The families of Falkenried and Wallmoden had been friendly for years. As owners of adjoining estates they visited each other frequently; the children grew up together, and many mutual interests drew the bonds of friendship still closer.
As both families were only comfortably well off, the sons had their own way to make, which, after completing their education, Major Hartmut von Falkenried and Herbert Wallmoden had done. They had been playmates as children, and had remained true to that friendship when grown to manhood.
At one time the parents thought to cement this friendship by a marriage between the--at that time--Lieutenant Falkenried and Regine Wallmoden. The young couple seemed in perfect accord with it, and all looked propitious for the match, when something took place which brought the plan to a sudden end.
A cousin of the Wallmoden family--an incorrigible fellow who, through divers bad capers, had made it impossible to remain at home, had, long ago, gone out into the wide world. After much travel and a rather adventurous life, he had landed in Roumania, where he acted as inspector upon the estates of a rich Bojar. The rich man died, and the inspector thought best to retrieve his lost fortunes and position in life by marriage with the widow.
It was consummated, and he returned to his old home, accompanied by his wife, for a visit to his relatives, after an absence of more than ten years.
Frau von Wallmoden's bloom of youth had long passed, but she brought with her her daughter by her first marriage--Zalika Rojanow.
The young girl, hardly seventeen years old, with her foreign beauty and charm of her glowing temperament, burst like a meteor upon the horizon of this German country nobility, whose life flowed in such calm, even channels.
And she was a strange object in this circle, whose forms and manners she disregarded with sovereign indifference, and who stared at her as at a being from another world. There was many a serious shaking of heads and much condemnation, which was not uttered aloud, because they saw in the girl only a temporary visitor, who would disappear as suddenly as she had come into view.
Just about this time Hartmut Falkenried came from his garrison to the paternal estates, and became acquainted with the new relatives of his friends. He saw Zalika and recognized in her his fate. It was one of those passions which spring up lightning-like--which resemble the intoxication of a dream, and are paid for only too frequently with the penance of the whole life.
Forgotten were the wishes of the parents, his own plans for the future--forgotten the quiet affection which had drawn him to his playmate Regine. He no longer had eyes for the domestic flower which bloomed young and fresh for him; he breathed only the intoxicating perfume of the foreign wonder-plant. All else disappeared before her, and in a quiet hour with her he threw himself at her feet, confessing his love.
Strangely enough, his feelings were returned. Perhaps it was the truth of extremes meeting which drew Zalika to a man who was her opposite in every respect; perhaps she was flattered by the fact that a glance, a word from her could change the grave, calm and almost gloomy nature of the young officer to enthusiasm.
Enough, she accepted his proposal and he was permitted to embrace her as his betrothed.
The news of this engagement created a storm in the whole family circle; entreaties and warnings came from all sides; even Zalika's mother and stepfather opposed it, but the universal disapproval only increased the determination of the young couple, and six months later Falkenried led his young wife into his home.
But the voices who prophesied misfortune to this marriage were in the right. The bitterest disappointment followed the short term of happiness. It had been a dangerous mistake to believe that a woman like Zalika Rojanow, grown up in boundless freedom and accustomed to the uncontrolled, extravagant life of the families of the Bojars of her country, could ever submit herself to German views and conditions.
To gallop about on fiery horses; to associate freely with men who spent their time in hunting and gambling, and who surrounded themselves in their homes with a splendor which went hand in hand with the most corrupted indebtedness of estates--such was life as she had known it so far, and the only life which suited her.
A conception of duty was as foreign to her as the knowledge of her new position in life. And this woman was to accommodate herself now to the household of a young officer of but limited means, and to the conditions of a small German garrison!
That this was impossible was proved in the first weeks. Zalika began by throwing aside every consideration, and furnishing her house in her usual style, squandering heedlessly her by no means insignificant dowry.
In vain her husband entreated, remonstrated; he found no hearing. She had only sarcasm for forms and rules which were holy to him; only a shrug of the shoulder for his strict sense of honor and ideas of decorum.
Very soon they had the most vehement controversies, and Falkenried recognized too late the serious error which he had committed. He had counted upon the all-powerful efficacy of love to battle against those warning voices which had pointed out the difference of descent, education and character, but he was forced now to recognize that Zalika had never loved him; that caprice alone, or a sudden outburst of passion, which died as suddenly, had brought her to his arms.
She saw in him now only the uncomfortable companion who begrudged her every pleasure of life; who, with his foolish--his ridiculous ideas of honor, fettered and bound her on every side. Still, she feared this man, whose dominant will succeeded always in bowing her characterless nature under his rod.
Even the birth of little Hartmut was not sufficient to reconcile this unhappy marriage; it only held it, apparently, together. Zalika loved her child passionately; she knew her husband would never permit her to keep it if they separated. This alone retained her at his side, while Falkenried bore his domestic misery with concealed pain, putting forth every effort to hide it at least from the world.
Nevertheless, the world knew the truth; it knew things of which the husband did not even dream and which were kept concealed from him through sheer compassion.
But finally the day came when the deceived husband was told what was no secret to others.
The immediate result following was a duel in which Falkenried's opponent fell. Falkenried himself was imprisoned, but was soon pardoned.
Every one knew that the offended husband had only vindicated his honor.
In the meantime, steps were taken for a divorce, which was granted in due time. Zalika made no opposition. She dared not approach her husband; she trembled before him since that hour of separation, when he had called her to account; but she made desperate efforts to secure the possession of her child, fighting as for life.
It was in vain. Hartmut was given unconditionally to his father, who knew how to prevent every approach of the mother with iron inflexibility.
Zalika was not even allowed to see her son again, and it was only after convincing herself entirely on that point that she left--returning to the home of her mother.
She had seemed lost to and forgotten by her former husband until she suddenly reappeared in Germany, where Major Falkenried now held an important position in the large military school at the Residenz.
* * * * *
It was about a week after the arrival of Hartmut at Burgsdorf. Frau von Eschenhagen was in her sitting-room with Major Falkenried, who had but just arrived.
The topic of their conversation seemed to be very serious and of a rather disagreeable nature, for Falkenried listened with a gloomy face to his friend, who was speaking.
"I noticed Hartmut's changed demeanor the third or fourth day. The boy, whose mirth at first knew no bounds, so that I even threatened to send him back home, suddenly became subdued. He committed no more foolish pranks, but roamed for hours through the woods alone, and when he returned was always dreaming with his eyes open, to such an extent that one had almost to awake him. 'He is beginning to get sensible,' said Herbert; but I said, 'Things are not going right; there is something behind all this,' and I questioned my Willy, who also appeared quite peculiar. He was actually in the plot. He had surprised the two one day. Hartmut had made him promise to keep silent, and my boy positively hid something fromme, his mother!He confessed only when I got after him seriously. Well, he will not do it a second time. I have taken care of that."
"And Hartmut? What did he say?" interrupted the Major hastily.
"Nothing at all, for I have not spoken a syllable to him about it. He would probably have asked me why he should not see and speak to his own mother, and only--his father can give him the answer to that question."
"He has probably heard it already from the other side," said Falkenried bitterly; "but he has hardly learned the truth."
"I fear so, too, and therefore I did not lose a minute in notifying you after discovering the affair. But what next?"
"I shall have to interfere now," replied the Major with forced composure. "I thank you, Regine. I apprehended trouble when your letter called me so imperatively. Herbert was right. I ought not to have allowed my son to leave my side for an hour under the circumstances. But I believed him safe from every approach here at Burgsdorf. And he anticipated the trip with such pleasure--he longed for it almost passionately. I did not have the heart to refuse him. He is happy, anyway, only when absent from me."
There was deep pain in the last words, but Frau von Eschenhagen only shrugged her shoulders.
"That is not the fault of the boy alone," she said straightforwardly. "I also keep my Willy under good control, but nevertheless he knows that he has a mother whose heart is full of him. Hartmut does not know that of his father. He knows him only from a grave, unapproachable side. If he had an idea that you idolize him secretly----"
"He would abuse the knowledge and disarm me with his caressing tenderness. Shall I allow myself to be ruled by him as every one else is who comes into his presence? His comrades follow him blindly although he brings punishment upon them by his pranks. He has your Willibald completely under control--yes, even his teachers treat him with particular indulgence. I am the only one he fears, and consequently the only one he respects."
"And you think by fear alone to succeed with the boy, who is doubtless now being overwhelmed with the most senseless caresses! Do not turn away, Falkenried; you know I have never mentioned that name to you, but now that it is brought forward so prominently, one may speak it. And since we happen to be upon the subject, I tell you frankly that nothing else could be expected since Frau Zalika's appearance. It would have done no good to have kept Hartmut from Burgsdorf, for one cannot treat a seventeen-year-old lad like a little child. The mother would have found her way to him in spite of all--and it was her right. I would have done just so, too."
"Her right!" cried the Major angrily. "And you tell me that, Regine?"
"I say it because I know what it is to have an only child. That you should take the child from its mother was right--such a mother was not fit for the raising of a boy--but that you now refuse to let her see her son again after twelve years is harshness and cruelty, which hatred alone can teach you. However great her faults may be, that punishment is too severe."
Falkenried stared gloomily before him--he might have felt the truth of the words. Finally he said, slowly:
"I would never have thought that you would take Zalika's part. I offended you bitterly once for her sake--I broke a bond----"
"Which had not even been tied," interrupted Frau von Eschenhagen. "It was a plan of our parents--nothing more."
"But the idea was dear and familiar to us from childhood. Do not attempt to excuse me, Regine; I only know too well what I did at that time to you and--to myself."
Regine fixed her clear, gray eyes upon him, but there was a moist gleam in them as she replied:
"Well, yes, Hartmut; now since we are both long past our youth, I may, perhaps, confess that I liked you then. You might have been able to make something better of me than I am now. I was always a self-willed child--not easy to rule; but I would have followed you--perhaps you alone of all the world. When I went to the altar with Eschenhagen three months after your marriage, matters were reversed.
"I took the reins into my own hands and began to command, and since then I have learned it thoroughly---- But now, away with that old story, long since past. I have not thought hard of you because of it--you know that.
"We have remained friends in spite of it, and if you need me now, in advice as well as deed, I am ready to help you."
She offered her hand, which he grasped.
"I know it, Regine, but I alone can advise here. Please send Hartmut to me. I must speak to him."
Frau von Eschenhagen arose and left the room, murmuring as she went: "If only it is not too late already! She blinded and enraptured the father once. She has probably secured her son now."
Hartmut entered the room and closed the door behind him, but remained standing near it. Falkenried turned toward him.
"Come nearer, Hartmut; I must speak with you."
The youth obeyed, drawing near slowly.
He already knew that Willibald had had to confess; that his rendezvous with his mother had been betrayed; but the awe with which he always approached his father was mingled to-day with defiance, which was not unnoticed by the Major.
He scanned the youthful, handsome person of his son with a long, gloomy glance.
"My sudden arrival does not seem to surprise you," he began; "you probably know what brought me here."
"Yes, father, I surmise it."
"Very well, we do not need then to continue with preliminaries. You have learned that your mother is still living. She has approached you and you are in communication with her. I know it already. When did you see her for the first time?"
"Five days ago."
"And since then you have spoken with her daily?"
"Yes, near the Burgsdorf pond."
Question and reply alike sounded curt and calm.
Hartmut was accustomed to this strict, military manner, even in his private intercourse with his father, who never allowed a superfluous word, a hesitation or evasion in the answers. This tone was kept up even to-day to veil his painful excitement from the eyes of his son. Hartmut saw only the grave, unmoved face; heard only the sound of cold severity as the Major continued:
"I will not make it a reproach to you, as I have never forbidden you anything regarding it; the subject has never been mentioned between us. But since matters have gone so far, I will have to break the silence. You thought your mother dead, and I have silently allowed you to think so, for I wished to save you from reminiscences which have poisoned my life. I meant that your youth, at least, should be free from it. It seems that it cannot be, so you may hear the truth."
He paused for a moment. It was torture to the man, with his delicate sense of honor, to talk on this subject before his son, but there was no longer a choice--he must speak on.
"I loved your mother passionately when a young officer, and married her against the wish of my parents, who saw no good to result from a marriage with a woman of foreign race. They were right, the marriage was deeply unfortunate, and we finally separated at my desire. I had an undeniable right to demand the separation, and also the possession of my son, which was granted me unconditionally. I cannot tell you any more, for I will not accuse the mother to the son; therefore let this suffice you."
Short and harsh as this explanation sounded, it yet made a strange impression upon Hartmut. The father would not accuse the mother to him, who had been hearing daily the most bitter accusation, abuse and slander against the father.
Zalika had put the whole blame of the separation upon her husband, upon his unheard-of tyranny, and she found only too willing a listener in the youth whose unruly nature suffered so intensely under that severity. And yet those short, earnest words now weighed more than all the passionate outbursts of the mother. Hartmut felt instinctively upon which side the truth stood.
"But now to the most important point," resumed Falkenried. "What has been the subject of your conversation?"
Hartmut had not expected this question, and a burning blush suffused his face. He was silent and looked to the ground.
"Ah, so! you do not dare to repeat it to me; but I request to know it. Answer, I command you!"
But Hartmut remained silent; he only closed his lips more firmly, and his eyes met his father's with dark defiance.
Falkenried now drew nearer.
"You will not speak? Has a command from that side, perhaps, made you silent? Never mind, your silence says more than words. I see how much estranged from me you have become, and you would become lost entirely to me if I should leave you longer under that influence. These meetings with your mother must be ended. I forbid them. You will accompany me home to-day and remain under my supervision. Whether it seems cruel to you or not, it must be so, and you will obey."
But the Major was mistaken when he thought to bow his son to his will by a simple command.
Hartmut had been in a school during these last days where defiance against the father had been taught him in the most effectual manner.
"Father, you will not--you cannot command that," he burst forth now with overpowering vehemence. "It is my mother who is found again; the only one in the whole world who loves me. I shall not let her be taken from me again as she has already been taken. I shall not allow myself to be forced to hate her because you hate her. Threaten--punish me do whatever you will with me, but I do not obey this time. I will not obey."
The whole unruly, passionate nature of the young man was in these words; the uncanny fire flamed again in his eyes; the hands were clenched; every fibre throbbed in wild rebellion. He was apparently decided to do battle against the long-feared father.
But the burst of anger which he so confidently expected did not come. Falkenried only looked at him silently, but with a glance of grave, deep reproach.
"The only one in the whole world who loves you!" he repeated slowly. "You have, perhaps, forgotten that you still have a father."
"Who does not love me, though," cried Hartmut in overwhelming bitterness. "Only since I have found my mother have I known what love is."
"Hartmut!"
The youth looked up, startled by the strange, pained tone which he heard for the first time, and the defiance which was about to break forth again died on his lips.
"Because I have no pet names and caresses for you; because I have raised you with seriousness and firmness, do you doubt my love?" said Falkenried, still in the same voice. "Do you know what this severity toward my only, my beloved child has cost me?"
"Father!"
The word sounded still timid and hesitating, but no longer with the old fear and awe; it now contained something like budding faith and trust; like a happy but half-comprehended surprise, and with it Hartmut's eyes hung as if riveted upon his father's features. Falkenried now put his hand upon his son's arm, drawing him nearer, while he continued:
"I once had high ambitions, proud hopes of life, great plans and aspirations, which came to an end when a blow fell upon me from which I shall never be able to rally. If I still aspire and struggle, it is from a sense of duty and because of you, Hartmut. In you centers all my ambition; to make your future great and happy is the only thing which I yet desire of life; and your future can be made great, my son, for your gifts are extraordinary ones; your will is strong in good as well as evil. But there is yet something dangerous in your nature, which is less your fault than your doom, and which must be taken in hand in time, if it is not to develop and dash you into destruction. I had to be severe to banish this unfortunate tendency; it has not been easy for me."
The face of the youth was covered by a deep blush. With panting breath he seemed to read every word from his father's lips, and now he said in a whisper, in which the suppressed joy could scarcely be hidden:
"I have not dared to love you so far. You have always been so cold--so unapproachable, and I----"
He broke off and glanced up at his father, who now put his arm around Hartmut's shoulders, drawing him still closer to him. Then eyes looked deep into eyes, and the voice of the iron man broke as he said, lowly:
"You are my only child, Hartmut, the only thing which has remained to me from a dream of happiness that dispersed in bitterness and disappointment. I lost much at that time and have borne it; but if I should lose you--you--I could not bear it."
His arms closed around his son tightly, as if they could never be detached. Hartmut had thrown himself sobbing upon his father's breast, and father and son held each other in a long, passionate embrace.
Both had forgotten that a shadow from the past still stood threateningly and separatingly between them.
* * * * *
In the meantime, Frau von Eschenhagen, in her dining-room, was giving Willy a curtain lecture. She had done so, in fact, this morning, but was of the opinion that a double portion would not come amiss in this case. The young heir looked completely crushed. He felt himself in the wrong, as well toward his mother as toward his friend, and yet he was quite blameless. He allowed himself to be lectured patiently, like an obedient son, only throwing an occasional sad look over at the supper which already stood upon the table, although his mother did not take any notice of it at all.
"This is what comes of having secrets behind the backs of parents," she said severely, concluding her lecture.
"Hartmut is getting what he deserves in yonder; the Major will not treat him very mildly. I think you will let playing helpmate in such, a plot alone in the future."
"But I have not helped in it," Willy defended himself. "I had only promised to be silent and I had to keep my word."
"You ought not dare to keep silence to your mother; she is always an exception," Frau Regine said decidedly.
"Yes, mamma, Hartmut probably thought so, too, when it concerned his mother," remarked Willibald, and the remark was so correct that she could not well say anything against it; but that angered her the more.
"That is different--entirely different," she said curtly; but the young lord asked persistently:
"Why is it entirely different?"
"Boy, you will kill me yet with your questions and talking," cried his mother angrily. "That is an affair which you do not and shall not understand. It is bad enough that Hartmut has brought you in connection with it at all. Now do you keep quiet, and do not concern yourself further about it. Do you hear?"
Willy was dutifully silent. It was perhaps the first time in his life that he had been reproved for too much talking; besides, his Uncle Wallmoden, who had just returned from a drive, entered now.
"Falkenried has already arrived, I hear," he said, approaching his sister.
"Yes," she replied. "He came immediately upon receiving my letter."
"And how has he borne the news?"
"Outwardly very calm, but I saw only too well how it rent his heartstrings. He is alone now with Hartmut, and the storm will probably burst."
"I am sorry; but I prophesied this turn of affairs when I learned of Zalika's return. He ought to have spoken then to Hartmut. Now I fear he will but add a second mistake to the first one by trying to accomplish a separation by force and dictating. This unfortunate obstinacy which knows only 'either--or'! It is least of all in the right place here."
"Yes, the meeting yonder lasts too long for me," said Frau von Eschenhagen with concern. "I shall go and see how far the two have gotten, whether it offends the Major or not. Remain here, Herbert; I shall return directly."
She left the room, which Wallmoden paced disconsolately. His nephew sat alone at the supper table, about which nobody seemed to think. He did not dare to begin eating by himself, for a regular turmoil reigned to-day in Burgsdorf, and the Frau Mamma was in a very ungracious mood. But fortunately she returned after a few minutes, and her face was beaming with satisfaction.
"The affair is settled in the best way," she said in her short and decided tone. "He has the boy in his embrace. Hartmut is hanging upon his father's neck, and the rest will arrange itself easily now. God be praised! And now you may eat your supper, Willy. The confusion which has disturbed our whole household has come to an end."
Willy did not allow himself to be told twice, but made brisk use of the coveted permission. But Wallmoden shook his head and muttered: "If it were only truly at an end!"
Neither Falkenried nor his son had noticed that the door had been quietly opened and closed again. Hartmut still clung to his father's neck. He seemed to have lost in a moment all awe and reserve, and was overwhelmingly lovable in his new-found, stormy caresses, the charm of which the Major had rightly feared would disarm him. He spoke but little, but again and again he pressed his lips upon the brow of his son, looking steadily into the beautiful face, full of life, which pressed so close to his own.
Finally Hartmut asked in a low voice: "And--my mother?"
A shadow passed again over Falkenried's brow, but he did not release his son from his arms.
"Your mother will leave Germany as soon as she is convinced that she must in the future, as in the past, stay away from you," he said, this time without harshness, but with decision. "You may write to her. I will allow a correspondence with certain restrictions, but I cannot--I dare not permit a personal intercourse."
"Father, think----"
"I cannot, Hartmut; it is impossible."
"Do you hate her, then, so very much?" asked the youth reproachfully. "You wished the separation--not my mother--I know it from herself."
Falkenried's lips quivered. He was about to speak the bitter words and tell his son that the separation had been at the command of honor; but he looked again in those dark, inquiring eyes, and the words died unspoken. He could not accuse the mother to the son.
"Let that question rest," he replied gloomily; "I cannot answer it to you. Perhaps you will learn my reasons later and will understand them. I cannot spare you the hard choice now. You can belong only to one--the other you must shun. Accept it as a doom."
Hartmut bowed his head; he might have felt that nothing further could be gained. That the meetings with his mother had to end when he returned to the strict discipline of the school, he knew; but now a correspondence was permitted, which was more than he had dared to hope for.
"Then I will tell mamma so," he said in a crestfallen way. "Now, since you know everything, I may see her openly, may I not?"
The Major started; he had not considered this possibility.
"When were you to see her again?" he asked.
"To-day, at this hour, at the Burgsdorf pond. She is surely awaiting me there now."
Falkenried seemed to battle with himself. A warning voice arose in him not to allow this leave-taking, yet he felt that to refuse would be cruel.
"Will you be back in two hours?" he asked finally.
"Certainly, father; even earlier if you desire it."
"Go, then," said the Major, with a deep breath. One could hear how reluctant was the permission which his sense of duty forced from him. "We shall drive home as soon as you return. Your vacation ends shortly, anyway."
Hartmut, who was just about to leave, came to a standstill. The words recalled to him what he had entirely forgotten in the last half hour: the discipline and severity of the service which was awaiting him. Heretofore he had not dared to betray his aversion to it openly, but this hour which banished the awe of his father broke also the seal from his lips. Obeying a sudden impulse, he turned and put his arms again around the neck of his father.
"I have a request," he whispered, "a great, great request which you must grant me; and I know you will do it as a proof that you love me."
A furrow appeared between the Major's eyebrows as he asked with slight reproach: "Do you require proofs of it? Well, let's hear it."
Hartmut nestled still more closely to him; his voice had again that sweet, coaxing sound which made his prayers so irresistible, and the dark eyes implored intensely, beseechingly.
"Do not let me become a soldier, father. I do not love the calling for which you have decided me. I shall never learn to love it. If I have bowed until now to your will, it has been with aversion, with secret grumbling, and I have been unbearably unhappy, only I did not dare to confess it to you."
The furrow on Falkenried's brow sank deeper, and he released his son slowly from his embrace.
"That means, in other words, that you do not like to obey," he said harshly, "and just that is more important to you than to any one else."
"But I cannot bear any compulsion," Hartmut burst forth passionately, "and the military service is nothing but duty and fetters. To obey always and eternally--never to have a will of your own--to bow day after day to an iron discipline and strict, cold forms by which every individual movement is suppressed. I cannot bear it any longer. Everything in me demands freedom for light and life. Let me go, father; do not keep me any longer in these bonds. I die--I suffocate under them."
To a man, who was heart and soul a soldier, he could not have done his cause greater harm than by these imprudent words. It sounded like a stormy, glowing prayer. His arm yet lay around his father's neck, but Falkenried now straightened himself suddenly and pushed him back.
"I should consider the service an honor and no fetter," he said cuttingly. "It is sad that I should have to recall that to my son's mind. Freedom--light--life! You think perhaps that one can throw himself at seventeen years into life and grasp all its treasures. The longed-for freedom for you would be only recklessness, ruin, destruction."
"And what if it should be so!" cried Hartmut, totally beside himself. "Better go to ruin in freedom than to live in this depression. To me it is a chain--a fetter--slavery----"
"Be silent! not a word further," commanded Falkenried so threateningly that the youth grew silent despite his awful excitement. "You have no choice, and take care that you do not forget your duty. You must become an officer and fulfill your duty completely as does every one of your comrades. When you are of age, I no longer have any power to hinder you. You may then resign, even if it give me my deathblow to see my only son flee the service."
"Father, do you consider me a coward?" Hartmut burst forth. "I could stand a war--I could fight----"
"You would fight foolhardily and rush blindly into every danger; and with this obstinacy which knows no discipline you would destroy yourself and your men. I know this wild, boundless desire for freedom and life to which no barrier, no duty is sacred. I know from whom you have inherited it and where it will finally lead; therefore I keep you securely in the 'fetters,' no matter whether you hate it or not. You shall learn to obey and to bow your will while yet there is time; and you shall learn it. I pledge my word to that."
Again the old, inflexible harshness sounded in his voice; every line of tenderness, of softness, had disappeared, and Hartmut knew his father too well to continue supplication or defiance. He did not answer a syllable, but his eyes glowed again with that demoniac spark which robbed him of all his beauty; and around his lips, which were pressed closely together, there settled a strange, bad expression as he now turned to go.
The Major's eyes followed him. Again the warning voice came to him like a presentiment of evil, and he called his son back.
"Hartmut, you are sure to be back in time? You give me your word?"
"Yes, father." The answer sounded grim, but firm.
"Very well. I shall trust you as a man. I let you go in peace with this promise which you have given me. Be punctual."
Hartmut had been gone but a few moments when Wallmoden entered.
"Are you alone?" he asked, somewhat surprised. "I did not wish to disturb you, but I saw Hartmut hasten through the garden just now. Where was he going so late?"
"To his mother, to take leave of her."
The Secretary started at this news. "With your consent?" he asked quickly.
"Certainly, I have permitted him to go."
"How imprudent! I should think that you knew now how Zalika manages to get her own way, and yet you leave your son to her mercy."
"For only half an hour to say farewell. I could not refuse that. What do you fear? Surely no force. Hartmut is no longer a child to be borne into a carriage and carried off in spite of his resistance."
"But if he should not refuse a flight?"
"I have his word that he will return in two hours," said the Major with emphasis.
"The word of a seventeen-year-old lad!"
"Who has been raised a soldier and who knows the importance of a word of honor. That gives me no care; my fear lies in another direction."
"Regine told me that you were reconciled," remarked Wallmoden, with a glance upon the still clouded brow of his friend.
"For a few moments only; after that I had to become again the firm, severe father. This hour has showed me how hard the task is to bend, to educate this roving nature. Nevertheless I shall conquer him."
The Secretary approached the window and looked out in the garden.
"It is twilight already, and the Burgsdorf pond is half an hour's distance," he said, half aloud. "You ought to have allowed the rendezvous only in your presence, if it had to take place."
"And see Zalika again? Impossible! I could not and would not do that."
"But if the leave-taking end differently from what you expect--if Hartmut does not return?"
"Then he would be a scoundrel to break his word!" burst out Falkenried; "a deserter, for he carries the sword already at his side. Do not offend me with such thoughts, Herbert; it is my son of whom you speak."
"He is also Zalika's son; but do not let us quarrel about that now. They await you in the dining room. And you will really leave us to-day?"
"Yes, in two hours," the Major said, calmly and firmly. "Hartmut will have returned by that time. My word stands for that."
The gray shadows of twilight were gathering in forest and field, becoming closer and denser with every moment. The short, foggy autumn day drew near its close. Through the heavy-clouded sky the night lowered sooner than usual.
A female figure paced impatiently and restlessly up and down the bank of the Burgsdorf pond. She had drawn the dark cloak tightly around her shoulders, but was unmindful of her shivering, caused by the cold evening air. Her whole manner was feverish expectation and intense listening for the sound of a step which could not as yet be heard.
Zalika had arranged the meetings with her son for a later hour, when it was desolate and dim in the forest, since the day Willibald had surprised them and had to be admitted into the secret. They had parted, however, before dark, so that Hartmut's late return should not cause suspicion at Burgsdorf. He had always been punctual, but now his mother had waited in vain for an hour.
Did a trifle detain him, or was the secret betrayed? One had to expect that, since a third party knew it.
Deathlike silence reigned in the forest; the dry leaves alone rustled beneath the hem of the gown of the restlessly moving woman.
Night shades already lingered under the tree-tops; a cloud of mist floated over the pond where it was lighter and more open; and over there where the water was bordered by a marsh, whitish-gray veils of mist arose yet more thickly. The wind blew damp and cold from over there, like the air of a vault. A light footstep finally sounded at a distance, coming nearer in the direction of the pond with flying haste. Now a slender figure appeared, scarcely recognizable in the gathering dusk. Zalika flew toward him, and in the next moment her son was in her arms.
"What has happened?" she demanded, amidst the usual stormy caresses. "Why do you come so late? I had given up in despair seeing you to-day. What kept you back?"
"I could not come any sooner," panted Hartmut, still breathless from his rapid run. "I come from my father."
Zalika started.
"From your father? Then he knows----"
"Everything."
"So he is at Burgsdorf? Since when? Who notified him?"
The young man, with fluttering breath, reported what had happened, but he had not finished when the bitter laugh of his mother interrupted him.
"Naturally they are all in the plot when it concerns the tearing of my child from me. And your father, he has probably threatened and punished and made you suffer for the heavy crime of having been in the arms of your mother?"
Hartmut shook his head.
The remembrance of that moment when his father drew him to his breast stood firm, in spite of the bitterness with which that scene had ended.
"No," he said in a low voice; "but he commanded me not to see you again, and requested irrevocable separation from you."
"And yet you are here? Oh, I knew it!"
The exclamation was full of joyous victory.
"Do not triumph too soon, mamma," said the youth bitterly. "I came only to say farewell."
"Hartmut!"
"Father knows it. He allowed me this meeting, and then----"
"Then he will grasp you again, and you will be lost to me forever, is it not so?"
Hartmut did not answer; he folded his mother in his arms, and a wild, passionate sob, which had in it as much of anger as pain, escaped his breast.
It had now grown quite dark; the night had commenced; a cold, gloomy autumn night, without moon or star shining, but over there upon the marsh where lately the veils of mist floated, something now shot up with a bluish light, glimmering dimly in the fog, but growing brighter and clearer like a flame; now appearing, now disappearing, and with it a second and a third. The will-o'-the-wisp had commenced its ghostly, uncanny play.
"You weep," cried Zalika, pressing her son closely to her; "but I have seen it coming long ago, and if your Eschenhagen had not betrayed us, the day you had to return to your father would have brought your forced choice between separation or--decision."
"What decision? What do you mean?" asked Hartmut, perplexed.
Zalika bent over him, and, although they were alone, her voice sank to a whisper.
"Will you bow feebly and defenselessly to a tyranny which tears asunder the sacred bond between mother and child, and which stamps under foot our rights as well as our love? If you can do that, you are not my son; you have inherited nothing of the blood that flows in my veins. He sent you to bid me farewell, and you accept it patiently as a last favor. Have you really come to take leave of me, perhaps for years? Actually, have you?"
"I have to," interrupted the youth despairingly. "You know father and his iron will. Is there any possibility of anything else?"
"If you return to him, no. But who forces you?"
"Mamma, for God's sake!" shrieked Hartmut, terrified. But the encircling arms did not release him, and the hot, passionate whisper again reached his ear:
"What frightens you so at the thought? You will only go with your mother, who loves you devotedly, and who will henceforth live for you alone. You have told me repeatedly that you hate the vocation which is forced upon you, that you languish with longing for freedom. There is no choice there for you; when you return your father will keep you irrevocably in the fetters. If he knew that you would die of them, he would not let you free."
She had no need to tell that to her son; he knew it better than she did. Only an hour ago he had seen the full inflexibility of his father, his hard "You shall learn to obey and bow your will."
His voice was almost smothered in bitterness as he answered: "Nevertheless, I must return. I have given my word to be back at Burgsdorf in two hours."
"Really," said Zalika, sharply and sarcastically; "I thought so. Usually you are nothing but a boy, whose every step is prescribed; whose every moment counted out; who ought not even to have his own thoughts; but as soon as the retaining of you is concerned, you are given the independence of a man. Very well; now show that you are not only grown in words, but that you can also act like a man. A forced promise has no value. Tear asunder this invincible chain with which they want to bind you and make yourself free."
"No--no," murmured Hartmut, with a renewed attempt to free himself. But he did not succeed. He only turned his face and looked with fixed eyes out into the night, into the desolate, silent forest darkness and over yonder where the will-o'-the-wisp still carried on its ghostly dance.
Those quivering, tremulous flames appeared now everywhere; seeming to seek and flee from each other, they floated over the ground, disappearing or dissolving in the ocean of fog, only to reappear again and again. There was something ghastly yet fascinating in this spectre-like play; the demoniac charm of the depths which that treacherous mire concealed.
"Come with me, my Hartmut," implored Zalika, now in those sweet, coaxing tones which were so effectively at hers as well as at her son's command. "I have foreseen everything and prepared for it. I knew that a day like this had to come. My carriage awaits me half an hour's distance from here. It will take us to the next station, and before anybody at Burgsdorf thinks you will not return, the train will have carried us into the far country. There are freedom, light and happiness. I will lead you out into the great distant world, and after you know that, you will breathe with relief and shout like a redeemed man. I myself know how one released feels. I too have borne that chain which I riveted myself in foolish error, but I would have broken it in the first year but for you. Oh, it is sweet, this freedom. You will feel it, too."
She knew only too well how to succeed. Freedom, life, light! These words found a thousand-fold echo in the heart of the young man, whose passionate thirst for freedom had been so far suppressed. This promised life shone with a magic splendor like a beacon before him. He needed only to stretch forth his hand and it was his.
"My promise," he murmured with a last attempt to gather strength. "Father will look at me with contempt if----"
"If you have reached a great, proud future?" Zalika interrupted him passionately. "Then you can go before him and ask if he dares consider you with contempt. He would keep you upon the ground while you have wings which will carry you high up. He does not understand a nature like yours; he will never learn to understand it. Will you languish and go to ruin for only a word's sake? Go with me, my Hartmut--with me, to whom you are all in all--out into freedom."
She drew him along, slowly but irresistibly. He still resisted, but did not tear himself away; and amidst the prayers and caresses of his mother this resistance slowly gave way--he followed.
A few moments later the pond lay wholly deserted; mother and son had disappeared; the sound of their steps died away. Night and silence brooded alone. Only over yonder in the fog of the marsh fluttered that noiseless spectral life. It floated and vanished, rose and sank again in restless play--the mysterious sign of flame.