Late autumn is wont to be a rough, inclement season in the
neighbourhood of mountains, and this year, in and about R----, it had
not belied its character; but now, at its close. Nature seemed by a
supreme effort to rouse all her dying energies. The past days had been
unusually clear and mild, so that the months appeared to have travelled
back in their course. The earth fell to dreaming one last brief dream
of sunshine and summer breezes, before it surrendered itself to grim
Winter's icy chains.
It was afternoon now. Baron von Raven sat at his writing-table, engaged
in looking through his papers. For some time past, his testamentary
arrangements had been made; but there was still much to set in order.
Colonel Wilten had promptly responded to the call made upon him. Though
he no longer considered an alliance with Raven's family desirable for
his son, the constraint and coolness which had lately, since their
explanation, existed between himself and the Baron, had been annoying
and painful to him; and he seized with alacrity this occasion of
rendering the latter a service. He promised to settle all the necessary
details, and to come round himself, and report as to what had been
agreed upon regarding the duel, which was, if possible, to take place
early on the following morning.
Raven had just finished a letter, which he folded and addressed to
"Doctor Rudolph Brunnow." The lines on his gloomy brow grew deeper
still, as with sure and steady strokes he traced the name on the paper.
"Would that I could have spared you, Rudolph!" he muttered. "The
remembrance of this fatal hour will be with you to your dying day. I
know it--but there was no alternative."
He laid the letter aside, and again took up the pen; but this time it
was less obedient to the hand that wielded it. Some minutes elapsed
before he wrote the first few lines; then he stopped suddenly--began
anew--hesitated once more, and finally tore up the sheet. Why leave a
farewell, every word of which must be barbed with bitterness? The
letter would only be a standing reproach to her for whom it was
intended.
The Baron threw down his pen, and rested his head on his hand. Not
without reason had he dreaded the moment when the one great passion of
his life, which had betrayed him into a passing weakness, but which he
had resolutely driven from him far into the background, should break
the restraining dykes, and rush in upon him again with its swift,
strong current. He had maintained a perfectly calm demeanour during the
last few hours--though hatred, indignation, and deeply mortified pride
were at their fierce work with him; he had gone into the minutiae of his
affairs, arranging everything with his customary exactitude; but now
all was in order--all was finished, except ... Lo! with a rush, the
tide of long pent-up passion returned upon him with all its old
irresistible force, and before it the strong man's composure gave way.
It was no soft or tender emotion which filled his breast. Arno Raven
was not one easily to give up what he desired, or lightly to forgive
where he believed himself wronged. He, of his own free will, had
decreed the separation--had sent Gabrielle from him; and he did not
repent it. No half-measures suited him. "Let it be this, or that," had
been his motto through life; so now he would have absolute and
undivided possession of his love, or he preferred to lose her
altogether. Well, he had lost her--given her over to another who could
rally to his aid the mighty influences of youth and a first love.
The Baron never doubted that the connection with Winterfeld had been
renewed in the capital. The tyrannical guardian, who had so long stood
between the young people, separating them, had now stepped back,
leaving them free to draw together again; and the Baroness was far too
weak, too wanting in character, to oppose any lasting resistance
to her daughter's wishes, when no longer fettered by fear of her
brother-in-law. Besides, Winterfeld's position had changed. He had
risen in a most unexpected manner, and would surely rise further--thus
the great barrier to the marriage was withdrawn. All was going the
natural, appointed course, which he, in his madness, had sought to
check and stay. How, indeed, could such a young creature as Gabrielle
understand, far less return, a passion so profound, so all-absorbing as
his? It had dazzled her, perhaps, had flattered her vanity, to find
herself the object of his love; but there could be no question of any
deeper feeling on her part--and, a choice being offered her, the
blooming maiden, standing on the threshold of life, naturally turned to
him who could bring youth as his dowry, who could set before her a long
vista of happy years. That gay, sunny being had neither part nor lot in
his destiny. The thought of her was altogether out of keeping with this
dark hour of defeat, when a man's shattered honour lay in ruins about
him, a man's life hung upon a thread.
The fine, but short, autumn day was fast declining, and the rays of the
setting sun sought and found their way into the study. Through the deep
bay window came a broad, golden stream of light, filling the sombre
room with a strange transfiguring gleam. Raven's look rested moodily on
the brilliant flood. So had the sunbeam glanced across his life,
gilding, glorifying all for a brief space, to disappear suddenly,
leaving him again to loneliness and darkness. In vain he tried to free
himself from the remembrance, to stifle it by bitter reasoning--in
vain! by every road his thoughts travelled back to Gabrielle; every
object about him seemed to suggest her name--his mind was full of her.
He had resolved to have done with the past, with the world, with life;
but this wild, overpowering longing for the only being he had ever
loved, chained him to the existence he was preparing to quit. A sigh,
so deep as to be almost a groan, burst from his labouring breast. He
was alone now, and needed not the mask of proud impassible calm. To
have preserved it longer would have exceeded all human strength. He
pressed his hand to his burning brow, and closed his eyes.
Some time went by, and he still sat on, absorbed in his gloomy
brooding; then the door opened gently, almost inaudibly, and as gently
closed again. Raven did not notice it, and did not stir, until the
rustle of a woman's dress close at hand startled him. He turned, and a
great spasm passed across his face; but the exclamation he would have
uttered died on his lips, and he gazed with speechless amazement,
almost with awe, at the vision before him, which could only be a
creation of his disordered fancy. Opposite him, in the full stream of
light, stood Gabrielle, motionless, surrounded by an aureole of golden
rays, as though in verity she were but an apparition called up by the
earnest, passionate craving of a despairing heart, a phantom which
would next minute vanish mysteriously as it had come.
The Baron had risen.
"Can it--can it be you?" he asked at length, and his breath came short
and quick. "I thought you were far away."
"I left town this morning," replied the young girl, in a low voice. "I
have only just arrived. They told me you were here in your room."
Raven did not answer. His eyes were still riveted on the fair tender
face, as though even yet he could not believe in the reality of her
presence. Yes, she was there indeed! how, wherefore, he did not at
present think of inquiring. Gabrielle seemed to misinterpret his
silence. She stood in the same spot, timid and anxious, not venturing
to approach him. At last she took courage, and drew slowly nearer.
"Will you repulse me again now, Arno, when I tell you that you were
wrong in suspecting me? I should have spoken long ago, but you put me
from you so roughly, so harshly. You would not even hear me--that
roused my pride. I would not beg for the confidence you refused me.
I"--she stood close by his side now, and looked pleadingly into his
face--"I knew nothing of that attack upon you. Only, when he was going
away, George told me there would soon be open war between you and him.
I pressed in vain for some explanation. He would give me none, and a
few minutes later we had to part. Since that day, not a word, not a
syllable on the subject reached me, until you yourself held up the book
before my eyes. If I had had the slightest suspicion of what was
coming, you would have heard of it. I never betrayed you, Arno, believe
me."
Truth rang in those accents, shone in her face. Raven caught her hand
with a quick movement. Still with the same expression of eager, intense
anxiety, he drew her to him, and, without uttering a word, looked into
her eyes, which, through their glistening dew, met his fearlessly. This
silent, piercing scrutiny lasted some seconds; then the Baron stooped
suddenly, and pressed his lips to the girl's brow.
"No, you are true," he said, with a deep long breath. "I believe you."
His hand clasped hers more firmly. He now remarked that Gabrielle was
still in her travelling dress; she had merely thrown off her hat and
cloak before coming in to him. As yet, however, he was far from
divining how matters really stood. His next question proved this.
"Where is your mother, and what has caused this speedy return? I did
not expect you for several weeks."
A deep crimson blush slowly mantled to the girl's cheeks.
"Mamma stayed behind. I could hardly make her consent to my coming. She
only yielded when she saw there was no possibility of keeping me away,
I came by myself, with only our old servant as escort."
Raven followed her words with breathless eagerness. A dim presentiment
of boundless, inexpressible happiness stole over him; but at the same
moment the old shadow crept between them.
"And Winterfeld?" he asked, in a keen, incisive tone.
Gabrielle's eyes fell, and her voice trembled as she answered:
"I have been forced to give him great pain, to cut him to the heart,"
she answered; "but it was right he should learn the truth before I left
to come to you. George knows it all now; he knows to whom my love, my
whole love, is given. He has released me--I am free----"
She could not finish. Arno had drawn her close, close to his breast.
She felt his arms round her, felt the pressure of his lips on hers, and
everything else, even to the remembrance of George's pain, melted away,
drowned in the exceeding sweetness of that moment. At length Raven
raised his head, and, still holding her to him, said:
"But what brought you to me at this precise time? Why did you hasten?
You do not, cannot know what has happened."
Smiling through her tears, Gabrielle looked up at him.
"I only heard that fresh trouble was menacing, and I wanted to be with
you."
"I wanted to be with you!" the words were simply, naturally spoken, but
Raven understood the entire, the infinite devotion they expressed. He
gazed down in silence on the young creature, whom but a short time
before he had so bitterly accused, whom he had denounced as fickle and
unstable of purpose, but who now resolutely tore asunder all
restraining ties, to hasten to his side and share his fate. Through the
deep night which encompassed him, irradiating all the gloom, came a
flash of ineffable joy and triumph at finding himself so loved.
The golden stream of light faded gradually as the sun sank lower and
lower. A few solitary rays still strayed into the room; but, little by
little, these too vanished, and the space was filled with a faint rosy
shimmer, a reflection from the gorgeous evening sky without. Arno and
Gabrielle paid no heed to it. He had drawn her to his side, and was
speaking in low, earnest tones, but not of downfall or of danger. For
them such things existed not; they gave them not a thought. For the
first time their hearts frankly met, no shadow, no misunderstanding
interposing between them; for the first time they could be all in all
to each other. Past and future were dissolved in this one
consciousness; they loved, and in their love were infinitely blest.
"Colonel Wilten waits on your Excellency." A servant, coming in, made
this dry, formal announcement.
Raven looked up as though he had been roused from a dream. He passed
his hand across his brow.
"Colonel Wilten?" he repeated slowly. "Ah, true. I had forgotten that."
Gabrielle's attention was at once aroused.
"Must you see the Colonel to-night?" she asked, seized, as it were, by
some vague foreboding. "The reception-hours were over long ago."
The Baron stood up. The radiant expression which had illumined his face
was gone now.
"I expected him. There are matters it is necessary for us to
discuss. Ask the Colonel to have the kindness to wait for me in the
drawing-room. I will be with him directly."
The servant withdrew.
"I must leave you, Gabrielle. You little know what it costs me to part
from you, even for a moment," he said, in an agitated voice; "but the
affair which brings Wilten to the Castle must be settled at once, if I
wish to have my evening free. Then we shall be alone together, and no
one shall disturb us. Come, I will take you to your room."
He passed her arm through his, and led her through the library and
across the corridor over to the opposite wing. A few minutes later he
entered the drawing-room where the Colonel awaited him. Their interview
was of short duration. Scarcely a quarter of an hour later Wilten left
the Castle, and the Baron returned to his study, sitting down once more
to his writing-table. He had said truly. It cost him a cruel pang to
lose sight of Gabrielle, even for a few minutes, and yet he now
remained absent from her a full hour. She could not be there at his
side while he wrote to her that farewell letter.
The unexpected arrival of the young Baroness had caused some surprise
at the Castle, especially as she came without her mother; but the old
retainer, who had accompanied her, soon vouchsafed the necessary
information. His Excellency had, by letter, summoned his ward and
sister-in-law to him. Unfortunately, the latter had had a slight return
of her illness, and was still too unwell to undertake the journey, so
she sent the young lady on first, and would follow herself in the
course of a few days. The Baroness, finding it impossible to detain her
daughter, had imagined this pretext to give colour to the strange
proceeding. She herself was really unwell; the news she had heard from
Countess Selteneck had brought on one of her nervous attacks. This
precluded any thought of her travelling, to the intense relief of
Gabrielle, who well knew how unwelcome her mother would be to Raven at
such a time. She accepted the pretext with all docility, and this
simple, natural explanation found credence both at the house she was
leaving and at the Castle.
Evening had now fully closed in. Gabrielle was still alone in her room,
counting the minutes until Arno's return. Colonel Wilten's visit
awakened no special surprise in her mind, for, before her departure,
conferences between him and the Baron had been of very frequent
occurrence. She had opened the window, and was leaning dreamily
forward, looking out, when at length the longed-for step sounded at her
door. She flew to meet her visitor, and he clasped her to him as though
that brief hour had been as a separation of years.
"Now I am free," said the Baron, coming in; "altogether free, my
Gabrielle. Now I am yours, and yours alone."
Gabrielle looked up at him. His countenance was paler than usual, but
it wore an expression of grave, deep calm.
"The Colonel brought you no bad news?" she asked apprehensively.
"No: only some necessary information," replied Raven, very quietly, but
withdrawing at once from the circle illumined by the lamp, and going up
to the young girl at the window.
The air without was cool, but mild as on a spring evening, and the
country around lay bathed in bright moonlight.
"I opened the window," said Gabrielle; "the room seemed so close, and
it is such a beautiful evening."
"Yes, most beautiful," repeated the Baron, gazing out, apparently lost
in thought. Then, turning suddenly to his young companion: "You are
right," he said; "there is a stifling, oppressive feeling indoors
to-day. I myself feel a longing for the open air, where one can breathe
more freely. Shall we go down into the garden?"
Gabrielle at once assented. The Baron took a shawl which was lying on
the sofa, and wrapped it carefully about her slender figure. Then they
left the room together.
The Castle-garden was still and solitary as ever, but its summer glory
had long departed from it. The thick canopy of leaves, which had
enclosed it in deep shade, was fast thinning. The mighty limes stood
half bare, stripped of their foliage, and the moonlight fell full and
clear on the stretch of greensward at their feet. The Nixies' Well
babbled and rippled on; the fountain splashed and threw aloft its white
veil of spray; and the two, to whom the voice of its waters had
whispered so fateful a message, stood once again by its brink, within
reach of its glittering shower.
Raven looked down at his companion with mingled tenderness and
melancholy.
"The nixies' vengeance has overtaken me, after all," he said, in a low
tone. "Why did I venture to jest at them and their magic spell? I have
not visited the place since that day; but to-night I seemed drawn to it
irresistibly. I felt I must see the fountain once again."
Gabrielle started at his last words.
"Once again? What do you mean, Arno? Why do you say that?"
Her words were eager, prompted by a quick, anxious misgiving.
Arno smiled, and passed his hand caressingly over the girl's fair hair.
"You must not be so timorous. I only mean that shortly, in the course
of a few days, I shall leave the Castle and this town. The blow you
believed to be impending has fallen on me, my child. This morning I
ceased to be Governor of the province."
"So they have driven you to the last extremity," said Gabrielle, sadly.
"You have resigned?"
"No; I am dismissed."
The Baron's lips twitched, but he could bring himself now to speak the
word which was fraught with such profound humiliation.
"Dismissed!" repeated Gabrielle, "without your seeking it? Why, that
is----"
"An insult," concluded Raven, as she hesitated. "Or a condemnation, as
you like to take it. It is usual, if only for appearance's sake, to
allow a fallen man the faculty of retiring; but even this favour has
been denied me."
"And what will you do now?" asked Gabrielle, after a pause.
"Nothing," replied the Baron, coldly. "My public career is at an end. I
shall go to one of my estates in the country, and there--live on."
"Will that be possible to you, Arno? You once told me that to work and
to rule were as the necessary conditions of your being, that you could
not endure an aimless existence, the monotonous round of an every-day
life."
"I shall learn to endure them perhaps. One has so much to learn in this
world. At all events, I must try."
"And I shall go with you," whispered Gabrielle, with the fervour of a
great love. "I shall stay with you, always and always."
"Yes, always."
Again Raven smiled, but he avoided meeting Gabrielle's eye. He put his
arm round her gently, and drew her to the seat near the fountain. Over
this seat the tallest of the limes, still decked in half its wealth of
leaves, cast its shadow; here the tale-telling moonlight would not
reveal every varying expression of feature. The Baron could no longer
meet those anxious, watchful eyes. They were dangerous--keen with the
instinct of love, they might pierce through any mask; and yet there was
a something which must yet, for a short season, be masked and hidden
from them.
Arno sat for a while silent by Gabrielle's side. The great peace
surrounding him soothed his weary spirit after all the tempests, all
the din of the last few months. In his heart, too, the storm had spent
itself. So long as it had been possible to fight, and to defend
himself, he had remained in the arena, steady, strong, and to all
appearance unmoved. How it had really been with him during that
terrible time, when the two ruling passions of his life, pride and
ambition, had been daily wounded, racked by a thousand mortifications,
he alone knew. Now the battle and the strife were over, and the calm of
a final, irrevocable resolve took from the remembrance of the past its
deepest sting.
"Gabrielle, you have asked me nothing yet as to the cause of my
overthrow," the Baron said, at length; "and yet you know the charges
brought against me. Do you believe them?"
"Why should I ask? Of course, I knew at once the tale was false--a
false and wicked calumny."
"So you, at least, believe in me," said Raven, with a deep breath of
relief.
"I have never for an instant doubted you. But why do you bear the
accusation in silence? Why do you not meet and utterly crush it? Even
for your own sake you are bound to repel so foul a charge."
"I have publicly declared the statement which has been given to the
world to be absolutely devoid of truth. You see how my word has been
believed. I can no more bring forward proofs than they can who accuse
me. One man, and only one, could have cleared me entirely, and he has
long been in his grave. That man was your grandfather."
"My grandfather!" said Gabrielle, in surprise. "He died when I was
quite a child, but I have always heard from my parents that you were
his favourite and his confidential friend."
Raven mused awhile in silence. Then he went on:
"His was an exceptional nature. Perhaps that was why we understood each
other so well, for I myself have never accepted common prejudices for
the rule and guidance of my life. He, indeed, was born to the eminence
I had laboriously to attain. An aristocrat through and through, he yet
possessed sufficient impartiality to recognise talent and force of
character wherever he found them, or however they might be employed. I,
above all, have cause to know this. It was no small thing for the proud
and wealthy nobleman, for the all-powerful Minister to accord his
daughter's hand to a young middle-class official who had yet to win for
himself a name and a position. Your grandfather was well aware, indeed,
that I should not fail to win these, and to no other man of my social
status would he have given his daughter in marriage. To him I owe all
my subsequent success. To the day of his death he was to me a father
and a true friend, and yet I would that he had let me go my own way,
that his hand had not forcibly diverted the course of my life. It led
me upwards to the dreamed-of height, but the price I had to pay for its
help was too onerous, too great."
He paused, and gazed away into the misty distance. Gabrielle laid her
hand on his arm entreatingly.
"Arno, I have long felt that there is some bitter memory in your life,
and I know it has come through some misfortune, and no fault. Will you
not open your heart to me now? I think I have a right to hear the
tale."
"You have a right," said Raven, gravely, "and you shall hear it."
He put his arm round her shoulder, and drew her nearer to him.
"You know that I come of plain burgher stock. The early death of my
parents taught me betimes to think and act for myself. I entered the
service of the State, and had to work my way up from the lowest grade.
When the whole land was swept by a storm of revolution, and the capital
itself was in a state of armed insurrection, of open rebellion against
the Government, I was chained to my desk in a remote provincial town,
and so prevented from taking part in a movement with which my
convictions led me to sympathise. The very next year, as chance would
have it, I was transferred to the capital; I was thus brought into
closer contact with my chief, who had lately come into office, and was
about to inaugurate that period of reaction which has since followed.
He must have perceived that I was not to be weighed in the same scale
with his other officials, for he showed a decided preference for me,
and I felt that I and my work were being watched with special
attention. As yet, however, no opportunity of distinguishing myself
occurred. In the capital I fell in again with Rudolph Brunnow, my old
and intimate university friend. Though the revolutionary movement
itself had been quelled, the land was still in a state of ferment; and
as the factious elements, now kept down with a strong hand, could no
longer agitate their designs openly, they met and pursued their work in
secret. I was drawn into these circles, to which my political
convictions had long inclined me, by Brunnow, who was an enthusiastic
reformer. He was at the head of a secret association of which I now
became a member. We believed in Utopias, impossibilities, and chimeras,
which could have no lasting existence in real life; but, foolish as was
our creed, we would have died rather than abandon it."
Raven paused a moment. These recollections seemed to move him greatly.
"Then came the catastrophe," he went on, speaking now with more
animation. "We were suspected and watched, though we ourselves had no
idea of it, until the Minister himself took action against us. He must
have supposed that I was in some way connected with the band, for one
day he sent for me, and called me to account, though by no means as an
offender whom he was anxious to convict. He talked to me in a kind,
almost a paternal manner, and that disarmed me. At that time I was not
well enough acquainted with him to be aware how inexorable,
irreconcilable an opponent of the revolution he was at heart. Like many
others, I allowed myself to be deceived by the moderation he displayed
at the outset. I was so far carried away as to avow my political views,
and to defend them--to defend them to him!
"It was a grave error, and one that has cost me dear. No word fell from
my lips regarding the secret I was bound to keep; the Minister, indeed,
made no attempt to extract a confession of it from me. He knew me, and
was well aware that neither threat nor promise could induce me to act a
perfidious part; but my ardent enthusiasm, my imprudent championship of
Liberal ideas, were enough to put the experienced statesman on the
right track. He dismissed me with apparent friendliness, but I had
hardly reached my home when I was arrested, my papers were seized, and
every chance of communicating with my comrades was cut off from me.
Rudolph, who was known as my intimate friend, was the next victim. At
his lodgings was found the correspondence relating to our association,
and in it a key was had to the whole business. Four others of our band
shared our fate. The blow fell so unexpectedly that none had time to
escape.
"The charge against us was one of high treason, and we might hold
ourselves prepared for any fate. After a short interval I was again
conducted to the Minister's presence. He informed me that I was
released from confinement. He had, he said, convinced himself that I
had been led astray, that I had merely been the dupe of Brunnow and his
confederates, and offered to overlook what had passed, if I would give
him my word of honour to break once for all with the revolutionary
party. I stared at my chief in stunned amazement. Did he really not
know how I stood towards this secret society, or was he intentionally
ignoring the offence? My name, it was true, had nowhere figured in its
records. Rudolph was esteemed our leader, but so keen-sighted and
discerning a man as the Minister must be conscious that the passive,
subordinate part of a lowly recruit was foreign to my whole character.
I did not then divine that he purposely shut his eyes, in order to
pardon. I decidedly refused to give the promise required of me,
declaring that I would not abjure my principles, and was ready to share
the fate of my friends.
"The Minister preserved his imperturbable calm, and repeated the offer
he had made.
"'I will give you a month for reflection,' he said. 'I have too good an
opinion of you, I am too hopeful as regards your future, to allow you
to ruin yourself with these wild Socialist intrigues. Your head can
render better service to the State than by weaving endless, fruitless
conspiracies in prison or in exile. You are not the first man who has
recognised his error, and become in after-times the zealous opponent of
the cause he once defended, and the very pertinacity and defiance with
which you now put from you the proffered means of rescue, prove to me
that I may take on myself the responsibility of readmitting you to the
service, if you make up your mind to come back as one of ours. As yet
no one has accused you, and it depends entirely upon yourself whether
the charge against you shall be withdrawn. The few documents which
might be compromising to you are in my hands, and will be destroyed
directly I have your word. I shall expect to hear your decision in a
month from this time. For the present, you are free, and have the
choice between an honourable, possibly a brilliant, career, and ruin."
"And you chose----?" asked Gabrielle.
"No," replied Raven, bitterly. "In reality, no choice was left me. They
had taken care I should be spared the pain of making one. My first
endeavour was to find out how much was really lost to our cause, and
how much might yet be saved. I sought out my friends, and met with a
reception for which I was utterly unprepared. 'Treason,' they cried, on
seeing me. 'Treason,' saluted my ears, wherever I showed myself. Hate,
indignation, abhorrence--the whole gamut was run through. At first, I
did not understand the meaning of it all--too soon it was made
intelligible to me. In their eyes I was the traitor who had brought
about the discovery. My official position, the evident favour shown me
by my chief, had already given rise to some distrust--now it was clear
as day. I had been the Minister's tool and spy. I had disclosed, had
sold to him the secrets of our society. My own arrest, they concluded,
was nothing but a blind, a concerted plan by which I was to be
withdrawn from the vengeance of those whom I had betrayed, and my
prompt liberation showed beyond a doubt that I was in league with the
enemy, I now found that my chief's magnanimity had not been so complete
as I had supposed. He had taken his precautions before setting me at
liberty, and had thus definitively shut me out from the ranks of the
'wild reformers.'
"At first I stood bewildered by the terrible accusation, then with
indignant vehemence I made my protest. Openly avowing my imprudence,
the only crime of which I had been guilty, I gave a circumstantial
account of my interview with the Minister--in vain, my words were
received as so many mere evasive shifts. I was judged, and against
their sentence there was no appeal. One man alone would perhaps have
believed me--Rudolph Brunnow. He was the principal sufferer, the one on
whom the blow had fallen most heavily; and yet, had I been able to
confront him, to look him in the face, and say: 'It is a lie, Rudolph.
I am no traitor!' he would have given me his hand, and together we
should have fought down the calumny. But he was in prison--beyond my
reach. I gave the others my word of honour. They answered that I had no
honour to lose, and even refused me all satisfaction for the gross
insult. These men, baited, persecuted, irritated to madness, were not
capable of forming an unbiased judgment, and I fear that their
suspicions were purposely directed against me. This, indeed, I have
never learned for a fact; but the pardon, which was soon afterwards
granted me, set the seal on my supposed ignominy and my disgrace.
"A month later I was with the Minister again. I had tried every means
in my power to clear myself from the shameful suspicion, and had
failed. I was still shunned, proscribed by the members of my own party,
thrust out from their midst--and now I resolved in my turn to cast them
from me. Up to this time I had been blameless. A last resource was
still left to me. I could have quitted my native land, and have begun a
new life elsewhere, accepting exile, in order to remain true to my
principles--as Rudolph did later on, when he regained his freedom. Such
a course would in time have vindicated my character, though years might
have elapsed first; but I never had any great sympathy with the heroism
which seeks a martyr's fate. On the one hand, I saw exile with all its
bitterness and privations; on the other I was promised a career which
was likely to satisfy, and more than satisfy, my ambition. The late
events had destroyed my illusions. I now knew exactly what would be
demanded of me, were I to accept my chief's proposal; but my whole soul
rose in arms against those who had condemned me without a hearing. The
insults I had endured, the injustice of my former friends, drove me
straight into the enemy's camp. I knew that the price of my new
position would be the renunciation of my principles--yet I broke with
my past, and gave the required promise."
The Baron's voice vibrated strangely; his quick, short breathing
betrayed the emotion these painful reminiscences aroused within him.
Gabrielle hung on his words in a great tension of suspense; but she did
not venture to interrupt the story. He had withdrawn his arm from her
now; and when he spoke again, it was in a dull, hollow tone.
"From that time forth my career is known to you and to the world. I
became the Minister's secretary, became his confidential friend, and,
finally, his son-in-law. His potent influence overcame all the
obstacles which stand in the path of a nameless commoner struggling
upwards, and when once the road was clear before me, I had only to
exert the natural powers I possessed. That in this new life I had to
bury and disown my past was a thing of course. I had known that it
would be so, and it is not in my nature to make half-resolves, or
lamely to perform that which I have decided on. Moreover, by
temperament I was inclined to despotic action. Power and authority had
ever possessed for me a singular fascination. Now I tasted both, and
the brilliant, the almost unexampled success of my career, helped me to
vanquish old memories more easily than I had expected. The constant
influence of my father-in-law, whom I sincerely revered, that of the
circle in which I lived, did the rest. I must go onwards, without
looking back--and onwards I went. The way was steep, and led over the
ruins of former shrines, but I reached the goal. I have lived great and
honoured--to end in this way!"
"But it is only a lie, a wicked calumny which has brought about your
fall!" broke in Gabrielle, "This must and shall be clearly shown."
Raven shook his head gloomily.
"Can I compel that belief which the world does not willingly accord me?
I have already heard from Rudolph Brunnow's mouth that I have forfeited
all claim to confidence. He, indeed, can meet any charge with an
unruffled brow; no defence set up by him would pass unnoticed, for his
past, his whole life testifies for him--mine condemns me. The man who
has abjured his convictions may also have betrayed his friends. The
curse of that fatal hour, wherein I proved untrue to myself, weighs on
me now, and makes me powerless to refute the calumny which works my
fall."
"And who are they who turn against you?" cried Gabrielle, with a burst
of indignation. "The very men for whom you have toiled, for whom you
have sacrificed all. Oh, the base ingratitude!"
"Ingratitude! Have I the right to look for gratitude at their hands?"
asked Raven, with quiet, bitter meaning. "No bond of confidence has
existed between us. They had need of me to work out their plans, and I
had need of them as stepping-stones by which to mount. It has been one
continual state of warfare, a perpetual balancing of our respective
strength. I have often let them feel the power of the hated _parvenu_;
now that the power is in their hands, they overturn me--I could expect
nothing else; but I feel now that Rudolph was right. It is worth
something to have kept one's faith in one's self, in the better, higher
part of one's nature. The man who stands and falls by his principles
can endure reverses; but he who has given the best energies of his life
to a cause which was never his at heart, which in his inmost soul he
must condemn and despise, has no anchor, no stay in the hour of
misfortune."
"And I?" asked Gabrielle, reproachfully. "Am I nothing?"
"Ah yes, you, my darling!" cried the Baron, with passionate tenderness.
"Your love is the one thing left to me. But for you, I could not have
endured this fate."
"Will you be able to endure it?" asked the young girl, apprehensively.
"Ah, Arno, I feel as though it will hardly be in my power to reconcile
you to a lot which will lack all that really constitutes your life. You
will pine and waste away in solitude, even though I share it with you."
"Let us talk no more of this now," said Raven, gently parrying her
question. "We will speak of it later on. I have drawn the veil from my
past; it was right that you should know both it and me thoroughly. But
now we have had enough of these gloomy recollections. They shall no
longer come between us and the happiness of this hour."
He drew himself up quickly, as though by an effort he would cast all
troubling thoughts from him for awhile. And truly it was very
beautiful, this quiet hour in the moonlit garden. The half-stripped
trees, the widowed earth, bereft of flowers and perfumes, seemed to win
back their long-lost charm in the mystic light which spread its mild
glamour over the scene, veiling the ravages caused by the late storms,
and investing it with a calm, transcendent beauty.
Dreamily still lay the Castle-garden, and the broad landscape out
beyond it. The prospect, indeed, no longer stretched, beaming and
definite, in the radiant clearness of a summer day. Now the valley
slept half hidden in its shimmering depths. At the foot of the
Castle-hill the city lamps burned steadily, and its roofs and towers
rose, white and glittering, aloft into the pure night air. The foremost
mountain summits stood forth plainly discernible, their jagged peaks
detached, as it were, from the dark masses beneath; farther off, the
lines grew hazier, softer, and the remoter heights were altogether lost
in the blueish nebulous distance. Infinite peace rested on all the
woods, the hills, the valleys around, as they lay bathed in the silvery
flood. Below in the valleys, on the meadows, through the fields, the
rolling mists furled and unfurled themselves, a sparkling gleam here
and there betokening a bend in the river. High overhead arched the
great vault of heaven in all its starry splendour, while everywhere,
over earth and sky, was drawn a thin transparent film, a tissue of mist
and moonbeam, toning down the picture, lending to it a soft dream-like
enchantment. It was a scene of wondrous beauty, of deep, unutterable
calm.
Up here too, in the garden, the curling mists crept over the grass, and
here too the fitful moonbeams wove their fantastic imagery. Under their
influence the grey moss-grown figures about the Nixies' Well seemed to
grow into life, to move to and fro behind their humid screen of falling
water. The fountain, struck in full by the chaste stream of light from
above, rose and sank again in shining sheets of silver rain.
Intermingled with its plash and murmur came those voices which are
heard only in the stillness of the night, strange, unfamiliar voices,
mysterious as the night itself The wind was hushed. No faintest breeze
stirred the air, and yet from time to time a low whisper arose, and was
wafted on and on, until, like a breath from spirit-land, it swept by
and was gone.
The evening was so mild and clear, one might have dreamed that spring
had come again; and, truly, the dream that was now filling Raven's mind
was gracious as any May-morning--a late-timed, short-lived dream, no
doubt, but concentrating in its brief space all the blessedness which
earth can give; so, in passionate heart-stirring words, he swore to the
fair young creature he held in his arms, to the woman who had taught
him to know both love and happiness. Had any unseen, unsuspected
spectator looked on Raven, listened to his impassioned accents, such an
one would have understood that this man, despite his years, despite his
sternness and reserve, despite all the darker side of his nature, must
surely carry off the palm, must win the day against all others where
his intenser feelings were engaged, where his heart was set on victory.
All the long pent-up ardour and tenderness flamed up in him anew; every
word, every look, told of a passion which, in its power and depth,
could have fired no youthful breast, a passion such as only a strong
man in his maturity could conceive. This Gabrielle felt, as, closely
nestling to his side, her head resting on his shoulder, she looked up
at him with a happy smile. Those gloomy, distressing forebodings of an
hour ago could not hold good before the magic of his voice and
presence; and through the music of his words, distinctly audible, came
the rippling of the spring, singing on the sweet, monotonous melody to
which they had listened in the birth-hour of their love. That land of
Eden, which once seemed to lie far off in the glistening distance, away
beyond the blue mountains, was not there, but here around them.
Paradise had opened, and received them within its gates. It was an hour
of pure and perfect bliss, such as comes but once in a life-time, but
then outweighs all the joys and sorrows which fill the years from the
cradle to the grave.
Slowly the clocks in the town below chimed the hour of eleven. The
Baron shuddered slightly at this warning. Then he rose quickly, as by a
strong and resolute effort.
"We must go back to the Castle," he said. "The night air is growing
cool, and you need rest after your rapid and fatiguing journey. Come,
Gabrielle."
She made no opposition, but, passing her hand through his arm, moved
away with him. They went by the Nixies' Well, and left the garden. The
door closed upon them, shutting out the moonlight and the peace. That
happy hour had run its sands; the bright May-dream was over.
They entered the Castle. Upstairs in the corridor, which led to Madame
von Harder's apartment, the Baron suddenly halted. Could it be that his
iron strength of will was failing him at last? His being was torn and
shaken to its very depths by the great agony of that parting, but
Gabrielle's questions, full of a vague foreboding, had not fallen on
his ears in vain. He knew that the least imprudence on his part would
betray all, and would bring on her unnecessary anguish and suspense.
The blow must fall--better it should strike her unawares.
"Good-night," said Gabrielle, all unsuspectingly, giving him her hand.
"We shall meet again tomorrow."
"To-morrow!" repeated Raven, with profound significance. "Ay ...
surely."
He raised the young girl's head gently, so that the light from the
hanging lamps fell full upon it, and looked into the fair face now
again brightened by the rosy flush of happiness, into the clear, sunny
eyes--looked long and deeply, as though he would grave the image on his
brain for ever. Then he bent down, and kissed her.
"Good-bye, my Gabrielle--good-night!"
Gabrielle softly freed herself from his arms, and left him. On the
threshold of her room she stopped, and waved him a last farewell; then
she closed the door behind her. Arno stood motionless, his eyes fixed
on the door through which the "sunbeam" of his life had vanished. His
voice quivered, as he said, in a low tone:
"Poor child, what an awakening is in store for you!"