It was evening, but, in spite of the lateness of the hour and the
chilly inclement autumn weather, the streets of the capital were yet
alive with all the busy restless movement which characterises a great
city. Carriages rolled hither and thither in every direction,
pedestrians hustled each other on the pavement and before the
brightly-lighted shops, and it was only in the more aristocratic
quarter, which lay a little aside from the main streets and chief
arteries of traffic, that a certain stately peace and quiet reigned
supreme.
In the room which she was at present occupying in the Selteneck
mansion, Gabrielle Harder sat alone, buried in one of those deep
troubled reveries which so often came upon her now, and which
threatened to transform the bright vivacious girl into a dreamy,
pensive heroine. She was in full dress, for she was going with her
party to the opera that evening; but as she lay back in her arm-chair,
heedlessly crushing the dainty laces on her dress, her thoughts were
evidently far from the amusements of the hour.
If anything could have diverted Gabrielle from her unwonted sadness, it
would have been this visit to the capital, where she and her mother had
been most graciously received. The Countess Selteneck was an old and
intimate friend of the Baroness. She had been a frequent visitor at the
Harders' house in the old days, and since the Baron's death had
remained in constant correspondence with his widow. The pleasure felt
by the ladies on meeting again was great and mutual, and the Countess,
who had no children of her own, indulged and spoiled her friend's sweet
daughter in every imaginable way.
The Baroness, on her arrival in town, came to hear of the attack which
had been made upon Raven, but she was far too superficial to appreciate
the real importance of the well-directed blow, which, in her eyes, was
a mere passing annoyance, such as the rioting in R---- for instance. It
never, in the remotest degree, occurred to her to suppose that the
Baron's position might be imperilled by what had happened. His affairs,
indeed, only interested her in so far as her own future might be
involved in them. Madame von Harder did not pretend to the slightest
sympathy or affection for her brother-in-law. She feared him, and that
was all. Indignant she was, no doubt, at the "audacious impertinence of
that Winterfeld," seeing in the young man's conduct only an act of
revenge for the discomfiture he had met with, but she never for a
moment doubted that the Baron would visit the rash offender with the
chastisement which was his due. For the rest, she saw no reason why she
should torment herself with all these tiresome, disagreeable matters,
which would be set at rest long before she returned home. The autumn
fashions, the evening parties, and the performances at the opera, were
far more interesting, and, as she thought, better worth her attention.
That her daughter would not dream of renewing her engagement to the
Assessor after the affront which the latter had put on the head of her
family, this wise lady took for granted. All her care was given to
preventing a meeting between the two, which was not difficult. George
did not mix in the Selteneck circles; and here, amid these strange
surroundings, Gabrielle was never left alone. She had, indeed, made no
attempt to inform the young man of her presence in town, trembling at
the very thought of a meeting with him. How could she approach George,
while her heart was beating high with love for another man? Though so
much had lately come between herself and Arno, she could not forget;
not even his harshness and injustice could banish his image from her
mind, and the knowledge that some danger threatened him served to
quicken her affection. Gabrielle was better able than her mother to
estimate the true bearings of the case. For weeks she had followed the
course of events with feverish interest. She, who at other times never
opened a paper, now sought with avidity every notice affecting the
Baron, and caught at every remark made in conversation which bore on
the one subject that engrossed her thoughts. Winterfeld's book, with
its long list of charges, had set before the young girl's eyes Raven's
true portrait, which she was forced to recognise as a faithful
likeness, had displayed to her the darker side of his character--while,
as opposed to it, George's figure rose before her, so pure and
steadfast and nobly courageous in the sacrifice of his entire future
and prospects to that which he deemed duty. But of what avail all this?
Gabrielle's whole soul went back to the sombre, despotic man, who had
won her to himself. In imagination she stood by his side through the
fight; for his sake she grew anxious and apprehensive of the issue,
while a feeling of bitterness rose up within her against George, for
was it not he who had been the first to assail, to insult the man she
loved?
The clock on the mantelpiece chiming the hour awoke Gabrielle from her
dreams, and reminded her that it was time to prepare for the drive to
the theatre. Throwing a light cloak round her shoulders, she drew on
her gloves, and went down to the drawing-room, where her mother and
Countess Selteneck were already awaiting her.
Countess Selteneck was of about the same age as the Baroness, but
looked considerably younger, precisely, perhaps, because she gave
herself far less trouble to preserve a youthful appearance. Though not
beautiful, she captivated by her prepossessing manners, and a certain
air of calm intelligence which inspired confidence and respect. Both
ladies were in full evening dress.
"I can understand how much you must suffer from the constraint, and
from the general position of affairs in your brother-in-law's house,
Matilda," the Countess remarked; "but what will not a woman endure for
her child's sake? Gabrielle's whole future is in his hands, and as his
heiress she will one day have an almost princely fortune at her
disposal. Your brother-in-law has given you decided promises on this
head, I presume?"
"Oh, certainly," replied the Baroness. "He spoke to me on the subject
soon after I arrived at his house, but I am afraid this unfortunate
business with Assessor Winterfeld has called the whole matter in
question again."
"There is something very winning and agreeable about the Assessor, I
must say," observed the Countess, changing the theme. "I think I
mentioned to you that I met him some weeks ago at a soiree, where,
truth to tell, he was the cynosure of interest."
"Assessor Winterfeld the cynosure of interest?" asked the Baroness,
half incredulous, half disdainful.
"Certainly. He has become a sort of celebrity, and enjoys special
protection at the Ministry, so they tell me. He is received in the best
circles, and is distinguished wherever he goes."
"Why, this is incredible!" exclaimed Madame von Harder. "They are bound
in duty to punish an affront put upon the Governor of R----. They
cannot possibly reward and distinguish the aggressor."
"But so it is, nevertheless; and I fear it is done purposely, out of
opposition to the Baron. I really do not see, Matilda, why the
Assessor's offer should have appeared so outrageous an absurdity to you
and to your brother-in-law. Instead of giving him his _conge_, and
thereby driving him to this desperate step, you should have held out
some hope to him."
"Held out hope to him!" repeated the Baroness. "My dear Theresa, think
what you are saying. He is a man of no birth."
"That is not an insuperable obstacle," declared the Countess, a
worldly-wise practical woman, who took such prejudices of rank into
little account, and who was evidently prepossessed by George's manner
and appearance. "What were brevets of nobility invented for? Raven was
a commoner himself when your sister first engaged herself to him."
"That was an exceptional case, and Assessor Winterfeld----"
"Will be every whit as successful. You need not look so astonished,
Matilda; I am only expressing the general belief. After this first
stroke--a bold one, certainly, which has turned the eyes of the country
upon him--he need not fear being overlooked. Had he, in addition to his
other advantages, married into a noble old family such as yours, the
road to eminence would have been clear before him--ay, to eminence
equal to that attained by the successful Baron von Raven."
Madame von Harder had grown very thoughtful. She was accustomed to rely
on the judgment of this friend, who was intellectually her superior,
and the Countess's words brought Winterfeld before her in quite a new
light. Very little was wanting to revive the old predilection which, in
the early days of their acquaintance, she had cherished for George.
The entrance of Count Selteneck here put an end to the conversation. He
was to accompany the ladies to the opera, but had been out to pay a
visit from which he had just returned. Some indifferent questions and
replies were interchanged, then the Countess remarked that it must be
time to start, and would have rung for the carriage, but her husband
stopped her.
"One moment, Theresa," he said carelessly. "There is a trifling matter
I want to discuss with you first. The Baroness will kindly excuse us
for a few minutes?"
The Baroness begged them not to think of her, and the Count stepped
into the adjoining room with his wife.
"What has happened?" asked the latter, uneasily.
"I have heard some news which will affect Madame von Harder very
painfully. It concerns her brother-in-law, von Raven."
He had closed the drawing-room door; but to this smaller outer salon
there was a second entrance, masked only by a heavy curtain. Close to
this the speakers were standing at the very moment that Gabrielle was
about to enter on her way to the drawing-room. She caught the last
words and the Baron's name, and that sufficed to chain her to the spot
where she stood. Hidden behind the _portiere_, she listened in
breathless suspense.
"The Governor has not given in his resignation, I hope?" asked the
Countess.
"There is no question of that now," said Selteneck. "If it were so, he
would only be sharing the fate of many high officers of State, who
temporarily retire from the scene of action. The news I have just
heard at my brother's is of so grave a nature that, should it be
confirmed--and we had it direct from the Ministry--the Baron will,
politically speaking, have lived his day."
The Countess looked up at her husband with an expression of shocked
surprise. He went on in a carefully subdued tone, which, however, was
quite audible to Gabrielle's ears:
"The leading journal of R---- has published an article containing a
series of damning charges against the Governor. It has often been
hinted vaguely that Raven himself was not quite a stranger to the last
revolutionary movement; but then, how many allowed themselves to be led
away at that time! These ideas are a form of youthful extravagance to
which no weight is attached, so long as they remain mere intangible
ideas; but in this article it is stated that Raven was a member, a
leader even, of the association with which Dr. Brunnow--the same whose
recapture created such a sensation lately--was connected, and as the
reputed head of which that person was condemned. It is further stated
that Raven betrayed his friends in the most dishonourable manner,
giving up all their papers, and thus furnishing documentary proofs. His
admittance to the Ministry was, they say, the price of this infamous
action. The accusation is couched in terms so decided and outspoken
that it is difficult to doubt its veracity. The testimony of Dr.
Brunnow himself is appealed to, as corroborative evidence."
"And what is Raven's answer to all this?" interposed the Countess,
hastily.
"He declares it to be absolutely and altogether a lie. The duty of
self-defence requires this from him, of course; but of counter proofs
there is no mention as yet. If he does not succeed in clearing up this
business, and cleansing himself from all suspicion, his part is played
out."
"Poor Matilda!" exclaimed the Countess.
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
"Shall we keep the knowledge of what is going on from her for a time?"
"No," replied the Countess, "She will learn it tomorrow from the
papers. It will be best to tell her all."
The two agreed that the intended visit to the opera should be given up,
and went back to the drawing-room together.
Gabrielle's face was ashy white as she left her place of concealment,
and returned to her own room. She did not for a moment deceive herself
as to the importance of the tidings she had just heard. The instinct of
love gave her a better insight into Raven's character than the most
experienced judge of human actions might have had. She knew that the
Baron was equal to any contest, strong enough to bear any stroke of
Fate, except that which should come in the guise of shame and
humiliation, and of this nature was the blow now levelled at him by his
enemies.
While Countess Selteneck was communicating to the Baroness the painful
intelligence, the young girl sat down to her writing-table, and
rapidly, with feverish haste, traced some lines on a sheet of
letter-paper. This note, which contained but a few words, she folded,
and addressed to Assessor Winterfeld at the Ministry. It would surely
find him there, she knew. It contained simply the news of her presence
in town, and a request that George would come and see her on the
following day at the Seltenecks' house; that was all.
In the afternoon of the following day, George Winterfeld entered the
Countess's drawing-room. Gabrielle came in a few minutes later, and
George hastened to greet her with impetuous joy.
"Gabrielle, my darling, so we meet again at last!"
In his transport of delight he did not notice that her hand lay
motionless in his, giving no pressure in return, and that all the
answer he received to his tender greeting was a faint, sad smile. He
went on, still joyously excited:
"But what does all this mean? I thought you were far away in R----, and
only now hear that you are in town, living close by me. And what am I
to think of the little note which summoned me hither? Does your mother
know of the invitation?"
"No," said Gabrielle, in decided accents, that sounded strangely from
her lips. "She has driven out with Countess Selteneck; but I mean to
tell her when she comes back that I asked you to come, and why. She
would not have given her consent to this interview, and I felt that I
_must_ speak to you."
George looked at her in some astonishment. It had not formerly been
Gabrielle's way to proceed thus with plan and resolution.
"I, too, longed inexpressibly to see you again," he replied. "There was
no possibility of sending you news of me. I cannot keep up any
communication with the Governor's house, especially against his will.
You know, I suppose, on what footing I stand towards him now?"
"I had to hear of it--from others. Your vague hints at parting were
utterly unintelligible to me. You left me quite in the dark, and
allowed the truth to break upon me unawares."
George understood the reproach.
"Forgive me," he entreated earnestly. "It was entirely on your account
that I was silent. I could not make a confidante of you--could not let
you share in the knowledge of a project which was to turn against your
guardian and host. Are you angry with me for what I have done? You
little know how fierce were the struggles I went through before I could
resolve on taking that step."
"It has brought you good luck!"--there was a singular, almost a
scornful inflection in the girl's voice. "It has raised you from
obscurity to fame at a stroke. Your name is now in everybody's mouth."
Winterfeld's handsome face clouded over.
"It troubles me sorely that my fame, as you call it, should spring from
such a cause. I certainly never counted on this species of success. You
surely do not doubt the truth of what I said to you at parting? You do
not doubt me when I say that no personal feeling of revenge spurred me
on against the Baron, that the pamphlet, of which you have heard, was
commenced before we knew each other? I was prepared for the worst
consequences, for I knew the adversary I was provoking. My position,
probably my whole future, was at stake, but it had become necessary to
cripple the tyrannical power of a man whom none ventured to defy. I
resolved to attempt it, and I was ready to accept the issue, whatever
it might be. But no matter ever took a more unexpected turn than this
of mine. I have been shielded and supported, and the Governor's cause
has been abandoned. I had no suspicion of the mighty current of opinion
that had set in against him in those very circles where most I feared
opposition."
He had spoken clearly and quietly, but there was in his eyes an uneasy,
pained inquiry which his lips did not frame. He could not understand
his love. She stood before him so cold and strange, giving no sign of
sympathy. Not a word of tenderness fell from her now, on meeting him
after a separation of weeks. Instead of holding the sweet converse
natural to lovers on such an occasion, they were discussing things
which once lay worlds apart from Gabrielle, but which now seemed to
monopolise her interest. What could have happened to change her thus?
"One more question, George," she began again. "This last attack, this
shameful calumny which the newspapers have published--have you had any
part in this?"
"No; the sudden disclosure took me as much by surprise as anyone, and I
do not know how it originated. I do not war with anonymous
communications which refer to a long-bygone past. If I had wished to
make use of these facts, the Governor's fall would long ago have been
assured, for I knew them some months back."
"The facts!" broke out Gabrielle. "The whole story is a lie. How can
you doubt it for an instant?"
"They are facts," said the young man, gravely, "I heard them from the
mouth of a man who was reluctant enough to raise his voice against his
former friend--I mean Max Brunnow's father."
"Whoever says it, I tell you it is calumny!" cried Gabrielle, with
flashing eyes. "Arno is incapable of a dishonourable action; he never
has committed one. He declares this tale to be false, and, though the
whole world should be of one voice to accuse him, I will believe his
word, and his alone!"
"Arno? You will believe him, and him alone?" repeated George, slowly.
"What ... what does this mean?"
"Every one is deserting him now," Gabrielle went on, with passionate
vehemence. "Troubles are coming upon him from all sides. While he was
great and powerful, no one ventured to raise a finger against him; but
since you gave the signal for the onset, he has been persecuted and
slandered by all his enemies, and hounded, as they hoped, to his ruin.
But, seeing that in spite of them all he holds his ground, they have
recourse now to their last resource, and seek to wound him mortally in
his honour. Oh, I know only too well why he sent me away! He divined
what was coming; he wished to be alone in his fall!"
George had grown deadly pale. His eyes were fixed anxiously on the
girl's fair face, all glowing with excitement. Her vehemence betrayed
too much, and the young man's heart thrilled with a great dread. He
felt that his dream of happiness was over.
"What has taken place between you and the Baron?" he asked. "It is not
so that a girl defends her guardian, her relative. You might have
spoken so of me, had I been exposed to any danger. What has happened
during this separation of ours, Gabrielle? No, I cannot believe it. You
cannot ... cannot love this Raven?"
She made no answer, but sank on to a chair, and, hiding her face in her
hands, broke into loud and passionate weeping. For some minutes a
direful silence reigned, broken only by Gabrielle's sobs. George stood
motionless. This discovery came upon him too abruptly, too
unexpectedly.
"It is so, then," he said at length, in a very low voice. "And he ...
yes, now I understand his hatred of me, his fierce anger on hearing of
our engagement. This is why he parted us so inexorably; this was why he
took from me all hope of ever possessing you. That he would take your
love itself from me, I never, never could have believed."
Gabrielle dried her tears, and rose.
"Forgive me, George. I feel how cruel a wrong I have done you, but I
cannot help it. I did not know what love was when I gave you my
promise. The knowledge came to me when I met Arno, and now it would be
treachery to withhold the truth from you any longer. I fought against
it, so long as it was possible to fight; yesterday even I doubted and
vacillated. Then this news reached me, and all my doubts were at an
end. I know now where my rightful place is, and nothing shall move me
from it--but, first, I had to tell you all. Release me from that
promise, I implore you. I cannot keep it."
The young man stood before her, rigid and pale with the fierce conflict
of emotions.
"Was it for this you called me hither--to tell me this?"
"Yes," was the answer, hardly audible.
"You are free the instant you desire it," said George, with profound
bitterness. "I swore to you that no power on earth should move me to
renounce my hopes until I should hear from your own lips that you gave
me up. I have heard it now. Good-bye."
He turned and walked to the door. Gabrielle rushed after him, and laid
her hand on his arm.
"Do not go from me so, George. Say you forgive me. Do not part from me
in ill-feeling and bitterness. I cannot bear that you should be angry
with me."
It was the old sweet tone, which had so often worked with captivating
power. It arrested the young man's steps even now, and as the lovely
tear-bedewed face was raised to him with anxious pleading in the dark
eyes, his wounded pride was silenced, and the deep affection of his
heart welled up within him once more.
"Must I lose you?" he asked, in a voice tremulous with excessive
emotion. "Think, Gabrielle, think--do not sacrifice our love, all our
life's happiness so hastily. Raven's passion has misled and blinded
you. He has the secret of drawing hearts to him as with a magic spell,
but he would never, never make a woman happy. You, with your bright
sunny temperament, would fade away by that man's side, would pine away
and die. You do not know him, child; he is not worthy of your love."
Gabrielle gently freed herself from his embrace.
"Do you think it is my own happiness I am seeking? No; what I wish is
to be at Arno's side when all are forsaking him, to share his fate--his
disgrace, if it must be. That is the only happiness I look for, and of
that, at least, no one shall deprive me!"
There was infinite, pathetic tenderness in her words. George's gaze
rested sorrowfully, regretfully on the youthful creature who had so
quickly learned all a woman's devotion and self-sacrifice. Thus, thus
he had dreamily pictured to himself his Gabrielle, in those early days
when he had set the joyous merry-hearted child on a pedestal and
worshipped her as the ideal of his life! dreamily only, it must be
owned, for there had been no true hope in his heart that she would ever
soar to such a height. Now his ideal stood embodied before him; and
now, in the self-same moment, he learned that she was lost to him for
ever.
"Let us part, then," he said, calling up all his self-control. "You are
right. With so absorbing a passion in your heart for another, you could
not be my wife. After the avowal you have just made, I should have
released you without any entreaty on your part. Do not weep, Gabrielle.
I have no ill-feeling towards you; I reproach you with nothing. All my
enmity is for him who has robbed me of you. You were the joy, the very
life of my life. How I shall bear to live on, now that you have left
me, I know not. Farewell."
He drew her to him once again, once again he pressed his lips to hers,
and then hurried from the house he had entered with such high hopes,
now all fatally shattered and wrecked. Gabrielle remained alone,
weeping no longer, but with a dull unspeakable aching within her
breast, a thrilling sense of pain and loss. She felt that, with
George's love, the best and noblest part of her life had gone from her.