He
will be looking anxiously for me now, so I must not linger a moment
longer. Again let me thank you, Herr Rojanow." And with a bow of adieu,
the lady hurried down the hill toward the carriage road.
Hartmut stood looking after her, like one in a maze; heavy beads of
perspiration stood out on his forehead. So soon? He had scarcely set
foot on German soil, and here he was met at once by the old names and
all the painful memories which their mention entailed.
Herbert von Wallmoden, Frau von Eschenhagen's brother, Willibald's
guardian and his own boyhood's friend. Rojanow felt a sharp cut like a
dagger thrust through his breast. He drew himself up and threw his
shoulders back, as though he would throw from him some overwhelming
burden, and the old bitter, mocking smile came to his lips again, as he
said, half aloud:
"Uncle Wallmoden hasn't wasted any of his opportunities, that's evident.
His hair's gray by this time, but it hasn't prevented him winning a
lovely young wife. To be sure, an ambassador is a fine match, and it is
evident that Adelheid von Wallmoden was born to marry such a man. She
has all the aristocratic airs and manners which are the one thing
needful in the diplomatic circle. Doubtless he's had her well trained to
take her place in the diplomatic school.
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