Some weeks had passed. Baroness Harder and her daughter had made and
received the necessary inauguratory visits, and the former lady had
observed with much satisfaction the respect and deference everywhere
shown them on the Governor's account. Still better pleased was she to
discover that her brother-in-law really required nothing further from
her than to play the hostess and dispense the hospitalities of the
Castle; no troublesome or unpalatable duties were imposed on her, as
she at first had feared might be the case. All care for, all the
responsibility of, the great and strictly-ordered household devolved,
now as before her coming, on an old major-domo who had filled the
office for many years, and who regulated and directed everything,
rendering account to his master alone. The Baron had probably had
too good an insight into the management which had obtained in his
sister-in-law's town establishment to grant her anything like
independent action in such matters. Socially and ostensibly, she
represented the mistress of the house, of which, in reality, she
was but the guest. Some women might have felt the position in which
she was thus placed a humiliating one, but a desire for domination
was as foreign to the Baroness's mind as a sense of duties to be
fulfilled. She was too superficial to understand either of these great
motive-powers. Affairs were shaping themselves in a far more
satisfactory manner than, after the catastrophe which followed her
husband's death, she had had a right to expect. She was living with her
daughter in the midst of luxury; the Baron had assigned to her a sum by
no means inconsiderable for her personal expenses; Gabrielle was his
acknowledged heiress. Taking all this into consideration, they might
well, she argued, bear the constraint which was the unavoidable result
of the situation.
Gabrielle, too, had quickly grown accustomed to her new surroundings.
The grandeur and ceremony of the Government-house, the scrupulous
punctuality and strict etiquette which there prevailed, the boundless
respect and prompt service of the domestics, to whom the slightest
gesture of the master's hand was a command--all this astonished the
young lady, and impressed her with a certain awe. It certainly
presented a striking contrast to the household system she had seen at
work in her parents' city home, where the greatest external splendour
and the greatest internal disorder reigned together, where the servants
permitted to themselves all sorts of trickery and disrespectful
negligence, where the claims of family life were lost sight of in the
pursuit of pleasure. In later days, too, as the load of debt
accumulated, and the difficulties grew more and more pressing, there
had come violent scenes between Baron von Harder and his wife, scenes
in which each accused the other of extravagance, while the common
prodigal outlay went on unchecked. The half grown-up daughter was too
often a witness of these altercations. At once spoiled and neglected by
her parents, who liked to parade the pretty child, but, beyond this,
concerned themselves but little about her, she lacked all serious
training. Even the events of the last year, her father's death, and the
subsequent collapse of their fortunes, had passed over the young girl's
head, leaving scarcely a trace behind. Sorrow and pain seemed to have
no hold on that sunny, volatile nature.
Sufficient judgment, however, Gabrielle did possess to see that the
existent order of things in this parvenu's house was far more fitting
and in better taste than that she had known at home, and she frequently
tormented her mother with remarks on the subject.
The Baroness was sitting on the little sofa in her boudoir, turning
over the leaves of a fashion-book. A great reception was to be held at
the castle in the course of the next few days. The highly important
question of what dresses should be worn was now awaiting decision, and
both mother and daughter were zealously applying themselves to the
study which had such attractions for at least one of them.
"Mamma," said Gabrielle, who was sitting by her mother, holding some
stray leaves of the fashion-book. "Uncle Arno declared yesterday that
these great parties were a troublesome duty, imposed on him by his
position. He does not take the smallest pleasure in them."
The Baroness shrugged her shoulders. "He takes pleasure in nothing but
work. I never met with a man who gave himself so little rest and
recreation as my brother-in-law."
"Rest?" repeated Gabrielle. "As if he even knew what it meant, or could
endure it if he did know! Quite early in the morning he is sitting at
his writing-table, and at midnight I often see a light in his study.
Now he is busy in his own bureaux, then in the other departments; after
that, he drives out, surveying improvements here and there, and
inspecting heaven knows what! In between these occupations he receives
all sorts of people, listens to reports, issues orders.... I really
believe he gets through more work himself than all his clerks put
together."
"Yes, he was always a restless creature," assented the Baroness. "My
sister often assured me that it made her nervous even to think of the
unceasing whirl of activity in which her husband spent his days."
Gabrielle leaned her head on her hand, and mused a little thoughtfully.
"Mamma," she soon began again, "your sister's married life must have
been a very dull and tiresome one."
"Tiresome? What makes you think so?"
"Well, I only mean by what I hear in the Castle. My aunt lived in the
right wing, and my uncle in the left. Sometimes he would not go near
her rooms for weeks, and she never went to his. He had his own
carriages and servants, and she had hers. They each went and came as
they liked, without giving each other a thought. It must have been a
strange sort of life."
"Oh, you are quite mistaken," replied her mother, who evidently saw
nothing very shocking in such a state of things. "It was a perfectly
happy marriage. My sister had never reason to complain of her husband,
who fulfilled her every wish. She, fortunate being, was never subjected
to the harsh words, to the scenes, which in later years, I had
constantly to endure."
"Yes, you and papa were always quarrelling, that is true," said
Gabrielle, naively. "Uncle Arno never did that, I am sure; but he took
no interest in his wife, though he can take an interest in everything
else, even in my schooling. It was very rude of him to say, a little
while ago, in your presence, that he thought my education very
deficient and neglected, and that it was easy to see at a glance I had
always been left to maids and governesses."
"I am, unfortunately, accustomed to such inconsiderate, unkind speeches
from him," declared the Baroness, with a sigh, which, however, did not
for a moment interrupt her close examination of a pattern before her.
"If I submit to them, I make the sacrifice simply and solely with a
view to your future, my child."
Her daughter did not seem particularly moved by this proof of maternal
solicitude.
"I was catechised like a little school-girl," she grumbled on. "He
worried me so with his questions and cross-questions, that I got quite
confused at last, and then he shrugged his shoulders and decreed that I
should begin taking lessons again. Take lessons at seventeen! He will
have masters out from the town for me, he says; but I shall just tell
him pointblank that it is not necessary, and he need not trouble
himself about the matter."
The mother looked up from her fashion-plates.
"For Heaven's sake, do nothing of the kind. As it is, you seem to live
in a state of continual rebellion to your guardian, and I often tremble
with fear lest you should rouse his anger with your pertness and
obstinacy. So far, I must say, he has put up with your conduct with
wonderful patience, he who could never brook a contrary word!"
"I would a great deal rather he grew angry," said Gabrielle,
petulantly. "I can't endure him to smile down at me from that great
height, as if I were too insignificant a child to annoy or aggravate
him--he invariably does smile in that way when I attempt it--and when
he is so gracious as to kiss my forehead, I feel as if I should like to
run away from the place."
"Gabrielle, I do beg of you----"
"It is of no use, mamma, I can't help it. Whenever I come near Uncle
Arno, I have a feeling as though I must defend myself, defend myself
with all my might and main against something--something there is about
him. I don't know what it is, but it worries and vexes me. I cannot
behave to him as to other people. I cannot, and what is more, I will
not!"
The young lady's last words were uttered in a tone of spirited
defiance. She took up her hat and parasol from the table, and prepared
to depart.
"Where are you going?" asked her mother.
"Only into the garden for half an hour. It is too hot here in these
rooms."
The Baroness protested. She wished to have the grave question of the
toilette settled first, but Gabrielle seemed to have lost all interest
in it for that day, and was, besides, too much accustomed to follow the
bent of her own caprices even to heed the objection. Next minute she
hurried away.
The garden lay at the back of the Castle, and was bounded by its walls
on one side, while on the other it stretched away to the edge of the
steeply-sloping hill. The high fortification-walls, which had formerly
closed it in on this side also, had been taken down, and were now
replaced by a low parapet completely clothed in ivy. A full, free view
could thus be had of the surrounding country. Below lay the valley,
here widening to its fullest breadth, and displaying to the eye of the
spectator its picturesque sites and varied beauties. The Castle-mount
was famed for its prospect far and wide. The garden itself still bore
traces of those long-bygone times when it had served as pleasance to
the mediaeval stronghold. Somewhat narrow, somewhat dusky, and very
limited in space, it was neither bright with sunshine nor gay with
flowers.
One rarer charm, however, it could boast. Majestic ancient limes shaded
its walks, and altogether screened it from view; not even from the
Castle windows could it be overlooked. Gravely the great trees stood,
considering the younger generation which had sprung up on and about the
former ramparts, clustering down the hill-sides, and adorning them with
their slender stems and fresh tender green. Those leafy giants, the
limes, had struck root in the soil more than a century before; their
grand old trunks had weathered many a storm, and the mighty branches
which formed their crests were interwoven in one vast thick canopy,
through which but few sunbeams pierced their way.
The whole space beneath lay in broad, deep shade. Hardly a flower
throve in this dim retreat, but under foot was a pleasant stretch of
lawn dotted here and there by clumps of bushes, from the midst of which
came the low plash and murmur of a fountain. This fountain was in the
taste of the last century, and ornamented with old weather-beaten
statues, representing, in fantastic fashion, sprites and water-nymphs.
Dark, damp moss covered their stony heads and arms supporting shells,
from each of which a bright jet of water shot aloft, to fall in a
million diamond-drops into the great basin below. Here, too, the grey
stones were carpeted with a close mossy velvet which gave a singularly
deep colouring to the crystal-clear water. The Nixies' Well, as it was
called from the figures which adorned it, dated from the Castle's
earliest times, and still played a certain role in the traditions of
the country-side.
An old legend had attributed some healing power to the spring, and,
notwithstanding the fact that the old mountain-fortress had been
transformed into a most prosaic official residence, a superstitious
belief in that legend was still firmly rooted in the mind of the
people. Water was fetched thence on certain days of the year, and
employed as a preventive against sickness and as a remedy in various
ailments, to the supreme disgust of the Governor, who had done his best
on several occasions to put an end to the folly. He had even ordered
the Castle-garden, which had hitherto been accessible to the public, to
be closed, and forbidden the admittance to it of any stranger. This
prohibition, however, had a contrary effect to that desired. The people
adhered obstinately to their superstition, and clung more tenaciously
than ever to the object of it. The servants of the household were moved
by prayers, or bribed by presents, to tolerate in secret that which
they dared not openly allow. The Castle-fountain retained its old
reputation, and its waters were venerated as almost holy, though, to be
sure, the divinities to whom it had been consecrated were pagan enough
in their outward semblance.
Gabrielle too had heard of these things, had heard of them from the
Baron himself, who frequently alluded to the subject with angry
ridicule; and it might possibly be that lurking spirit of rebellion
against her guardian, so dreaded by her mother, which led the young
lady to select this as her favourite spot. To-day again she sought it,
but neither the Nixies' Well nor the noble prospect spreading out
yonder on the unenclosed side of the garden had power to chain her
attention. Gabrielle was out of humour, and she had some cause for
discontent. After the boundless liberty she had enjoyed at Z----, the
strict formal etiquette of the Government-house galled and irritated
her. She could not reconcile herself to it; the less that this
etiquette was an insuperable obstacle to the frequent meetings with
George Winterfeld on which she had counted.
Here in R----, the young people were completely separated. With the
exception of a chance encounter now and again, always in the presence
of witnesses, they were fain to content themselves with a casual
glimpse of each other at a distance, with some little secret signal, as
when George would pass beneath the window and furtively wave his hand
to a slender, white-robed figure above. He had attempted to approach
her. His previous acquaintance with them justifying the step, he had
paid a visit to the ladies. The Baroness would have had no objection to
receive the agreeable young man, as she had received him previously,
but Raven gave her very decidedly to understand that he did not desire
anything like intimacy between the ladies of his family and one of his
young clerks who could have no claim to such a distinction. So the
visit was accepted, but no invitation to repeat it was given, and thus
the attempt proved abortive.
True, it was impatience, rather than actual trouble of mind, which made
Gabrielle rebel against the restraint everywhere surrounding her. Since
the Baron had so calmly deposed her to the rank of a child, she had
missed George's tender and yet passionate homage, which formerly she
had accepted as a thing of course. _He_ never thought her education
deficient and neglected, _he_ never catechised her, or expected her to
take wearisome lessons, as did her guardian, who clearly did not know
how young ladies of her age ought to be treated. In George's estimation
she was faultless; the one woman to be adored; he was happy when she
just blew a kiss to him from afar.... And yet she was angry with George
too. Why did he not try more to break through the barriers which
separated them? Why did he remain at so respectful a distance? Why, at
least, did he not write to her? The young girl was too childish and
inexperienced to do justice to that feeling of delicate consideration
which made her lover shrink from anything likely to cast the least
shadow on her, which made him endure silence and separation rather than
venture on any step that might imperil her good name.
"Well, Gabrielle, are you trying to fathom the secrets of the Nixies'
Well?" said a voice, suddenly.
She looked quickly round. Baron von Raven stood before her--he must
just have stepped out from among the bushes. It was a most unusual
thing for him to set foot in the garden--he had neither time nor
inclination for solitary walks. Some special motive must have brought
him here to-day, for he went straight up to the fountain, and began to
examine it carefully on every side.
"Well, Uncle Arno, I should think you ought to be better acquainted
with the secrets than I am," retorted Gabrielle, laughing. "I am still
a stranger in the land, and you have lived at the Castle ever so long."
"Do you think I have had time to listen to these nursery-tales?"
The contemptuous tone in which he spoke jarred on the girl, she hardly
knew why. "Did you never care for such nursery-tales, not even as a
boy?"
"Not even as a boy. I had something better to think of even then."
Gabrielle looked up at him. That proud, stern face, with its expression
of sombre earnest, certainly did not give the idea that its owner could
ever have known or cared for the fairy world of youth.
"Nevertheless, my visit to-day is to the Nixies' Well," he went on. "I
have given orders to have the fountain pulled down and the spring
stopped; but I wanted to see first how it was likely to affect the
ground, and what precautions should be taken."
Gabrielle turned upon him in alarm and indignation.
"The fountain is to be destroyed? Why?"
"Because I am tired at length of all the folly connected with it. The
absurd superstition is not to be uprooted. In spite of my strict orders
to the contrary, water is constantly being fetched from the well, and
thus the preposterous delusion is kept alive. It is high time to put an
end to it, and that can only be accomplished by doing away with the
object to which the superstition clings. I am sorry that one of the
Castle's notable old curiosities should have to fall a sacrifice--but
no matter, the sacrifice must be made."
"But you will be robbing the garden of its chief ornament," cried
Gabrielle. "It is the sparkle and murmur of the fountain which gives to
the place its greatest charm. And that silver-clear water is to be
driven down into the earth? It is a shame, Uncle Arno, and I won't see
it done."
Raven, who was still busy closely inspecting the fountain, turned his
head slowly towards her.
"You won't see it done?" he asked, looking at her sharply, but not with
the threatening imperious frown wherewith he was accustomed to crush
contradiction in the bud; there was even the faintest flicker of a
smile about his lips. "Then, of course, I shall have no alternative but
to recall the order I have given ... it would be the first time such a
thing ever happened to me! Do you really suppose, child, that I shall
give up a resolve of mine in deference to your romantic fancies?"
Again there came that superior, half-derisive, half-pitying smile which
Gabrielle hated, and the word 'child' which was equally abhorrent to
her. Deeply wounded in her dignity as a maiden of seventeen, she
preferred to make no answer, but contented herself with casting at her
guardian a look eloquent with indignation.
"You are behaving as though the demolition of the fountain were a
personal affront to yourself," said the Baron. "I see you still
preserve your childish respect for the old hobgoblin stories, and are
in right earnest afraid of the nixies and the phantom-folk."
"I wish the nixies would avenge the contempt now shown them and the
intended destruction of their home," said Gabrielle, in a tone which
was meant to be playful, but which vibrated with real anger. "The
chastisement would not fall on me."
"But on me, you think," said Raven, sarcastically. "No, no; make your
mind easy, child. It is only your poetic, moonlight natures which are
exposed to these things. The nixies' charm would utterly fail if tried
on me."
They were standing close to the fountain's edge. The water fell with a
soft monotonous plash and ripple out of the stone shells down into the
basin below. Suddenly a breezy gust diverted the course of the jet,
dashing its spray in a sparkling shower at once over the Baron and
Gabrielle. The girl sprang back with a cry. Raven stood quietly where
he was.
"That caught us both," said he. "The nixies seem to be impartial in
their favours. They stretch forth their dripping arms to friend and foe
alike."
Gabrielle had retreated to the garden-seat, and was busy wiping the
glittering drops from her dress with her handkerchief. His raillery
irritated her beyond all telling, and yet she hardly knew what answer
to make. Had any one else so spoken to her, she would have found some
gay repartee, would have turned the accident into a joke, and made it a
pretext for merry banter. But now she could not do this. The Baron's
jests were always caustic. It was irony at most which now and then
gleamed in his face, and caused the wonted gravity of his features to
relax.
With a rapid movement he shook off the drops wherewith he too was
plentifully besprinkled, and drew near the garden-seat in his turn,
adding:
"I am sorry to have to spoil your favourite spot, but, as regards the
fountain, the edict has gone forth. You will have to make the best of
it."
Gabrielle cast a sorrowful look at the shining, falling water. Its
dreamy murmur had possessed a mysterious attraction for her from the
very first day. She was almost ready to cry, as she answered:
"I know you do not care how your orders vex and distress other people,
and that it is quite useless for me to ask a favour of you. You never
listen to petitions of any sort."
Raven crossed his arms quietly and looked down at her.
"Ah! you have found that out already?"
"Yes; and nobody ever thinks of coming to you with one. They are all
afraid of you--the servants, your clerks, mamma even--every one but
me."
"You are not afraid?"
"No!"
The answer came boldly and resolutely from the young lady's lips. She
seemed to have reassumed her warlike attitude, and to have determined
this time on exasperating the dreaded guardian--but in vain. He
remained perfectly calm, and appeared rather amused than offended at
his ward's spirit of contradiction.
"It is fortunate your mother is not here," he remarked. "She would be a
prey to the keenest anxiety, and quite despair of the perverse young
head which will not bend to necessity, as she herself does with
admirable self-abnegation. You should take example by her."
"Oh, yes! mamma is docility itself where you are concerned," cried
Gabrielle, growing more and more excited; "and she expects the same
from me. But I will not play the hypocrite, and I cannot like you.
Uncle Arno, for you are not good to us, and never have been good to us.
Your very reception of us when we came was so humiliating that I should
have been glad to go away again at once; and since then you have daily
and hourly let us feel that we are dependent on you. You treat my
mother with a disrespect which often makes me go hot with indignation.
You speak in a slighting way of my papa, who is dead and cannot defend
himself, and you behave to me as though I were a sort of toy not to be
thought of seriously. You have taken us in, and we live in your Castle,
where everything is much grander and finer than in my own home, but I
would far rather be away in our Swiss exile, as mamma calls it--in our
little house by the lake, which was so simple and modest, where we had
barely what was necessary, but where, at least, we were free from you
and your tyranny. Mamma insists on it I must bear it, because you are
rich, and because my future depends on your favour. But I do not want
your money; I do not care about being your heiress. I should like to go
away from here; the sooner the better!"
She had sprung up from her seat and stood facing him, glowing with
passionate excitement, one little foot firmly planted in advance, her
head thrown back, her eyes brimming with tears of anger and of
mortification; but there was more in this stormy outbreak than
the mere defiance of a wayward child. Every word betrayed intense and
deeply-wounded feelings; and there was, indeed, but too much truth in
the accusation she thus boldly launched at her guardian.
Raven had uttered no syllable of interruption. He had stood immovable,
his gaze riveted on her face; but now, as she ceased speaking, and,
drawing a long breath, pressed her hands on her bosom, while a torrent
of hot tears burst from her eyes, he stooped down suddenly and said,
with great earnestness:
"Do not cry, Gabrielle. To you, at least, I have been unjust. I own
it."
Gabrielle's tears were stayed. Now only, as reflection succeeded to
excitement, did she realise all the imprudence of her words. She had
surely counted on an outbreak of swift, fierce wrath; and, in its
stead, there met her this inexplicable calm. She stood, mute and almost
abashed, looking to the ground.
"So you do not want my money?" went on the Baron. "How do you know what
my intention may be with regard to it? I have never made any
communication to you on the subject, to my knowledge; yet the topic
would appear to have been well discussed between you and your mother."
The young girl flushed crimson.
"I do not know ... we never----"
"Do not attempt to deny it, child. You are as little versed in
falsehood as in mercenary calculation, or you would never have adopted
such an attitude towards me, I am not angry with you for it. I can
forgive open defiance. Hypocrisy and systematic scheming I could not
have forgiven you at your age. Thank God, the faulty education has not
done so much harm as I feared."
He took her hand quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, drew
her down on to the bench, and seated himself by her.
Gabrielle made a little attempt to move away from him.
"Stay! you must allow me to meet your declaration of war with an answer
in due form," said the Baron. "Your mother will not share in the
hostilities; at least, not openly. I am sure she has enjoined it on you
as a duty to be amiable and gracious in your manner towards the
parvenu."
"What do you mean?" asked the girl, in confusion.
"Well, the term cannot be unfamiliar to you. It was, I believe, the
special designation accorded to me in your father's house."
This time Gabrielle bravely met the look which rested on her face.
"I know my parents had no love for you," she answered. "How could they?
You had never been anything but hostile to them."
"I to them, or they to me? but no matter, it comes to the same. These
are things whereof you, Gabrielle, are not yet qualified to judge. You
have no notion what it is for a man holding an inferior position, such
as mine then was, to enter an eminently aristocratic family and the
high social sphere in which that family moved. In those circles I had
then, and have had since, but one friend, your grandfather. With every
one else I had to win my place by force of conquest; and there are but
two ways to this end. Either the aspirant must bow his head and meekly
submit to all such humiliations as are showered on a parvenu--he must
either show himself deeply sensible of the honour conferred on him, and
content himself with being tolerated--and to this my nature was not
suited--or he must boldly usurp the master's place, assert an authority
over the whole clique, show them there is a power mightier than that of
their genealogies, and set his heel on all their prejudices and
arrogant pretensions. Then _they_ learn to bow before him. As a rule,
it is far easier to govern and keep men under than is generally
supposed. You must know how to overawe them. Therein lies the whole
secret of success."
Gabrielle shook her head slightly.
"These are hard principles."
"They result from my experience of the world, and I have thirty years'
advantage over you in this respect. Do you think I never had my grand
ideals, my dreams, and my enthusiasm? Do you think my heart was never
fired with all the ardent imaginings of youth? But these things die out
as we advance in life. I could not carry my dreams with me into such a
career as mine. They hold you to the ground; it was my wish to mount,
and I have mounted. Truly, I had to pay a high price for my chance--too
high a price, perhaps; but no matter, I have attained my end."
"And has it made you happy?" The question came almost involuntarily
from the young girl's lips.
Raven shrugged his shoulders.
"Happy? Life is a struggle, not a state of beatitude. One must throw
one's adversary, or be thrown--there is no third issue. You, indeed,
look on all this with other eyes as yet. To you, life is still one long
summer day, bright as the light shining out yonder. You still believe
that far away in the glistening distance, over those blue mountains,
there lies a paradise of joy and content. You are mistaken, child. The
golden sun shines down on endless sorrow and misery, and over beyond
the blue mountains is nothing but the toilsome road from the cradle to
the grave, the long route we diversify with so much strife and hatred.
Life is only one great battle to be fought every day afresh: men are
but puppets to be governed--and despised."
There was an indescribable hardness and harshness is his words, but
there was in them also all the decision and energy proper to the man.
He was enouncing a dogma which had become to him indisputable. The
bitterness of spirit pervading his profession of faith escaped, indeed,
in a great measure his girlish hearer, who listened half amazed, half
indignant--listened and wondered.
"But, finally, there comes a time when the everlasting combat sickens,"
Raven went on; "when a man comes to ask himself whether, after all, the
once dreamed-of greatness were worth the stake of all he possessed,
when he counts the sum of victories achieved by constant wrestling and
unremitting exertions, and, counting them, grows heartily weary of the
game he has played so long. I am weary of it often--very weary!"
He leaned back, and gazed out into the distance. There was gloomy care
in his look, and the deep weariness of which he spoke re-echoed in his
voice. Gabrielle was silent, greatly embarrassed by the serious turn
the conversation had taken, and feeling herself led away into quite
unknown paths. Hitherto she had seen in her guardian the master
only--the master, iron of will and inaccessible to sentiment. His
behaviour towards herself had been marked by the mere indulgent
condescension with which a man stoops to a child's range of ideas. He
had never spoken to her in any but the half-kindly, half-jesting manner
he had assumed to-day on first meeting her.
For the first time this taciturn, rigidly reserved nature expanded in a
moment of self-forgetfulness. Gabrielle looked down into a depth
whereof she had not dreamed; but instinctively she felt that she must
not move, must not conjure up the strong emotions stirring below the
surface.
A long pause followed. The two looked out silently at the broad
landscape lying before them in the warm light of a mellow August day.
The month had nearly run its course, and summer seemed before her
departure to be shedding all her bountiful stores of loveliness over
the earth. Resplendent sunshine steamed over the ancient city spread at
the foot of the Castle-hill, flooded the pasture-lands and fields,
gleamed on the hamlets which dotted the country far and near, and
sparkled in the ripples of the river winding its way majestically
through the valley.
Enclosing this valley stood the circling hills, some with softly
modulated lines, some rising boldly, jagged and rugged, with their
stretches of green meadow and dark patches of forest, out from which,
here and there, a pilgrim's shrine shone whitely, or a ruined fortress,
grey with age, reared its crumbling walls. In the far distance, half
veiled in blue mist, rose the grander mountains, a noble background
bounding the horizon, and over all the azure sky smiled serene and
gracious, and the great sea of ether was filled with a golden haze. It
was one of those days when the earth lies bathed in light, so saturated
with warmth and brilliant in beauty, that it would seem as though the
world's wide compass held naught else than sunshine, glorious sunshine.
No stronger contrast could have been found than this beaming landscape
without, and the deep cool shade of the Castle-garden, buried in its
sombre quiet. The mighty crests of the limes, with their closely-woven
boughs, shed a sort of mild green twilight on the space below, and from
beneath the tall trees came the monotonous plash of the fountain. In
unvarying alternation the crystal column rose on high, splintered into
a thousand fragments, and sank to earth again. Occasionally a ray of
light, straying into this retired nook, would strike the falling spray,
transforming it into a shower of diamonds, but next moment the glory
was gone. All lay in cool shadow again, and through the misty veil of
water the grey figures of the sirens, with their long serpent hair and
stony features, looked spectrally forth.
The still, sultry noon seemed to have hushed all Nature into dreamy
repose. Not a bird fluttered, not a leaf stirred; from the Nixies' Well
alone came a mysterious murmur, breaking the deep stillness. Thus
from time immemorial had the spring rippled and babbled here on the
Castle-hill; for more than a century now, clad in the stone vesture
into which it had been forced, had this faithful companion fulfilled
its duty, quickening the solitude, enlivening the sequestered retreat
of the Castle-garden. Over its head had swept all the hurricanes which
the old fortress had braved of yore--the hurricanes of war, the stormy,
violent times of battle and strife, of victory and defeat. Following on
these had come a period of splendour and greatness, during which the
ancient stronghold had disappeared, and in its place a princely mansion
had arisen. All this the ever-flowing fount had witnessed. Historic
events had befallen; generations had come and gone, until, at length, a
new era had dawned--the era of modern progress, changing, modifying,
ordering all afresh. To this puissant influence everything had
yielded--save only and except the sacred spring, fenced around by a
rampart of legend and superstition. But now its turn, too, had come.
The old statues, which had so long protectingly surrounded it, were to
fall, and the bubbling water was to be driven from the cheery light of
day down into the dark earth beneath, there to be held captive for
evermore.
Were its import a complaint, or a tale of whispered memories, that
dreamy murmur exercised a strange fascination over the grave, unbending
man, who had never known the musings of solitude or its poetic
inspirations, and over the youthful blooming maiden at his side, who,
with laughing lips and a merry heart, had hitherto fluttered joyously
on her course, unheeding, ignorant of life's earnest. All the fierce
wrestling and striving on the one hand, all the happy childish fancies
on the other, were resolved, as it were, into some nameless strange
sensation, half sweet, half troubled, which held the two in thraldom.
So, as they sat listening to the ripple and purl of the water,
unvarying, and yet so melodious, the outer world with its shining
vistas and wealth of golden warmth receded farther and farther from
view, until at length it vanished altogether. Then dim shadows grew up
round the pair, a cool watery film gathered round them, and they were
drawn down, down into vague mysterious depths, where no sound of life
penetrated, where all battling and fierce longing, all happiness and
sorrow, died away into one deep, deep dream; and through their
dreaming, as from some immeasurable distance, they could still hear the
faint spirit-singing of the spring.
In the city below, the bells rang out the noonday hour. The clear
resonant chimes were borne up to the Castle-hill, and at their sound
all the strange fantasies evoked by the eerie murmur of the water
melted away. Raven looked up as though he had been suddenly, roughly
awakened, and Gabrielle rose quickly, and, with a movement almost akin
to flight, hurried to the ivy-kirtled parapet, where, bending forwards,
she stood listening to the distant carillon. The sound came distinctly
to her through the still air, as on that day by the lake-shore when she
and George ... Gabrielle did not follow out the thought. Why did
George's name force itself all at once on her memory, striking her as
with a reproach? Why did his image suddenly appear before her--that
resolute face which seemed to say it would guard and maintain his
rights? On that last occasion, when, in a laughing, jesting humour, she
had taken leave of him, the bells had said nothing to her. To-day, at
the remembrance of them, a quick sharp pang shot through her, a
warning, as it were, not again to let herself be enticed out of
the bright familiar sunshine into unknown depths, a hint of some
dimly-foreseen danger, now weaving its meshes round her. She was seized
by a vague, unaccountable alarm. The Baron had risen too. He came up to
where she stood.
"You have taken flight?" he said slowly. "From what? From me, perhaps?"
Gabrielle tried to smile, and to master the uneasiness which possessed
her, as she replied:
"From the murmur of the Nixies' Well. It has such a weird, ghostly
sound at this noontide hour."
"And yet you have chosen this spot as your favourite haunt?"
"Well, the fountain has now lived its life. Tomorrow, perhaps, by your
command, the garden will have been turned into a wilderness, a chaos of
stones and earth, and ..."
"Little do I care whether my orders distress other people or not?"
completed Raven, as she paused. "It may be so--but, Gabrielle, are you
really so fond of this spring? Would it positively distress you to see
it stopped?"
"Yes," said Gabrielle, in a low voice, looking up at him. Her lips
uttered no word of entreaty; but her eyes besought him earnestly,
pleading for the doomed fountain.
Raven was silent. For some minutes he stood by her without speaking.
Then he began again:
"I frightened you just now with my harsh views of life, but no one says
you must share them. I forgot for a moment that youth has a right to
dream, and that it would be cruel to rob you of the privilege. Keep
your faith still in the golden far-off future, in the promise of the
blue mountains. You may yet put gentle confidence in the world and in
mankind; it is little likely you will ever incur their hostility and
hatred."
His voice was veiled and wonderfully soft, and all austerity had
vanished from his look, as it rested half sadly on the young girl's
countenance; but Arno Raven was not one to be long influenced by such
emotions; and, indeed, it seemed that no chance of yielding to them was
to be afforded him, for at this moment steps were heard approaching,
and, as they turned, the lodge-keeper, accompanied by an elderly man--a
mechanic, apparently--entered the garden. They stopped on perceiving
the Governor, and uncovered respectfully.
Raven's mildness had already vanished. He had quickly shaken off the
unwonted mood.
"What is it?" he asked, in the curt, authoritative tone habitual to
him.
"Your Excellency has given orders that the Nixies' Well should be
broken up, and the spring stopped," answered the master-mason. "It was
to be done today, and my men will be here in half an hour or so. I only
wanted to see beforehand whether there would be any difficulty, and if
the work was likely to take up much time."
The Baron glanced at the fountain, and then at Gabrielle standing by
his side. There was the hardly perceptible delay of a second, and then
he pronounced his decree:
"Send your people away. The work is not to be done."
"What! your Excellency?" asked the mason, in astonishment.
"The demolition of the fountain would injure the garden. It is to
remain. I will take other measures."
A wave of the hand dismissed the two men. They, of course, ventured on
no reply, but surprise was plainly written on their countenances as
they left the garden. It was the first time an order so
circumstantially given by the Governor himself had ever been withdrawn.
Raven had stepped to the edge of the basin, and was watching the
constant falling shower. Gabrielle had remained in her place by the
parapet, but now she drew near slowly, hesitatingly--presently, with a
sudden movement, she held out both hands to him.
"Thank you--oh, thank you!"
He smiled, not with his usual sardonic smile. A ray of sunshine seemed
to flit across his face, as he took the offered hands, and, gently
raising Gabrielle's head, stooped to kiss her brow.
There was nothing unusual in this. He was in the habit of thus saluting
her when she appeared at breakfast and wished him "Good-morning," and
hitherto she had received his caress most unconcernedly; while he, her
guardian, had but in cool, grave fashion made use of his 'fatherly
rights.'
To-day, for the first time, the young girl involuntarily sought to
evade it; and Raven felt that the hand he held in his own trembled a
little. He drew himself up suddenly, without having touched her
forehead with his lips, and dropped her hand.
"You are right," he said, in a troubled voice. "There is a magic in the
Nixies' Well. Let us go."
They turned away. Behind them the spring babbled and murmured, the
fountain plashed, throwing its white veil of spray ever on high. That
cruel doom of destruction was averted now. The beseeching prayer of
those brown eyes, and the glittering tears which stood in them, had
saved the well.
Perhaps at this moment the cold, stern man, who had long passed the
prime of life, may have felt that his boast had been premature, that
not even he in his strength was entirely proof against "the nixies'
charm."