Saint Michael

At last the carriage drove into the court-yard, far too slowly for the impatience of the young officer, who tore open the door, alighted, and ran up the steps to the hall, and, in spite of the servants there assembled, clasped in his arms Hertha, who had come to meet him. It was the first public acknowledgment of their betrothal.

"And I must look on, and cannot do likewise, just because I have a foolish papa and papa-in-law," grumbled Hans. "But only wait, my gentlemen, hardhearted parents as you are, and I will bring you to your knees."

In the wainscoted room with the large bow-window, where the ancestral portraits looked down from the walls, and the escutcheon of the Steinrücks was carved above the fireplace, Count Michael now sat with his grandson, whom he had seen for the first time in this very room, where the boy had suffered under so false an accusation. Fate had devised a terrible requital, and the general evidently suffered severely from it.

In fact, he was greatly altered, and in twelve months had grown older by as many years. While the campaign lasted, the responsibilities of his position, his military duties, nerved his arm, and his will forced mind and body to do his bidding. But his strength failed him when his duties were ended. The features of the handsome old face looked pinched and hollow, the eyes had lost their fire, even the carriage was bowed and weary. At this moment, however, his eyes rested with intense satisfaction upon his grandson, whose hand he held in his own.

"I should think you might well be content," said he. "It is seldom that so young an officer receives such distinguished honours as have been heaped upon you, and I can bear witness that you deserve them. Your conduct in the field surpassed my expectations, and I expected a great deal from you, Michael."

"Perhaps the recognition of my services would not have been so flattering if it had not been accorded to the grandson of the general in command," rejoined Michael, with a smile. "From the moment when you introduced me as your near of kin I was but too well aware of the especial attention paid me."

"At all events, the recognition you have received was your due, and Hertha may well be proud of her hero. Have you settled upon the time for your marriage?"

"Not yet. Hertha takes various considerations into account, and, hard though it be, I must submit. Her betrothal to Raoul has never been publicly annulled, and the year of mourning is just ended. We meant, however, to leave the decision to you, grandfather. If you think we ought to wait–"

"No!" Steinrück declared. "You have agreed to have the marriage celebrated very quietly, and I should like to give you to each other myself. In a few months–it may be too late."

"Grandfather!" said Michael, half in remonstrance, half in reproach.

"Why should I not speak of it to you? You must confront the inevitable."

"But it is not inevitable. Why will you not rouse yourself from the melancholy that is sapping your physical strength? Has every pleasure in life vanished in Raoul's grave? Hertha and I are still with you to help you to forget the past."

The general slowly shook his head. "You best know what you are to me, Michael, but my vigour has departed, and you know, too, when it left me. That blow struck at the very root of the old tree; it cannot recover."

Michael made no reply; he knew that, although his grandfather had been spared the worst, enough had occurred to wound to the quick the pride and the sense of honour of the old Count, who had always been devoted heart and soul to his country.

"The Countess Hortense is, I hear, with her brother again–with your consent?" asked Rodenberg.

"Yes; while the war lasted I neither could nor would permit my son's widow to remain in France. Now, however, she has gone back to Montigny. She has never felt at home here, and Raoul's death has severed the only tie that united us. I have assured her an independence as far as it lay in my power. You know the disposition that I have made of my property. Castle Steinrück falls to you as my sole heir, and with Hertha's hand you come into possession of all the family estates, which I was so anxious to assure to my grandson. My plans are fulfilled, but not as I had devised them, and it is better thus. You will fill your position well, and will guard and protect Hertha with a strong arm. God bless you both!"

It was by no mere chance that Hans Wehlau accompanied his friend. He hoped to enlist Michael's betrothed as an ally in his last decisive attack upon the prejudices of his father and of his father-in-law in spe. This attack could take place only at Steinrück, for it was there only that Gerlinda's father was to be met, and it was there only that he could be brought into contact with Professor Wehlau, who was at present paying a visit to his relatives in Tannberg.

Hertha had already done all that she could to encourage her little friend, and to prevail with the old Freiherr, but to no more purpose than was Hans's second presentation of his suit a few days after his arrival at Steinrück. In vain had he donned his uniform; the warlike pomp of the nineteenth century made no impression whatever upon the tenth. Udo von Eberstein was determined to adhere to the traditions of his house, and threatened to shut his daughter up in a convent rather than allow her to marry a man of no rank. He was inexorable, and neither the lover's insistence nor Gerlinda's tears availed to soften his heart.

It was not very difficult to entice Professor Wehlau to Steinrück. He willingly accepted an invitation from Michael, but one which Hertha extended to the inmates of the Ebersburg, 'by chance' for the same day, was only half successful. The Freiherr made his appearance, but he prudently left his daughter at home, moved to this precautionary measure by the possibility of meeting at Steinrück the man who persisted in wanting to be his son-in-law, and who was upheld by Gerlinda in his irreverent presumption. The visit, however, appeared about to pass without any disturbance; the enemy who threatened the race of Eberstein with a plebeian name was nowhere to be seen, and the Freiherr, who had had a long talk with the general of the times when they were brothers-in-arms, was in the best of spirits.

Count Steinrück having been called away for a few minutes, the Freiherr was left alone in the bow-windowed room. He turned as the door opened, expecting to see the general again, but started violently upon confronting Professor Wehlau.

The Professor was startled in his turn; he knew nothing of his opponent's presence here, and was for an instant undecided what manner to adopt towards him. A gentler disposition gained the upper hand, however, and he muttered, "Good-day, Herr von Eberstein."

"Herr Professor Wehlau, are you here?" asked Eberstein, returning his salutation with a very stiff inclination. "I hope you have not brought your son with you."

"No; he is in Tannberg."

"I rejoice to hear it. My daughter is at the Ebersburg."

Wehlau shrugged his shoulders. "Not much cause for rejoicing. I'll wager that the pair are together the instant our backs are turned."

"I beg your pardon," said Eberstein, with dignity. "I have strictly forbidden Gerlinda either to see or to speak to Herr Wehlau."

"Of course, and you forbade her to write to him, but my Hans brought home a whole wagon-load of her letters. Fräulein Gerlinda possesses a like number, I suppose."

"This is disgraceful!" exclaimed the old Freiherr, informed thus for the first time of his child's disobedience. "Why do you not employ your paternal authority? Why have you permitted your son to come hither?"

"Because he is twenty-six years old, and a child no longer," replied Wehlau, dryly. "You, indeed, keep your daughter under lock and key. I wish I could do the same with my madcap; but it would not help matters: he would scramble out of the window and into the Ebersburg, if he had to do it by the chimney. The affair cannot be allowed to go on thus; we must have recourse to serious measures."

"Yes, we must!" Eberstein agreed, with an energetic thump of his cane on the floor. "I shall shut Gerlinda up in a convent for the present as a boarder. Then we'll see whether my gentleman can visit her by way of the chimney."

"A very sensible idea!" exclaimed the Professor, almost tempted to shake his opponent by the hand. "Stick to it, Herr von Eberstein. I am really glad to see you, in your condition, capable of such energy."

The old Freiherr, who had no idea of the insulting nature of the Professor's diagnosis of his case, and who thought he alluded to his gout, sighed heavily. "Yea, my condition grows worse every day."

"Are you aware of it yourself?" asked Wehlau, drawing up a chair and seating himself. "Of what did your father die, Herr Baron?"

"My father, Colonel Kuno von Eberstein-Ortenau, fell in the battle of Leipsic at the head of his regiment," was the reply, given with much conscious dignity.

Wehlau looked surprised; he seemed to have expected a different answer, and he forthwith began a regular cross-examination. He asked about the Freiherr's grandfather and great-grandfather, about his first and second wife, about his aunts, uncles, and cousins. Any other man would have been irritated by such inquiries, but Eberstein thought only that the Professor was greatly changed for the better; it did him good to be questioned thus with such interest about all the Udos, Kunos, and Kunrads, to whom this very man had formerly alluded in such disrespectful terms. He paraded his pedigree to the best advantage, and willingly answered all questions.

"Extraordinary!" said Wehlau at last, shaking his head. "Not a single case of mental disease, then, in your entire family?"

"Mental disease?" Eberstein repeated, in some dudgeon. "What can you be thinking of? I suppose that is your specialty, however. No, the Ebersteins have died of all sorts of diseases, but their minds have never been affected."

"That really seems to have been the case– Is it possible that I have been mistaken?" murmured the Professor. He turned the conversation to the family chronicles, to the origin of the Ebersteins in the tenth century, but the Freiherr's replies were perfectly clear and sensible, and at last he clasped his hands and said, in a tone of deep emotion, "Yes, yes, my ancient noble line, known and honoured in history for nine centuries, goes to the grave with me! Whether Gerlinda marries or not, the name must die with me, and that soon, as my old Ebersburg will ere long be but a heap of ruins. The present generation knows nothing, wishes to know nothing, of the splendour and glory of ancient times, and I have no son to preserve their memory. The scutcheon of my race will be broken above my coffin and thrown into the grave with me, with the last sad words, 'Freiherr von Eberstein-Ortenau, known to-day, but never more.'"

There was such bitter pain in the tone in which these words were uttered that Wehlau suddenly grew very grave, and looked with genuine emotion at the old man, down whose withered cheeks two tears rolled slowly. The man of science and of the present had never appreciated the pride of the noble in his ancestors; but he understood the suffering of the old man bewailing the downfall of his race, conscious, in spite of every effort to the contrary, of the iron heel of modern times crushing and obliterating the traces of centuries. At the moment all that was ridiculous fell away from Udo von Eberstein, extinguished by the tragic melancholy of a fading world, over which sentence was pronounced in the words, 'Known to-day, but never more!'

There was silence for a few moments, and then the Professor suddenly offered his hand to his former antagonist. "Herr von Eberstein, I have done you injustice. We are liable to err, and there really was much that was strange in your– Enough, I beg to apologize."

The old Freiherr was far from guessing the reason tor this apology; he thought it referred to the want of respect formerly shown for the Eberstein pedigree, and it pleased him greatly that the irreverent man of science should be so thoroughly converted. He took the offered hand and pressed it cordially.

At this point Michael made his appearance in some dismay, having just learned that the two men, whose meeting was to be arranged with such caution, were alone together in the general's room. They were probably by this time flying at each other's throats, and Captain Rodenberg came instantly in hopes of averting a misfortune. To his astonishment, he found the pair engaged in peaceful converse, in fact with clasped hands.

"I am sorry to disturb you," said Michael, scarcely believing his eyes. "The Countess Hertha is very desirous of seeing you, but if you are engaged in conversation–"

"No, we have finished," said Wehlau, assisting the old Freiherr, who was very infirm, to rise. Thus they proceeded to the drawing-room, where Hertha received them, but beside her stood a man at sight of whom the Freiherr's melancholy gave place to anger.

"Herr Hans Wehlau! I thought you were in Tannberg!" he exclaimed.

"And he was there when I left," interposed the Professor. "How did you get here, you rascal? through the air?"

"No, papa, I only drove after you. I wanted especially to speak with Herr von Eberstein upon a most important matter–"

"I will not listen to anything," protested the Freiherr; "I know all about your important matter, but I have just agreed with your father that we must have recourse to serious measures, very serious measures, to frustrate your matrimonial schemes."

"Yes, very serious measures," the Professor reiterated. "We certainly agreed upon this,–but, after all, why do you refuse to let your daughter marry my son?"

Eberstein looked at him completely puzzled. The question was extraordinary, just when an alliance had been formed against this marriage, but he was spared the trouble of replying, for Hertha demanded his attention at the moment, and Wehlau availed himself of the opportunity to draw his son aside.