The Government-house of R---- was an ancient castle, which for long years had been the dwelling-place of a princely family, but which in the ever-changing course of events had become the property of the state, and now served as the seat of the provincial government and the residence of its temporary head. The grand, spacious old edifice was situated on a hill just outside the town, and, in spite of the prosaic destiny which had overtaken it in these latter days, still preserved much of its mediæval aspect.
A most picturesque object was it, with its salient towers and bay-windows, and its fine commanding site which overlooked all the country round. The original ramparts and fortifications had, it is true, long ago disappeared, surrendered to the march of modern progress, but in their stead a perfect forest of noble trees had sprung up, clothing the castle-hill, whence a broad and easy road led down to the town. From the windows of the noble old château, which rose, proud and stately, above the leafy crests, a full view might be had of the city and the wide valley beneath, all circled in by mountains.
The main body of the building was exclusively assigned to the Governor's use, the upper part being inhabited by him, while his bureaux, or "Chancellery," occupied the ground-floor. In the two side-wings were situated the other public offices and the quarters of such of the higher functionaries as were domiciled beneath its roof. Notwithstanding these very practical arrangements, the interior of the building, no less than the exterior, retained its antique character, which, indeed, was ineffaceably stamped on every line of its architecture.
The vaulted chambers with their deep door and window recesses belonged to the last century; long gloomy galleries and arched corridors met and crossed in every direction; echoing stone staircases led from one story to another, and the court and garden of the old stronghold were still maintained in their primitive condition. The "Castle" as it was briefly termed in all the neighbouring country, was, and had been from time immemorial, the pride and ornament of the good city of R----.
The present Governor had now filled the post for a long series of years. Had it not been a fact well known that he was the son of a subaltern official who had died early, leaving no fortune, his middle-class origin would never have been suspected, for the appearance he made in public and his style of living were as thoroughly aristocratic as his manners and person.
How it had come to pass that Raven had become the favourite of the then all-powerful Minister, no one knew. That Minister's penetrating glance had most probably detected rare ability in the young aspirant for honours.
Some pretended to know that there were other and secret reasons which had combined with this: so much is sure, he was suddenly appointed secretary to his Excellency, and in this new capacity acquired opportunities of developing his talents which he had not possessed in his former subordinate position. The secretary was soon promoted to be his master's friend and confidant, was preferred and put forward on every occasion, and even admitted into the great man's family circle. The lower rungs of the official ladder were quickly climbed, and one day society in the capital was astounded by the news, which at first seemed to be too wonderful to be believed, that the Minister's elder daughter was betrothed to the young newly-appointed Councillor. Shortly afterwards the rank of Baron was conferred on the bridegroom expectant, and therewith he was fairly launched on his career.
The son-in-law of so influential a man found his way smoothed for him in every direction, but it was not this alone which bore him aloft with such dizzy speed. His really splendid abilities seemed only now to have found, their proper field, and soon displayed themselves in a manner which made all adventitious aid superfluous. A very few years later, the "inexplicable" conduct of the Minister who, instead of opposing, had favoured themésalliance, became sufficiently intelligible. He had taken his son-in-law's measure; he knew what was to be expected from the young man's future, and it is certain that his daughter, as Madame von Raven, played a far more brilliant part than her sister, who married a nobleman of high lineage, but of utter personal insignificance.
When the Baron was nominated to the important and responsible post of R----, he found matters there in a critical condition. The storm of faction, which some years before had convulsed the whole land, had no doubt spent itself for the time being, but signs were not wanting that it was merely repressed, and not completely and finally laid. In the ---- province especially, a perpetual ferment was kept up, and great, populous R----, the chief city of that province, stood at the head of the opposition which arrayed itself against the Government. Several high officials, succeeding each other in rapid order, had endeavoured in vain to put an end to this state of things; they lacked either the necessary resolution or the necessary authority, and confined themselves to half measures, which adjusted temporary difficulties, but left the deeper discord strong and abiding as ever. At length Raven was appointed head of the administration, and city and province soon became aware that a firmer grasp was on the reins. The new Governor went to work with an energy, and, at the same time, with a reckless disregard of such persons and interests as stood in his way, which raised a perfect storm against him. Appeals, protests, expostulations and complaints flowed in to head-quarters in one unceasing stream, but the Ministry knew too well the value of their representative not to lend him full support. Another so placed might have recoiled before the unbounded unpopularity which his proceedings brought on him, have given way, vanquished by the difficulties and vexations inherent to the situation--Raven remained at his post. He was a man who in every circumstance of life sought, rather than avoided, a contest, and the innate despotism of his nature here found ample room for its development. He troubled himself little with considerations as to whether the measures he judged necessary were strictly within legal bounds, and met all the accusations freely hurled at him, all the charges of absolutism and a violent abuse of power, with the one steady reply: "My orders will be carried out!" In this way he at length succeeded in reducing the rebellious elements to submission. Both city and province came to see that it was impossible for them to carry on the war against this man, who adopted as the rule and regulation of his conduct, not their rights, but his own might. The times were not propitious for open resistance. A period of severe reaction had set in, and any active sedition would certainly have been nipped in the bud; so the party of opposition submitted, reluctantly, indeed, and with an ill grace, but still submitted; and the Governor, who had so brilliantly accomplished his task, was loaded with honours.
Years had passed since then. People had grown accustomed to the despotic régime under which they lived, and had learned to regard the Baron with that respect which an energetic, consistent character compels even from its enemies. Moreover, to him was owing a series of improvements which his keenest opponents could not see without satisfaction. This man, whose political action had earned for him hatred and mortal hostility, became in another sphere the benefactor of the province committed to his charge. Indefatigable as its representative when any occasion offered of defending its interests, he was ever ready to introduce, or to support, such reforms as tended to promote the public weal. His resolution and strong powers of initiative, which had worked so banefully in one direction, grew most beneficent when turned to pacific account. Foremost amongst the advocates of any scheme likely to favour industrial enterprise, to befriend the agriculturist, or in any way to enhance the general prosperity, he attached many interests to himself, and thus in time rallied partisans almost as numerous as his enemies. His administration was a model of order, incorruptibility, and strict discipline, and throughout the province were visible blooming evidences of the many improvements he had planned with practical, sagacious insight, and executed with a hand which never wavered in its purpose.
The Governor lived in great style, for he possessed a considerable fortune independently of his official income. His late father-in-law had been very rich, and at his death the property had been divided between his two daughters, Madame von Raven and the Baroness Harder. The former lady's marriage had been one of those convenient matrimonial arrangements so common in the upper ranks of society. Raven had been guided in his choice simply and solely by calculation, but he never forgot that this union had opened to him his career, and his wife had at no time cause to complain of neglect or want of consideration on his part; the affection, which was so signally absent, she did not miss. Madame von Raven was a person of very moderate intelligence, and could never have inspired any serious passion. She had accepted the hand of her father's favourite, hearing it daily predicted that a great future was in store for him, and this prophecy being fulfilled, she did not feel that more was to be desired from life. Her husband responded liberally to all her demands respecting a brilliant establishment and elegant toilettes, and gave her an enviable position in society, so no differences arose between them. They lived together on what is supposed to be a very aristocratic footing, as much apart and as strange one to the other as possible. This union, a pattern one in the eyes of the world, but a childless, had been dissolved, about seven years before the events here recorded, by Madame von Raven's death; and the Baron, to whom the whole fortune descended by will, had taken to himself no second wife. The proud man, whose brain was ever busy with his ambitious plans and projects, had at no time been accessible to the soft influences of love or to domestic joys; and he would in all probability never have married, had not marriage been to him a stepping-stone by which to mount. This motive no longer existing, he did not think of burdening himself with fresh ties; and, as he was now approaching his fiftieth year, his decision on the subject was generally accepted as final.
On the morning succeeding the arrival of Baroness Harder and her daughter, the former lady was sitting with her brother-in-law in the boudoir which formed part of her suite of rooms. The Baroness still showed traces of beauty, which, however, had years ago bloomed and faded. In the evening, perhaps, by the tempered lustre of wax-lights, the numberless arts of the toilette might have produced a delusive effect; but now, in the broad glare of day, the truth revealed itself mercilessly to the eyes of the Governor as he sat opposite her.
"I cannot spare you these details, Matilda," he said; "though I quite understand how painful they must be to you. The matter must be discussed between us once, at least. By your wish I undertook the settlement of the Baron's affairs, so far as it was possible for me to settle them at this distance. They proved to be in a state of absolute chaos, and, even with the help afforded me by your solicitor, I had the greatest difficulty in mastering their complications, I have at length succeeded, and the result of my labours I communicated to you in Switzerland."
The Baroness pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
"A comfortless result!" she said.
"But one not unexpected. There was, I regret to say, no possibility of rescuing for you even a slender portion of your fortune. I advised you to go abroad, because it would have been too mortifying to you to witness the sale of your town-house and the breaking-up of your establishment in the capital. In your absence, what was really an act of necessity took the colour of a voluntary withdrawal from society, and I have been careful that the true state of the case should not transpire among your old intimate friends and associates. Happen what may now, the honour of the name you and Gabrielle bear is safe. You need fear no attack on it from any of the creditors."
"I know that you have made great personal sacrifices," said Madame von Harder. "My solicitor wrote me all the details. Arno, I thank you."
With a touch of real feeling she held out her hand to him as she spoke, but he waved it back so coldly that any warmer impulse in her was at once checked.
"I owed it to my father-in-law's memory to act as I have acted," he replied. "His daughter and grandchild must always have a claim upon me, and their name must, at any cost, be kept free from reproach. It was these considerations which induced me to make the sacrifices, and no sentimental feelings of any sort. Sentiment, indeed, could have no ground for existence here, for, as you are aware, there was little friendship between the Baron and myself."
"I always deeply deplored the estrangement," said the Baroness, fervently. "Of later years my husband sought in vain to bring about a better understanding. It was you who persistently avoided any friendly intercourse. Could he give you a higher proof of his esteem, of his confidence, than to entrust to you that which he held most dear? On his death-bed he named you Gabrielle's guardian."
"That is to say, having ruined himself, he made over all responsibility touching the future of his wife and child to me, whose constant enemy he had been through life. I perfectly understand the value I ought to set on that proof of his confidence."
The Baroness had recourse to her handkerchief again.
"Arno, you do not know how cruel your words are. Have you no pity, no consideration for a heart-broken widow?"
Raven made no reply, but his eyes travelled slowly over the lady's elegant grey silk dress. She had promptly laid aside her mourning at the expiration of the year's widowhood, knowing that black was unbecoming to her. The unmistakable irony she now detected in her brother-in-law's glance called up to her cheeks a slight flush of anger, or of confusion, as she went on:
"I am only just beginning to hold up my head a little. If you knew what cares, what humiliations, preceded that last terrible catastrophe, what losses unexpectedly befell us on all sides! Oh, it was too horrible!"
A faint sarcastic smile flickered about the Baron's lips. He knew right well that the husband's losses had overtaken him at the gaming-table, and that the wife's one care and anxiety had been to eclipse all the other ladies of the capital by the superior richness of her toilettes and the handsome appointments of her equipages. At her father's death the Baroness had inherited the property conjointly with her sister. Her share had been squandered to the last penny, while Madame von Raven's fortune remained intact in her husband's hands.
"Enough!" he said, waiving the topic. "Let us say no more on this disagreeable subject. I have offered you a home under my roof, and I am glad that you have accepted the proposal. Since my wife's death, I have been in some degree dependent on strangers, who preside well enough over the establishment, but who cannot in all things fill the place of the mistress of the house. You, Matilda, know how to entertain, and like receptions, fêtes, dinners, and the like--now it is precisely in regard to these matters that I have felt a want. Our interests coincide, you see, and I have no doubt we shall be mutually satisfied with each other."
He spoke in his usual cool and measured tone. Evidently Baron von Raven was not disposed to glory in the rôle of benefactor and deliverer, though to these relatives of his he had really acted as both. He treated the matter altogether from a business point of view.
"I will do all in my power to meet your wishes," declared Madame von Harder, following her brother-in-law's example as he rose and went up to the window.
He addressed a few further indifferent questions to her, asking whether the arrangement of the rooms was to her taste, whether she received proper attendance and had all she required, but he hardly listened to the torrent of words with which the lady assured him that everything was charming--delightful!
His attention was fixed on a very different object.
Just under the window of that boudoir was a little garden attached to the door-keeper's lodge. In this garden Miss Gabrielle was walking, or rather racing round and round after the door-keeper's two children, for the walk had resolved itself into a wild chase at last. When the young lady that morning undertook a short excursion "to see what the place was like," as she expressed it to her mother, the place itself had but little part in the interest she manifested. She knew that George Winterfeld came daily to the Government-house, and it must be her task, therefore, to arrange some plan for those frequent meetings which George had declared to be impossible, or, at best, exceedingly difficult.
Miss Gabrielle did not adopt this view of the case, and her reconnaissance was now directed to one end and aim, namely, to discover precisely where the Baron's bureaux, in which the young official was employed, were situated. On her way, however, she fell in with the lodge-keeper's small seven-year-old boy and his little sister, and quickly made friends with both. The bright, lively children returned the young lady's advances with confiding alacrity, and these new acquaintances soon drove all thoughts of her exploring expedition, and alas! of him for whose sake it had been undertaken, entirely into the background.
She allowed the little ones to lead her into the small garden which was attached to the lodge, and was entirely distinct from the Castle-garden proper. She admired with them the shrubs and flower-beds, and the three rapidly advanced in intimacy. In less than a quarter of an hour a game was set on foot, accompanied by all the requisite noise, to which Miss Gabrielle contributed fully as much as her young playmates. She bounded after them over the beds, stimulating them to fresh efforts, and provoking them to ever-renewed gaiety.
Unbecoming as this no doubt was in a young lady of seventeen, and in the Governor's niece, to an unprejudiced beholder the spectacle was none the less charming. Every movement of the young girl's supple form was marked by unconscious, natural grace. The slight figure, in its white morning-dress, flitted like a sunbeam between the dusky trees. Some of her luxuriant blond tresses had grown loose in the course of her wild sport, and now fell over her shoulders in rich abundance, while her merry laughter and the children's happy shouts were borne up to the Castle windows.
The Baroness, looking down from her point of observation, was struck with horror at her daughter's indecorous conduct especially when she became aware that Raven was intently following the scene below. What must that haughty man, that severe stickler for etiquette, think of the education of a young lady who could comport herself in this free-and-easy manner before his eyes? The Baroness, apprehending some of those stinging, sarcastic comments in which her brother-in-law was wont to indulge, sought, as much as in her lay, to mitigate the ill impression.
"Gabrielle is wonderfully childish still at times," she lamented. "It is impossible to make her understand that such babyish ways are highly unsuitable in a young lady of her age. I almost dread her first appearance in society--which had to be postponed a year in consequence of her father's death. She is quite capable of behaving in that wild, reckless way in a drawing-room."
"Let the child be natural while she may," said the Baron, his eyes still fixed on the group below. "She will learn soon enough to be a lady of fashion. It would really be a pity to check her now; the girl is a very sunbeam incarnate."
The Baroness pricked up her ears. It was the first time she had ever heard a speech at all genial from her brother-in-law's lips, or seen in his eyes any expression other than that of icy reserve. He visibly took pleasure in Gabrielle's high spirits, and the wise woman resolved to seize the propitious moment, in order to clear up a point which lay very near her heart.
"Poor child, poor child!" she sighed, with well-simulated emotion. "Dancing on so merrily through life, and little dreaming of the serious, perhaps sorrowful, future in store for her! A well-born, portionless girl! It is a bitter lot, and doubly bitter for one who, like Gabrielle, has been brought up with great expectations. She will find this out soon enough!"
The manœvre succeeded beyond all anticipation. Raven, whom in general nothing would move, seemed for once to be in pliable mood, for he turned round and said, in a quick, decided manner:
"What do you mean by a 'sorrowful future,' Matilda? You know that I have neither children nor relatives of my own. Gabrielle will be my heiress, and therefore there can be no question of poverty for her."
A gleam of triumph shone in the Baroness's eyes, as she thus obtained the assurance she had long so ardently desired.
"You have never declared your intentions," she remarked, concealing her satisfaction with an effort: "and I, naturally, could not touch on such a subject. Indeed, the whole matter was so foreign to my thoughts----"
"Has it really never occurred to you to speculate on the chances of my death, or on the will I might leave?" interrupted the Baron, giving full play now to the sarcasm he had hitherto partially restrained.
"My dear Arno, how can you imagine such a thing?" cried the lady, deeply wounded.
He paid no heed to this little outburst of indignation, but went on quietly:
"I trust that you have not spoken to Gabrielle on the subject"--he little knew that it had been almost a daily topic--"I do not wish that she should be taught to think of herself as an heiress; still less do I wish that this girl of seventeen should make my will and my fortune the objects of her calculations, as it is, of course, quite natural others should do."
The Baroness drew a deep sigh.
"I meet with nothing but misconception from you. You even cast suspicion on the promptings of a mother's love, and misjudge her who, without fear or care for herself, trembles for the future of an only child!"
"Not at all," said Raven, impatiently; he was evidently weary of the conversation. "You hear, I consider such anxiety natural, and therefore I repeat the assurance I have just given you. My property having come to me from my father-in-law, I intend that it shall one day descend to his grandchild. Should Gabrielle, as is probable, marry during my life-time, I shall provide for her dowry; at my death she will be, as I have said, mysoleheiress."
The emphasis he laid on the word proved to the Baroness that for herself she had nothing to expect. Her daughter's future being assured, however, she might look on her own as secure also, and thus her double object was attained. The hardly-veiled contempt with which Raven treated her, and which Gabrielle's fine instinct had detected in the manner of his first welcome, was by Madame von Harder either unfelt or unheeded. She had in her secret heart no more love for her brother-in-law than he for her; and in returning sweet words and gracious looks for his brusque curtness and indifference, she was merely deferring to a stern necessity; but the perspective of taking her place at the head of so brilliant an establishment, of shining in R---- as the Governor's near relative, and, in this quality, of taking precedence everywhere, soothed, and in a great measure reconciled her to this necessity.
A few minutes later Raven traversed the ante-room, which had the same aspect as the adjoining boudoir, and, stopping a moment at the window, cast one more glance below.
"Sad that the child should have fallen to such parents, and have had such a bringing-up!" he muttered. "How long will it be before Gabrielle becomes a coquette like her mother, caring for nothing but dress, intrigues, and society gossip? The pity of it!"
As has already been said, the Governor's official quarters, whither he now repaired, were situated on the basement floor of the Castle. He transacted much of his business in his own private study, but would frequently visit the bureaux of the various departments. The clerks therein employed were never safe from a sudden and unforeseen descent of the master, whose keen eyes descried the smallest irregularity. The official who was so unlucky as to be surprised in any breach of the regulations never escaped without a sharp reprimand from "the chief," who, so far as possible, directed everything in person, and introduced into his bureaux the same iron discipline which marked his general administration.
The business of the day had begun long before, and the clerks were all in their places when the Baron entered, and slightly bowing, walked through the offices. Some of the sections he merely passed through with one brief inquisitorial glance around; in others he stopped, put a question, made a remark, in several cases asking to look at a document. His manner to his subordinates was cool and deliberate, but polite, and the young men's faces showed in what awe they stood of the Governor's frown.
As the latter entered the last room of the series, an elderly gentleman, who was at work there alone, rose respectfully from his desk.
Tall and meagre of person, with a face deeply lined, and a stiff, unbending carriage, this individual bore himself with the grave dignity of a judge. His grey hair was carefully brushed, not a wrinkle nor speck of dust was visible on his black suit of clothes, while a broad white neckcloth of portentous dimensions gave to its wearer a certain peculiar solemnity of aspect.
"Good-morning, Councillor," said the Baron, with more cordiality than his manner usually showed, signing to the other to follow him into a smaller side-office, where he generally received his officials in single audience. "I am glad to see you back again. I missed you greatly during the few days you were absent."
Court-councillor Moser, chief clerk and head of the bureaucratic staff, received this testimony to his indispensability with visible satisfaction.
"I hastened my return as much as possible," he replied. "Your Excellency is aware that I only applied for leave in order to fetch my daughter from the convent in which she has been educated. I had the honour of presenting her to your Excellency yesterday, when we met in the gallery."
"It seems to me you have left the young lady rather too long under spiritual guidance," remarked Raven; "she almost gives one the impression of a nun herself. I am afraid this convent education has completely spoiled her."
The chief-clerk raised his eyebrows, and stared at his superior in dismayed astonishment.
"How does your Excellency mean?"
"I mean spoiled her for worldly purposes," the Baron corrected himself, a hardly perceptible smile hovering about his lips as he noticed the consternation depicted in the other's face.
"Ah! yes, indeed, there your Excellency is right"--the chief-clerk never neglected an opportunity of giving the Governor his title, even though he had to repeat it three times in a single sentence--"but my Agnes's mind was never given to the things of this world, and she will shortly renounce them altogether. She has resolved on taking the veil."
The Baron had taken up some papers, and stood glancing over their contents as he quietly pursued his conversation with the old gentleman, the only official whom he admitted to anything like familiar terms.
"Well, that is hardly surprising," he observed. "When a young girl is left in a convent from the age of fourteen to that of seventeen, one must be prepared for some such resolve. Does it meet with your approval?"
"It is hard for me to give up, once and for ever, my only child," said the Councillor, solemnly. "Far be it from me, however, to place hindrances in the way of so holy a vocation. I have given my consent. My daughter is to spend some months at home, to see something of the world before she enters on her novitiate in the convent where she has hitherto been at school. The Reverend Mother wishes to avoid even the slightest appearance of constraint."
"The Reverend Mother is, no doubt, pretty sure of her pupil," observed the Baron, with a touch of irony which happily escaped his hearer. "Well, if it is the young lady's own desire, there is nothing to be said against it; but I am sorry for you, who hoped to find in your daughter a support for your old age, and who must now resign her to the nuns."
"To Heaven," emended the old gentleman, with a pious upward glance; "to Heaven, before whose claims even a father's rights must necessarily give place."
"Of course, of course--and now to business. Is there anything of importance on hand?"
"The advices received from the Superintendent of Police----"
"Yes, yes, I know. They are making a great disturbance in the town about these new measures. They will have to submit to them. Anything else?"
"There is the full and detailed report to the Ministry which has already been discussed. Whom does your Excellency appoint to draw it up?"
Raven considered a moment.
"Assessor Winterfeld."
"Assessor Winterfeld!" repeated the other, slowly, and with dissatisfaction in his tone.
"Yes; I should like to give him an opportunity of distinguishing himself, or, at least, to bring him into notice. In spite of his youth, he is one of the cleverest, most able men we have."
"But not sound, your Excellency, very far indeed from sound. He has a decided liberal tendency; he leans to the opposition----"
"All the younger men do that," interrupted the Baron. "They are all red-hot reformers, eager to set the world to rights, and they consider it a proof of character to do a little in the way of opposition to the Government of their country. These ideas tone down in the course of time. Promotion generally works a cure in such cases, and I dare say Assessor Winterfeld's will be no exception to the rule."
The chief-clerk shook his head doubtfully.
"So far as regards his abilities and many personal advantages, I fully concur in the flattering opinion your Excellency has formed of him; but certain things have come to my knowledge concerning the Assessor, certain things which, I fear, indicate flagrant disloyalty on his part. It is, I regret to say, established beyond all doubt that, on the occasion of his last leave of absence, he formed in Switzerland the most suspicious connections, and consorted with all kinds of Socialists and dangerous revolutionary characters."
"That I do not believe," said the Baron, decidedly. "Winterfeld is not the man to hazard his future in so reckless and objectless a manner. His is not one of those flighty romantic natures which are easily assailable by such temptations. The story has another version, probably. I will inquire into it. As regards the report, I abide by my decision. May I ask you to send the Assessor to me?"
The Councillor went, and a few minutes later George Winterfeld entered the room. The young man knew that, in being chosen for the task now before him, an honour was conferred on him above all his colleagues, but the distinction seemed rather to weigh upon than to elate him. He received his chief's instructions with quiet attention, grasped the short, comprehensive directions fully, caught with apt intelligence the several hints which the Governor thought well to give him, and proved by a few pithy remarks that he had made himself thoroughly conversant with the subject before him. Raven had too often to fight against the dull-witted incapacity of his subordinates not to feel satisfaction at being thus met half-way, some words now sufficing to convey his meaning, whereas he was frequently obliged to stoop to long and wearisome explanations. He was visibly well-pleased. The business in hand was despatched in a comparatively short space of time, and George, having noted down some memoranda of his instructions, only waited for the signal of dismissal.
"One thing more!" said the Baron, in no way changing the quiet, business-like tone he had used throughout the interview. "You spent some time in Switzerland, I believe, during your late leave of absence."
"Yes, your Excellency."
"I am told you there sought out associates, or, at all events, formed certain connections, unsuitable to a man holding your official position. What is the truth of the matter?"
The Baron's eyes rested on the young clerk with that keen searching gaze so dreaded by those under his command. Winterfeld, however, showed neither dismay nor embarrassment.
"I sought out an old college friend in Z----," he replied, calmly; "and at his warm instance stayed some weeks at his father's house, the latter being, it is true, a political refugee."
Raven frowned.
"That was an act of imprudence I should not have expected from you. You should have reflected that such a visit would naturally excite remark and arouse suspicion."
"It was a friendly visit, nothing more. I can give my word that it had not the remotest reference to politics. This is simply and solely a private affair."
"No matter, you should take your position into consideration. A friendship with the son of a man politically compromised might be passed over as harmless, though it would hardly go to further your advancement; but intimacy with his father and a prolonged sojourn at his house should distinctly have been avoided. What is this gentleman's name?"
"Doctor Rudolph Brunnow." The words came in clear, steady tones from George's lips, and now it was his turn to watch his interlocutor narrowly. He saw a spasmodic contraction of the muscles--saw a swift, sudden pallor overspread the stern features, while the lips were tightly pressed together; but all this came and went with lightning-speed. In the next instant the man's habitual self-control prevailed. Accustomed at all times to show an impassive, impenetrable front to those about him, he at once regained his usual perfect composure.
"Ah; indeed; Rudolph Brunnow!" he repeated slowly.
"I do not know whether the name is familiar to your Excellency," George hazarded, but quickly repented of his hasty speech. The Baron's eyes met his, or rather, as Gabrielle expressed it, they bored him through and through, seeking to read the secrets of his inmost heart. There was a dark menace in that searching gaze that warned the young man to go no step further. He felt as though he were standing on the verge of an abyss.
"You are an intimate friend of Dr. Brunnow's son," Raven began again, after the pause of a second; "and therefore, in all probability, intimate with the father also."
"I only made the Doctor's acquaintance this summer, and though his views are occasionally warped by a certain harshness and bitterness, I found him an honourable and upright man, for whom I must entertain the greatest esteem."
"You would do wisely not to express your sentiments so openly," said the Baron, with frigid displeasure. "You are the servant of a State which has passed judgment on a certain class of political offenders, and still inexorably condemns them. You ought not to, and must not, consort familiarly with those who publicly proclaim themselves its enemies. Your position imposes on you duties before which all mere emotional feelings of friendship must give way. Remember that, Mr. Winterfeld."
George was silent. He understood that behind the icy calm of this address there lay a threat; understood, too, that the threat was levelled not at the official, but at the man who had been initiated into the secrets of a past which Raven had probably believed long buried and forgotten, and which now started up, phantom-like, before his eyes. Painful as it might be, the remembrance had not power to move the Baron for more than an instant. As he rose from his chair, and slightly waved his hand in token of dismissal, the old unapproachable haughtiness marked his bearing.
"You are warned now. That which has passed shall be overlooked, considered as a hasty error. That which you may do in future will be done at your own risk and peril."
George bowed in silence, and left the room. He felt now, as he had often felt before, that Dr. Brunnow had been right in warning him against the almost magic influence exercised by Raven over all who came in contact with him.
The young man, after the weighty disclosures which had been made to him, had felt he was entitled to look down from a lofty height on the traitor and the renegade; but the power to do so had gone from him as he re-entered the charmed circle surrounding that master-mind. Disdain could not hold its own before those eyes which so imperatively demanded obedience and compelled respect; it glanced off scathless from the man who carried his guilty head with so high and proud a mien, as though he recognised no judge over him or his actions.
Little as George allowed himself to be affected by the exalted position and imperious bearing of his superior, just as little could he escape the spell of that chief's intellectual ascendency. And yet he knew that sooner or later a struggle must come between himself and the Baron, who held in his hands Gabrielle's future, and, consequently, all his own chances of happiness. The secret could not be kept for ever--and what would happen when it should be known?
The image of his love rose up before the young man's eyes--of his love, of whom as yet he had caught no glimpse, though she had arrived the evening before, and at that moment the same roof covered them--and by its side appeared the iron inflexible countenance of him he had just left. Now, for the first time, he divined how severe would be the struggle by which he must hope to conquer all that he held dear in life.
Some weeks had passed. Baroness Harder and her daughter had made and received the necessary inauguratory visits, and the former lady had observed with much satisfaction the respect and deference everywhere shown them on the Governor's account. Still better pleased was she to discover that her brother-in-law really required nothing further from her than to play the hostess and dispense the hospitalities of the Castle; no troublesome or unpalatable duties were imposed on her, as she at first had feared might be the case. All care for, all the responsibility of, the great and strictly-ordered household devolved, now as before her coming, on an old major-domo who had filled the office for many years, and who regulated and directed everything, rendering account to his master alone. The Baron had probably had too good an insight into the management which had obtained in his sister-in-law's town establishment to grant her anything like independent action in such matters. Socially and ostensibly, she represented the mistress of the house, of which, in reality, she was but the guest. Some women might have felt the position in which she was thus placed a humiliating one, but a desire for domination was as foreign to the Baroness's mind as a sense of duties to be fulfilled. She was too superficial to understand either of these great motive-powers. Affairs were shaping themselves in a far more satisfactory manner than, after the catastrophe which followed her husband's death, she had had a right to expect. She was living with her daughter in the midst of luxury; the Baron had assigned to her a sum by no means inconsiderable for her personal expenses; Gabrielle was his acknowledged heiress. Taking all this into consideration, they might well, she argued, bear the constraint which was the unavoidable result of the situation.
Gabrielle, too, had quickly grown accustomed to her new surroundings. The grandeur and ceremony of the Government-house, the scrupulous punctuality and strict etiquette which there prevailed, the boundless respect and prompt service of the domestics, to whom the slightest gesture of the master's hand was a command--all this astonished the young lady, and impressed her with a certain awe. It certainly presented a striking contrast to the household system she had seen at work in her parents' city home, where the greatest external splendour and the greatest internal disorder reigned together, where the servants permitted to themselves all sorts of trickery and disrespectful negligence, where the claims of family life were lost sight of in the pursuit of pleasure. In later days, too, as the load of debt accumulated, and the difficulties grew more and more pressing, there had come violent scenes between Baron von Harder and his wife, scenes in which each accused the other of extravagance, while the common prodigal outlay went on unchecked. The half grown-up daughter was too often a witness of these altercations. At once spoiled and neglected by her parents, who liked to parade the pretty child, but, beyond this, concerned themselves but little about her, she lacked all serious training. Even the events of the last year, her father's death, and the subsequent collapse of their fortunes, had passed over the young girl's head, leaving scarcely a trace behind. Sorrow and pain seemed to have no hold on that sunny, volatile nature.
Sufficient judgment, however, Gabrielle did possess to see that the existent order of things in this parvenu's house was far more fitting and in better taste than that she had known at home, and she frequently tormented her mother with remarks on the subject.
The Baroness was sitting on the little sofa in her boudoir, turning over the leaves of a fashion-book. A great reception was to be held at the castle in the course of the next few days. The highly important question of what dresses should be worn was now awaiting decision, and both mother and daughter were zealously applying themselves to the study which had such attractions for at least one of them.
"Mamma," said Gabrielle, who was sitting by her mother, holding some stray leaves of the fashion-book. "Uncle Arno declared yesterday that these great parties were a troublesome duty, imposed on him by his position. He does not take the smallest pleasure in them."
The Baroness shrugged her shoulders. "He takes pleasure in nothing but work. I never met with a man who gave himself so little rest and recreation as my brother-in-law."
"Rest?" repeated Gabrielle. "As if he even knew what it meant, or could endure it if he did know! Quite early in the morning he is sitting at his writing-table, and at midnight I often see a light in his study. Now he is busy in his own bureaux, then in the other departments; after that, he drives out, surveying improvements here and there, and inspecting heaven knows what! In between these occupations he receives all sorts of people, listens to reports, issues orders.... I really believe he gets through more work himself than all his clerks put together."
"Yes, he was always a restless creature," assented the Baroness. "My sister often assured me that it made her nervous even to think of the unceasing whirl of activity in which her husband spent his days."
Gabrielle leaned her head on her hand, and mused a little thoughtfully.
"Mamma," she soon began again, "your sister's married life must have been a very dull and tiresome one."
"Tiresome? What makes you think so?"
"Well, I only mean by what I hear in the Castle. My aunt lived in the right wing, and my uncle in the left. Sometimes he would not go near her rooms for weeks, and she never went to his. He had his own carriages and servants, and she had hers. They each went and came as they liked, without giving each other a thought. It must have been a strange sort of life."
"Oh, you are quite mistaken," replied her mother, who evidently saw nothing very shocking in such a state of things. "It was a perfectly happy marriage. My sister had never reason to complain of her husband, who fulfilled her every wish. She, fortunate being, was never subjected to the harsh words, to the scenes, which in later years, I had constantly to endure."
"Yes, you and papa were always quarrelling, that is true," said Gabrielle, naïvely. "Uncle Arno never did that, I am sure; but he took no interest in his wife, though he can take an interest in everything else, even in my schooling. It was very rude of him to say, a little while ago, in your presence, that he thought my education very deficient and neglected, and that it was easy to see at a glance I had always been left to maids and governesses."
"I am, unfortunately, accustomed to such inconsiderate, unkind speeches from him," declared the Baroness, with a sigh, which, however, did not for a moment interrupt her close examination of a pattern before her. "If I submit to them, I make the sacrifice simply and solely with a view to your future, my child."
Her daughter did not seem particularly moved by this proof of maternal solicitude.
"I was catechised like a little school-girl," she grumbled on. "He worried me so with his questions and cross-questions, that I got quite confused at last, and then he shrugged his shoulders and decreed that I should begin taking lessons again. Take lessons at seventeen! He will have masters out from the town for me, he says; but I shall just tell him pointblank that it is not necessary, and he need not trouble himself about the matter."
The mother looked up from her fashion-plates.
"For Heaven's sake, do nothing of the kind. As it is, you seem to live in a state of continual rebellion to your guardian, and I often tremble with fear lest you should rouse his anger with your pertness and obstinacy. So far, I must say, he has put up with your conduct with wonderful patience, he who could never brook a contrary word!"
"I would a great deal rather he grew angry," said Gabrielle, petulantly. "I can't endure him to smile down at me from that great height, as if I were too insignificant a child to annoy or aggravate him--he invariably does smile in that way when I attempt it--and when he is so gracious as to kiss my forehead, I feel as if I should like to run away from the place."
"Gabrielle, I do beg of you----"
"It is of no use, mamma, I can't help it. Whenever I come near Uncle Arno, I have a feeling as though I must defend myself, defend myself with all my might and main against something--something there is about him. I don't know what it is, but it worries and vexes me. I cannot behave to him as to other people. I cannot, and what is more, I will not!"
The young lady's last words were uttered in a tone of spirited defiance. She took up her hat and parasol from the table, and prepared to depart.
"Where are you going?" asked her mother.
"Only into the garden for half an hour. It is too hot here in these rooms."
The Baroness protested. She wished to have the grave question of the toilette settled first, but Gabrielle seemed to have lost all interest in it for that day, and was, besides, too much accustomed to follow the bent of her own caprices even to heed the objection. Next minute she hurried away.
The garden lay at the back of the Castle, and was bounded by its walls on one side, while on the other it stretched away to the edge of the steeply-sloping hill. The high fortification-walls, which had formerly closed it in on this side also, had been taken down, and were now replaced by a low parapet completely clothed in ivy. A full, free view could thus be had of the surrounding country. Below lay the valley, here widening to its fullest breadth, and displaying to the eye of the spectator its picturesque sites and varied beauties. The Castle-mount was famed for its prospect far and wide. The garden itself still bore traces of those long-bygone times when it had served as pleasance to the mediæval stronghold. Somewhat narrow, somewhat dusky, and very limited in space, it was neither bright with sunshine nor gay with flowers.
One rarer charm, however, it could boast. Majestic ancient limes shaded its walks, and altogether screened it from view; not even from the Castle windows could it be overlooked. Gravely the great trees stood, considering the younger generation which had sprung up on and about the former ramparts, clustering down the hill-sides, and adorning them with their slender stems and fresh tender green. Those leafy giants, the limes, had struck root in the soil more than a century before; their grand old trunks had weathered many a storm, and the mighty branches which formed their crests were interwoven in one vast thick canopy, through which but few sunbeams pierced their way.
The whole space beneath lay in broad, deep shade. Hardly a flower throve in this dim retreat, but under foot was a pleasant stretch of lawn dotted here and there by clumps of bushes, from the midst of which came the low plash and murmur of a fountain. This fountain was in the taste of the last century, and ornamented with old weather-beaten statues, representing, in fantastic fashion, sprites and water-nymphs. Dark, damp moss covered their stony heads and arms supporting shells, from each of which a bright jet of water shot aloft, to fall in a million diamond-drops into the great basin below. Here, too, the grey stones were carpeted with a close mossy velvet which gave a singularly deep colouring to the crystal-clear water. The Nixies' Well, as it was called from the figures which adorned it, dated from the Castle's earliest times, and still played a certain rôle in the traditions of the country-side.
An old legend had attributed some healing power to the spring, and, notwithstanding the fact that the old mountain-fortress had been transformed into a most prosaic official residence, a superstitious belief in that legend was still firmly rooted in the mind of the people. Water was fetched thence on certain days of the year, and employed as a preventive against sickness and as a remedy in various ailments, to the supreme disgust of the Governor, who had done his best on several occasions to put an end to the folly. He had even ordered the Castle-garden, which had hitherto been accessible to the public, to be closed, and forbidden the admittance to it of any stranger. This prohibition, however, had a contrary effect to that desired. The people adhered obstinately to their superstition, and clung more tenaciously than ever to the object of it. The servants of the household were moved by prayers, or bribed by presents, to tolerate in secret that which they dared not openly allow. The Castle-fountain retained its old reputation, and its waters were venerated as almost holy, though, to be sure, the divinities to whom it had been consecrated were pagan enough in their outward semblance.
Gabrielle too had heard of these things, had heard of them from the Baron himself, who frequently alluded to the subject with angry ridicule; and it might possibly be that lurking spirit of rebellion against her guardian, so dreaded by her mother, which led the young lady to select this as her favourite spot. To-day again she sought it, but neither the Nixies' Well nor the noble prospect spreading out yonder on the unenclosed side of the garden had power to chain her attention. Gabrielle was out of humour, and she had some cause for discontent. After the boundless liberty she had enjoyed at Z----, the strict formal etiquette of the Government-house galled and irritated her. She could not reconcile herself to it; the less that this etiquette was an insuperable obstacle to the frequent meetings with George Winterfeld on which she had counted.
Here in R----, the young people were completely separated. With the exception of a chance encounter now and again, always in the presence of witnesses, they were fain to content themselves with a casual glimpse of each other at a distance, with some little secret signal, as when George would pass beneath the window and furtively wave his hand to a slender, white-robed figure above. He had attempted to approach her. His previous acquaintance with them justifying the step, he had paid a visit to the ladies. The Baroness would have had no objection to receive the agreeable young man, as she had received him previously, but Raven gave her very decidedly to understand that he did not desire anything like intimacy between the ladies of his family and one of his young clerks who could have no claim to such a distinction. So the visit was accepted, but no invitation to repeat it was given, and thus the attempt proved abortive.
True, it was impatience, rather than actual trouble of mind, which made Gabrielle rebel against the restraint everywhere surrounding her. Since the Baron had so calmly deposed her to the rank of a child, she had missed George's tender and yet passionate homage, which formerly she had accepted as a thing of course.Henever thought her education deficient and neglected,henever catechised her, or expected her to take wearisome lessons, as did her guardian, who clearly did not know how young ladies of her age ought to be treated. In George's estimation she was faultless; the one woman to be adored; he was happy when she just blew a kiss to him from afar.... And yet she was angry with George too. Why did he not try more to break through the barriers which separated them? Why did he remain at so respectful a distance? Why, at least, did he not write to her? The young girl was too childish and inexperienced to do justice to that feeling of delicate consideration which made her lover shrink from anything likely to cast the least shadow on her, which made him endure silence and separation rather than venture on any step that might imperil her good name.
"Well, Gabrielle, are you trying to fathom the secrets of the Nixies' Well?" said a voice, suddenly.
She looked quickly round. Baron von Raven stood before her--he must just have stepped out from among the bushes. It was a most unusual thing for him to set foot in the garden--he had neither time nor inclination for solitary walks. Some special motive must have brought him here to-day, for he went straight up to the fountain, and began to examine it carefully on every side.
"Well, Uncle Arno, I should think you ought to be better acquainted with the secrets than I am," retorted Gabrielle, laughing. "I am still a stranger in the land, and you have lived at the Castle ever so long."
"Do you think I have had time to listen to these nursery-tales?"
The contemptuous tone in which he spoke jarred on the girl, she hardly knew why. "Did you never care for such nursery-tales, not even as a boy?"
"Not even as a boy. I had something better to think of even then."
Gabrielle looked up at him. That proud, stern face, with its expression of sombre earnest, certainly did not give the idea that its owner could ever have known or cared for the fairy world of youth.
"Nevertheless, my visit to-day is to the Nixies' Well," he went on. "I have given orders to have the fountain pulled down and the spring stopped; but I wanted to see first how it was likely to affect the ground, and what precautions should be taken."
Gabrielle turned upon him in alarm and indignation.
"The fountain is to be destroyed? Why?"
"Because I am tired at length of all the folly connected with it. The absurd superstition is not to be uprooted. In spite of my strict orders to the contrary, water is constantly being fetched from the well, and thus the preposterous delusion is kept alive. It is high time to put an end to it, and that can only be accomplished by doing away with the object to which the superstition clings. I am sorry that one of the Castle's notable old curiosities should have to fall a sacrifice--but no matter, the sacrifice must be made."
"But you will be robbing the garden of its chief ornament," cried Gabrielle. "It is the sparkle and murmur of the fountain which gives to the place its greatest charm. And that silver-clear water is to be driven down into the earth? It is a shame, Uncle Arno, and I won't see it done."
Raven, who was still busy closely inspecting the fountain, turned his head slowly towards her.
"You won't see it done?" he asked, looking at her sharply, but not with the threatening imperious frown wherewith he was accustomed to crush contradiction in the bud; there was even the faintest flicker of a smile about his lips. "Then, of course, I shall have no alternative but to recall the order I have given ... it would be the first time such a thing ever happened to me! Do you really suppose, child, that I shall give up a resolve of mine in deference to your romantic fancies?"
Again there came that superior, half-derisive, half-pitying smile which Gabrielle hated, and the word 'child' which was equally abhorrent to her. Deeply wounded in her dignity as a maiden of seventeen, she preferred to make no answer, but contented herself with casting at her guardian a look eloquent with indignation.
"You are behaving as though the demolition of the fountain were a personal affront to yourself," said the Baron. "I see you still preserve your childish respect for the old hobgoblin stories, and are in right earnest afraid of the nixies and the phantom-folk."
"I wish the nixies would avenge the contempt now shown them and the intended destruction of their home," said Gabrielle, in a tone which was meant to be playful, but which vibrated with real anger. "The chastisement would not fall on me."
"But on me, you think," said Raven, sarcastically. "No, no; make your mind easy, child. It is only your poetic, moonlight natures which are exposed to these things. The nixies' charm would utterly fail if tried on me."
They were standing close to the fountain's edge. The water fell with a soft monotonous plash and ripple out of the stone shells down into the basin below. Suddenly a breezy gust diverted the course of the jet, dashing its spray in a sparkling shower at once over the Baron and Gabrielle. The girl sprang back with a cry. Raven stood quietly where he was.
"That caught us both," said he. "The nixies seem to be impartial in their favours. They stretch forth their dripping arms to friend and foe alike."
Gabrielle had retreated to the garden-seat, and was busy wiping the glittering drops from her dress with her handkerchief. His raillery irritated her beyond all telling, and yet she hardly knew what answer to make. Had any one else so spoken to her, she would have found some gay repartee, would have turned the accident into a joke, and made it a pretext for merry banter. But now she could not do this. The Baron's jests were always caustic. It was irony at most which now and then gleamed in his face, and caused the wonted gravity of his features to relax.
With a rapid movement he shook off the drops wherewith he too was plentifully besprinkled, and drew near the garden-seat in his turn, adding:
"I am sorry to have to spoil your favourite spot, but, as regards the fountain, the edict has gone forth. You will have to make the best of it."
Gabrielle cast a sorrowful look at the shining, falling water. Its dreamy murmur had possessed a mysterious attraction for her from the very first day. She was almost ready to cry, as she answered:
"I know you do not care how your orders vex and distress other people, and that it is quite useless for me to ask a favour of you. You never listen to petitions of any sort."
Raven crossed his arms quietly and looked down at her.
"Ah! you have found that out already?"
"Yes; and nobody ever thinks of coming to you with one. They are all afraid of you--the servants, your clerks, mamma even--every one but me."
"You are not afraid?"
"No!"
The answer came boldly and resolutely from the young lady's lips. She seemed to have reassumed her warlike attitude, and to have determined this time on exasperating the dreaded guardian--but in vain. He remained perfectly calm, and appeared rather amused than offended at his ward's spirit of contradiction.
"It is fortunate your mother is not here," he remarked. "She would be a prey to the keenest anxiety, and quite despair of the perverse young head which will not bend to necessity, as she herself does with admirable self-abnegation. You should take example by her."
"Oh, yes! mamma is docility itself where you are concerned," cried Gabrielle, growing more and more excited; "and she expects the same from me. But I will not play the hypocrite, and I cannot like you. Uncle Arno, for you are not good to us, and never have been good to us. Your very reception of us when we came was so humiliating that I should have been glad to go away again at once; and since then you have daily and hourly let us feel that we are dependent on you. You treat my mother with a disrespect which often makes me go hot with indignation. You speak in a slighting way of my papa, who is dead and cannot defend himself, and you behave to me as though I were a sort of toy not to be thought of seriously. You have taken us in, and we live in your Castle, where everything is much grander and finer than in my own home, but I would far rather be away in our Swiss exile, as mamma calls it--in our little house by the lake, which was so simple and modest, where we had barely what was necessary, but where, at least, we were free from you and your tyranny. Mamma insists on it I must bear it, because you are rich, and because my future depends on your favour. But I do not want your money; I do not care about being your heiress. I should like to go away from here; the sooner the better!"
She had sprung up from her seat and stood facing him, glowing with passionate excitement, one little foot firmly planted in advance, her head thrown back, her eyes brimming with tears of anger and of mortification; but there was more in this stormy outbreak than the mere defiance of a wayward child. Every word betrayed intense and deeply-wounded feelings; and there was, indeed, but too much truth in the accusation she thus boldly launched at her guardian.
Raven had uttered no syllable of interruption. He had stood immovable, his gaze riveted on her face; but now, as she ceased speaking, and, drawing a long breath, pressed her hands on her bosom, while a torrent of hot tears burst from her eyes, he stooped down suddenly and said, with great earnestness:
"Do not cry, Gabrielle. To you, at least, I have been unjust. I own it."
Gabrielle's tears were stayed. Now only, as reflection succeeded to excitement, did she realise all the imprudence of her words. She had surely counted on an outbreak of swift, fierce wrath; and, in its stead, there met her this inexplicable calm. She stood, mute and almost abashed, looking to the ground.
"So you do not want my money?" went on the Baron. "How do you know what my intention may be with regard to it? I have never made any communication to you on the subject, to my knowledge; yet the topic would appear to have been well discussed between you and your mother."
The young girl flushed crimson.
"I do not know ... we never----"
"Do not attempt to deny it, child. You are as little versed in falsehood as in mercenary calculation, or you would never have adopted such an attitude towards me, I am not angry with you for it. I can forgive open defiance. Hypocrisy and systematic scheming I could not have forgiven you at your age. Thank God, the faulty education has not done so much harm as I feared."
He took her hand quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, drew her down on to the bench, and seated himself by her.
Gabrielle made a little attempt to move away from him.
"Stay! you must allow me to meet your declaration of war with an answer in due form," said the Baron. "Your mother will not share in the hostilities; at least, not openly. I am sure she has enjoined it on you as a duty to be amiable and gracious in your manner towards the parvenu."
"What do you mean?" asked the girl, in confusion.
"Well, the term cannot be unfamiliar to you. It was, I believe, the special designation accorded to me in your father's house."
This time Gabrielle bravely met the look which rested on her face.
"I know my parents had no love for you," she answered. "How could they? You had never been anything but hostile to them."
"I to them, or they to me? but no matter, it comes to the same. These are things whereof you, Gabrielle, are not yet qualified to judge. You have no notion what it is for a man holding an inferior position, such as mine then was, to enter an eminently aristocratic family and the high social sphere in which that family moved. In those circles I had then, and have had since, but one friend, your grandfather. With every one else I had to win my place by force of conquest; and there are but two ways to this end. Either the aspirant must bow his head and meekly submit to all such humiliations as are showered on a parvenu--he must either show himself deeply sensible of the honour conferred on him, and content himself with being tolerated--and to this my nature was not suited--or he must boldly usurp the master's place, assert an authority over the whole clique, show them there is a power mightier than that of their genealogies, and set his heel on all their prejudices and arrogant pretensions. Thentheylearn to bow before him. As a rule, it is far easier to govern and keep men under than is generally supposed. You must know how to overawe them. Therein lies the whole secret of success."
Gabrielle shook her head slightly.
"These are hard principles."
"They result from my experience of the world, and I have thirty years' advantage over you in this respect. Do you think I never had my grand ideals, my dreams, and my enthusiasm? Do you think my heart was never fired with all the ardent imaginings of youth? But these things die out as we advance in life. I could not carry my dreams with me into such a career as mine. They hold you to the ground; it was my wish to mount, and I have mounted. Truly, I had to pay a high price for my chance--too high a price, perhaps; but no matter, I have attained my end."
"And has it made you happy?" The question came almost involuntarily from the young girl's lips.
Raven shrugged his shoulders.
"Happy? Life is a struggle, not a state of beatitude. One must throw one's adversary, or be thrown--there is no third issue. You, indeed, look on all this with other eyes as yet. To you, life is still one long summer day, bright as the light shining out yonder. You still believe that far away in the glistening distance, over those blue mountains, there lies a paradise of joy and content. You are mistaken, child. The golden sun shines down on endless sorrow and misery, and over beyond the blue mountains is nothing but the toilsome road from the cradle to the grave, the long route we diversify with so much strife and hatred. Life is only one great battle to be fought every day afresh: men are but puppets to be governed--and despised."
There was an indescribable hardness and harshness is his words, but there was in them also all the decision and energy proper to the man. He was enouncing a dogma which had become to him indisputable. The bitterness of spirit pervading his profession of faith escaped, indeed, in a great measure his girlish hearer, who listened half amazed, half indignant--listened and wondered.
"But, finally, there comes a time when the everlasting combat sickens," Raven went on; "when a man comes to ask himself whether, after all, the once dreamed-of greatness were worth the stake of all he possessed, when he counts the sum of victories achieved by constant wrestling and unremitting exertions, and, counting them, grows heartily weary of the game he has played so long. I am weary of it often--very weary!"
He leaned back, and gazed out into the distance. There was gloomy care in his look, and the deep weariness of which he spoke re-echoed in his voice. Gabrielle was silent, greatly embarrassed by the serious turn the conversation had taken, and feeling herself led away into quite unknown paths. Hitherto she had seen in her guardian the master only--the master, iron of will and inaccessible to sentiment. His behaviour towards herself had been marked by the mere indulgent condescension with which a man stoops to a child's range of ideas. He had never spoken to her in any but the half-kindly, half-jesting manner he had assumed to-day on first meeting her.
For the first time this taciturn, rigidly reserved nature expanded in a moment of self-forgetfulness. Gabrielle looked down into a depth whereof she had not dreamed; but instinctively she felt that she must not move, must not conjure up the strong emotions stirring below the surface.
A long pause followed. The two looked out silently at the broad landscape lying before them in the warm light of a mellow August day. The month had nearly run its course, and summer seemed before her departure to be shedding all her bountiful stores of loveliness over the earth. Resplendent sunshine steamed over the ancient city spread at the foot of the Castle-hill, flooded the pasture-lands and fields, gleamed on the hamlets which dotted the country far and near, and sparkled in the ripples of the river winding its way majestically through the valley.