A new era had dawned upon the land. The last four years had wrought
many changes, and had left but little remaining of the old regime. The
once persecuted and oppressed Liberal party now stood at the head of
affairs, and with this complete reversal of the situation a revolution
of opinion had come about in every sphere of official activity.
Tendencies which had once been combated and repressed were now free to
develop themselves in the broad light of day, and these altered
circumstances had naturally introduced a new set of men into the arena.
Among those whom the political current of the day had swiftly raised to
a prominent position was George Winterfeld. As Ministerial Councillor
he already filled a post of unusual importance for a man of his years.
The Governor who now administered the affairs of the R---- province
was, in all respects, the opposite of his predecessor. Liberal in his
opinions, mild and forbearing in action, innocent of any leaning to
that despotism which had once ruled the land with a rod of iron, he
was, it must be added, quite incapable of resolute, energetic action,
the need of which would at times still make itself felt.
Immediately after the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, Brunnow
had left the town, yielding to his son's earnest solicitations. Max
implored him not to run the risk of a fresh imprisonment, to which his
share in the late duel had rendered him liable, and which, to a man of
his advanced years, broken by recent events, might probably prove
fatal.
The Doctor had, as is known, previously resolved on leaving his native
land for ever; so, before the news of the duel was bruited in the town,
he quietly departed, returning to his haven in Switzerland. Thence he
published to the world a statement, emphatically worded, clearing the
memory of his late friend. In this statement he declared that for years
he had lived under an erroneous impression which Raven's last
disclosures had completely dispelled. Those accusations, so pregnant of
disaster, had been untrue, and had done the dead man a cruel wrong.
This testimony from the antagonist by whose hand the Baron had fallen,
naturally carried great weight, though the matter was no more
susceptible of proof now than it had been previously. Death took up the
pleading for the defence, and, as is usual in such cases, won the day.
That credence which would have been refused the living man, was
accorded to the dead; and it was currently reported that with his dying
breath the Governor of R---- had declared the shameful charge against
him to be a calumny and a lie.
Raven had provided largely for his servants; with the exception,
however, of their ample legacies, his whole fortune was bequeathed to
his ward, the young Baroness Harder. After Arno's death, Gabrielle had
been prostrated by a long and terrible illness, from which she but very
slowly recovered. Since that time she had been living with her mother
in the capital, where the rich heiress was, of course, besieged by
suitors, to none of whom she inclined a willing ear. She seemed,
indeed, to put the idea of marriage far from her, to the despair of the
Baroness, who would often exhaust all her powers of eloquence in the
vain hope of bringing her daughter round to her views. Gabrielle had
lately come of age, and was now absolute mistress of her property. It
was, therefore, in her mother's opinion, high time that she should make
a choice.
Councillor Moser had retired from his post four years ago. The death of
his chief had been a great blow to him, and had gone far towards
inducing him to carry out his long-cherished project. Another motive,
however, combined with this. A man could not, he felt, with dignified
consistency, remain in the service of the State when an alliance had
been contracted between a member of his family and the son of a
reactionary demagogue. This misfortune had really overtaken the unhappy
Councillor. He had struggled against it long and manfully, but to no
purpose. Max Brunnow gave him no peace until he yielded. That
irrepressible wooer appeared regularly, day after day, always ready to
assure his dear father-in-law of the delight he felt at their future
connection, and of his profound conviction that no better son-in-law
than himself was to be found the wide world over. If the old gentleman
flew into a rage, this unscrupulous doctor menaced him with apoplexy,
and prescribed a composing draught. If he forbade his unwelcome guest
the house. Max declared that he could not live without seeing his
betrothed, and came next day an hour earlier. At length the Councillor
resigned himself to his fate. He was one of those, who, if a thing be
constantly repeated to them, come in the end to believe in it. Forced
now to hear, day by day, that this son-in-law was excellent as he was
unavoidable, he at last allowed himself to be converted, and accepted
both propositions as conveying incontrovertible facts.
The "spiritual guardians" were rather more difficult to deal with. They
naturally refused to recognise the betrothal, and invoked heaven and
the powers of darkness to their aid in opposing it. They menaced the
bridegroom-elect with the pains of eternal punishment; he, in his turn,
menaced them with the press, and declared he would take the whole town
into his confidence, and relate in all the papers how they were trying
to tear his bride from him, in order to incarcerate her in a convent
against her will. This caused them to reflect. The Governor's fall had
plainly shown the power of newspaper articles.
It was judged prudent to yield. The enemy retreated, and Max,
triumphant, remained master of the field. He was wise enough to hasten
on the wedding as much as possible, and a month or two later he carried
his young wife off to Switzerland. Brunnow, now possessed of
independent means, thanks to the property he had recently inherited,
insisted that his son and daughter-in-law should make his house their
home for the present, as Max, absorbed by the strategy of his rapid
campaign, had not found time to establish a practice of his own before
marriage. The young man set himself diligently to work to regain lost
time, and met with much success in his profession; nevertheless, the
family remained domiciled under one common roof.
The relations between father and son had undergone a complete change
since that scene by the latter's sick-bed; and if ever any little
difference threatened to arise, Agnes stepped in, and soon made all
straight by her gentle mediation, the young wife having very speedily
won her father-in-law's whole heart to herself. The Councillor still
lived on in R----, under the sceptre of Christine; but this state of
things seemed to suit him, and he travelled southwards regularly once a
year to pay his daughter a visit.
Summer had come round again. The lake and the town on its shores lay
bathed in bright sunshine; the mountains, wreathed around in thin mist,
rose half shadowy in the distance. Rudolph Brunnow's house, once so
small and unpretending, was much more handsome of aspect now. The
garden had been nearly doubled in size by purchase of the adjacent lots
of ground, and the dwelling-house itself had been rebuilt and
considerably enlarged, room now being required in it for two families.
Young Dr. Brunnow was in the habit of going his rounds in the morning,
but on this particular day his patients looked for him in vain. Max
stood idly in the garden, talking to a guest who had arrived half an
hour before.
"Come with me now, George, that I may have you to myself a little,"
said he, urgently. "If my father gets hold of you, he will not let you
out of his hands again, and I consider your visit is to me in the first
place. It was a surprise! I had no idea you were in Switzerland."
"I came on an official errand," replied George; "a mission to our
embassy at B----. My business there was settled more quickly than I
expected, and I could not refuse myself the pleasure of looking in upon
you on my return journey."
The last four years had wrought but little change in Winterfeld. He had
grown somewhat more manly, more matured, and his carriage, always calm
and assured, had gained in dignity. The former transparent pallor of
his complexion had long since yielded to the brighter tint of health;
but his brow, once so clear, was clouded by a shadow, and the beautiful
blue eyes, which in the old days had been grave only, were sombre now,
gloomy even, in their expression. This man of two-and-thirty, so
fortunate in his position and prospects, seemed to carry about with him
some secret care which took all zest from life. Max Brunnow's
appearance, on the other hand, completely bore out his assertion that
he found himself very comfortable in this good-for-nothing world, and
amply testified to the fact that Agnes had quickly learned to excel in
all matronly virtues.
"I say, George," asked Max, in the course of their conversation, "how
long is it to be before you are Minister?"
George laughed.
"A good many years, probably. As a preliminary, I am now Ministerial
Councillor."
"And the right hand of the men in office, the soul of the present
administration. Oh, we are well up here as to all that is going on in
the capital. My father-in-law keeps me exactly informed on the subject.
The good city of R---- still does a little in the opposition line, the
result, probably, of long habit. The new Governor is Liberal to the
backbone, and tolerance itself. They cannot find any real fault with
him, and this, of course, is aggravating to them."
"They miss the mighty personal influence which Raven exercised, and
which compelled admiration even from his enemies," said George. "The
present Governor is honest and well-meaning, but he is not a man of
extraordinary mark, and is, perhaps, hardly equal to so important and
responsible a post. So the Councillor still lives on in R----. I
thought he would migrate at last, in order to be near his daughter."
"The bare notion was an insult," laughed Max, "You imagined that my
father-in-law, the very quintessence of loyalty, would accord to a
pitiful republic the honour of possessing him as a citizen? No, he will
live and die under the wing of his most gracious sovereign. To tell the
truth, I doubt whether things would always go smoothly, were the old
gentleman and my father to be constantly in presence. They are too
strongly in contrast ever to agree thoroughly."
Winterfeld glanced back at the house.
"Max, it struck me that your father was looking very worn and aged."
Max shook his head.
"He cannot get over Raven's death. I thought time would assuage his
grief--but no! As a medical man, I may not conceal from myself the fact
that he is going from us. I know the symptoms well."
He spoke sadly, and George's face too wore a troubled look.
"He cannot put from him the memory of one he loved so well," said the
latter. "The remembrance is wearing him away. I can understand that."
"Yes, you appear to me to be on that road yourself," exclaimed the
young doctor. "Last time we met, I was not allowed to say a word on the
subject, but now you look even more melancholy and gloomily interesting
than then. So out with it--confess."
George shook his head.
"Spare me, Max. You know I am incorrigible; moreover, on this point I
think you hardly understand me."
"How should I? A hardened realist like myself cannot be admitted into
the sanctuary of your inmost feelings!"
Winterfeld frowned, and turned away, but Max went on, quite
undisturbed:
"This anxious hesitation and avoidance of a happiness which by a bold
stroke you might yet secure, this overstrained delicacy of feeling,
these doubts and scruples, will last until you find yourself
forestalled by another less delicate than yourself, and then for a
second time you will wear the willow. Yes, I see my words offend you,
but I tell you this--whereas, and seeing that, you cannot get the
better of this unreasonable love of yours, you must marry. The thing is
as clear as day."
"Your experience would naturally lead you to suggest such a course,"
said George, with a forced smile. "You have made trial of the remedy
with the happiest result. Your wife is a charming creature."
"Yes, she does honour to my treatment, does she not?"
Chatting thus, they had completed the round of the garden, and now
again approached the house. In the veranda sat Dr. Brunnow and his
daughter-in-law, who was reading the newspaper to him. The Doctor was
certainly much aged, and it was not difficult to see that he was ill
both in body and mind. His former irritability had vanished, and had
given place to a sort of dull apathy which but rarely kindled with a
gleam of the old passionate fire. Agnes, on the other hand, had
developed into a blooming young woman, uniting with all her own
gentleness of aspect a certain new dignity of look and bearing. A boy
of about two years was playing at his mother's feet. Directly he caught
sight of the gentlemen, he rose to his feet, and, still with a rather
tottering gait, ran forward to meet his father. Max cleared the steps
at a bound, and threw the child high in the air.
"Look at this young man," he cried, with paternal pride, holding the
sturdy, rosy-cheeked youngster towards his friend. Then he turned to
his wife, "George will stay with us to-day, dear," he said. "He must
set out on his journey again to-morrow, I am sorry to say--but until
then he will be our guest. Will you see that all is made ready for
him?"
The young wife was indeed charming in her manner, as she turned, and in
gracious words expressed to her husband's friend the pleasure his visit
gave her. Then she rose, wishing, she said, to make sure that the spare
room was in perfect order.
"I will take the boy with me," she observed. "He is accustomed to have
an hour's nap at noon. You will carry him up to his bedroom for me,
Max, will you not?"
"I must stay with George," replied her husband. "The young one must
learn to get upstairs by himself. He is big enough."
"As you like, dear," said Agnes, with sweet and ready acquiescence;
"but Rudolph is so used to be carried by you. He will cry, if you won't
do as he wants."
"He has that from his mother," said Max.
With unruffled serenity the young wife stooped and took the child in
her arms. He was a strong, vigorous boy, but no very great weight. His
mother, however, seemed to find him too heavy for her, for she had to
stop at the door to take breath, casting a rather reproachful glance
behind her, as she did so. In a second Max was at her side.
"How often have I told you not to over-exert yourself in this manner?"
said he, in the old dictatorial tone. "Give me the child. I will take
him upstairs."
So saying, he relieved her of the boy, and actually carried him up to
the first floor, which was reserved for the young couple's use. Agnes
mildly bent her head and followed, submitting, as was her wont, to her
husband's will in all things.
George looked after them, a faint, derisive smile hovering about his
lips.
"Take warning by my son, and draw out no programme with reference to
your future marriage," said the elder Brunnow. "A woman upsets all your
plans and all your reckoning with a breath."
The words were intended playfully, but the speaker's eyes were fixed
with an earnest scrutiny on the young man he addressed.
George shook his head.
"My future marriage?" he repeated. "I shall never marry. You know my
resolve full well."
"Yes, but I have always combated it. At your age, one cannot bid a
final adieu to happiness, and you especially are not made to stand
alone. Ambition will never fill your life. You need family, domestic
ties."
Winterfeld made no reply. He leaned forward on the veranda railings,
and looked out at the lake. The doctor laid his hand on his shoulder.
"George, does the old wound still bleed?"
George turned round. In the sorrowful eyes which met his, he recognised
a kindred spirit.
"There are wounds which never close," he replied. "I cannot, perhaps,
make such passionate demonstration of my feelings as some, but when I
once give myself heart and soul, my attachment knows no change. I could
not put it from me, even if I would."
"Have you seen Gabrielle lately?" asked Brunnow, after a pause.
"Yes, too often for my peace. I am now constantly thrown into the
society which she frequents, and in the capital unexpected meetings are
almost inevitable. I come upon her sometimes in the midst of a
brilliant assembly, and we are both forced calmly to face the
situation, though we would gladly fly from each other, were it
possible. It would have been better for me, had I never seen her since
the day I lost her. These constant meetings stir up the memories of the
past within me, and rob me of my composure and self-command. I suffer
horribly under it, I assure you."
"So it was chance alone that directed your steps here? It is as I
suspected."
Winterfeld looked at the Doctor in astonishment.
"I have explained to you that I came to Switzerland on an official
mission, and wished to take you and Max by surprise."
"Max has not told you then that the ladies von Harder are here?"
"Who is here?" ejaculated George. "Gabrielle?"
"With her mother. They have been living in that villa yonder for the
last few weeks. The Baroness is somewhat out of health, and has put
herself in the hands of one of our most celebrated physicians. There
has, of course, been no sort of communication between us and the two
ladies. I need not tell you what memories would restrain Gabrielle from
setting foot in the house in which I dwell."
"It is well that I leave to-morrow," said George, in an agitated tone.
"Perhaps I might not have been spared the pain of a meeting even here,
and here, in this place where the few happy days of my love were spent,
I really could not have borne it."
"Will you not make some attempt to end this estrangement? Think,
George, the happiness of your whole life is at stake. In your place, I
would accept this strange coincidence as a hint from Destiny, and once
again put the decisive question. Your position and, still more, the
future which lies before you, guarantee you against any mortification,
though the girl to whom you proffer your suit be a rich heiress. You
had less to lay in the balance formerly, when you boldly declared your
love to the Baroness Harder."
"I was loved then in return," cried George, with a rush of bitterness;
"or, at least, I fancied so. Now we have between us that hour of
parting in which my foolish dream was dispelled for ever. Gabrielle,
certainly, would not wish to call it up again. I have often seen by her
shy, anxious avoidance of me how she feared I might seek to approach
her."
"That very fear should have encouraged you," interposed Brunnow. "Those
who are quite indifferent to us, we pass by coldly and without remark.
If you really will not venture----"
"Never," George interrupted him, with some vehemence. "Shall I come
before her to hear from her mouth a second time that her heart is given
to another, that even beyond the grave that other preserves his rights,
that she knows, loves none but him? I have borne it once, and that is
enough. Let us speak now of other matters. Dr. Brunnow. You see I am
not calm enough to pursue this subject."
Brunnow was silent. The conversation was here put an end to, for Max
came in and laid forcible hands on his friend again. The Doctor left
the two alone, and retired to his study. For a good quarter of an hour,
he there paced in silence up and down, lost in meditation; then he took
up his hat, and, passing out, left the house.
The villa now inhabited by Madame von Harder and her daughter was much
handsomer in appearance, and more sumptuously furnished, than the
modest chalet which had served them as a residence on the occasion of
their former visit.
The Baroness now thought it imperatively necessary to live at all times
in a style befitting their rank; she clung to this satisfaction which
she had once so painfully missed, and Gabrielle yielded to her entirely
as regarded external things. Carriages and servants had therefore, of
course, followed in their train, and Madame von Harder had just driven
out on an excursion to the town, leaving her daughter at home alone.
Gabrielle stood on the terrace which fronted the lake. Yes, that was
she, that slender figure with fair hair, clad in a light summer dress.
The fresh sweet face had lost nothing of its fascinating charm, but the
charm itself was changed. The old happy buoyancy, the radiant
brightness had vanished, gone with the saucy, childish merriment which
once laughed in those sunny brown eyes--but, in lieu of them, the face
had gained the one thing which had been wanting to it: intensity of
expression. Whether it lay in the sorrowful lines about her mouth,
which not even a smile could altogether chase away, or in the shadow
hiding in those deep dark eyes--small matter, it was there, and the
soul, which spoke in it, idealised, perfected her whole being.
Leaning slightly forward against the balustrade, Gabrielle gazed out at
the landscape, dreamily absorbed in thought. She turned half
impatiently, as a servant appeared, and presented a card.
Hardly had she glanced at it when she grew very pale, and the card
trembled in her hands.
"The gentleman begs that he may be allowed to see the Baroness on an
urgent matter of business," reported the servant.
"Show the gentleman in," she answered, and left the terrace to receive
her visitor.
In another minute Dr. Brunnow entered the drawing-room.
For a few seconds the two stood silently face to face. They met now for
the first time, and yet each knew as much of the other as if they had
been intimately acquainted for years. The bent, elderly man and the
blooming young maiden, strangers to each other personally, were united
by one common tie; a name, a dead man's name, formed an invisible link
between them.
The Doctor bowed, and stepped nearer. Gabrielle involuntarily shrank
from him. He saw it, and stopped.
"You hardly expected that I should ever approach you, Fraeulein von
Harder," he began. "I do so at the risk of being repulsed. My name
must, I know, have an ominous sound in your ears."
Gabrielle stood before him, by a great effort compelling herself to be
calm. The colour had not yet returned to her cheeks, and her voice
shook audibly as she replied:
"Your coming certainly takes me by surprise, Dr. Brunnow. I did not
think my presence would ever be sought by the man who----"
"At whose hand Arno Raven met his death," completed Brunnow. "You are
right to recoil from him who caused that death, but, believe me, my
dear young lady, I would rather have turned the deadly weapon against
my own breast than have seen him fall."
"He forced the duel on you?" asked the girl, in a low voice. "I have
long suspected it."
"Yes, forced it on me in a way which left me no alternative. Had I
known ... but his pistol was so steadily levelled at me, how could I
guess that at the decisive moment he would avert its aim? My hand
shook, and sought so to direct its shot as only to wound. This very
agitation proved fatal--my bullet pierced the heart of my former
friend!"
Gabrielle shivered, but the weary, concentrated pain in his voice
disarmed her.
"Arno bore you no ill-will," she replied. "But a few hours before his
death, he related to me all his past; and then I learned what you had
really been to him--as much, perhaps, as he to you."
"And yet he could require that of me!" said Brunnow, with mournful
bitterness. "He desired to die; but why should he choose my hand to do
the deed? Was I not the friend of old days--the friend of his youth?
That was hard--harder even than my distrust of him had deserved. He
must have known what a load he was laying on me for the rest of my
life--ay, a crushing load! And, I tell you, it is killing me!"
Gabrielle looked into the old man's pale face, deeply lined and
furrowed by grief; which said more plainly than any words what he had
suffered, and was still suffering. She felt how profoundly her lost
Arno was mourned--how fervently he had been loved, and this broke down
all the barriers between them. Trembling with emotion, she stretched
out both hands to the old man.
"I knew that here I should be understood," he said, taking her hands in
his. "Arno loved you; that was enough for me."
His eyes rested on the girl's fair features, as though he were
searching in them for some trace of the past.
"I come with a request," he began, after a short silence--"with a
petition which perhaps no one else could address to you without
wounding your feelings. I have let you see what Arno was to me; you
will not, therefore, misconstrue the motives which brought me here, I
will tell them to you briefly. My son has a friend----"
Gabrielle started. She drew away her hands.
"A friend whom you know--to whom you were once attached. That first
love yielded before a more ardent, mightier passion. To my mind, this
needs neither to be explained nor justified. Better than anyone do I
know how irresistibly Arno could draw to himself those whom he wished
to enchain. But now he is dead--and you are free. Does no voice within
you speak a word for the early love of your youth?"
"My heart has never ceased to speak for him. It grieved when we were
torn apart; yet I sacrificed him and his happiness--I had no choice,
indeed, but to sacrifice them, for another voice spoke more loudly
within me. I cannot forget Arno."
"Forget!" repeated Brunnow, with emphasis. "No, you cannot forget him;
and no other man can you love as you have loved him. I believe that
fully."
"No other," said Gabrielle, firmly; "and that is why I never can be
George's wife."
"Must we always think of our own happiness?" asked Brunnow, sadly. "Is
it not a great thing to make others happy? Winterfeld is at my son's
house. Chance has brought him to us; he had no idea of your being here
until I told him of it. Then his silence and reserve gave way, and I
had a glimpse into the depths of his love, which is still ardent and
faithful as ever. He will never find consolation in other ties. I
know him--he will go through life a lonely man; and, amid all the
success that awaits him, will feel only the emptiness, the void which
that cruel parting from you left with him. You are young still,
Gabrielle--you have your whole life before you. Devote that life to
him--he is worthy of it."
She turned from him hastily.
"No more!" she said. "Spare me these recollections. If you speak in
George's name----"
"He knows nothing of my being here," interrupted the Doctor. "On the
contrary, he would have held me back. Do not suppose that George will
ever again come to you with his suit spontaneously; he rejects such an
idea with vehemence--and he is right. You once sent him away. It is for
you to call him back."
Greatly agitated, torn by conflicting emotions, Gabrielle pressed both
hands on her bosom, as though forcibly to keep down some rising
feeling. "I cannot--cannot. And George would not accept the poor
affection I have now to offer him."
"He will accept it, for he is one of those unselfish beings who give
more than they receive."
Gabrielle raised her eyes to the speaker. They were full of a grave,
sad reproach.
"And you can speak these words to me? You, Arno's friend, can wish to
put another in his place?"
"No, by Heaven, not that!" cried Brunnow, with a flash of the old fire.
"His place shall remain to him. No Winterfeld can rob him of that.
These noble spotless characters, who quietly pursue their path through
life, to whom no shadow of blame attaches, we admire and set on high.
Natures such as Arno's are not created to dispense happiness. They cast
over all they love a shade from the cloud which covers them; yet it is
better worth to suffer with and for them--to share their fate, than to
be serenely happy at the ideally good man's side. You yourself have
felt something of this, Gabrielle--have you not?"
The old glow suddenly flamed from the ashes. Brunnow's bent form was
drawn erect as he spoke these words with passionate warmth, and for a
moment the bright enthusiasm of youth kindled in his eyes again.
Gabrielle leaned her head on his shoulder, and wept--wept as though her
heart would break.
"And now, do not let me go from you without an answer," said the
Doctor, after a pause. "I have so seldom in my life brought happiness
to those about me, that I would fain do so once before I depart hence,
and my time here is growing short. May I give George any hope? Will you
see him again?"
"I will try," she said faintly.
The proceedings of the Brunnow family that afternoon were decidedly
peculiar. In the first place, the Doctor called his son into his study,
and a strictly private conference took place between them. The subject
discussed seemed to produce a most exhilarating effect on Max, for he
caught his father in his arms and gave him a vigorous hug, such as he
had once threatened to bestow on his papa-in-law, the Councillor.
Directly after this the young surgeon held a parley, likewise strictly
private, with his wife in their own sitting-room, and from this
interview the pair came back somewhat fluttered and excited. Then
Madame Agnes disappeared, and was lost to sight for some time, during
which interval Max took possession of his friend, not stirring from his
side an inch. Under other circumstances, George would have perceived
that something unusual was going on; but the news he had heard that
morning had greatly disturbed him, and he had some difficulty in
preserving his usual outward composure. Unfortunately, Max showed no
sympathy whatever with his friend's interesting melancholy, though he
was well aware of its cause. On the contrary, he tormented the unhappy
lover with all sorts of questions and suggestions, and dragged him out
at last under some crudely imagined pretext into the garden again.
"But what should I go to the summer-house now for?" asked George,
almost impatiently. "I was in there this morning, admiring the
prospect."
"Well, there is an arrangement of my father's you have got to admire
now, an arrangement made simply and entirely in your honour. My father
has shown himself practical for once in a way. Come along with me,
you'll be surprised."
The summer-house, a small pavilion perched on the edge of the lake,
certainly offered a glorious prospect.
"There are ladies inside," said Winterfeld, as they approached the tiny
building.
"Some callers on my wife, I suppose," replied Max, indifferently. "Ah!
there is Agnes."
Madame Agnes did, indeed, at this juncture appear on the scene, and
exchanged a look of intelligence with her husband, who at once executed
a man[oe]uvre simple as it was adroit. He let his unsuspecting friend
walk on before him, then, without more ado, gave him a sudden push over
the threshold and pulled the door to behind him. Then he turned to his
wife in triumph.
"There they are in the trap, and if George does not come out of that an
affianced husband, may the Lord have mercy on him. Now the great point
is to prevent their being disturbed. It is highly derogatory for a
married man and the head of a family to stand sentinel while a
love-declaration is in progress, but, in consideration of the very
peculiar circumstances, I will once more condescend to the task. Go
into the house, Agnes, and tell my father it has succeeded
magnificently."
While Agnes went off to discharge her commission, a brief but most
comprehensive scene was being enacted in the pavilion.
"Gabrielle!" cried George, and moved hastily forwards, as though he
would have rushed up to her; then, bethinking himself, he stopped
short. "Baroness Harder!"
"George!" said Gabrielle, with gentle reproach in her tone.
"Forgive me; I did not know--could not guess---- What brought you
here?"
Gabrielle cast down her eyes without speaking; but in her silence there
was an encouragement, and George understood it.
"What brought you to this place?" he repeated, with passionate
insistence. "Gabrielle, speak. Did you know I was here?"
"Yes," was the low, but steady answer.
George stood by her now, but as yet he did not even take her hand.
"How am I to interpret that?" he asked, all the old tenderness surging
up within him as he searched her face eagerly for his answer. "This is
not our first meeting since the day that we became strangers to each
other, but I have always read in your eyes that strangers we were to
remain. May I, dare I, hope at length to read another verdict in them?"
Yes, those eyes told another tale, as she raised them to him now with
frank, sweet entreaty.
"George," said Gabrielle, earnestly, "I gave you great pain once. You
know what divided us, what has held us apart for years. I then
destroyed all your hopes of happiness. You made no complaint, had no
word of reproach for me, and yet it was a hard trial, and you suffered
cruelly. I would fain give back some of the lost brightness to your
life. Tell me, have I still the power?"
Ah, could she ask? The fervour with which George clasped his beloved to
his heart spoke the reply before his lips could frame it. Again his
arms were round her; again she listened to his words of love, as she
had listened years before. In those early days she had, indeed, known
nothing of the keen, surpassing joy she had since tasted, when, folded
to Arno's breast, she had, as it were, been lifted to the very pinnacle
of human bliss--when, in a few short hours, she had lived through a
life-time of felicity--alas! quickly to be plunged into a very abyss of
woe, and taught the lesson of life's misery.
Bitter had been the trial through which she had passed; but once again
a warm, cheering ray fell on her path, like sunshine. Gabrielle would
have been no true woman if it had not gladdened her heart to find
herself thus truly, faithfully loved, and it is a well-established
truth that happiness bestowed on another brings its reward to the
giver!
Without, the landscape lay flooded in sunlight--the broad gleaming
lake, the blue mountains in the distance, all sparkling in the noonday
beams. Even so before the plighted pair the unclouded future stretched
rich in hope and fair in promise, a long series of gladsome, happy
days. All around was so sunny and bright and clear--and yet in this
hour of her betrothal a shade fell on Gabrielle. Was there magic in the
air about her? Faint rumours reached her ears, whispered messages
telling of a moonlight night, and borne over from a distance, there
came to her the even sound of flowing water, the low rippling murmur of
a spring.
For a moment all the golden sunshine vanished, blotted out by a tear.
Gabrielle felt that life and love were given back to her, but,
remembering the price paid, she felt too that love, life, and happiness
were dearly bought!
THE END.
* * * * *
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.
_J. D.. & Co._