of his father's eyes, the defiant one trembled. Those eyes were the only thing upon earth that he feared.

Hartmut was half decided to go to Rodeck and return only when he heard through the papers that "the high-standing officer" had left the Residenz.

Yet something kept him here--a secret but burning longing. Perhaps the hour of reconciliation had now come when the poet's fame rose so brilliantly; perhaps Falkenried would see now that such a power needed liberty and life to develop, and would pardon the unfortunate, boyish folly which, with his views, had hurt him so deeply.

Was he not his child? his only son, whom he had embraced with such pa.s.sionate tenderness that night at Burgsdorf? At this remembrance a longing for those all-powerful arms, for the home which should no longer be lost to him, for the whole boyhood which, although constrained, had yet been so happy, pure and guiltless, flooded Hartmut's inmost heart.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

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 pa.s.sionate cry, "w.i.l.l.y--my dear old w.i.l.l.y, 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 w.i.l.l.y lost all embarra.s.sment 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?"

w.i.l.l.y 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," a.s.sented 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?"