Part 37 (2/2)
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?”
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