The Northern Light Part 17

"In Germany? Your highness sets yourself a hard task. Herr Rojanow has a very contemptuous opinion of our country, I can a.s.sure you. He expressed himself most forcibly to that effect, the other day in the wood."

The prince listened attentively. These words explained to him what he had at first thought so singular; why Hartmut had not mentioned to him the meeting with the baroness. He smiled as he said: "Ah, that's why he never mentioned meeting you to me. You probably showed him you did not approve of his candid avowal concerning Germany; you served him just right, for there's no sense in his lying so persistently. He has often angered me with his harangues against my country, all of which I thought he meant, at the time, but now I know better."

"You do not believe, then?" Adelheid turned suddenly and faced the speaker.

"No, I have the proof of it in my hand. He fairly revels in our German scenery. Your ladys.h.i.+p looks at me incredulously; may I tell you a secret?"

"Well?"

"I went to Hartmut's room, this morning, to look for him," began the prince, "and he was not there; but I found on his desk what was better than finding him--a poem which he had evidently forgotten to lock up, for he never intended it for my eyes, that's certain. No p.r.i.c.ks of conscience prevented my stealing it, and I have it with me this minute.

If you would care to glance at it--"

"I do not understand the Roumanian tongue," responded Frau von Wallmoden, with a slight sneer; "and I imagine Herr Rojanow has not condescended to write in German."

For answer Egon drew a paper from his pocket, and unfolded it. "You are prejudiced against my friend, I see, but I do not want to leave him in the false light in which he has placed himself in your eyes. May I not read this to you, and let his own words be his justification?"

"If you desire."

The words were spoken indifferently, but Adelheid's eyes sought the paper with an expression of keen interest. A few verses, written in a careless, hasty hand, covered the white page. Egon began to read. They were indeed German verses, but in them was a pureness and euphony which told that they could only have been written by a master of that tongue, and the description which they gave was one well known to both listeners. Deep, sad, woodland loneliness, pervaded by the first breath of autumn; endless green depths which swayed and beckoned with their gloomy shadows; fragrant meadows flooded with the golden sunlight; silent stretches of water in the far distance, and the noisy murmur of the mountain brook, as it rushed down from some nearer height. This picture had life and speech in it, too, and had its echoes of an old-time woodland song; the rustle and whisper of the swaying branches sounded to the ear like a soft, low melody, and above all and through all, was the deep, pent-up longing for that peace which was the background of the whole scene.

The prince had begun with fervor, and entering into the spirit of the poem, read clearly and intelligently. As he finished, he turned to the baroness with a triumphant, "What do you say to that?"

Frau von Wallmoden had not lost a word; she had not looked at the reader, though, but had gazed across the distant hills. Now, at the prince's question, she turned slowly. "Is this the language of one who despises our country?" he continued, confident he had the best of the argument. And as he looked closely at her, while demanding justice for his friend, he realized for the first time, just how lovely this Frau von Wallmoden was. The rosy tints of the setting sun softened the look in the lovely eyes, and added beauty to the tender oval of her face; but there was no softness in the cold, deliberate answer: "It is really quite surprising that a foreigner should understand our language so well."

Egon stared at her. Was this all she had to say? He had expected something quite different. "And what do you think of the poem itself?"

he asked.

"Very full of sentiment. Herr Rojanow seems to possess a great deal of poetical talent. Many thanks for your field gla.s.s, and now I must go down to my husband. I fear he is tired already, waiting for me."

Egon folded his paper without a word and returned it to his pocket. He had been very enthusiastic over his friend's production, and this young woman, colder and more frozen than ever now, chilled him to the bone.

"I have had the honor of meeting his excellency, and will accompany you down, with your permission," he said, courteously.

She gave a slight bow of acknowledgment and left the platform, followed by the Prince, who had grown suddenly very taciturn. He felt annoyed on his friend's account, and regretted now that he had read, what to him seemed such a wonderful poem, to a woman who evidently knew nothing whatever of poesy.

Hartmut had, in the meantime, after leaving the platform, descended the winding stairs slowly. The lost purse was a mere subterfuge, for it lay in its accustomed place in an inner pocket.

Adelheid von Wallmoden had mentioned to the prince, soon after she joined them on the platform, that her husband was awaiting her in the little inn, but that he had not cared to climb the steep, dark stairs.

Hartmut knew he could not avoid a meeting, but he would at least brave it without witnesses.

If Wallmoden saw his old friend's son and recognized him, he might not be able, for the moment, to master his surprise.

Hartmut did not fear this meeting, though he knew it would be both painful and uncomfortable. There was but one in the whole world whom he feared; but one pair of eyes under whose gaze he would lack courage to lift his own, and in all probability he would never meet that one.

He could face all others with a proud defiance; he had but exercised his right in abandoning a hated career. He was decided that there should be no questioning or reproving; if he were recognized, he should request the amba.s.sador in a most decided manner, to make no reference whatever to a past with which he was done forever.

Upon the little veranda of the summer inn, Herbert von Wallmoden sat with his sister. The impending arrival of the duke and his court for the autumn hunting had detained the head forester at home, where he was in great demand. The betrothed pair stayed at Furstenstein, also, and as nothing better offered itself for the day, the three guests decided to come to Hochberg.

The view was especially fine this afternoon and the air was like summer.

"This Hochberg is really worth seeing," said Frau von Eschenhagen, as her eyes went searchingly over the landscape. "But we have nearly as good a view here as up above. I certainly will never climb up those dark stairs, and lose my breath to see any more. No, I thank you."

"Adelheid was of a different opinion," responded her brother, as he gave a fleeting glance up the tower. "She suffers neither from fatigue nor heat."

"Or cold either. That was proven the day she was drenched to the skin.

She hasn't even a sniffle from it."

"I have requested her to take a servant with her in future when she goes upon her rambles," said Herbert quietly. "To be lost in the forest and have to wade through a brook and then finally be forced to call to her aid a stray huntsman, are things that I do not care to have repeated.

Adelheid saw that as clearly as I, and will not go unattended for the future."

"Ah, she's an excellent, sensible wife, a healthy nature through and through, with a proper aversion for adventure and romance," said Regine warmly. "Ah, there are other visitors on the tower. I thought we would be the only guests to-day."

Wallmoden glanced indifferently toward the tall, aristocratic young man who had just emerged from the tower door and was coming toward them; Frau von Eschenhagen's glance was careless, too, but her look changed to one both sharp and intense, and she cried out:

"Herbert, look!"

"At what?"

"At that stranger. What a strange resemblance."

"To whom?" asked Herbert, looking searchingly, too, into the face of the stranger, who was nearer them now.

"It's impossible! That is no pa.s.sing resemblance. It is he, himself,"

cried his sister.

She sprang up pale with excitement, with her eyes fixed and staring at the young stranger, who was just putting his foot on the first step of the shaded veranda. Now his eyes met hers, his large, dark, flaming eyes which had so often looked into her own and pleaded for him in his childhood, and all doubts vanished.

"Hartmut, Hartmut Falkenried! You!"

She stopped suddenly, for Wallmoden laid his hand heavily, very heavily, on her arm, and said sharply: "You are in error, Regine, we do not know this gentleman."

Hartmut was startled, when, upon reaching the top step, he recognized Frau von Eschenhagen. The lattice-work had prevented his recognizing her, and for her presence he was not prepared. But at the very moment when he realized who it was, the amba.s.sador's words sounded in his ears.

He understood only too well what the tone and words implied and the blood rushed to his temples.

"Hartmut!" Frau Regine called again, looking uncertainly at her brother, who still held her arm fast.

"We do not know him," he repeated in the same tone. "Must I repeat it to you again, Regine?"

She understood his meaning now, and turned with a half-threatening, half-pained glance from the son of her old-time friend, as she said bitterly: "You are right. I was mistaken."

Hartmut drew himself to his full height, and an angry look flashed across his face as he drew a step nearer.

"Herr von Wallmoden!"

"What is it?" answered the other in a sharp, but contemptuous tone.

"Your excellency has but forestalled me," said Hartmut, forcing himself by mighty effort to speak quietly. "I came to request you not to know me. We are strangers to one another."

Then he turned with a haughty, defiant air, and disappeared within the little inn.