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 Steinrück family had been of necessity indefinitely postponed. Although Professor Wehlau had concealed the truth from the young Countess and had allowed her to cherish illusive hopes, the general and the rest of the family were aware of the calamity that awaited her. But they had convinced themselves that Hertha would be drawn to them more closely by her mother's death, and as soon as her period of mourning was over the celebration of her marriage could take place.
Count Steinrück had no suspicion that fate had already shattered the proud structure of his hopes. He knew nothing of that eventful night of storm, or of Captain Rodenberg's presence at Saint Michael; all his knowledge of affairs at Castle Steinrück was derived from Hertha's letters and from the report of the physician.
On that St. Michael's morning, at the young Countess's earnest entreaty, Michael had conducted her merely to the end of the mountain road in the valley, whence, accompanied by the servant, she easily reached the castle, where her mother's condition forbade any explanation of what had occurred. The physicians prescribed entire repose of mind for their patient, and thus the affair would have to remain a secret until the hoped-for recovery of the Countess. Michael, indeed, knew through Professor Wehlau that there could be no recovery, and was all the more strongly moved to shield from any agitation the woman from whom he had received only kindness and consideration. If there were to be a struggle, it should be after her death.
And now this had taken place. The physician had just telegraphed to the general that his patient had passed away gently during the night. Steinrück, in common with all the family, had been prepared for this intelligence, but still the death of the gentle, amiable woman, who had always submitted so unconditionally to his guidance, affected him very deeply, and he could not even pay her the last offices of friendship, and follow her remains to the grave.
These July days were ominous, and filled with signs of the approaching tempest, of which, whatever may have been the ignorance of the public, military men were well aware. General Steinrück knew that he could not leave the capital for even a few days; that he must hold himself ready for orders. His duties as head of his family must yield to those of the soldier. Raoul, indeed, could leave at any time; the youthful diplomat could easily be spared for a while, especially in a case like the present, when he was called upon to represent his grandfather.
Steinrück was sitting with a very grave face in his study, reading over the telegram received that morning, when an orderly announced a staff-officer. There was but a small portion of his time that could be given to family affairs: he was constantly interrupted by messages, despatches,--communications of a military nature. He gave orders to admit the officer at once, and Captain Rodenberg entered.