The old gentleman was evidently desirous of assuming the angry attitude
required by the occasion, but his gout played him an ill turn; just at
this point his feet refused to sustain him, and he sank into the
nearest arm-chair, where he presented a spectacle that was pitiable
rather than terrible. Nevertheless, he controlled himself, and
continued: "I have just come from a"--he suppressed a more violent
expression--"a certain Professor Wehlau, who declares himself your
father."
"Which he assuredly is," said Hans, perceiving clearly that his
confession was unnecessary.
"And you admit it?" cried the Freiherr, angrily. "You confess that you
have played a disgraceful farce with me; that you sneaked into my house
under a false name, assuming a title----"
"Beg pardon, Herr Baron, that I did not do," Hans interposed. "I only
took the liberty of adding a second name to the one belonging to me of
right. You yourself prefixed the 'Baron.' But you are quite right to
reproach me, and I frankly beg your forgiveness for the stupid trick by
which I extorted a hospitality at first denied me. I call upon Fraeulein
von Eberstein to witness that it was my intention to go to the
Ebersburg to tell you the truth. A jest might well be forgiven to the
passing guest who appeared at night and departed in the morning; but to
prolong the jest would be deceit. This I perceived as soon as I met
Fraeulein von Eberstein in the capital, and I did not delay an instant
in revealing the truth to her."
Eberstein cast a surprised and indignant glance at his daughter. "What,
Gerlinda! you knew this and concealed it from me? You have allowed this
Hans Wehlau to approach you, and have even perhaps accepted his excuses
for what is entirely inexcusable? Highly unbecoming conduct!"
Gerlinda answered not a word; she stood by the window, pale and
trembling, gazing anxiously at Hans. The little Dornroeschen was no
heroine. All the more undaunted was the Knight of the Forschungstein.
He saw that nothing was to be gained hereby temporizing; the danger
must be braved, and he attacked the high thorny hedge with ardour.
"Fraeulein von Eberstein has done even more," he began. "She has given
me a highly gratifying reply to a question that I put to her. I have
just told her of my love for her, and have had her confession that it
is returned. We pray you, therefore, Herr Baron, to bestow upon us your
paternal blessing."
Very unexpectedly the old Freiherr received this declaration with a
tolerable degree of composure, but this was simply because he did not
comprehend it. He thought it a fresh 'disgraceful farce,' for it never
occurred to him that the son of a bourgeois professor could presume to
woo a Fraeulein von Eberstein.
"Herr Wehlau, I must beg you to desist from such ill-timed pleasantry!"
he said, loftily. "You appear ignorant of the presumption of your
conduct, and you surely have reason enough to be serious in my
presence."
"Then I must pray you to speak, Gerlinda, and to confirm my words. Tell
your father that you have given me the right to ask him for your hand;
that you consent to belong to me, and to me alone."
The words were uttered with extreme tenderness, but for Gerlinda they
contained a serious admonition to overcome her timidity and to second
her Hans bravely. Moreover, was he not beside her, ready to protect
her? She accordingly broke forth with, "Oh, papa, I love him so dearly,
so very dearly! Even if he is not of noble blood and has no coat of
arms, I care for nobody but my Hans!"
"My darling!" cried the young fellow, clasping her to his heart. And
then an incredible, an inconceivable occurrence took place. Before the
very eyes of the Baron Udo von Eberstein-Ortenau the man of 'no name,
no family,' _kissed_ the last scion of the lofty race dating from the
tenth century, and not only once, but twice in succession!
For a moment the old Baron was unable either to speak or to stir. He
gazed at the pair, and then lifted his eyes to the ceiling, evidently
expecting nothing less than that the walls should tumble in and crush
this daring wretch. Castle Steinrueck, however, seemed to be of opinion
that this affair belonged entirely to the Ebersburg, which was
doubtless falling in ruins at this moment with a dull crash. The Baron
perceived that the end of the world delayed incomprehensibly in putting
in an appearance, and conceiving that it was his part to supply its
place, he tried to spring to his feet. But the gout was in league with
the lovers: it held him fast. Instead of stepping between the pair like
an avenging angel, he swayed to and fro in a helpless way, and then
sank feebly back in his arm-chair.
"Gerlinda!" he called, hoarsely. "Degenerate child! Come here! Come to
me this instant!"
Gerlinda made a faint effort to obey, but when Hans clasped his arm
about her more closely she submitted, and repeated, sobbing, "Oh, papa,
I love him so dearly!"
"Herr Hans Wehlau," Eberstein fairly yelled, losing all self-control,
"release my daughter on the spot, I command you! Retire immediately!"
"In a moment, Herr Baron. Permit me first to take leave of my
betrothed," said Hans, calmly, kissing Gerlinda's brow. Again the
Freiherr made convulsive efforts to rise.
"I will call for help! I will summon the servants! I will sound the
alarm!" he screamed, vainly endeavouring to reach a small table-bell at
a little distance from his chair. Suddenly the door opened, and Hertha,
having heard the disturbance, entered.
"Countess Hertha!" exclaimed Eberstein, with an appealing look, "I pray
you save my child, whom this man has bewitched; turn him out of your
castle!"
Hertha paused in dismay. There stood Hans Wehlau with his arm around
Gerlinda, taking a tender leave of her, while the old Baron writhed
about in vain efforts to rise from his arm-chair. The scene was
incomprehensible to her.
Hans finally made up his mind to obey the old Freiherr's command; but
he did not resign his betrothed to her father, but to the young
Countess, to whom he said, in a tone of entreaty, "I beseech your
kindness and protection, Countess Steinrueck, for my betrothed. For the
present the Herr Baron refuses to entertain my proposal, and I must
yield for a while, since my future father-in-law----"
"Insolent wretch!" shouted Eberstein, who really seemed in danger of
falling into a fit.
"----is entitled to a certain degree of respect, although I can no
longer submit to his insulting remarks," the young man completed his
sentence. "I therefore pray you to take charge of my Gerlinda. I shall
return as soon as Herr von Eberstein recovers some degree of
composure."
Then he calmly kissed his Gerlinda for the fourth time, carried the
Countess's hand to his lips, bowed low and gracefully to the Freiherr,
and left the room.
Professor Wehlau, in the mean time, had got over his vexation, and had
answered his letters. After all, that crazy old Freiherr of the tenth
century was nothing to him. The man was evidently irresponsible, and
Wehlau was disposed to judge his son's conduct more leniently than at
first. The idea of the Forschungstein amused him much, but he
nevertheless resolved to read his graceless scion a lecture when he
should next see him, and the opportunity immediately presented itself,
for Hans at that moment entered the room.
"I've just heard of another of your pranks," were the words with which
his father received him. "What nonsense have you been about at the
Ebersburg? You, a knight of the Forschungstein!"
"Was it not a capital idea, papa?" asked the young fellow, laughing. "I
have just heard that you have had an interview with the Freiherr. He
probably wished to consult you about his gout?"
"Possibly; I diagnosed insanity," said Wehlau, dryly, "and ordered
applications of ice. They will not help him much, however, since the
disease is too deep-seated, but they will calm him, and that is
something."
"How so? Did you quarrel?"
"We certainly did. I never advise humouring fixed ideas, as do some of
the profession. My system is to rouse patients from their illusions,
and when this Udo von Eberstein began to recite his old chronicles I
quickly made clear to him my views with regard to his mediaeval
nonsense."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Hans; "you must have touched him on the raw. He
never will forgive either you or me."
"What of that? What have either you or I to do with that old Ebersburg
owl?"
"Very much, since I am betrothed to his daughter."
The Professor honoured his son with a long stare, then frowned, and
said, crossly, "What! more nonsense? I should suppose we had had
enough."
"I am perfectly serious, papa. I have just betrothed myself to Gerlinda
von Eberstein. You have known her at the bedside of the Countess, and
you cannot but rejoice in such a lovely creature for a daughter."
"Hans, are you utterly insane? The daughter of a notorious lunatic!
Why, it may be hereditary in the family. The girl has something shy and
strange in her air, and the father is as mad as a March hare."
"Not at all," said Hans; "he only dates from the tenth century; a
certain abnormal condition of the brain must be looked for, otherwise
my father-in-law is quite sensible."
"Father-in-law!" repeated the Professor. "I have a word to say in the
matter, and I wish to declare now, upon the spot, that if you really
have this nonsensical idea in your head you had best get rid of it
without delay. I forbid you to entertain it."
"Oh, you can't do that, papa. The Freiherr forbade Gerlinda, too. He
nearly fell into convulsions when I proposed for her, but all to no
purpose; we are going to be married."
Wehlau, who now perceived that his son was in earnest, threw up his
hands in despair. "Have you lost your senses? There is no doubt that
the old man is crazy, and I tell you as a physician that the germ
of insanity is hereditary. Would you entail such misery upon your
family?--bring unhappiness upon an entire generation? Be reasonable."
This gloomy picture of the future made not the least impression upon
the young man, who coolly rejoined, "It really is extraordinary, papa,
that you and I never can agree. And we were getting along so
delightfully together. You had just become reconciled to my 'daubing,'
and were even in a fair way to be proud of it, and now you quarrel with
my betrothal, when you ought to be highly gratified. Aged aristocracy
applies to you only when it has the rheumatism; I ally myself with
youthful aristocracy by marrying it,--a palpable advance."
"It is the most nonsensical of all your nonsensical exploits,"
exclaimed the Professor, angrily. "Once for all----"
He was interrupted by a servant, who came to summon him to the
Countess's bedside, since he had given orders to be so summoned as soon
as his patient should awake. Wehlau went on the instant, desiring his
son to await his return; he should not be gone longer than a quarter of
an hour.
Upon leaving the Countess's room the Professor encountered Gerlinda,
who had hailed as a relief a summons to her godmother's bedside. For
the moment she could escape her father's anger, and Hertha undertook to
restore the Freiherr to some degree of calm.
The instant Wehlau perceived the young girl he hurried up to her.
"Fraeulein von Eberstein, I should like to see you alone for a minute.
Will you allow me to ask you a few questions?"
"Certainly, Herr Professor," replied Gerlinda, quite dismayed by being
thus addressed. She always felt unconquerably shy in presence of the
Professor, who had never seemed to notice her, and his rather imperious
demeanour, even at the sick-bed, was not calculated to put her at her
ease. She was overpowered by timidity now at the thought that this man
was the father of her Hans, as he came close up to her, and began to
ask her all kinds of questions which she did not understand, staring at
her the while so fixedly that she began to be afraid. The poor child
never dreamed that she was to undergo a test as to the soundness of her
intellect, and in her bewilderment she made uncertain replies, which of
course confirmed Wehlau in his previous opinion.
At last he questioned her as to the family traditions of the
Ebersteins,--the subject of the old Freiherr's monomania. During her
stay in the capital and at Berkheim Gerlinda had not bestowed much
attention upon the Eberstein chronicles; the Countess and Hertha had
exercised a beneficial influence upon her in this respect, but it was
of no avail on the present occasion. She was spell-bound by Wehlau's
gaze, as is the fluttering bird by the eye of the serpent. All she
desired was to satisfy her examiner, and when he most unfortunately
asked, "Your name is a double one, is it not,--Eberstein--Ortenau?" she
instantly folded her hands and began: "In the year of grace thirteen
hundred and seventy a feud broke out between Kunrad von Eberstein and
Balduin von Ortenau, because----" and then there was no stopping her.
She told the endless tale of Kunrad and Hildegard, of dungeon and
marriage, from first to last, without stopping an instant to take
breath, and all in the old monotone. She never even noticed that the
door opened, and that Hans, who had foreboded mischief, appeared upon
the threshold. He came in time to hear the familiar conclusion.
"Just as I thought!" the Professor exclaimed, in triumph. He rushed to
his son, hurried him into a corner of the room, and said, in an eager
whisper, "I told you so! She is already astray in mind: the wretched
germ is entirely developed, and is doubtless hereditary. If you persist
in your senseless purpose you will bring wretchedness upon yourself,
your family, and your entire posterity. I protest against it both as a
physician and as a father. I forbid it in the interest of humanity; you
have no right to impose upon the world a generation of lunatics."
"Papa, I believe you are 'astray in mind' yourself!" exclaimed Hans,
hastening to Gerlinda's side. "I will not allow my betrothed to be so
tormented. I really cannot see what right the fathers have to meddle
here; our marriage is our own affair, and we can see to it ourselves."
* * * * *
Summer had come. July had begun, but the marriage which was to have
been solemnized in the Steinrueck 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 Steinrueck 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 Steinrueck 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.
Steinrueck, 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 Steinrueck 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.
Steinrueck 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."
Steinrueck looked surprised. "Personal business? It must be something
extraordinary." He waved his hand and said, laconically, "Go on."
"The Countess Marianne Steinrueck 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 Steinrueck?"
"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?" Steinrueck 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 Nerac."
Steinrueck started. This was the danger of which he had had a vague
foreboding.
"Heloise von Nerac?" 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."
Steinrueck 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 Steinrueck. 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
Steinrueck!"
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
Steinrueck?"