Saint Michael

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No; he is in Tannberg."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was mistaken," he said, bluntly. "This time you were right. The old Freiherr is quite rational, with the exception of a few abnormal ideas which must be laid to the charge of the tenth century; such a pedigree is not normal. Such whims, however, are not hereditary, and so, if there is no help for it, marry your Gerlinda if you choose."

"Thank heaven, papa!" said Hans, with a sigh of relief. "You have caused me worry enough with your anxieties about generations not yet in existence."

"It was my duty. But, as I told you, my mind is now easy with regard to your posterity. Let us see how you will manage the old Baron and his pedigree."

"I shall carry them both by storm," exclaimed the young artist, triumphantly, "and win my Dornröschen in spite of them."

Meanwhile, Hertha was assisting the young lover's plans. She led the conversation with the Freiherr to the subject of her own betrothal, reminding the old man that she, like Gerlinda, was the last of her race, and that her name too was to be merged in one without a title; but Eberstein opposed her angrily.

"That is quite a different thing. Your betrothed is the Count's grandson, the son of a Steinrück; on the mother's side he belongs to your family. Moreover,"–he turned courteously to Michael, whose manly form and carriage were greatly to his taste,–"moreover, Captain Rodenberg has served with distinction during the war. Even in the times of our glorious ancestors brave deeds were worth a patent of nobility and won the accolade. But a son-in-law with a paint-brush for a sword and a palette for a shield,–oh, never, never!"

"At all events, he can perpetuate brave deeds," said Michael, smiling. "Perhaps you are not aware that my friend has just gained the victory in a trial of artistic skill. His name is lauded throughout the public press, and is unanimously–"

"Don't talk to me of the 'public press!'" exclaimed Eberstein, in high dudgeon. "It, too, is an invention of to-day, and worse than all the rest. Reckless, indiscreet, slanderous, it tramples everything in the dust, holds nothing sacred, and is the devil's own work."

"You are quite right, Herr Baron; the press is terrible," assented Hans, who had approached in time to hear the Freiherr's last words. "But I pray you to permit me to tell you what I ask. Do not put your fingers in your ears; it really has nothing to do with Gerlinda and me, but only with the contest of which Michael has just told you. I engaged in it before the war, and during the campaign received intelligence that my sketch had taken the prize and that the picture had been ordered. To carry out this order your permission is necessary."

"My permission?" asked Eberstein. "What have I to do with your pictures?"

"That you can understand if you will kindly condescend to glance at the sketch. It is an historical picture to hang in the principal hall of the new Rathhaus in B., and, of course, in such a place it will be very conspicuous, which is why I must ask your permission to paint it. Should you refuse me I must make another sketch. Here it is."

He opened the door of the adjoining room. Fortunately, the old Freiherr was not so obstinate as Professor Wehlau had been with regard to the picture of Saint Michael, and, half curiously, half mistrustfully, he entered the room, followed by the others.

The picture referred to was in fact then leaning against the wall, only a cartoon as yet, done in charcoal, but a faithful presentment of the future picture. The artist had succeeded in rendering with vivid effect a scene from the mediæval wars under the Hohenstauffen. On the right of the picture was the Emperor, a majestic, powerful figure, surrounded by princes and prelates; on the left the people were crowding, while the centre of the canvas was occupied by the victorious warriors returning home to lay at the feet of their sovereign the trophies of their prowess. The composition was stirring and characteristic; the interest centred upon one man, evidently the hero of the hour, the leader of the victors; a splendid figure, with dark hair and eyes, and noble regular features, mail-clad, and full of manly vigour. Erect, pointing towards the trophies heaped upon the ground, he seemed to be recounting to the Emperor his tale of victory. This single warrior was the central point of the composition; upon him was concentrated the interest of the spectators; and his helm and breastplate bore the insignia of the Ebersteins, while upon his shield was the scutcheon now crumbling to decay above the gates of the Ebersburg. Here was its resurrection.

The old Freiherr had approached the picture to examine it; suddenly he started, his sad eyes brightened, his bowed form stood erect, and, with a gesture that was almost youthful, he turned to the young artist standing behind him. "Did you do this? And that is–"

"The reproduction of a portrait which I saw upon my first visit to the Ebersburg," Hans completed the sentence. "You, perhaps, remember our conversation upon that occasion, and can now understand why I ask your permission to paint this picture."

Eberstein made no reply; he stood gazing fixedly at the picture, at the image of himself when he was still young and happy, and fit to bear arms. His eyes grew moist at the memory of that time.

"What does all this mean?" asked the Professor, who knew the picture, but had not been informed of its secret significance. The old Baron turned to him and said, in a tone half of melancholy, half of conscious pride,–

"Those are my features. Thus looked Udo von Eberstein forty years ago."

"You are very much changed since then," said Wehlau, in his blunt fashion; but Hans hastily interposed.

"No, no, papa! Look closely at the Freiherr and you will recognize the features. The picture is to be painted in fresco, Herr Baron, and will probably last as long as the Rathhaus is in existence, for some hundreds of years at least."

"Some hundreds of years," murmured Eberstein, ecstatically. "But no one will know that scutcheon."

Hans stepped close to his side. "Unfortunately, it is known already. That terrible press–you know I share your horror of it–has mastered the whole matter, and has printed the names in full. An article in the principal newspaper of our imperial capital–permit me to read you the close of it."

He produced a newspaper and read aloud: "'After this detailed description we cannot withhold from our readers the information that the central figure of the picture,–the knight with the fine characteristic head,'–here it is in black and white, Herr Baron,–'the fine characteristic head, is an only slightly idealized portrait,–the portrait of the Freiherr Udo von Eberstein-Ortenau of the Ebersburg, the last scion of a once famous race, which traces its pedigree back to the tenth century; the scutcheon of the Ebersteins, seen upon the helmet and shield of the knight, is thus immortalized.' Indeed I could not help this, Herr Baron,–a couple of innocent remarks of mine to acquaintances,–shall I have the article contradicted?–it will else go the entire round of Germany, in all the newspapers."

"No, my young friend," replied Eberstein, with dignity. "I forbid you to contradict it; on the contrary, the press seems to me to have been in this instance neither reckless nor indiscreet. It does but fulfil a duty in bringing to light facts that have escaped the memory of thousands of our contemporaries. Let the article go the entire round of Germany!"

"The fellow has a terrific talent for intrigue," muttered the Professor. "The old Baron has actually swallowed the hook."

Hans twisted the paper to and fro in his hands with well-feigned embarrassment. "Yes, Herr Baron, but there is a concluding sentence which you ought also to hear–"

"Read it," said Eberstein, with solemn condescension, and Hans read on:

"'And now for a final communication which will interest especially our fair readers of the other sex. The young artist worked con amore when he painted the knight of the Eberstein arms, with the Eberstein features also, since he is about to be united to the only daughter of the Freiherr in question–'"

"Stay–stop,–that must be contradicted!" exclaimed Eberstein; but, without further ado, Hans forced the newspaper upon him, and drew out from behind the tall picture something which, upon closer inspection, proved to be Fräulein Gerlinda von Eberstein. There she stood, the little Dornröschen, not quite so much of a child as when we first saw her, but lovelier than ever as she lifted eyes and hands of entreaty to her father.

"Oh, papa, do not be so cruel! I love him so dearly!"

"Did not I tell you they were sure to be together?" exclaimed the Professor, advancing. "Herr von Eberstein, there is nothing to do but to say 'yes.' My Hans will do as he chooses, as you see; and that delicate little thing, your daughter, is quite capable of dying of grief if you separate her from him. And when she is dead you will be left alone with your stainless pedigree."

"That would be terrible!" said Eberstein, with a look of dismay at his child.

"Then let us put an end to the matter!" And the Professor put his arm around the young girl and gave her a paternal kiss, after which all was settled so far as he was concerned.

The old Freiherr was scarcely conscious of what happened then,–he was really taken by storm. He found himself embracing his daughter and a future son-in-law. Gerlinda sobbed upon his breast and Hans hailed him as his beloved father-in-law. There was nothing for it but to clasp the pair in his arms, which he did. Udo von Eberstein relented, and consented. In spite of brush and palette, Hans had been the one to perpetuate the memory of the ancient name.

Towards the end of July a marriage was quietly celebrated in the pilgrimage church of Saint Michael,–the marriage of Captain Michael Rodenberg to the Countess Hertha von Steinrück. As Michael was a Protestant, like his mother and his grandfather, the Protestant marriage had first taken place in Castle Steinrück. Now, in presence of a small circle of relatives and friends, among whom were the betrothed couple, Hans and Gerlinda, beaming with happiness, the reverend pastor of the little Alpine village united before the altar of his church, as they had desired, the two young people to whom he was so closely bound by ties of affection.

The morning mists were still veiling the Eagle ridge, but they were beginning to roll away to lie like a translucent veil at its feet, when the bells in the old church rang out a joyous peal that echoed among the mountains, while upon Michael and his young wife, now one for life, looked down from above the altar the mighty archangel with eagle's wings and eyes of flame, the victorious leader of the heavenly host,–Saint Michael!