The next morning broke grey and cloudy. It heralded in a wet, cold
September day, which told unmistakably that summer's opulent splendour
was a thing of the past, and that autumn's chill reign had commenced. A
fine drizzling rain was falling: the mountains were shrouded in thick
mist, and in the Castle-garden the wind was chasing the first leaves
from the trees.
Baron von Raven sat alone in his study. A middle-sized room, with a
lofty ceiling and one large bay-window framed in a deep recess, this
study certainly did produce a gloomy impression. It was not less
handsomely fitted up than the other apartments of the Castle; but here
the prevailing grandeur was toned down to a style of severe simplicity.
In the costly panelling of the walls, in the heavy sculptured oak
furniture, and in the rich brocade of the curtains, the same subdued
shades of colour were preserved; and the antique black marble
chimneypiece was in harmony with the appointments of the room, from
which all showy effects were rigorously excluded. The bureau, with its
load of papers and parchments, the books ranged round the walls--a
library wherein every branch of knowledge was represented--and the
maps, plans, and drawings distributed about on the different tables,
gave a fair idea of the numberless interests here claiming attention,
of the vast aggregate of business constantly despatched. It was not a
comfortable room to dwell in, nor one suited to rest or repose.
Everything in it told of work--of grave, incessant occupation.
Raven generally got through a good deal of business in the morning
hours; but to-day he set at his writing-table, resting his head on his
hand, and cast not so much as a glance at the pile of letters and
memorials, of reports and schedules, before him. His countenance wore
the pallor born of a sleepless night, and its austerity of expression
was more striking than usual; otherwise his features were as of bronze
in their perfect immobility.
Immersed in sombre thought, he did not even look up as the study-door
opened. A servant, whom he had sent to the Baroness's apartments to
summon his ward to him, entered, and announced that the young lady
would be with his Excellency immediately.
A few minutes later, Gabrielle followed the messenger, and, coming into
the study, closed the door behind her. She wore a plain white morning
dress, the simplicity of which became her well, and even in the grey
uncertain light of that autumn day her brightness shone undimmed. Last
night's ball had left no trace behind. Her elastic youth knew as yet
neither languor nor lassitude. The girl's face was blooming and fresh
as ever, its colour being, perhaps, at this moment a little heightened
by excitement, for there was no mistaking the nature of the interview
she had now to undergo. With the entrance of that slender white figure,
a sunbeam had stolen into the gloomy room: all at once it seemed to
grow lighter and more cheerful.
The Baron himself must have had some sense of this. He rose, and
advanced a few paces to meet his visitor. At sight of her, his features
relaxed from their set sternness, and his voice, though very grave, was
not harsh, as he addressed her:
"I have several questions to put to you, Gabrielle. My words last night
will have prepared you for them; and I shall expect to hear from you in
reply the truth, and the whole truth."
He put forward a chair for her, and seated himself opposite her. The
young lady's attitude bespoke confidence rather than timidity. It had,
of course, become manifest to her that the tactics by which she
prevailed in any dispute with her mother would not here stand her in
stead; that she could not hope to carry her point by open defiance, or
by a few tears; but she had resolved to avow her love boldly, and to
show herself strong, heroic even, in its defence.
The Baron, she knew, doubted her firmness with an incredulity fixed,
and to the full as insulting, as that professed by George; and,
strangely enough, she felt a far greater satisfaction in convicting her
guardian of his error, than in raising her lover's estimate of her
character. At this moment the romance of the situation was uppermost in
her mind, outweighing any anxiety as to the issue of the impending
conflict.
"My questions concern Assessor Winterfeld," began the Baron. "Your
mother tells me you met him in Switzerland. He frequently came to your
house, and you probably held much free and unconstrained intercourse
with him."
"Yes," said Gabrielle, somewhat disconcerted. The matter was not taking
a dramatic turn at present. Her guardian spoke in the most tranquil of
tones.
"Have you often seen or spoken to him, since you came to R----?"
"Twice only--the day he called on mamma, and last night at the ball."
"On no other occasion?"
"No."
The Baron drew a deep breath of relief.
"This young man evidently pays you a degree of attention which
oversteps the bounds of ordinary gallantry," he continued; "and you
seem not only to suffer, but to encourage it."
Gabrielle was silent.
"I expect an answer, Gabrielle."
She looked up. There was no sign of fear in her face. It spoke rather
of open rebellion.
"And if that were the case?" she asked.
"It would be high time to put an end to such childish nonsense," Raven
answered sharply. "You must know very well that nothing serious could
ever come of it."
The young lady tossed her fair head with an offended, yet a most
resolute air. Now came the decisive moment; now was the time to show
her heroism, and to inspire her guardian with respect. He had no idea
as yet how grave the matter in question was. He treated it as a silly,
passing fancy.
"It is not mere childish nonsense," she replied, with the utmost
decision. "George Winterfeld loves me."
The Baron's eye flashed fire. He rose quickly, and folded his arms on
his breast, as though to compel himself to be calm; but his voice was
low and menacing as he answered her:
"Oh, oh! he has told you this already? Last night, perhaps, during your
waltz?"
"He told me long ago, in Switzerland, that he loved me."
Raven laughed out loud--a short, harsh laugh.
"I suspected it, I vow," he said, with bitter sarcasm. "So you two were
acting through a romance under your mother's eyes, she having no
faintest notion of it the while. Well, it is what one might expect from
her. But it is less easy to deceive me. If you intended that, you
should have guarded your looks better; they were far too eloquent
yesterday evening. I can make many excuses for you, Gabrielle, on
account of your youth and inexperience--a few sentimental phrases
suffice to turn the head of a girl of seventeen; but this romantic
trifling is too dangerous for me to permit it to go on longer. I shall
remind Assessor Winterfeld of the barriers which separate him from the
Baroness Harder--from my niece, and that in a way which will impress
itself on his memory. Henceforward you will neither see nor speak to
him. I forbid this folly, once for all."
He strove in vain to preserve his sarcastic tone; the terrible
irritation which lay behind would break through at times. Gabrielle,
indeed, did not remark this; she heard only the scornful derision of
his words. The girl was prepared for reproaches, for an outbreak of
fierce anger on the part of her guardian, for she knew how his pride
would revolt against such a union; but, instead of wrathfully
upbraiding her, he treated George and herself as a pair of naughty
children, who must be duly punished for the fault they had committed.
He spoke in the most contemptuous tone of 'trifling' and of
'sentimental phrases,' and thought that, by launching his edict, he
could at one stroke destroy the happiness of two grown-up persons. This
was too much. The young lady now rose in her turn, vibrating with
indignation.
"You cannot do that, Uncle Arno," she said vehemently. "George has a
claim on me which he will certainly vindicate. He has my word--my
promise. I am betrothed to him."
She had made her confession boldly, unhesitatingly; and now she paused,
waiting for the coming storm, but none came. Raven replied not a word.
A grey pallor overspread his face, and his hand grasped convulsively
the back of a great arm-chair that was near him, while he gazed with a
strange, fixed look at Gabrielle.
She stood before him silent and confused. It was not exactly fear which
possessed her, but rather a secret, inexplicable dread growing up
within her beneath that gaze, a vague presentiment of coming evil,
against which she struggled in vain.
After a minute's pause, the Baron spoke again:
"This matter has certainly gone further than I supposed; and you have
considered you were doing right in keeping it a secret from your mother
and myself?"
"We feared we should be parted if our attachment were known," answered
Gabrielle, in a low voice.
"Oh! And what do you imagine will happen now?"
"I do not know; but I am determined I will keep my word to George, come
what may, for I love him."
This word at length let loose the fury of the storm hitherto held in
check. With a movement of rage. Raven dashed the chair aside, and
strode up to the young girl.
"And you dare to say that to me?" he broke out. "You dare, without my
knowledge and consent, to enter into an engagement which you know I
shall decidedly oppose--to defy me openly? You build on the indulgent
kindness I have shown you up to this time. It is at an end from to-day.
Do not challenge me too far, Gabrielle; you may bitterly repent it. I
have means of bringing a perverse, rebellious child to reason--means I
shall unsparingly use against both you and him. Winterfeld shall answer
to me for this surreptitious love-making, for the sweet speeches with
which he has befooled you into giving a promise--a promise which is
null and void, seeing that you are not free to dispose of yourself as
yet. He courts in you the presumptive heiress, and calculates that
through her he shall attain to wealth and influence. He may find
himself deceived. I alone have to decide as to your future, which is
altogether in my hands. Your lot in life depends on me, and if I accord
to you a brilliant position, I shall expect implicit obedience in
return. At no time, and under no circumstances, can there be a question
of such a marriage. I refuse my consent, and you must perforce bend to
my will."
Gabrielle had recoiled a step before this fierce outburst, but
nevertheless she met it bravely. The "child" possessed more stability,
more strength of purpose, than Raven supposed. She was not to be
intimidated by his imperious words or threatening looks.
"You have no rights over me, except those of a guardian, and they will
expire at my majority," she replied, with most unusual energy. "My
future and my position in life concern George alone. I shall accept the
lot that he can offer me, whatever it may be. No calculating thought
has ever entered his mind with regard to me. George's affection----"
The Baron stamped furiously.
"George, and nothing but George! I forbid you to speak so of this
Winterfeld in my presence. You will never be his wife--never, I tell
you--at least, while I live."
The young girl drew herself erect. She was indignant at, rather than
daunted by, his extreme vehemence. "Uncle Arno, you are horribly,
cruelly unjust. You----"
Suddenly she stopped. Her eyes met his, and the ardent consuming fire
in them seemed to scorch her with its intense glow. It was not the
blaze of hatred, nor of anger. There was suffering in that look,
fierce, wild pain stimulated almost to madness. Gabrielle pressed both
hands on her bosom. She felt as though breath and consciousness were
forsaking her; then, vivid as lightning, with a blinding, stupefying
shock, the truth flashed upon her. She grew deadly pale, and caught at
the back of the chair as though for support.
This movement of hers in some measure restored the Baron to himself. He
saw the great paleness which overspread her features, and attributed it
in some measure to fear aroused by his violence. This man, accustomed
to the severest self-control, had, probably for the first time in his
life, allowed himself to be carried beyond bounds. He felt this, and by
a supreme effort of his will endeavoured to master his agitation. A
deep and painful silence followed; a silence which weighed on both, but
which neither ventured to break. Raven had gone up to the window, and,
with his fevered brow pressed against the panes, remained gazing out
into the misty landscape. Gabrielle still stood motionless in her
place.
"I have alarmed you with my vehemence," said the Baron at last, without
turning round. "Such matters require to be discussed quietly, and we
are neither of us in a fitting frame of mind just now. To-morrow, later
on, perhaps----Leave me, Gabrielle."
She obeyed, walking with bowed head to the door, but there she paused.
Again, as on the preceding evening, she felt, without seeing it, the
look which rested on her; and again, as then, she was constrained by
some mysterious attraction to meet that look. Raven had, indeed,
turned, and was following her with his eyes.
"One thing more," he said--his voice was completely under control now,
but it had a dull unnatural sound--"not a word, not a line to him. I
will speak to him myself."
Gabrielle left the room, and returned to her mother's apartments. The
Baroness, who was a late riser, had but just completed her morning
toilet. On going into the breakfast-room, she missed her daughter, who
was generally there before her, and was about to inquire of the
servants as to the reason of her absence when the young girl herself
appeared.
"Why, child, where have you been all this time? Not out of doors, I
hope, in such miserable weather. You would take a dreadful cold,
wandering about in that light morning dress. But you look quite pale
and disturbed! Has anything happened?"
"No, mamma," said her daughter, in a low, half-stifled voice.
The Baroness looked at her with concern.
"You are not well, I am sure. You were overheated with dancing
yesterday evening, when we went through those cold corridors. Take a
little hot tea, dear--it will do you good."
Gabrielle declined the offered cup.
"No, thank you, mamma. I would rather go back to my room, and try and
rest a little."
"But your uncle is accustomed to see you here at breakfast-time."
"Tell him I am not well. He will not miss me to-day. I _cannot_ stay."
With these words she left the room. The Baroness remained alone,
wondering not a little at her daughter's sudden fit of reserve, which
was as strange to her as the white wan look on that blooming face. At
this moment the Baron's valet entered with a message from his
Excellency, who begged to be excused--he would not appear at breakfast
that morning. Madame von Harder shook her head at this announcement;
but she was not gifted with any special powers of combination, and
moreover she knew nothing of the interview which had taken place in her
brother-in-law's study. It did not occur to her, therefore, to connect
the two circumstances. She thought no more of the matter, but sat down
to table, a little put out at having to breakfast alone.
In the Chancellery the Governor's appearance was that day looked for in
vain. It was his custom to go there early in the morning, but on this
occasion he remained shut up in his study, and allowed the most
necessary business to be transacted by Councillor Moser. The
Councillor, who had some pressing matters to submit to his chief's
notice, came back from an audience with an important mien, and the
tidings that his Excellency was by no means graciously disposed that
morning. This was true enough. The Baron had listened to the various
communications to him with great impatience and visible absence of
mind, had given the needful instructions in a hurried manner most
unusual to him, and had dismissed the worthy Councillor as speedily as
possible. That gentleman, who always claimed to know more than others,
hinted at weighty Government despatches recently received, and all the
clerks put their heads together, and indulged in endless speculations
and conjectures.
Half an hour later. Assessor Winterfeld was summoned to the Governor.
There was nothing remarkable in this, as he had to take in his report
in the course of the morning, and the fact of his being sent for before
the appointed hour could easily be explained by the numerous pressing
calls on the Baron's time.
The young man, therefore, obeyed the summons with unsuspicious
alacrity. He entered the cabinet, his head full of the statement he had
prepared, set his papers in order, and waited for the signal to begin.
"We will leave that," said Raven. "The report can stand over for
to-day. I have other matters to discuss with you."
George looked up in astonishment, and only then became aware of his
chiefs altered attitude. The dignified calm with which that personage
was wont to receive his officials had stiffened into freezing hauteur.
He stood leaning against the bureau, and eyed the young man before him
from head to foot, as though he then saw him for the first time,
scanning his features with a severe, unerring scrutiny which seemed to
pierce him through and through. Undisguised hostility was expressed in
that steady, frowning gaze, as it was, indeed, in the Baron's whole
bearing.
George saw this at a glance, and at once understood the words which had
struck him as enigmatical. He understood that he alone was the object
of the Baron's displeasure, and guessed what had provoked it. The
long-looked-for catastrophe had come at last, and the young man braced
himself to face it with quiet resolution.
"I have this morning had an interview with my ward, Baroness Harder, in
which your name was mentioned," began the Governor. "No explanations
are required from you. I already know what has happened, and I must
call you to account for the manner in which you have misled that young
lady, causing her to fail most unpardonably in the sincerity and
respect she owes to her family."
George cast down his eyes. His quick sense of honour allowed the
reproach as well-founded.
"I have possibly erred in remaining silent until now," he replied. "My
only excuse lies in the fact that my position has not yet qualified me
to prefer my suit openly."
"Indeed? I should have thought that such an obstacle in the way of your
suit would also have prohibited a declaration of your sentiments."
"Had it been premeditated, certainly; but, your Excellency, that was
not the case. In an unguarded moment my secret escaped me: only when it
had found utterance, when my words had been accepted, did reflection
regain the upper hand; and then I was forced to confess to myself that
for the present I could advance no grounds entitling me to approach
Baroness Harder as a suitor for her daughter's hand."
"It is well you make the admission yourself," remarked the Baron, with
withering scorn. "I should otherwise have been under the necessity of
making the fact clear to you. If Fraeulein von Harder has made you
promises, they, naturally, count for nothing, having been given without
my knowledge or her mother's; and it would be simply absurd for you to
build on them. Romantic notions should be left to the domain of
romance. I regret that my niece should have lent an ear to such
extravagant folly, but you will hardly expect me to deal with it as a
matter calling for serious consideration."
The young man's face began to flush beneath this contemptuous
treatment, and the rising irritation within him betrayed itself in his
voice, as he answered:
"I do not know that an earnest and pure affection, which has been
tarnished by no unworthy thought, which has held its object as some
high and sacred thing apart, should be met by derision only. I have
kept it a secret so far, and have caused Fraeulein von Harder to do so
likewise, because I knew that time and much continuous labour on my
part were needed to remove the obstacles that stand in my path, because
I foresaw that every effort would be made to separate us. In that alone
am I culpable. My conduct in that respect may deserve blame, but those
who have had experience of love will not judge me too harshly. I own I
was not prepared to find our mutual attachment treated as mere romantic
folly."
"And what do you expect me to think of it?" asked Raven, ironically.
"It seems to me you have every reason to be grateful to me for adopting
this view of the case, as it alone admits of a lenient judgment. If I
knew that you and Gabrielle were seriously contemplating the
possibility of a union----" He paused, but the look which completed the
sentence was significant enough, and fraught with evil presage.
"Would your Excellency have preferred that we should be attached
without contemplating a lifelong union?" asked George, quietly.
"Mr. Winterfeld, you forget yourself," thundered the Baron. "The blame
of this secret understanding lies not with my niece, but with you. That
young girl was not in a position to measure its importance, or rightly
to estimate the situation. You were fully able to do both, and were
aware of the barriers which stood between you; it is with you,
therefore, I must now reckon. You are one of my youngest clerks,
without name or rank, without fortune or prospects. By what right do
you venture to aspire to the hand of the young Baroness Harder, who is
accustomed to all the luxuries of life, and who has a claim to move in
circles widely remote from yours?"
"By the same right as that whereon Baron von Raven relied, when, under
circumstances in all respects similar, he sued for the hand of the
Minister's daughter, who subsequently became his wife--by right of my
confidence in the future."
Raven bit his lip. "It appears to be with you a foregone conclusion
that in point of success your career will resemble mine. It is rather
venturesome on your part to place yourself thus boldly on a par with
me. Besides, the comparison does not hold good. I was one of the
Minister's most intimate friends long before I became his son-in-law. I
knew that he favoured my suit, and had assured myself of his consent
before I addressed his daughter. That is the only honourable course to
pursue in such matters. Mark what I say, Mr. Winterfeld."
"Your Excellency, no doubt, acted more correctly, and with more
deliberation; but--I loved Gabrielle!"
A furious gleam shot from the Baron's eyes, as he turned them on the
audacious offender who dared to remind him that his own marriage had
been one of calculation.
"I must beg of you, in my presence, to give the Baroness Harder her
fitting title," said he, in his sharpest tone. "As to the
disinterestedness of your affection, were you unaware of the fact that
my niece is generally looked upon as my heiress?"
"No; but I supposed that any dispositions to that effect would be
reversed in the event of the young Baroness's marrying without her
guardian's consent."
"The supposition was correct. And you are really selfish enough to rob
the girl you profess to love of all the advantages bestowed on her by
birth and fortune? You would condemn her to an existence which would be
nothing but one long series of sacrifices? A most noble and
disinterested love, truly! Fortunately, Gabrielle Harder is not the
heroine required for such an idyl; and I will take care that she does
not become the victim of a youthful error, which she would expiate with
swift and bitter repentance."
George was silent. That was the sore spot with him. He had often felt,
as the Baron said, that Gabrielle was the last woman in the world for
such abnegation as this "idyl" demanded.
"Let us make an end of this," said Raven, drawing himself up, and
waving his hand imperiously. "I cannot concede to my niece a right to
dispose of her future without my knowledge or consent, and I decline to
enter into a discussion respecting wishes and hopes, which are, for me,
simply non-existent. You know that a guardian's powers are unlimited as
a father's, and you are bound to submit to my decision. I shall expect
that you, as a man of honour, will abstain from any attempt to carry on
this clandestine understanding, which is calculated to injure the young
lady's fame, and has already disturbed her relations with her family.
Open intercourse I, naturally, prohibit from this date. You will give
me your word that you will in no way seek to communicate with my ward
in secret."
"If I am allowed once more to see and speak to Baroness Harder, even
though it be in the presence of her mother."
"No."
"Then I cannot give the required promise."
"Reflect well, Assessor. Remember who it is you are braving," warned
the Baron, and there was unmistakable menace in his tone.
The young man's fine clear eyes met those of his chief fearlessly, yet
the sombre fire smouldering in these latter was of a nature to make him
pause and reflect. The two men stood face to face, like wrestlers,
measuring each other's strength before the struggle. The younger, calm
and resolute; the elder, vibrating in every nerve with terrible
agitation.
"I brave only a harsh and unjust sentence," said George, taking up the
last words, "Your Excellency decrees our separation, and we must yield
to the sentence, having no arms wherewith to defend ourselves; but to
refuse us an interview--the last, probably, for years--is, I repeat it,
both harsh and unjust. I do not know how Fraeulein von Harder may be
worked upon, in what manner my silence and reserve may be interpreted
to her. I must, at least, tell her, once for all, that I maintain my
right to her hand, and that I will spare no exertion to deserve it.
This I shall attempt to say by letter or by word of mouth, with or
without your Excellency's leave."
He bowed and went, not waiting for the usual signal of dismissal. Raven
threw himself into a chair. The interview had taken an unexpected
course. His intercourse with Winterfeld had hitherto been simply
official. He had always considered him to be talented and clever in his
profession, without ascribing to him any very extraordinary merit--the
difference of position precluded all close contact and deeper interest.
To-day, for the first time, they had met, not as superior and
subaltern, but as man to man; and to-day the Baron had discovered that
behind that modest demeanour and that mild, clear brow, there lay
concealed an energy equal to his own.
He was accustomed to break down all resistance by the sheer might of
his imposing word and presence, but on this occasion that might and all
the prestige of his exalted station had been summoned to his aid in
vain. He had succeeded neither in abasing nor in intimidating his
adversary; in more than one respect he must acknowledge him as his
peer. Gabrielle had bestowed her love on no unworthy object; this was
the secret trouble which gnawed at the man's heart, as he lay back
brooding in his chair. He would have given much really to be able to
look on this attachment as a piece of youthful folly, and to tear the
two asunder in the name of reason and common sense. Now there remained
to him only that miserable pretext of rank and fortune, and his own
case might be cited to show how easily these obstacles are surmounted
when an energetic will sets itself to break them down; though, with
him, the incentive to action had been of another and a lower order.
That most beautiful and sacred privilege of youth, a spontaneous,
soaring passion, heedless of hindrances, and oblivious of worldly
possibilities, Arno Raven had never enjoyed, or cared to enjoy. He had
put from him the dream of love and happiness, while love and happiness
were the just appanage of his years; his ambitious plans left him no
time to indulge in dreaming. Now, in the autumn of his life, the fair
vision rose before him, golden, ethereal, spreading about him its soft,
delusive shimmer, taking his best strength captive, until he suddenly
awoke, and found himself in the presence of a stern, cruel reality.
Youth yearns after youth, and the middle-aged man, at the very zenith
of his success and greatness, looked from his lonely height on the
waste desolate tract around. Perhaps in this hour he would have given
his hardly-won success and all the sweets of power only to be young
again.