Saint Michael

"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."