Saint Michael

"Very much, since I am betrothed to his daughter."

The Professor honoured his son with a long stare, then frowned, and said, crossly, "What! more nonsense? I should suppose we had had enough."

"I am perfectly serious, papa. I have just betrothed myself to Gerlinda von Eberstein. You have known her at the bedside of the Countess, and you cannot but rejoice in such a lovely creature for a daughter."

"Hans, are you utterly insane? The daughter of a notorious lunatic! Why, it may be hereditary in the family. The girl has something shy and strange in her air, and the father is as mad as a March hare."

"Not at all," said Hans; "he only dates from the tenth century; a certain abnormal condition of the brain must be looked for, otherwise my father-in-law is quite sensible."

"Father-in-law!" repeated the Professor. "I have a word to say in the matter, and I wish to declare now, upon the spot, that if you really have this nonsensical idea in your head you had best get rid of it without delay. I forbid you to entertain it."

"Oh, you can't do that, papa. The Freiherr forbade Gerlinda, too. He nearly fell into convulsions when I proposed for her, but all to no purpose; we are going to be married."

Wehlau, who now perceived that his son was in earnest, threw up his hands in despair. "Have you lost your senses? There is no doubt that the old man is crazy, and I tell you as a physician that the germ of insanity is hereditary. Would you entail such misery upon your family?–bring unhappiness upon an entire generation? Be reasonable."

This gloomy picture of the future made not the least impression upon the young man, who coolly rejoined, "It really is extraordinary, papa, that you and I never can agree. And we were getting along so delightfully together. You had just become reconciled to my 'daubing,' and were even in a fair way to be proud of it, and now you quarrel with my betrothal, when you ought to be highly gratified. Aged aristocracy applies to you only when it has the rheumatism; I ally myself with youthful aristocracy by marrying it,–a palpable advance."

"It is the most nonsensical of all your nonsensical exploits," exclaimed the Professor, angrily. "Once for all–"

He was interrupted by a servant, who came to summon him to the Countess's bedside, since he had given orders to be so summoned as soon as his patient should awake. Wehlau went on the instant, desiring his son to await his return; he should not be gone longer than a quarter of an hour.

Upon leaving the Countess's room the Professor encountered Gerlinda, who had hailed as a relief a summons to her godmother's bedside. For the moment she could escape her father's anger, and Hertha undertook to restore the Freiherr to some degree of calm.

The instant Wehlau perceived the young girl he hurried up to her. "Fräulein von Eberstein, I should like to see you alone for a minute. Will you allow me to ask you a few questions?"

"Certainly, Herr Professor," replied Gerlinda, quite dismayed by being thus addressed. She always felt unconquerably shy in presence of the Professor, who had never seemed to notice her, and his rather imperious demeanour, even at the sick-bed, was not calculated to put her at her ease. She was overpowered by timidity now at the thought that this man was the father of her Hans, as he came close up to her, and began to ask her all kinds of questions which she did not understand, staring at her the while so fixedly that she began to be afraid. The poor child never dreamed that she was to undergo a test as to the soundness of her intellect, and in her bewilderment she made uncertain replies, which of course confirmed Wehlau in his previous opinion.

At last he questioned her as to the family traditions of the Ebersteins,–the subject of the old Freiherr's monomania. During her stay in the capital and at Berkheim Gerlinda had not bestowed much attention upon the Eberstein chronicles; the Countess and Hertha had exercised a beneficial influence upon her in this respect, but it was of no avail on the present occasion. She was spell-bound by Wehlau's gaze, as is the fluttering bird by the eye of the serpent. All she desired was to satisfy her examiner, and when he most unfortunately asked, "Your name is a double one, is it not,–Eberstein–Ortenau?" she instantly folded her hands and began: "In the year of grace thirteen hundred and seventy a feud broke out between Kunrad von Eberstein and Balduin von Ortenau, because–" and then there was no stopping her. She told the endless tale of Kunrad and Hildegard, of dungeon and marriage, from first to last, without stopping an instant to take breath, and all in the old monotone. She never even noticed that the door opened, and that Hans, who had foreboded mischief, appeared upon the threshold. He came in time to hear the familiar conclusion.

"Just as I thought!" the Professor exclaimed, in triumph. He rushed to his son, hurried him into a corner of the room, and said, in an eager whisper, "I told you so! She is already astray in mind: the wretched germ is entirely developed, and is doubtless hereditary. If you persist in your senseless purpose you will bring wretchedness upon yourself, your family, and your entire posterity. I protest against it both as a physician and as a father. I forbid it in the interest of humanity; you have no right to impose upon the world a generation of lunatics."

"Papa, I believe you are 'astray in mind' yourself!" exclaimed Hans, hastening to Gerlinda's side. "I will not allow my betrothed to be so tormented. I really cannot see what right the fathers have to meddle here; our marriage is our own affair, and we can see to it ourselves."

Summer had come. July had begun, but the marriage which was to have been solemnized in the Steinrück family had been of necessity indefinitely postponed. Although Professor Wehlau had concealed the truth from the young Countess and had allowed her to cherish illusive hopes, the general and the rest of the family were aware of the calamity that awaited her. But they had convinced themselves that Hertha would be drawn to them more closely by her mother's death, and as soon as her period of mourning was over the celebration of her marriage could take place.

Count Steinrück had no suspicion that fate had already shattered the proud structure of his hopes. He knew nothing of that eventful night of storm, or of Captain Rodenberg's presence at Saint Michael; all his knowledge of affairs at Castle Steinrück was derived from Hertha's letters and from the report of the physician.

On that St. Michael's morning, at the young Countess's earnest entreaty, Michael had conducted her merely to the end of the mountain road in the valley, whence, accompanied by the servant, she easily reached the castle, where her mother's condition forbade any explanation of what had occurred. The physicians prescribed entire repose of mind for their patient, and thus the affair would have to remain a secret until the hoped-for recovery of the Countess. Michael, indeed, knew through Professor Wehlau that there could be no recovery, and was all the more strongly moved to shield from any agitation the woman from whom he had received only kindness and consideration. If there were to be a struggle, it should be after her death.

And now this had taken place. The physician had just telegraphed to the general that his patient had passed away gently during the night. Steinrück, in common with all the family, had been prepared for this intelligence, but still the death of the gentle, amiable woman, who had always submitted so unconditionally to his guidance, affected him very deeply, and he could not even pay her the last offices of friendship, and follow her remains to the grave.

These July days were ominous, and filled with signs of the approaching tempest, of which, whatever may have been the ignorance of the public, military men were well aware. General Steinrück knew that he could not leave the capital for even a few days; that he must hold himself ready for orders. His duties as head of his family must yield to those of the soldier. Raoul, indeed, could leave at any time; the youthful diplomat could easily be spared for a while, especially in a case like the present, when he was called upon to represent his grandfather.

Steinrück was sitting with a very grave face in his study, reading over the telegram received that morning, when an orderly announced a staff-officer. There was but a small portion of his time that could be given to family affairs: he was constantly interrupted by messages, despatches,–communications of a military nature. He gave orders to admit the officer at once, and Captain Rodenberg entered.

The general was painfully affected by this meeting, although he was quite prepared for it. He had, indeed, seen Michael several times on service since he had interfered between him and Raoul, but he had not spoken with him; this was their first interview, and the young officer must be made to feel that he was not forgiven for having repulsed all advances. He found, in fact, only his superior officer, who received him with great coolness.

"You have some special information for me?"

"No, your Excellency; I come this time upon personal business, and must beg you to grant me a brief interview."

Steinrück looked surprised. "Personal business? It must be something extraordinary." He waved his hand and said, laconically, "Go on."

"The Countess Marianne Steinrück died last night–"

"Have you heard of it already?" the general interrupted him. "From whom? How long since?"

"Two hours ago."

"How can that be? I have but just received the despatch; no one is aware of its contents, not even my grandson. How should you know of this?"

"My old friend and teacher, the pastor of Saint Michael, who, by the Countess's desire, was with her in her last moments, telegraphed to me the intelligence of her death."

This declaration seemed still more surprising to the Count. He said, sharply, "This is certainly–strange! What reason could the pastor have for sending you intelligence in which you could not possibly take any interest, even before it was known to the family? The thing seems to me so extraordinary that I must beg you for an explanation."

"That is what brings me here. The telegram was sent me at the request of the Countess Hertha."

"To you?"

"To me."

The general changed colour. At last a suspicion of the truth seemed to dawn upon him. He raised his head haughtily. "What does this mean? How do you happen to be on terms of such intimacy with the betrothed of Count Steinrück?"

"It is my duty, in her name, to recall the promise given by her to the Count," said Michael, returning the Count's haughty look. "This would have been done long since but for the severe illness of the Countess Marianne. Beside her death-bed there could be no conflict, no thought of personal considerations. I know that it must seem heartless to allow any such to intrude now, when Hertha is still weeping beside her dead mother, but I act by her desire, for Count Raoul will presumably hasten to her when he hears of her loss, and she neither can nor will receive him as her betrothed. This is what I wished to explain to your Excellency; all other explanations can be made hereafter. This is no time for–"

"No time for what?" Steinrück angrily interrupted him. "I should suppose you had said everything already. Go on."

"As you please. Hertha has given me the right to act as her representative. I speak in the name of my betrothed."

This was intelligible enough, and transcended the general's worst fears. He had divined the possibility of danger, and had tried to separate the pair. It had been of no avail. His lofty scheme was utterly overthrown; the prize which he had destined for his heir had at the last moment fallen to the lot of another. He ought to have denounced with indignant scorn the audacious insolence of the man before him, instead of which he cast at him a long, strangely gloomy look, and was silent. It was only when Michael, puzzled to understand this silence, gazed at him in surprise that he seemed to collect himself, and then he burst out, angrily,–

"These are most extraordinary announcements to be made so calmly. You appear to find it perfectly natural that the betrothed of my grandson should belong to you, simply because you have the audacity to stretch forth your hand for her. Raoul will reckon with you for such presumption. I advise you to reflect that such a prize is beyond the reach of a–Rodenberg."

"No prize that I can win is beyond my reach, and I have won Hertha's love," said Michael, coldly. "She submitted to a family arrangement that disposed of her hand while she was but a child, but she must not atone for her too hasty consent by life-long misery. Any opposition from Count Raoul is hardly to be expected. He certainly has lost all right to claim his former betrothed."

"What do you mean by such words, Captain Rodenberg?"

"I must request you to ask the Count himself that question. Since, as I see, your Excellency has no knowledge of the state of the case, I prefer not to be your informant."

"But I insist upon an explanation. I must know to what you refer."

"To the relations of the Count to Frau von Nérac."

Steinrück started. This was the danger of which he had had a vague foreboding.

"Héloïse von Nérac?" he repeated, in a low tone.

"The sister of Herr von Clermont. This knowledge, I assure you, was unsought; accident alone revealed it to me. Hertha asks of the Count only the formal retraction of a promise long since broken by him, and I cannot think that it will cause him any regret to comply with her request. Fear of his grandfather's interference alone prevented him from himself dissolving the tie binding him to the young Countess."

A pause ensued. The blow was so sudden and unexpected that the general needed time to collect himself.

"I shall question Raoul," he said at last. "If he admits what you say to be the fact, the Countess certainly has a right to ask to be released from her promise; but that cannot further your hopes, for I neither can nor will consent that my ward–"

"Should follow the fortunes of a Rodenberg," Michael bluntly completed the sentence. "I am aware of it, but I must remind your Excellency that your power as guardian comes to an end in a few months."

Steinrück advanced towards the young man, the old fire in his eye, the imperious tone in his voice. "My power as guardian, yes! But then my power as head of the family comes into play, and to that you will submit."

"No!"

"Michael!"

"No, Count Steinrück. I do not belong to your family, as you have just shown me. However unworthy of his betrothed Count Raoul may prove himself, in your eyes he is still the wearer of a coronet, as I am still the adventurer's son, who must not dare to lift his eyes to a member of your family, even although beloved by her. Fortunately, Hertha thinks otherwise. She knows everything, and yet gladly consents to bear my name."

"And I tell you you will rue asking her to share it. You do not know the girl's pride. Avoid her."

"No, no," said Michael, with a half-contemptuous smile. "I know my Hertha better. For months we contended with each other like bitter foes, conscious all the while that we could not live apart. She has been hardly gained, my fair, proud darling. In storm and tempest I won my betrothed from the clefts of the Eagle ridge. No human power can snatch her from me!"

The cold, grave man seemed transformed; passionate delight glowed in his eyes and rang in his voice as he confronted the Count triumphantly.

Again the general gazed at him with that strange expression, in which there was more pain than anger. "Enough," he said, collecting himself. "I must settle with Raoul next. You shall hear from me shortly. Now go."

Michael bowed and went. The Count gazed after him gloomily. It was strange that neither of them could maintain the cold, unfamiliar tone and manner which each tried so hard to assume. They always met at first as superior and subaltern, as unfamiliarly and coldly as if they had never seen each other before; but in a little while they were grandfather and grandson, even in their angry contention. To-day, too, there was open warfare between them when they parted, and yet the Count murmured, when he was alone, "What would I not give if he were Raoul Steinrück!"

Half an hour afterwards, when the young Count returned from his morning ride, he was told that his Excellency had been inquiring for him, and wished to speak with him. In a few moments he entered the general's study. "You wished to see me, grandfather? Have you any news from Steinrück?"

For answer his grandfather handed him the telegram. "Read it yourself."

Raoul glanced through it and laid it down. "Sad news, but not unexpected. The last letters prepared us for the end. You said yesterday that if it came you should not be able to leave the capital, so I shall go alone with my mother."

"Yes, if you can."

"There will be no difficulty about my leave. The Minister offered to give it to me when he heard of the state of affairs at Steinrück. I can go at any moment to–"

"Console your betrothed," the general completed the sentence.

"Of course. I have the first right to do so."

"Have you still that right?"

The young Count started at the tone in which the words were spoken, but his grandfather left him no time for surmise, but asked, sharply,–

"What are your relations with Héloïse von Nérac?"

The question was so unexpected that for a moment Raoul was confused, but in the next he replied, "Why, she is the sister of my friend Clermont."

"I know it. But is she not something more? No subterfuges! I require the plain, unvarnished truth. Is your intimacy with her such as your betrothed would approve? Yes or no."

Raoul was silent. He was no liar, nor could he feign while those eyes were fixed upon him as if to search his very soul and wring the truth from him however he might try to conceal it.

"It is true, then," said Steinrück, hoarsely. "I could not and would not believe it."

"Grandfather–"

"Hush! I need no further reply; your silence has spoken. Can it be? A girl like Hertha sacrificed, and to whom? Have you lost both sight and sense? The thing is as incomprehensible as it is disgraceful."

Raoul stood biting his lip and chafing at reproaches uttered in such a tone. It irritated him beyond endurance, and his air when he spoke was defiant rather than ashamed. "You load me with reproaches, grandfather, but Hertha, with her insulting coldness, her frigid reserve, is most to blame for our estrangement. She never loved me; she is incapable of loving."

"You are greatly mistaken there," the general said, bitterly. "You, to be sure, failed to win her love, but another knew how to succeed. To him she is neither proud nor cold; to him she willingly sacrifices her rank, and he dares to offer her a name not without stain,–Michael Rodenberg!"

The young Count at first stood gazing at his grandfather as if thunderstruck, and then his whole nature seemed to rise in revolt. He had, in spite of all, once loved his cold, beautiful betrothed; her invincible reserve had driven him from her. The thought that she could belong to another, and that other the man whom he hated, robbed him of all self-possession, and he burst forth furiously, "Rodenberg? He dare to woo a Countess Steinrück, to beguile her secretly while she is betrothed to me! Scoundrel–"

"Hush!" the general said, in a tone of command. "You have been the scoundrel, not Michael. He has just been here to recall in Hertha's name her promise to you, and to disclose everything to me. You kept silence, while you betrayed your betrothed."

"How could I speak? You would have annihilated me with your anger if I had dared to tell you of my love for Héloïse."

Steinrück's lip quivered contemptuously.

"It was from fear of me, then? Do you suppose that I care for an obedience founded upon falsehood and treachery? Ah! I fear that even without your breach of faith Hertha would have been lost to you as soon as Michael entered the lists against you."

"Grandfather, this is too much!" Raoul's voice was wellnigh choked with anger. "Would you rank above me, your grandson, the last scion of your house, a man disgraced by his father's shame?"

"A man who will, nevertheless, mount to a height you can never hope to attain. He marches on to his goal although a world in arms oppose him, while you, with all the splendour of your name and of your descent, with all your rich endowments, will never be aught save one of thousands lost in the crowd. You both are of my race, but only one of you has inherited my blood. You are your mother's image; there is in you nothing of your father save his weakness of character. Michael is my own, and if his name were tenfold Rodenberg, I acknowledge him a Steinrück."

It had come at last, the recognition which the old Count's pride had so long refused to his grandson, which he had never admitted to his face. It broke forth now, almost against his will.

At his grandfather's last words Raoul grew pale; he said nothing, but if anything could increase his hatred of Michael, it was this declaration. Steinrück paced the room to and fro several times, as if to regain his composure, and then paused before the young Count.

"Your betrothal is annulled. After what you have just admitted to me I cannot dissuade Hertha from recalling the troth she plighted to you. Your mother will tell you of all that you have lost in a worldly point of view. In this matter we are exceptionally of one mind, and she seems to have had a suspicion of the danger that threatened you, for she lately assured me that in compliance with her urgent entreaty you had given up all intercourse with the Clermonts. You have deceived her as you have deceived me, and for the sake of a woman–"

"Whom I love!" exclaimed Raoul, goaded to reply; "whom I love to distraction. Not one word against Héloïse, grandfather. I will not suffer it, although I know that you hate both her and her brother because they belong to my mother's native land."

Steinrück shrugged his shoulders. "Your uncle Montigny belongs to the same land, and you know that my respect and esteem for him are great. But there is something suspicious about this brother and sister, in spite of their lofty descent which seems to be genuine. They mingle aimlessly and idly in society here, and will probably vanish from it some day as suddenly as they appeared in it. Then your foolish romance will come to an end, but it will have cost you a brilliant future."

"Who says it will come to an end? If Hertha can venture to brave your anger, and outrage every tradition of our family, I surely have a right to marry a woman whose name confers more honour upon our house than a Rodenberg can boast."

"You intend to marry Frau von Nérac!" said the general, coldly. "Is your household to be supported by your salary in the Foreign Office? There is no need of explaining my position in the affair. I once allowed that foreign element to mingle among us; it never shall do so again,–it has wrought mischief enough."

"Grandfather, you are speaking of my mother!" cried Raoul, angrily.

"Yes, of your mother, to whom I owe your estrangement from me and from your fatherland,–your indifference to, nay, dislike for what should be most sacred to you. What is there that I have not done to withdraw you from this baneful influence? But kindness and severity have alike proved in vain. The poorest peasant is more devoted to the soil upon which he was born than are you to your country, and linked to a Héloïse von Nérac your fate would be sealed. When fear of me no longer restrained you, when death had closed my eyes, it might well be that the last of the Steinrücks turned his back contemptuously upon his fatherland to become body and soul a Frenchman!"

There was in the midst of the old man's indignation such bitter pain in the tone in which these last words were uttered that the angry retort died upon Raoul's lips. His answer was cut short by the opening of the door and by his mother's appearance.

She had no suspicion of what had occurred. The general had gone to her for a few moments after his interview with Michael to tell her of the death of the Countess; his sense of justice forbade his accusing Raoul to her before the young man had been heard in his own defence.

"Oh, you are here, Raoul," she said. "They told me your grandfather had sent for you, and I knew it was to tell you of the despatch from Steinrück. Are we to start together to-day, or will you follow me tomorrow? I had better take the express train to-night, to be with Hertha as soon as possible."