"I should like to know the truth with regard to a certain affair,--the
entire, unvarnished truth. May I learn it from you?"
"If it be in my power----"
"Most certainly, your consent is all that is needed. My uncle Steinrueck
has told me that the matter in which I entreated his interference is
entirely arranged; of course I do not doubt his words, but nevertheless
I fear----" She paused.
"You fear?"
"That the reconciliation is only momentary and apparent. You could not,
perhaps, refuse your general the obedience he required of you, any more
than Raoul could refuse it to his grandfather, and when you next meet
the quarrel may be renewed."
"Not by me," said Michael. "Since Count Steinrueck retracted, in the
general's presence, his offensive words, I am entirely satisfied."
"Raoul? Did he really do that?" exclaimed Hertha, half incredulously,
half indignantly.
"Under any other circumstances no reconciliation would have been
possible. The Count, in fact, submitted to his grandfather's authority,
when the general expressly required him to retract his words."
"Raoul submitted thus? Impossible!"
"You do not question the truth of what I say?"
"No, Captain Rodenberg, no; but I am more and more convinced that there
is something concealed from me at the root of this matter. Very strange
expressions were made use of during that scene at Colonel Reval's, and
yet you are a stranger to our family, are you not?"
"I am," replied Michael, with cold emphasis.
"There was an allusion to associations which you, as well as Raoul,
seemed to repudiate. What associations were those?"
"Do you not think that the general or Count Raoul could answer you
better than I?"
Hertha shook her head. "They could or would tell me nothing. I have
asked them. I hope to hear the truth at last from you."
"And I must beg you to excuse me. An explanation would only be painful,
and to what it might lead you are aware."
"I heard only the beginning of the conversation," said the young
Countess, divining that here a point was touched that were best
avoided. "It was enough to cause me to fear the issue; but indeed
I----"
"Do not trouble yourself to spare me," Rodenberg interposed, with
intense bitterness. "I know you heard the entire conversation, and the
word can scarcely have escaped you with which Count Steinrueck--insulted
my father's memory."
Hertha was silent for a moment, and then said, in a low voice, "Yes, I
heard it, but I knew that it was a mistake. Raoul, too, sees the error
now, and therefore retracted his words. Is this not so?"
Michael's lips quivered; he saw that the young Countess had not the
slightest suspicion of his relations to her family, or of the tragedy
that had been enacted in it, and it was not for him to explain it to
her; but neither would he listen any longer to that voice so filled
with tender sympathy; its tones were more potent to enthrall than ever
were the songs of the sirens of old. He knew, indeed, that his next
word would open a gulf between them that never could be bridged over.
So much the better. It could not be helped, if he would retain his
self-control, and in the hardest tone he could command he replied,
"No!"
"No?" repeated Hertha, recoiling a step in dismay.
"It startles you, Countess Steinrueck, does it not? But it must be said,
nevertheless. I can defend my own honour against all attack, by
whomsoever made. Against an assault upon my father I am powerless. I
can strike the insulter down. I cannot give him the lie."
His voice was calm, although monotonous, but Hertha saw and felt how
the man's entire nature was writhing beneath the wound which he thus
ruthlessly tore open before her. She could best appreciate his
pride,--pride that refused to bow even where he loved. She could
estimate what this confession cost him, and, forgetting all else,
yielding to the impulse of the moment, she exclaimed, "Good God! How
terribly you must have suffered!"
Michael started and gazed at her inquiringly. It was the first time
that he had heard her speak in this tone which came from her very soul,
and vibrated with passionate sympathy, as if she felt his torture in
every fibre of her frame. It was like the first glimmer of a bliss of
which he had indeed sometimes dreamed, but from which he had turned
with all the pride of a man resolved never to be the sport of a
caprice. What he now saw and heard was no sport; it was an outburst of
entire self-forgetfulness, of reckless frankness.
"Can you thus understand and feel for me?" he asked, and his heart beat
high. "You, born and bred upon sunny heights of existence, with never a
glimpse of the dark depths of human misery? Yes, I have suffered
terribly, and I still suffer, when forced to connect the idea of
disgrace with what should be sacred and dear to me--my father's
memory."
Hertha stopped close to his side, and her voice fell on his ear soft
and tender as a soothing touch upon a painful wound. "If you could not
love your father, you had a mother,--her memory at least is stainless."
"Her memory! Yes. But she was a wretched woman, who had given up home
and family to follow the man whom she loved, and by whom she believed
herself beloved. She paid for her delusion with the misery of a
lifetime, and it killed her."
"And her family knew this and permitted her thus to die?"
"Why not? It had been her free choice, She only expiated her fault. Can
you not understand this, Countess Steinrueck?"
The words were as bitter as ever. Hertha slowly raised her eyes to
his,--there was nothing in them of the keen brilliancy that sometimes
made their expression half demonic; their light now shone through
tears.
"No, but I can understand how she could follow the man whom she loved,
and could believe in him in spite of all the world, although her path
lay through darkness and disgrace, and even led to ruin. I could have
done this too."
"Hertha, what words are these from you to me?" Michael burst forth
passionately, seizing her hand before she was aware and pressing it
eagerly to his lips. This recalled the young Countess to herself, and
she hastily tried to withdraw her hand.
"Captain Rodenberg, for the love of heaven! you forget----"
"What?" he asked, clasping her hand still more firmly.
"That I am Raoul's betrothed."
"Only his betrothed, not his wife! The tie may yet be severed. Give me
the right to do so and I will break----"
"No, Michael, never! It is too late. I am bound."
"You are free if you will only say the word, but you will not say it."
"I cannot!"
"Is that your final decision?"
"It is."
Michael dropped her hand and retreated.
"Then I can only pray your forgiveness for my temerity."
Hertha saw how profound was his emotion. She was now expiating the
early frivolity of her conduct towards him. He had no faith in her. The
old evil spirit, the old suspicion was stirring within him again,
whispering to him that her courage was that of words, not of deeds, and
that she surely must prefer an alliance with a count's coronet to the
love of the son of an adventurer. One word from her lips would convince
him of his error, but before the young Countess there arose at this
moment the stern dark face of the old general. She felt the iron clasp
of his hand, she heard his words: 'Surely the betrothed of Count
Steinrueck knows what she owes to him and to herself!' The remembrance
admonished her imperiously of the sacredness of her promise. A woman
could not a few weeks before marriage sever an alliance into which she
had entered voluntarily, because she had changed her mind. Hertha hung
her head and was silent.
Meanwhile the sun had set, and with it had departed the golden glory in
which the interior of the church had been bathed. Pictures and statues
were cold and lifeless again, and gray twilight shadows were softly
descending over all. The bright figure of the archangel alone could be
discerned in the recess behind the altar. But the wind that roared
about the walls outside had found an entrance somewhere: it wailed ill
long-drawn notes through the vaulted arches, to die away whispering
like spirit-tones.
Hertha shuddered involuntarily at the strange moaning sound, and then
turned to go. Michael followed her, but at some slight distance, and
neither spoke. They came out into the vestibule of the church, where
they were met by the pastor looking much distressed. "I was in search
of you, Countess Hertha," said he, out of breath with his hurried walk.
"Here you are too, Michael. A messenger has arrived from Castle
Steinrueck----"
"From the castle?" Hertha interposed. "I trust my mother is no worse?"
"The Countess's illness seems to have become graver, and Fraeulein von
Eberstein wished you to know it; here is a letter for you."
Hertha opened the letter hurriedly and glanced through it. Valentin saw
her grow pale.
"I must go; there is not a moment to be lost. I entreat your reverence
to have the wagon made ready immediately."
"Do you wish to go now?" Valentin asked in dismay. "It is growing dark;
the night will have fallen absolutely in half an hour, and there is a
storm brewing. You cannot possibly take that long mountain drive in the
night."
"I must! Gerlinda would not write as she does if my mother were not
dangerously ill."
"But you yourself run a great risk in persisting in going. What do you
think, Michael?"
"It will be a stormy night," said Michael, advancing. "_Must_ you go,
Countess Steinrueck?"
For answer she handed to him and to the pastor the letter she had
received. It consisted of a few hasty lines: "My godmother has suddenly
grown worse; she is asking for you, and I am terribly anxious. The
physician talks of a severe, perhaps dangerous attack. Come
immediately! GERLINDA."
"You see I have no choice," the young Countess said in a trembling
voice. "If I start immediately I can reach the castle before midnight.
I must go, your reverence."
During the last few moments they had been walking towards the village.
Hertha and the priest had some trouble in making their way against the
wind. Valentin made one more attempt to persuade her to wait at least
until daybreak before setting forth, but in vain.
At the parsonage they questioned the servant from the castle, who had
ridden over on horseback, but he could give his young mistress no
consoling tidings. The Frau Countess was certainly very ill; the Herr
Doctor had looked very grave, and had bidden him make all the haste he
could.
Michael had taken no part in the priest's remonstrances, but now he
stepped to Hertha's side and asked, in a low voice, "May I go with
you?"
"No!" was the reply, in a voice as low, but none the less decided. He
retired with a frown.
Ten minutes later Hertha was seated in the little mountain wagon which
her mother always used when she came to Saint Michael, and in which she
herself had arrived at the parsonage. The coachman was skilful, and the
servant who had accompanied her was mounted upon a stout mountain pony,
as was also the messenger from the castle. Nevertheless the old priest
stood with anxious looks beside the vehicle from which the young
Countess held out her hand to him to bid him farewell. Then the
beautiful face, now very pale, turned towards the door of the
parsonage, where Michael was standing. Their glances met once more;
there was in them a last farewell!
"God grant the storm do not increase during the night!" said Valentin,
sighing, as the wagon drove off. "Those servants would all lose their
heads in any actual peril. I hoped you would offer to accompany the
Countess, Michael."
"I did so, but my offer was rejected in the most decided manner, and of
course I could not persist."
The pastor shook his gray head disapprovingly. "How can you be
sensitive and irritable at such a time? You could not but see how
agitated the poor girl was; but in all matters where the Steinruecks are
concerned your sense of justice is dulled. I have long seen that."
Michael made no reply to this reproach; his gaze followed the wagon,
which soon disappeared in a bend of the road, and then he looked across
to the Eagle ridge, which towered white and ghostly in the gathering
darkness. It was still distinct, but the clouds were beginning to
gather about its summits,--storm-clouds that loomed up slowly and
threateningly.
When Valentin and his guest were once more seated in the priest's
modest apartment, although they had not met since autumn, and each had
much to hear and to tell, there was no ready flow of conversation.
Michael especially was uncommonly absent and monosyllabic; he seemed
scarcely to hear some of the priest's questions, and his answers to
others were quite irrelevant. The pastor perceived with surprise that
his thoughts were preoccupied.
The light had quite faded, and old Katrin had just set the lamp upon
the table, when there was a knock at the door, and an elderly man in a
hunting costume entered the room, baring his head as he advanced to the
pastor.
"God bless your reverence, here I am in Saint Michael once more! Do you
remember me? It must be ten years since I left the forest lodge."
"Wolfram, is it you?" exclaimed Valentin, much surprised. "Whence do
you come?"
"From Tannberg. I had to go to the sessions there on account of a small
property left me by an old cousin, and as to-morrow is Saint Michael's
day, I thought I would take a look at my old home and see after your
reverence. I got here half an hour ago and went to the inn, but I
thought I'd look in on your reverence this evening."
The priest glanced with a degree of embarrassment at Michael. This
unexpected arrival must be far from agreeable for the young officer,
for if Wolfram did not recognize him at first, he certainly would do so
shortly.
"You are right not to forget me or your old home," said he, with some
hesitation. "I am not alone, as you see. I have a guest----"
"So I heard,--an officer," the forester interposed, standing erect and
saluting in true military fashion. "I heard it at the inn,--a son of
your reverence's brother in Berlin."
Michael had recognized his former foster-father at the first glance.
The powerful, thick-set figure was unchanged, as were the hard
features, and the hair and beard, now grizzled, were as neglected as
formerly. The man was as rude and rough as ever. At sight of him
Rodenberg was for a moment filled with bitterness at the thought that
under such brutal guardianship his boyhood and the first years of his
youth had been wasted. True, his sense of justice told him that the
forester had acted according to his light, but, nevertheless, he could
not bring himself to accost him with the old familiarity. There could
not but be a certain condescension in his manner as he offered his hand
to the new-comer. "The officer is not quite a stranger to you,
forester," he said, quietly. "I think we have seen each other before."
Wolfram started at sound of the voice, and scanned the speaker from
head to foot, then shook his head. "I have not the honour, so far as I
know, Herr Captain. I seem to know the voice, and there is something in
the face--what is it? I believe, your reverence, that the gentleman is
like that queer fellow Michael who ran away."
"And of whom you seem to have but a poor opinion."
"You're right there!" said the forester, after his blunt fashion. "I
had trouble and worry enough with the young rascal. He was as strong as
a bear, but so stupid that no one could do anything with him; he did
not understand anything, and at last he got me into disgrace with the
Herr Count. I was glad to be rid of him when he ran away; he must have
gone to ruin somewhere, for he was good for nothing."
Michael smiled slightly at this rather unflattering sketch of
character, but the priest said, gravely,--
"You are greatly mistaken, Wolfram; you always were mistaken with
regard to your foster-son. Look more closely at my guest,--he is
Captain Michael Rodenberg."
Wolfram started and stared speechless at Michael as if he had seen a
ghost. "The Herr Captain--he--Michael?" he stammered at last.
"Who did not quite go to ruin," said Michael. "You see he managed to
get a captaincy."
The forester still stood as if thunderstruck, trying in vain to grasp
the incredible fact. He looked up in helpless bewilderment at Michael,
now a head taller than his former foster-father, and scarcely ventured
to take the young man's offered band. He stammered a few words, half in
salutation, half in excuse, but he evidently found it impossible to
comprehend the situation.
Valentin benevolently came to his relief with a few questions as to his
welfare during the last ten years, but it was some minutes before the
forester could collect himself sufficiently to reply, and even then his
answers were rather incoherent. There was not much to tell; his present
situation on the young Countess's estates brought him a better salary
than his former one, but he lived as before in the forest, with no
associates save his underlings, rarely saw anything of the world, and
seemed to lead the same half-savage life as formerly at the forest
lodge. He saw the general frequently, for the Count was very
conscientious in the discharge of his duties as guardian, and himself
inspected his ward's estates, but he had seen his young mistress to-day
for the first time for ten years; he had met her on his way to the
village, as she was returning to the castle.
This was told in a broken, disconnected fashion, the speaker's eyes
being all the while riveted persistently upon Michael. If the captain
took any part in the conversation the forester was mute; his shyness
seemed to increase rather than to diminish; his wonted self-assertion
had vanished. Michael, moreover, was as taciturn and absent-minded as
he had previously been in talking with the priest; even this unexpected
meeting could not keep his thoughts from incessantly following the
little mountain wagon, which had now probably accomplished a third of
its journey, and he suddenly left the room to see if the moon, which
had just risen, were shining brightly enough for the mountain drive.
Wolfram looked after him, and then said to the priest in a
strangely--subdued tone, "Is it really true, your reverence? Is that
really and truly Michael,--our Michael?"
Valentin could not forbear smiling, as he replied, "I should think you
could see that for yourself."
"Yes, I do see it, but I can't believe it," the man declared. "_That_
the boy to whom I have given many a blow for his stupidity and
obstinacy? The innkeeper said the captain was so wonderfully clever
that they had put him on the general's staff, and in the last war he
fought furiously, and made short work with the enemy. And now he's a
captain, just like my Herr Count when I entered his service forty years
ago, and some day he may be a general like his Excellency."
"It is quite possible. But did not the innkeeper mention his name when
he told you all this?"
"No; he called him only 'the captain.' Oh, he has a great respect for
him. Well, so far as I can see, there's no being very familiar with
Herr Michael now. He is friendly enough, but there is a kind of way
about him that makes you keep your distance. He calls me Herr Forester;
I suppose I must call him Herr Captain."
"You certainly must conform yourself to altered circumstances," said
the priest, gravely. "And one thing more, Wolfram. It is not necessary
that you should tell the innkeeper and your other acquaintances that
Captain Rodenberg is your former foster-son. He had very little
intercourse with the villagers in old times, and is so much altered
that no one recognized him when he returned here an officer. I know
that Count Steinrueck enjoined silence upon you with regard to your
foster-son, and you were silent. You would oblige Michael and myself if
you would pursue the same course now."
"I never was a tattler, as your reverence knows," rejoined Wolfram. "I
shouldn't gain much by my former prophecies about Michael; the people
would be sure to tease me with them, and I must go home the day after
to-morrow; I don't want anybody here to get wind of the matter until
after I have gone."
Michael's return put a stop to the conversation. Immediately afterwards
the forester took his leave and returned to the little village inn,
which stood at a considerable distance from the parsonage. Meanwhile
the night had set in, and St. Michael soon lay buried in slumber.
* * * * *
The signs in the heavens, which had been so evident to a practised eye,
had not prophesied falsely. Towards midnight the storm burst with a
savage fury rarely equalled even in these mountains. The little Alpine
hamlet was sufficiently familiar with the storms of autumn and of
spring, and its inhabitants were wont to sleep calmly and quietly while
the wind raged above the low stone-laden roofs and rattled at the doors
and windows. But to-night the uproar was so terrible that it roused
them from their repose. They crossed themselves and lay awake
listening; it seemed as if Saint Michael were to be swept off the face
of the earth.
There was a gleam of light in the parsonage. The priest had risen, and
was standing at the window, entirely dressed, when he heard Michael's
step upon the stairs.
"I saw a light in your room, and so came down," the captain said as he
entered. "The storm has roused you from your bed. I thought it would do
so."
"And you have not been in bed at all," rejoined Valentin. "At least I
have heard your step continually above my head. You must have paced
your room for hours."
"I could not sleep, and I forgot that I should disturb you."
"Not at all; my sleep was broken with anxiety about the Countess Hertha
and her mountain drive. Thank God, the storm did not come until near
midnight! She must have reached the castle by eleven."
"Are you perfectly sure of that?" asked Michael, eagerly.
"Yes; the drive down could not, even with extreme caution, take more
than three hours, and for that length of time the sky was tolerably
clear; moreover, the moon is at the full. What I feared was that the
storm would overtake the Countess on the way. Once in the valley she
was out of danger."
"If she arrived there. But how can we be sure of it?" murmured Michael.
He could not but admit that the priest was right; in all probability
Hertha had long since been safe in the castle; but the restless anxiety
which had robbed him of sleep would not leave him; it possessed him
with a vague dread, a foreboding of evil.
He, too, had gone to the window, and both men stood looking out
silently into the storm and night, illuminated by a gray light from the
moon, which behind its veil of clouds shone brightly enough to reveal
objects at some distance. Suddenly the dim figure of a man appeared,
seeming to come directly from the village, and making his way with
sturdy steps in the teeth of the wind towards the parsonage. Michael's
keen eye first detected him; he pointed him out to the priest, who
shook his head, surprised. "In such weather! Some one must be
desperately ill and requiring the sacrament, but I know of no one in
the village who is ailing. The man is certainly coming here. I must go
and let him in."
He went to open the door himself, and immediately afterwards Wolfram's
voice was heard. "It is I, your reverence. I come like a ghost in the
night, but it can't be helped. If you had been asleep I should have had
to knock you up."
"What is the matter? What brings you here?" Valentin asked, anxiously,
as he conducted his visitor into the room.
"No good, your reverence. First let me get my breath. That cursed
wind,--it nearly knocked me down! I come about the young Countess----"
"Countess Steinrueck? Where is she?" Michael hastily interrupted him.
"Heaven only knows! She has not returned to the parsonage?"
"Good God, no!" exclaimed Valentin. "The Countess set out for the
castle."
"Yes, but she had to turn back. That confounded horse shied at a
mountain brook! I should like to wring the brute's neck! And the
coachman, instead of holding on to the reins, was tossed off the box,
and there he lies with a hole an inch deep in his head. The servant got
him back with difficulty to the inn, and the young Countess was lost on
the way back. Not a soul knows where she is,--and in such a night, when
all the fiends are abroad!"
He paused to take breath. Michael had grown very pale. Confused and
vague as was the man's tale, he saw that his forebodings were
justified.
"Was the Countess uninjured. Where did the accident happen? At what
time? Answer! answer!"
He assailed the forester so peremptorily with his questions that
Valentin, in spite of his anxiety, gazed at him in amazement. Wolfram
did his best to tell his story more connectedly, and was partly
successful, but his tidings were not more consoling. "At first all went
well. The road was perfectly clear in the moonlight, and they drove on
tolerably fast. Then the brute, the horse, suddenly shied at a brook
that tumbled swollen down the mountain, rushed into the stones by the
wayside, fell, and pulled over the carriage with him."
"And the Countess was not injured?" The question was as eager as the
foregoing ones.
"No, she was on her feet in an instant, but the coachman lay bleeding
on the ground, and the wagon had lost a wheel. Of course the men lost
their heads,--that kind of folk never have any sense outside the walls
of their castle. The young Countess seems to have been the only one to
have her wits about her, and she brought the others to order. She could
not go on with the broken wagon; there was nothing for it but to
return. The coachman, who could not walk, was put into the wagon among
the cushions, and one of the servants with the shying horse stayed with
him, while the Countess and the other servant mounted the other horses
and set out to go back to Saint Michael, promising to send help.
Nothing has been seen or heard of her since."
"At what time did this happen?" Michael interrupted him.
"At about nine o'clock."
"Then she ought to have been here by ten, and it is now one hour past
midnight!"
He uttered the words in a tone of such anguish that the priest again
cast at him a look half inquiry, half dismay. But Michael had eyes and
ears only for the forester and his tidings, and he urged him
impatiently, "Go on! go on!"
"There's not much more to say," Wolfram declared. "The two men waited
for help for two hours, and when it did not come, and the weather grew
more threatening, they had the sense to set out by themselves. The
coachman had somewhat recovered, and was put upon the horse, which the
other man led by the bridle, and so at last they reached the inn, but
could go no farther, for the storm was too furious; they were perfectly
sure that the Countess was at the parsonage. But she never got back to
the village; she would have had to pass the inn, and no one had seen
her. The servant is crying like an old woman about his young mistress,
but he could not be prevailed upon to go to the parsonage through the
storm. So I came,--and there your reverence has the whole story. What
is to be done?"
"There has been an accident!" exclaimed the priest, his anxiety
increasing with every moment. "I feared it when this wretched mountain
journey was undertaken. They have fallen down some roadside precipice."
"They are more likely to have lost their way," said Michael, his voice
faltering in spite of his effort to steady it. "Did the two servants
who returned find no trace of the others?"
"No, not the least."
"Then there can have been no plunge down a precipice; two persons, and
two horses, could not disappear from a tolerably safe road without a
trace left behind. They have lost their way."
"But that is impossible,--there is no other road," said the priest.
"Yes, one, your reverence, near Almenbach, where the path winds upward
to the mountain chapel. The roads are very similar, moonlight is
illusive, and if the Countess did not soon find out her mistake, she
must have got among the clefts of the Eagle ridge!"
"God protect us!" exclaimed the priest. "That would be almost as bad as
a plunge down a precipice!"
Michael bit his lip; he knew that this was no exaggeration; from his
boyhood he had been familiar with the clefts and abysses of the Eagle
ridge.
"It is the only imaginable possibility," he rejoined. "At all events,
there is not a moment to be wasted; hours have been lost already. We
must set out immediately."
"Now? In such a night?" asked Wolfram, staring at the captain as if he
thought him insane, while Valentin exclaimed,--
"What are you thinking of, Michael? You do not mean----?"
"To go in search of the Countess. Of course. Do you suppose I could
stay quietly here while she is exposed to all the horrors of this
night?"
"You ought to wait, and not attempt impossibilities. You know our
mountains, and that nothing is to be done while the storm is raging
thus. As soon as it subsides, as soon as the morning dawns, we will do
all that men can do. To go out now would be worse than folly,--it would
be madness!"
"Madness or not, it must be attempted!" Michael burst forth. "Do you
imagine that I set the least value on my life weighed against hers? If
I had to follow her to the summit of the Eagle ridge, where death
seemed certain, I would either deliver her from peril or perish with
her!"
Valentin clasped his hands in dismay. This burst of despair and anguish
betrayed to him the well-guarded secret of which he had, indeed, within
the last few minutes had some suspicion, and he exclaimed under his
breath, "Can this be? Good God!"
Michael paid him no heed; he had turned to Wolfram, and said, hastily,
"I need companions; we must search in different directions; will you go
with me?"
"I? Now, when all the fiends of hell are loose in the mountains? The
Wild Huntsman was never so furious in all the years I spent at the
forest lodge."
"Infernal superstition!" muttered Rodenberg, stamping his foot. "Then
go for the innkeeper; he is a good mountaineer and a brave man."
"That may be, but he'll not stir out in weather like this. He took his
oath of that when some one spoke of it awhile ago, and he said a ton of
gold would not tempt him, for he had a wife and children to take care
of."
"Then I will go alone. Send help after me as soon as the morning dawns.
Let the innkeeper and a party take the road towards the mountain
chapel, which I shall follow, and pursue it to the Eagle ridge, if
necessary. You, Wolfram, with some others, search the forest around the
lodge, your former domain. Your reverence will please to have the road
gone over again as far as to the spot where the accident occurred.
Summon the whole village to help. I have no more time to lose."
In spite of his terrible agitation, he spoke in the energetic tone of
command which he was wont to use to his subordinates, and as he hastily
left the room the forester looked after him with a bewildered air,
evidently greatly impressed.
"He has learned how to command. That's plain!" he said, in an
undertone. "He behaves as if the entire village belonged to his
regiment and had to obey orders. Queer! My Herr Count was just so.
Michael's look and tone are just like his; he might have learned them
from him, or have been his son. There's something queer in it, your
reverence; it looks like witchcraft."
The priest made no reply,--he was as if stunned. Hertha's danger,
Michael's reckless resolve to follow her, the discovery he had just
made with regard to the pair, everything coming at once upon the
venerable man, unused as he was to any passionate emotion, overpowered
him: he felt dizzy.
In a few moments Michael returned, completely equipped for his midnight
expedition in a rough plaid, with his mountain staff; he held out his
hand to his old teacher: "Farewell, your reverence, and if we should
not see each other again, God protect us!"
Valentin clasped his hand and held it fast; fear lest he should lose
his favourite outweighed the thought of Hertha's peril. "Michael, be
reasonable. Hark! how the wind is roaring! You'll not be able to get a
hundred steps from the house. Wait at least for half an hour!"
Rodenberg withdrew his hand impatiently. "No, every minute may be
fraught with life and death. Farewell."
He walked to the door, where Wolfram was standing motionless. His hard
features worked strangely as he asked, with hesitation, "You really
mean to go, Herr Captain, and all alone?"
"Yes, since no one has the courage to go with me," said Michael,
bluntly.
"Oho! we are not cowards either!" exclaimed the forester, offended. "A
Christian man like the innkeeper, who has a wife and children, ought
not, indeed, to venture, but I have nothing of the kind, and since
there's no help for it--why, I don't care--I'll go too!"
Valentin was greatly relieved by these words,--glad that Michael was
not, at least, to go alone; but Rodenberg merely said, "Come, then! Two
are always better than one."
"That depends," said Wolfram. "Perhaps the Wild Huntsman thinks so too,
and will carry off both of us. Good-bye, your reverence; it can do no
harm for you to pray hard for us while we are gone. You are a holy man,
and if you will speak a good word for us to Saint Michael, he may,
perhaps, interfere and put the hellish crew outside to rout; 'tis high
time."
Michael waved his hand to the priest from the threshold of the door;
Wolfram followed him, and in a few minuses both were lost to sight
outside.
* * * * *
The Eagle ridge had, in fact, sent forth one of the spring storms, so
justly dreaded in all the country round. Those who shared the
forester's superstition might well believe that a rabble of fiends from
the pit were abroad dealing destruction about them. There was a wild
uproar in the air, a crashing and howling in the forest, while the
moon, veiled by the rack of clouds, shed over earth and sky a weird
ghostly light more dreary than any darkness. Wolfram crossed himself
from time to time when the wind shrieked its loudest, but he tramped
bravely onward through the storm,--it needed a man of his physical
vigour and one familiar with the mountains to make headway on such a
night and in such a place.
Both men reached the road to the mountain chapel without discovering a
trace of those whom they were seeking; here they separated.
Michael, in spite of his companion's remonstrances, pressed on to the
Eagle ridge, which began here, while Wolfram turned aside towards his
old domain about the forest lodge. It was agreed that he who first
discovered the missing ones should conduct them to the mountain chapel
and there await daybreak. In any case the two men were to meet there at
dawn, in order, if their search had been fruitless, to wait for the
villagers from Saint Michael, and to continue the quest by daylight.
These were Captain Rodenberg's orders.
"I wonder if he will ever get back again!" muttered Wolfram, pausing
for a short breathing-space in the midst of the forest. "It is sheer
madness to go among the cliffs of the Eagle ridge; but he'll climb it
if he does not find the Countess below. I'll wager my head on that! No
use to gainsay him; on the contrary, he orders me round as if he were
my lord and master. I wonder why I put up with it, and why on earth I
came with him. His reverence is right; it is madness to climb the
mountains on such an infernal night, when not a cry could be heard, no
signal be seen. We don't even know which way to go, but Michael doesn't
care for that. And I thought him cowardly! To be sure he always, as a
boy, wanted to run into the midst of the Wild Huntsman's crew to see
them closer,--it was only men that he ran away from. Now he seems to
have stopped running away from them, but he orders them about like a
lord. And you have to obey,--there's no help for it,--just like my old
master the Count."
He heaved a sigh, and was about to march on. Just then there was a
slight lull in the blast, and the forester gave a long, loud shout, as
he had been doing at intervals. This time, however, he started and
listened, for he seemed to hear something like the sound of a human
voice. Again Wolfram shouted with all the force of his lungs, and from
no great distance came the wailing tones, "Here! Help!"
"At last!" exclaimed the forester, turning in the direction whence came
the voice. "It is not the Countess, I can hear that; but where one is
the other must be."
Giving repeated calls, he hurried on, the answers coming more and more
distinctly, until in about ten minutes he came upon Hertha's attendant,
who no sooner saw him than he threw his arms about him, clinging to him
like a drowning man.
"Take care, you'll upset me!" growled Wolfram. "Did you not hear me
shout before? For two hours we have been hallooing in every direction.
Where is the Countess?"
"I don't know; I lost her an hour ago."
The forester roughly shook the man off the arm to which he was still
clinging: "What? Lost? Thunder and lightning, man! what do you mean?
Just when I think I have found the Countess, you turn up without her.
Why did you not stay with her, as was your bounden duty?"
"It was not my fault," wailed the man. "The fog--the storm--and the
horses have gone too!"
"Hold your tongue about the horses!" Wolfram interposed, roughly.
"Men's lives are at stake, and you tell me nothing that I can
understand. How came you here without the Countess?"
It was some time before the exhausted man was able to answer the
forester's questions. He was an old family servant, faithful and
trustworthy, and had therefore been chosen by the Countess to attend
her daughter on this expedition, but he had completely lost his
presence of mind in the face of the present peril, and had been of no
service whatever to his mistress.
As Michael had surmised, they had taken the wrong road, and had
discovered their mistake only upon reaching the mountain chapel. Then
they had turned their horses' heads; but the moon, which until then had
shone brightly, began to be obscured, and their ignorance of the
country was disastrous. In vain did they turn in every direction; they
could not find the road again and were completely lost. The horses,
bewildered and nettled by the aimless wandering to and fro, finally
refused to stir a step. There was nothing for it but to alight.
Then the tempest began; clouds gathered from all quarters. The Countess
sent her attendant back a short distance for the horses, which had been
left at the foot of a declivity, in a last hope that by trusting to
their instinct the way might be found; but the servant had no sooner
left her than the gathering mist closed about him, obscuring
everything. He could not find the horses, nor make his way back to his
mistress. His cry of distress was drowned by the roar of the tempest,
and he had probably wandered away from her in his attempt to find her.
How he had gone astray he could not tell.
"That is the worst of all!" exclaimed the forester. "The Countess is
now entirely alone, and very likely has wandered towards the Eagle
ridge, as Captain Rodenberg supposed. I should like to know why he
chooses to run blindly into all kinds of danger after her? What we have
to do, however, is to get to the mountain chapel as soon as possible.
Come along! On the way we can go on shouting; it may do some good."
The storm raged with undiminished fury. Black clouds swept overhead and
enveloped the mountains, breaking from time to time into a host of
misty phantom shapes. And there was a roaring, a shrieking, and a
howling, as of a myriad voices of the night echoing from the air above
and from chasm and abyss below.
At the foot of a huge fir, the summit of which soared bare and dead
into the air, a female figure was crouching, worn out by fruitless
wandering, chilled by the mist and despairing of succour. The delicate
child of luxury, whom hitherto the winds of heaven had not been allowed
to visit too roughly, had nevertheless bravely confronted a real peril,
and had done everything to encourage her attendant while they were
together. The trembling old servant could neither advise nor aid his
mistress; but he had at least given her a sense of human companionship,
and now he had disappeared. No searching for him, no call, was of any
avail; she was alone amid the horrors of this night,--entirely alone.
More than an hour had passed thus,--a time which must always be
dream-like in her memory. She wandered on and on. Gloomy forests; dark
rocky crests reared aloft like phantoms; mountain streams, whose
foaming waters gleamed dimly in the fitful glimpses of the moon,--all
passed her by, shadowy and indistinct. Like a somnambulist, she
wandered on the brink of clefts and abysses, not heeding the perils of
a path which she never would have dreamed of traversing in the broad
light of day. But at last it came to an end in its upward course, and
she could go no farther; she sank down exhausted.
There was a moment's lull in the storm; the clouds broke, and the moon,
sailing into the clear space, illumined the scene clearly. Hertha saw
that she had reached a narrow rocky eminence, and that an abyss yawned
close beside her. Around her was a broken sea of cliffs and rocks,
below her was the black night of the forest, and above her soared the
dizzy heights of the Eagle ridge, about whose rocky crests the clouds
were flying, while the topmost peaks gleamed ghost-like in their robes
of snow. The distant muffled roar of the glacier streams fell upon her
ear, but only for a few moments. Then the roaring of the wind began
afresh, drowning all other sounds; the moon vanished, and the dim,
weird twilight fell on all.
The old fir-tree creaks and groans and sways; it seems as if the blast
would tear it loose from its rocky bed. Hertha clasps her arms about
the trunk, neither moaning nor weeping, but a tremor runs through her
entire frame, and there is an icy pressure upon her temples. Her eyes
are fixed upon the white gleaming peaks still glistening distinctly,
and the old legend recurs to her. From those summits Saint Michael
sweeps down at dawn the next day. Cannot the mighty patron saint of her
race, the victorious leader of the heavenly host, to whom thousands
will pray on the morrow, come to the rescue of a poor child of
mortality whose warm young life shudders at the thought of the icy
embrace of death? But his dominion begins with the dawn,--it is with
the first ray of morning that his sword of flame flashes forth
beneficently over the earth; and now night and destruction reign.
A fervent prayer bursts from the poor girl's very soul. Clearly and
distinctly the picture rises upon her mental vision: the archangel with
the eagle's wings and eyes of flame enthroned above the high altar,
surrounded as by a halo by the light of the setting sun, and by her
side stands one, strangely like the picture,--one who had once declared
to her, 'If my bliss were as lofty and unattainable as the Eagle ridge,
I would scale the heights though each step threatened destruction.'
Ah! she knew it was no empty boast. Michael would follow her through
peril of all kinds: he would seek her and find her if he knew of her
danger; but he now supposed her long since safe at the castle. And yet
it seemed to her as if the intense passionate yearning that filled her
heart, mind, and soul must draw him to her side, as if he could and
would hear the desperate cry that burst from her lips, half a prayer to
St. Michael and half a call to him whom she loved: "Michael,--help!"
Surely there was an answering call, distant and faint, but still his
voice, and she hears it through the tempest as he has heard hers:
"Hertha!" And again it comes louder, and with an exultant sound:
"Hertha!"
She rises to her feet and answers. Nearer and nearer sounds the
succouring call, until just below her she hears: "What! Up there?
Courage, dearest, I am coming."
Then ensue minutes that seem endless. Michael is ascending slowly,
laboriously, but at last she sees him; he plants his mountain-staff
firmly and swings himself up beside her, clasps her in his arms, and
she clings to him as if never to leave him more.
But this blissful moment of forgetfulness is brief: danger still
threatens; not an instant must be lost.
"We must go," urged Michael. "The fir is tottering, and may fall at any
moment; these clefts are never safe. Come, dearest."
He clasped his arm about her, and she leaned upon him in unquestioning
confidence, as he half led, half carried her down the rocky slope. The
moon had emerged again, and lighted them on their way, revealing at the
same time all the terrors of the path by which Hertha had ascended half
unconsciously, and the perils of which were doubled in descending. But
not in vain had Michael lived for ten years in these mountains; the man
had not forgotten what had been familiar to the boy for whom no rocky
summit had been too lofty, no cleft too deep. Thus they made the
descent, the abyss close beside them, the wild uproar of the stormy
night about them, their hearts filled with an exultant joy that no
tempest, no abyss, could affect. At last they reached a place of
safety. Michael had kept his word: he had snatched his bliss from the
Eagle ridge.
Morning was approaching, and the tempest was subsiding; it no longer
raged with savage fury, and the heavens were gradually clearing; the
clouds slowly dispersed, and about the mountain-tops the first gray
glimmer of dawn appeared.
Michael made a halt as they issued from the rocky gorge. The mountain
chapel was almost a mile away, and his exhausted companion was obliged
to rest. All peril was past; there was no difficulty about the rest of
the way if it were traversed by daylight. He found a shelter for Hertha
beneath a protecting rock, where she sat shielded from the wind, while
he stood beside her. The young Countess's attire had suffered sadly:
her dark wrap was torn and muddy, she had lost her hat, her heavy
braids hung loose about her shoulders, as, pale and weary, she leaned
her head back against the wall of rock. And yet Michael thought he
never had seen her look half so lovely as at this moment,--his love,
whom he had battled for and won through storm and tempest.
They had scarcely spoken on the way hither, each step was taken at the
risk of life, and now they were still silent, gazing upward at the
Eagle ridge, where the gray dawn was beginning to yield to a crimson
tint that deepened every moment. At last Michael bent over her and
said, gently, "Hertha!"
She looked up at him, and suddenly held out to him both her hands.
"Michael, how did you ever find me in those abysses? You could have had
no clue to guide you."
He smiled and carried her hands to his lips. "No; but I divined where
my Hertha was,--where she must be. And you, too, dearest, knew that I
should come to you: you called me before you heard my voice. Now I no
longer dread that harsh refusal which fell from your lips yesterday. I
have no fear of the promise given by you to one whom you do not love. I
have won you from the Eagle ridge, and I shall surely triumph over
Raoul Steinrueck."
"I can never be his wife!" exclaimed Hertha. "I know now that it is
impossible! But do not quarrel with him again, Michael, I implore you.
If it is possible----"
"But it is not possible!" Michael gravely interrupted her. "Do not
deceive yourself, Hertha; there must come a struggle, probably a break
with your entire family, who never will forgive you for dissolving a
tie so desired by all of them,--for sacrificing a Count Steinrueck to a
bourgeois officer. And there is something beside with which they will
taunt both you and me,--I told you of it yesterday in the church,--the
blot upon my life."
"Your father's memory," she said, softly.
"Yes; they will never cease to remind you that you are giving yourself
to the son of an adventurer, whose name is not without stain. I thought
to terrify you with this yesterday, but, God bless you! you thought
only of my suffering. Nevertheless, shall you be able to endure the
shadow upon your life when that name shall be your own?"
His eyes sought hers with a look in them of the old mistrust of the
former Countess Steinrueck with her haughty self-consciousness. But the
delusive gleam had vanished from the eyes which the boy had pronounced
'beautiful evil eyes,'--they were shining with the clear sunshine of
love and happiness.
"Must I repeat to you, then, what I said to you yesterday when you
spoke of your mother?--'I, too, can follow him whom I love even into
misery and disgrace,--ay, even to ruin.'"
He clasped her in his arms, and she rested there as she had done before
on the Eagle ridge, behind which there was a dark crimson glow,--a
flaming herald of the morning as it mounted aloft. The snowy summits
began to blush with rosy tints, and the clouds still lying on the
horizon were all 'in crimson liveries dight.'
"The day is breaking," said Michael, pressing his lips again and again
upon the 'red fairy gold' of the head resting on his breast. "As soon
as you are able we will set out upon our homeward way. I will take you
to your mother to-day."
"My mother!" exclaimed Hertha, regretfully. "Oh, how could I so far
forget her! God grant I have been nearer death than she! My mother
would give ear to my entreaties, I know, but she submits blindly in
everything to my uncle Michael, and there will be a severe struggle
with him."
"Leave him to me," Michael interposed. "Immediately upon my return I
will inform the general that you wish to annul your contract with
Raoul, that----"
"No, no!" she remonstrated. "I must bear the first brunt of his anger.
You do not know my guardian."
"I know him better than you think; this will not be our first
encounter. If any one can measure himself against the general it is
I,--his near of kin."
Hertha looked at him in bewilderment. "What do you mean? I do not
understand."
He released her from his clasping arms, and, gazing into her eyes,
said, "I have intentionally delayed a disclosure that must be made to
you, dearest. I could not make it until I was sure that you were mine,
even although you saw in me only the son of a homeless adventurer. I am
no alien to you or to your people, nor was my father. Did you never
hear of the general's other child, his daughter?"
"Certainly,--Louise Steinrueck. She was once, I think, on the eve of
betrothal to my father; but she died very young,--scarcely eighteen."
"You have been told, then, that she died. I thought so. She did die for
her father, her family, who cast her off when she married the man of
her choice. She was my mother."
The young Countess looked at him in utter amazement. "Is it possible?
You a Steinrueck?"
"No; a Rodenberg, Hertha. Do not forget that I have no share in the
name of my mother or of her family, nor do I wish to have."
"And your grandfather? Does he know----"
"Yes; but he sees in me only the son of an outcast father, whose name,
even, must not be mentioned in his presence; and now that I shall
snatch you from his heir, Raoul, he will oppose us to the utmost. But
what matters it? You are mine of your own free will, and I shall know
how to guard my treasure."
He did, indeed, look ready to defy the world for her sake. Then he
clasped her hand in his to guide her back to that world which lay in
the depths below them, still woven about by mist and twilight. Up
above, the snowy summits were bathed in crimson light; the eastern
skies gleamed and flamed; there was a flash, as of the waving of a
sword, and the sun rose slowly, red and glowing. Born of the tempest,
the young day gave greeting to the earth. On the brilliant beams of the
morning sun Saint Michael descended from the Eagle ridge.
* * * * *
The Countess Steinrueck was indeed seriously ill, so seriously that by
the advice of the physician she was kept in ignorance of the peril
through which her daughter had passed. Hertha, upon her arrival, simply
told her mother that the storm had detained her in Saint Michael for
the night, and thus the Countess was not even aware of the meeting with
Captain Rodenberg.
About a week later, in one of the reception-rooms of the castle, the
priest of Saint Michael was sitting with his brother, who had lately
arrived, and had sent a messenger to summon Valentin. The conversation
between the brothers was evidently of a serious nature, and Professor
Wehlau said at last, "Unfortunately, I can give you no hope. This last
attack of the disease from which the Countess has suffered for so many
years, is a mortal one. Her condition is, happily, free from pain, but
it is hopeless. She may live four or five weeks longer; she will never
witness her daughter's marriage."
"I feared this when I saw the Countess last," rejoined Valentin. "But
it is a comfort to have you here. I know what a sacrifice you make in
coming in the midst of your university course, and when you have so
entirely given up practice."
Wehlau shrugged his shoulders: "What else could I do? My relations with
the Steinruecks are almost as old and as intimate as your own; and then
Michael, who brought the news of the Countess's illness, gave me no
peace. He urged me so strongly that at last I consented to come. I
thought it odd, for he knows the Countess only in society, but he
insisted that I should yield to her request and come."
The priest was evidently interested to hear this, but he merely asked,
"And you brought Hans with you? I shall see him, then."
"Certainly; he will go to you in a day or two. He of course stays with
our relatives in Tannberg, while I take up my abode here on the
Countess's account. The boy's whims are unaccountable. Early in April
he began to talk of going to the mountains to sketch, and I had to
convince him that it would be folly, since the mountains were then deep
in snow. And when I made up my mind to come here, he suddenly
discovered that it was necessary he should go to Tannberg for
'relaxation.' He must need it after all the flattery and nonsense that
have been put into his head of late, and which my sister-in-law will
doubtless keep fresh in his memory."
"But you brought him?"
"Brought him? As if I had anything to do with it! Oh, my gentleman is
quite independent now. I dare not do anything to clip the wings of such
a genius, however ridiculous may be the flights it undertakes. He came
with me, and comes over here every day with the greatest regularity to
inquire after me and the Countess. I can't understand the fellow any
more than I can Michael. They could not show more tender interest in
the Countess if she were their own mother. And she is in very good
hands with the country physician here, and that young god-daughter of
hers,--what is her name?"
"Gerlinda von Eberstein."
"Ah, yes! A queer little thing, who scarcely opens her lips, and makes
the most remarkable courtesies. But she is a capital nurse, with her
quiet, gentle ways. Countess Hertha is too agitated and anxious beside
a sick-bed."
They were interrupted. The physician had arrived and wished to speak
with his distinguished colleague. Wehlau rose and left the room. Then
the servant added that the forester, Wolfram, was below, desiring to
see his reverence. Valentin told the man to admit him, and upon his
entrance said, kindly, "You here still, Wolfram? I thought you had gone
home some days ago."
"I am going to-morrow," the forester replied. "My business is finished
in Tannberg; I wanted to ask once more after the gracious Countess. The
servants told me that your reverence was here, and so I thought I----"
He stammered and hesitated and seemed unable to proceed.
"You wished to bid me good-bye," Valentin interposed.
"Yes, I wanted that, and something else besides. I've been worried
about the thing for a week, your reverence, and haven't breathed a word
of it to a living soul; but I can't help it, I must tell your
reverence."
"Tell me, then. What is it?"
Wolfram glanced towards the door, and then, approaching the priest,
said, almost in a whisper,--
"'Tis Michael,--Captain Rodenberg, I mean. The next thing he'll snatch
the sun from the sky if he takes it into his head to want it. What he's
at now is not much less. It will make no end of a fuss in the Count's
family. The general will rage and scold, and then Michael will be down
upon him just as he was before. Oh, he'll stop at nothing."
"Are you talking of Michael?" Valentin asked, bewildered. "He went to
town long ago; my brother has just brought me a message from him."
"That may be. I only know about the night of the storm. When I took the
servant whom I found to the mountain chapel, as had been agreed, I
left him there and went some distance towards the Eagle ridge just at
day-dawn, in hopes of finding some trace of the captain or the
Countess. I really did not think that I should ever see either of them
again alive. But after a while I saw them both on a rock, and they were
very much alive: he kissed her!"
"What!" exclaimed the pastor, recoiling.
"No wonder your reverence is shocked. I was too, but I saw it with my
bodily eyes. He, Michael,--Captain Rodenberg I mean,--had his arm
around the Countess's waist, and he kissed her. I thought the world had
come to an end."
Valentin would probably have thought the same had he not been in some
measure prepared for the revelation; therefore he was more troubled
than surprised as he said, more to himself than to the man, "It has
come to a declaration, then. I feared this."
"And the young Countess seemed very well pleased; she made no objection
at all. They neither of them saw or heard me, but I plainly heard him
say 'My Hertha!'--quite as if she belonged to him; and she betrothed to
the young Count! Now, I ask your reverence, what is to be done? That
boy was always at some mischief. And he's at it still. He'll never be
content with a kiss; he'll marry the Countess right out of the midst of
her ancestors and her millions. If they won't give her to him he'll
shoot the young Count, send the general and all the family to the right
about, turn every one out of doors, and carry off 'his Hertha' from the
castle, just as he got her away from the Eagle ridge, and marry her.
Ah, your reverence, I know him!"
Wolfram had apparently fallen into the other extreme; whereas he had
formerly despised his foster-son, he now entertained a boundless
respect for his capability, which he veiled, it is true, in grumbling,
discontented words. He was quite sure that Michael could do what he
chose in spite of every one, even of the general, in Wolfram's eyes the
most awe-inspiring of individuals.
The priest was much distressed by this revelation, confirming as it did
his worst fears, but he could do nothing at present save enjoin silence
upon the forester. There was no fear that his injunction would be
disobeyed. Wolfram evidently regarded his communication in the light of
a confession, and readily promised to divulge no word of his discovery.
When he had gone, the old man clasped his hands and said to himself,
"The struggle will be for life and death. And when those two
unyielding, iron natures confront each other in enmity--Good God! what
will be the issue?"
* * * * *
On the afternoon of the same day Valentin was already on his way back
to Saint Michael, and the Professor sat in his room answering some
letters, when the Freiherr von Eberstein was announced.
The old gentleman had come to see his daughter and to inquire after the
Countess, and when he heard of the arrival of the famous professor from
the capital he resolved to take advantage of the occasion to consult
him with regard to his own ailments. Wehlau suspected something of the
kind when the frail, stooping figure appeared, and instantly assumed a
reserved demeanour, for he was nowise inclined to extend to strangers
the exceptional privilege accorded to the Countess.
"Udo, Freiherr von Eberstein-Ortenau on the Ebersburg," said the old
man, inclining his head with solemn dignity.
"So I have just heard," said Wehlau, dryly, offering his visitor a
chair. "What can I do for you?"
The Freiherr took a seat, rather discomfited by this reception. His
name and title had not apparently produced the slightest effect.
"I hear that you have been summoned to attend the Countess Steinrueck,"
he began again, "and I wished to speak with you about her."
The Professor muttered some inarticulate words. He was not fond of
discussing cases of illness with unprofessional people, and was not at
all inclined to retail here the opinion he had expressed to his
brother. Eberstein, however, took his inarticulate mutterings for
assent, and continued,--
"At the same time I wish to consult you with regard to an ailment of my
own, which for years----"
"Excuse me," Wehlau bluntly interrupted him, "I no longer practise
medicine, and was not summoned hither professionally. I hastened to the
Countess's sick-bed from motives of friendship. I could not possibly
accept a stranger as a patient."
The Freiherr stared in surprise and indignation at the bourgeois
professor who could speak of the medical treatment of a Countess
Steinrueck as a matter of friendship, and refuse to accept as a patient
a Freiherr von Eberstein. In his seclusion he had formed no idea of the
social position of the famous investigator, but he had heard formerly
that scientific men were all eccentric, entirely unacquainted with the
usages of polite society, and consequently rude and unpolished in the
extreme. He therefore magnanimously forgave the Professor for these
characteristics of his class, and, since he really needed his advice,
he determined to make him understand clearly who and what his visitor
was.
"I am a near friend of the Countess's family," he began again. "We two
are the oldest lines in the country; my family is in fact two hundred
years the elder: it dates from the tenth century."
"Very remarkable," said Wehlau, without the least idea of what the
tenth century had to do with the matter.
"It is a fact," declared Eberstein, "an historically authenticated
fact. Count Michael, the Steinruecks' ancestor, first emerges from the
twilight of legend during the crusades, while Udo von Eberstein----"
And off he went into the ancient chronicles of his house, beginning a
discourse similar to the one with which Gerlinda had so terrified the
guest at the Ebersburg. It swarmed with knightly names and feuds, and
with all the glorious mediaeval blood and murder in which the Ebersteins
had a share.
At first the Professor seemed desirous of discovering some means of
cutting short this unwelcome visit, but he gradually became attentive,
even drawing up his chair close to that of the old Freiherr and gazing
steadily into his eyes. Suddenly he interrupted him in the middle of a
sentence and seized his hand.
"Permit me,--your case interests me. Strange, the pulse is all right!"
The Freiherr exulted; this discourteous professor knew now that he was
in presence of the scion of a lofty line, and was ready to give the
advice he had at first refused.
"You find my pulse all right?" he asked. "I am glad of that; but you
will nevertheless prescribe for----"
"Applications of ice to the head during twenty-four hours at least,"
said Wehlau, laconically.
"What! with my gout!" the old gentleman exclaimed, in dismay. "I cannot
endure the least cold, and if you will investigate my case----"
"Not the slightest necessity. I know perfectly well what ails you,"
declared the Professor.
The Freiherr's respect increased for this famous physician, who could
pronounce upon a patient's condition by merely looking at him, without
asking a single question.
"The Countess certainly spoke in the highest terms of your keenness of
apprehension," he rejoined; "but I should like to ask you a question,
Herr Professor Wehlau. Your name strikes me as familiar. Can you be in
anywise related to Wehlau Wehlenberg of the Forschungstein?"
"Forschungstein?" Again the Professor hastily felt the Freiherr's
pulse, while the old man resumed, condescendingly,--
"It would not be the first time that a member of an ancient family had
refused to adopt a title when forced by circumstances to embrace a
bourgeois profession."
"Bourgeois profession!" exclaimed Wehlau. "Herr von Eberstein, do you
imagine that scientific pursuits are followed like--shoemaking, for
example?"
"They certainly are very unbefitting noble blood," said Eberstein,
haughtily. "As for the Forschungstein, it is the ancestral seat of a
young nobleman who came to the Ebersburg last autumn and partook of my
hospitality during a stormy night. An amiable young man that Hans
Wehlau Wehlenberg----"
"Of the Forschungstein!" the Professor interposed, with a burst of
laughter. "Now I understand it all. It is another prank of that
graceless boy of mine. I remember his telling me that he had passed
a stormy night in an old castle. I am sorry, Herr Baron, that my
good-for-naught should so have imposed upon you. His Forschungstein is,
however, all the antiquity that either he or I can lay claim to. No, he
is plain Hans Wehlau like myself, and when next I lay eyes upon him I
shall give him my opinion of his promotion to the nobility."
He laughed again loud and long, but the old Freiherr evidently did not
appreciate the joke of the affair; he sat at first speechless with
indignation, and at last broke forth: "Your son? Only Hans Wehlau? And
I received him as an equal, and treated him like one of my own rank! A
young man of no name, no family----"
"Pardon me," interrupted the Professor. "I do not mean to excuse the
trick, but as for a name and a family, in the first place Hans is _my_
son, and I have achieved somewhat in the scientific world, and in the
second place he himself is not without fame in another domain. The name
of Wehlau may well compare with that of Eberstein, which owes all its
importance to mouldy old traditions, entirely disregarded nowadays."
This touched the Freiherr on his most sensitive side; he arose in
furious indignation: "Mouldy traditions? Disregarded? Herr Wehlau, I
cannot, of course, require from you any appreciation of matters far too
lofty for your bourgeois apprehension, but I demand respect for----"
"But I have none,--none at all!" shouted the Professor, angry in his
turn. "I am a scientific man of enlightened ideas, and I have not the
slightest respect for the mouldy dust of the tenth century, nor for the
Udos and Kunos and Conrads and whatever else the fellows were called
who knew nothing save how to drink themselves drunk, and kill one
another. Those times, thank God, are past, and when your old owls'
nest, the Ebersburg, has quite fallen to decay, no human being will
know anything more about it."
"Herr Professor!" exclaimed Eberstein, fairly growing purple in the
face; he could get no further, for his fury brought on so violent a
paroxysm of coughing that at sight of his distress all the physician
stirred within Wehlau, and in spite of his anger he forced his visitor
into a chair, and supported his head, while the old man repulsed
his aid, gasping, "Leave me! I wish no help at the hands of an
iconoclast--a blasphemer--a----"
With a sudden accession of strength he regained his feet, seized his
cane, and hobbled out of the room.
"Applications of ice to the head during twenty-four hours; don't
forget!" the Professor called after him, throwing himself into a chair
and allowing his wrath to cool. The Freiherr, on the contrary, hobbled
along, nursing his ire, to his daughter's room to relate the dreadful
story to her. She knew the 'young man of no name, no family,' who had
insinuated himself as an equal into the Ebersburg; she would, of
course, share his indignation at the deceit.
* * * * *
While this passage at arms had been taking place between the two
fathers, their children had been enjoying the most peaceful and
friendly _tete-a--tete_. Hans Wehlau had come over from Tannberg, as
was his wont, to see his dear father and to inquire after the Countess.
This last seemed to be the most important purpose of his coming, for it
was his first care, and he made his inquiries, not of his father, who
was surely more than able to satisfy his anxiety, but of Fraeulein von
Eberstein in person. The Professor, of course, knew nothing of these
interviews, but supposed that his son came directly to himself, and was
deeply touched by his recent increase of filial devotion.
On this day the young artist had been sitting in the reception-room
with Fraeulein von Eberstein for full half an hour, and they had been
talking of other things besides the Countess's illness. Hans had just
said, "Then you have not told your father yet? He still thinks me a
Wehlau Wehlenberg?"
"I--I have had no opportunity," replied Gerlinda, with hesitation. "I
did not want to write it to papa, for I knew it would vex him, and so I
did not mention meeting you. Then we went to Berkheim, and then when we
came here my poor godmamma was taken ill, and I could not think of
anything else."
The words sounded very timid, and Hans plainly perceived that she had
lacked, not opportunity, but courage to make the disclosure.
"And, besides, you feared the Freiherr's anger," he went on. "I can
easily conceive it, and of course I must save you the dreaded
explanation. In a day or two I will drive over to the Ebersburg and
confess my sins myself."
"Oh, for heaven's sake don't do that!" exclaimed Gerlinda, in dismay.
"You do not know my papa; his principles are so strict in this respect,
and he never would permit----"
"The bourgeois Hans Wehlau to come to his house, or to visit his
daughter. That may be. But the only question is whether you, Fraeulein
von Eberstein, will permit it?"
"I?" asked the young girl, in extreme confusion. "I can neither forbid
nor permit."
"And yet I ask for an answer from you, and you only! Why have I come
hither, do you think? Not for the sake of my relations in Tannberg. I
could not stay in town, although I have lately had so much to gratify
me there. The first recognition of an artist by the public has
something intoxicating in it, and this I have had in fuller measure
than I had ventured to hope for. It came from all quarters, and yet I
was besieged by one memory, one longing that would not be banished,
that left me no repose, and that at last drew me away to where alone it
could be stilled."
Gerlinda sat with downcast eyes and glowing cheeks. Young and
inexperienced as she was, she yet understood this language. She knew
whither his longing had drawn him. He was standing beside her, and as
he bent over her there was again in his voice the gentle, fervent tone
that was but rarely heard from the gay young artist.
"May I come to the Ebersburg? I should so like to have another sunny
morning hour on the old castle terrace, high above the green sea of
forest. There, beside you, the poetry of the past, the splendour of the
world of fairy-lore, were first revealed to me. If I might but gaze
again into Dornroeschen's dark dreamy eyes! I have not forgotten those
eyes; they sank deep into my heart. May I come, Gerlinda?"
The crimson on the girl's cheek deepened, but the downcast eyes were
not raised, and her reply was almost inaudible: "I always hoped you
would come again,--all through the long winter,--but always in vain."
"But I am here now!" exclaimed Hans, "and I will not leave you until my
happiness is assured. Ah, sweet little Dornroeschen, did I not tell you
that the day would come when the knight would appear and break through
the thick hedge, and rouse the Sleeping Beauty with a kiss? And all the
while, deep in my heart, I cherished the hope that the knight's name
might be--Hans Wehlau."
He put his arm around her waist as he uttered the last words. Gerlinda
shrank, but did not withdraw from his clasp; she slowly raised the
'dark dreamy eyes' to his, and said, softly, very softly, but with the
fervour of intense happiness, "So did I."
The young man was not to blame if, in view of this confession, he
carried out the fairy legend in detail, and kissed his Dornroeschen
nestling so contentedly beside him. But when he clasped her closer,
calling her his 'dear little betrothed,' Gerlinda started and grew very
pale. "Ah, Hans, dear Hans, it will not do! I had quite forgotten; we
never can marry each other."
"And why not?"
"Oh, papa never will allow it. Why, we date from the tenth century."
"The tenth century presents no obstacle to my marriage in the
nineteenth. Of course there will be a row with the Freiherr; I am quite
prepared for that; but I am proof against storms of that kind. I know
from experience what it is to brave a furious papa and have my own way
in the end."
"But we never shall succeed," the little chatelaine moaned, drearily.
"We shall be just like Gertrudis von Eberstein and Dietrich Fernbacher,
who loved each other so dearly. Oh, Gertrudis was married to the Lord
of Ringstetten, and Dietrich went on a crusade against the infidels,
and never came back."
"That was very silly of Dietrich," rejoined Hans. "What business had he
with the infidels? He ought to have stayed at home and married his
Gertrudis."
"But she could not espouse him, because he was not of knightly descent,
but a merchant's son," cried Gerlinda, the tears gathering in her eyes,
while she dutifully repeated the exact words of the ancient chronicle.
"That was in the Middle Ages," Hans said, soothingly. "They are far
more sensible in such matters nowadays. I shall certainly not march
against the infidels. The most I shall attempt will be the siege of the
Ebersburg, and I shall surely carry it by storm."
"Good heavens! Papa! I hear his step!" exclaimed Gerlinda, freeing
herself from the arm Hans had clasped about her, and running to the
window. "Oh, Hans, what shall we do now?"
"Present ourselves to him as a betrothed pair and ask his blessing,"
the young man promptly replied. "It has got to be done, and the sooner
the better."
The heavy, shuffling step of the Freiherr was in fact audible in the
next room, with the tap of his cane on the floor. He opened the door
and stood as if paralyzed on the threshold. He saw the man 'of no name,
no family,' with his daughter; at a respectful distance from her, to be
sure, but the mere fact of their being together was enough to rouse his
indignation. He advanced slowly into the room. "Ah, Herr Hans Wehlau!"
he said, emphasizing the name with contempt.