The next morning broke grey and cloudy. It heralded in a wet, cold September day, which told unmistakably that summer's opulent splendour was a thing of the past, and that autumn's chill reign had commenced. A fine drizzling rain was falling: the mountains were shrouded in thick mist, and in the Castle-garden the wind was chasing the first leaves from the trees.
Baron von Raven sat alone in his study. A middle-sized room, with a lofty ceiling and one large bay-window framed in a deep recess, this study certainly did produce a gloomy impression. It was not less handsomely fitted up than the other apartments of the Castle; but here the prevailing grandeur was toned down to a style of severe simplicity. In the costly panelling of the walls, in the heavy sculptured oak furniture, and in the rich brocade of the curtains, the same subdued shades of colour were preserved; and the antique black marble chimneypiece was in harmony with the appointments of the room, from which all showy effects were rigorously excluded. The bureau, with its load of papers and parchments, the books ranged round the walls--a library wherein every branch of knowledge was represented--and the maps, plans, and drawings distributed about on the different tables, gave a fair idea of the numberless interests here claiming attention, of the vast aggregate of business constantly despatched. It was not a comfortable room to dwell in, nor one suited to rest or repose. Everything in it told of work--of grave, incessant occupation.
Raven generally got through a good deal of business in the morning hours; but to-day he set at his writing-table, resting his head on his hand, and cast not so much as a glance at the pile of letters and memorials, of reports and schedules, before him. His countenance wore the pallor born of a sleepless night, and its austerity of expression was more striking than usual; otherwise his features were as of bronze in their perfect immobility.
Immersed in sombre thought, he did not even look up as the study-door opened. A servant, whom he had sent to the Baroness's apartments to summon his ward to him, entered, and announced that the young lady would be with his Excellency immediately.
A few minutes later, Gabrielle followed the messenger, and, coming into the study, closed the door behind her. She wore a plain white morning dress, the simplicity of which became her well, and even in the grey uncertain light of that autumn day her brightness shone undimmed. Last night's ball had left no trace behind. Her elastic youth knew as yet neither languor nor lassitude. The girl's face was blooming and fresh as ever, its colour being, perhaps, at this moment a little heightened by excitement, for there was no mistaking the nature of the interview she had now to undergo. With the entrance of that slender white figure, a sunbeam had stolen into the gloomy room: all at once it seemed to grow lighter and more cheerful.
The Baron himself must have had some sense of this. He rose, and advanced a few paces to meet his visitor. At sight of her, his features relaxed from their set sternness, and his voice, though very grave, was not harsh, as he addressed her:
"I have several questions to put to you, Gabrielle. My words last night will have prepared you for them; and I shall expect to hear from you in reply the truth, and the whole truth."
He put forward a chair for her, and seated himself opposite her. The young lady's attitude bespoke confidence rather than timidity. It had, of course, become manifest to her that the tactics by which she prevailed in any dispute with her mother would not here stand her in stead; that she could not hope to carry her point by open defiance, or by a few tears; but she had resolved to avow her love boldly, and to show herself strong, heroic even, in its defence.
The Baron, she knew, doubted her firmness with an incredulity fixed, and to the full as insulting, as that professed by George; and, strangely enough, she felt a far greater satisfaction in convicting her guardian of his error, than in raising her lover's estimate of her character. At this moment the romance of the situation was uppermost in her mind, outweighing any anxiety as to the issue of the impending conflict.
"My questions concern Assessor Winterfeld," began the Baron. "Your mother tells me you met him in Switzerland. He frequently came to your house, and you probably held much free and unconstrained intercourse with him."
"Yes," said Gabrielle, somewhat disconcerted. The matter was not taking a dramatic turn at present. Her guardian spoke in the most tranquil of tones.
"Have you often seen or spoken to him, since you came to R----?"
"Twice only--the day he called on mamma, and last night at the ball."
"On no other occasion?"
"No."
The Baron drew a deep breath of relief.
"This young man evidently pays you a degree of attention which oversteps the bounds of ordinary gallantry," he continued; "and you seem not only to suffer, but to encourage it."
Gabrielle was silent.
"I expect an answer, Gabrielle."
She looked up. There was no sign of fear in her face. It spoke rather of open rebellion.
"And if that were the case?" she asked.
"It would be high time to put an end to such childish nonsense," Raven answered sharply. "You must know very well that nothing serious could ever come of it."
The young lady tossed her fair head with an offended, yet a most resolute air. Now came the decisive moment; now was the time to show her heroism, and to inspire her guardian with respect. He had no idea as yet how grave the matter in question was. He treated it as a silly, passing fancy.
"It is not mere childish nonsense," she replied, with the utmost decision. "George Winterfeld loves me."
The Baron's eye flashed fire. He rose quickly, and folded his arms on his breast, as though to compel himself to be calm; but his voice was low and menacing as he answered her:
"Oh, oh! he has told you this already? Last night, perhaps, during your waltz?"
"He told me long ago, in Switzerland, that he loved me."
Raven laughed out loud--a short, harsh laugh.
"I suspected it, I vow," he said, with bitter sarcasm. "So you two were acting through a romance under your mother's eyes, she having no faintest notion of it the while. Well, it is what one might expect from her. But it is less easy to deceive me. If you intended that, you should have guarded your looks better; they were far too eloquent yesterday evening. I can make many excuses for you, Gabrielle, on account of your youth and inexperience--a few sentimental phrases suffice to turn the head of a girl of seventeen; but this romantic trifling is too dangerous for me to permit it to go on longer. I shall remind Assessor Winterfeld of the barriers which separate him from the Baroness Harder--from my niece, and that in a way which will impress itself on his memory. Henceforward you will neither see nor speak to him. I forbid this folly, once for all."
He strove in vain to preserve his sarcastic tone; the terrible irritation which lay behind would break through at times. Gabrielle, indeed, did not remark this; she heard only the scornful derision of his words. The girl was prepared for reproaches, for an outbreak of fierce anger on the part of her guardian, for she knew how his pride would revolt against such a union; but, instead of wrathfully upbraiding her, he treated George and herself as a pair of naughty children, who must be duly punished for the fault they had committed. He spoke in the most contemptuous tone of 'trifling' and of 'sentimental phrases,' and thought that, by launching his edict, he could at one stroke destroy the happiness of two grown-up persons. This was too much. The young lady now rose in her turn, vibrating with indignation.
"You cannot do that, Uncle Arno," she said vehemently. "George has a claim on me which he will certainly vindicate. He has my word--my promise. I am betrothed to him."
She had made her confession boldly, unhesitatingly; and now she paused, waiting for the coming storm, but none came. Raven replied not a word. A grey pallor overspread his face, and his hand grasped convulsively the back of a great arm-chair that was near him, while he gazed with a strange, fixed look at Gabrielle.
She stood before him silent and confused. It was not exactly fear which possessed her, but rather a secret, inexplicable dread growing up within her beneath that gaze, a vague presentiment of coming evil, against which she struggled in vain.
After a minute's pause, the Baron spoke again:
"This matter has certainly gone further than I supposed; and you have considered you were doing right in keeping it a secret from your mother and myself?"
"We feared we should be parted if our attachment were known," answered Gabrielle, in a low voice.
"Oh! And what do you imagine will happen now?"
"I do not know; but I am determined I will keep my word to George, come what may, for I love him."
This word at length let loose the fury of the storm hitherto held in check. With a movement of rage. Raven dashed the chair aside, and strode up to the young girl.
"And you dare to say that to me?" he broke out. "You dare, without my knowledge and consent, to enter into an engagement which you know I shall decidedly oppose--to defy me openly? You build on the indulgent kindness I have shown you up to this time. It is at an end from to-day. Do not challenge me too far, Gabrielle; you may bitterly repent it. I have means of bringing a perverse, rebellious child to reason--means I shall unsparingly use against both you and him. Winterfeld shall answer to me for this surreptitious love-making, for the sweet speeches with which he has befooled you into giving a promise--a promise which is null and void, seeing that you are not free to dispose of yourself as yet. He courts in you the presumptive heiress, and calculates that through her he shall attain to wealth and influence. He may find himself deceived. I alone have to decide as to your future, which is altogether in my hands. Your lot in life depends on me, and if I accord to you a brilliant position, I shall expect implicit obedience in return. At no time, and under no circumstances, can there be a question of such a marriage. I refuse my consent, and you must perforce bend to my will."
Gabrielle had recoiled a step before this fierce outburst, but nevertheless she met it bravely. The "child" possessed more stability, more strength of purpose, than Raven supposed. She was not to be intimidated by his imperious words or threatening looks.
"You have no rights over me, except those of a guardian, and they will expire at my majority," she replied, with most unusual energy. "My future and my position in life concern George alone. I shall accept the lot that he can offer me, whatever it may be. No calculating thought has ever entered his mind with regard to me. George's affection----"
The Baron stamped furiously.
"George, and nothing but George! I forbid you to speak so of this Winterfeld in my presence. You will never be his wife--never, I tell you--at least, while I live."
The young girl drew herself erect. She was indignant at, rather than daunted by, his extreme vehemence. "Uncle Arno, you are horribly, cruelly unjust. You----"
Suddenly she stopped. Her eyes met his, and the ardent consuming fire in them seemed to scorch her with its intense glow. It was not the blaze of hatred, nor of anger. There was suffering in that look, fierce, wild pain stimulated almost to madness. Gabrielle pressed both hands on her bosom. She felt as though breath and consciousness were forsaking her; then, vivid as lightning, with a blinding, stupefying shock, the truth flashed upon her. She grew deadly pale, and caught at the back of the chair as though for support.
This movement of hers in some measure restored the Baron to himself. He saw the great paleness which overspread her features, and attributed it in some measure to fear aroused by his violence. This man, accustomed to the severest self-control, had, probably for the first time in his life, allowed himself to be carried beyond bounds. He felt this, and by a supreme effort of his will endeavoured to master his agitation. A deep and painful silence followed; a silence which weighed on both, but which neither ventured to break. Raven had gone up to the window, and, with his fevered brow pressed against the panes, remained gazing out into the misty landscape. Gabrielle still stood motionless in her place.
"I have alarmed you with my vehemence," said the Baron at last, without turning round. "Such matters require to be discussed quietly, and we are neither of us in a fitting frame of mind just now. To-morrow, later on, perhaps----Leave me, Gabrielle."
She obeyed, walking with bowed head to the door, but there she paused. Again, as on the preceding evening, she felt, without seeing it, the look which rested on her; and again, as then, she was constrained by some mysterious attraction to meet that look. Raven had, indeed, turned, and was following her with his eyes.
"One thing more," he said--his voice was completely under control now, but it had a dull unnatural sound--"not a word, not a line to him. I will speak to him myself."
Gabrielle left the room, and returned to her mother's apartments. The Baroness, who was a late riser, had but just completed her morning toilet. On going into the breakfast-room, she missed her daughter, who was generally there before her, and was about to inquire of the servants as to the reason of her absence when the young girl herself appeared.
"Why, child, where have you been all this time? Not out of doors, I hope, in such miserable weather. You would take a dreadful cold, wandering about in that light morning dress. But you look quite pale and disturbed! Has anything happened?"
"No, mamma," said her daughter, in a low, half-stifled voice.
The Baroness looked at her with concern.
"You are not well, I am sure. You were overheated with dancing yesterday evening, when we went through those cold corridors. Take a little hot tea, dear--it will do you good."
Gabrielle declined the offered cup.
"No, thank you, mamma. I would rather go back to my room, and try and rest a little."
"But your uncle is accustomed to see you here at breakfast-time."
"Tell him I am not well. He will not miss me to-day. Icannotstay."
With these words she left the room. The Baroness remained alone, wondering not a little at her daughter's sudden fit of reserve, which was as strange to her as the white wan look on that blooming face. At this moment the Baron's valet entered with a message from his Excellency, who begged to be excused--he would not appear at breakfast that morning. Madame von Harder shook her head at this announcement; but she was not gifted with any special powers of combination, and moreover she knew nothing of the interview which had taken place in her brother-in-law's study. It did not occur to her, therefore, to connect the two circumstances. She thought no more of the matter, but sat down to table, a little put out at having to breakfast alone.
In the Chancellery the Governor's appearance was that day looked for in vain. It was his custom to go there early in the morning, but on this occasion he remained shut up in his study, and allowed the most necessary business to be transacted by Councillor Moser. The Councillor, who had some pressing matters to submit to his chief's notice, came back from an audience with an important mien, and the tidings that his Excellency was by no means graciously disposed that morning. This was true enough. The Baron had listened to the various communications to him with great impatience and visible absence of mind, had given the needful instructions in a hurried manner most unusual to him, and had dismissed the worthy Councillor as speedily as possible. That gentleman, who always claimed to know more than others, hinted at weighty Government despatches recently received, and all the clerks put their heads together, and indulged in endless speculations and conjectures.
Half an hour later. Assessor Winterfeld was summoned to the Governor. There was nothing remarkable in this, as he had to take in his report in the course of the morning, and the fact of his being sent for before the appointed hour could easily be explained by the numerous pressing calls on the Baron's time.
The young man, therefore, obeyed the summons with unsuspicious alacrity. He entered the cabinet, his head full of the statement he had prepared, set his papers in order, and waited for the signal to begin.
"We will leave that," said Raven. "The report can stand over for to-day. I have other matters to discuss with you."
George looked up in astonishment, and only then became aware of his chiefs altered attitude. The dignified calm with which that personage was wont to receive his officials had stiffened into freezing hauteur.
He stood leaning against the bureau, and eyed the young man before him from head to foot, as though he then saw him for the first time, scanning his features with a severe, unerring scrutiny which seemed to pierce him through and through. Undisguised hostility was expressed in that steady, frowning gaze, as it was, indeed, in the Baron's whole bearing.
George saw this at a glance, and at once understood the words which had struck him as enigmatical. He understood that he alone was the object of the Baron's displeasure, and guessed what had provoked it. The long-looked-for catastrophe had come at last, and the young man braced himself to face it with quiet resolution.
"I have this morning had an interview with my ward, Baroness Harder, in which your name was mentioned," began the Governor. "No explanations are required from you. I already know what has happened, and I must call you to account for the manner in which you have misled that young lady, causing her to fail most unpardonably in the sincerity and respect she owes to her family."
George cast down his eyes. His quick sense of honour allowed the reproach as well-founded.
"I have possibly erred in remaining silent until now," he replied. "My only excuse lies in the fact that my position has not yet qualified me to prefer my suit openly."
"Indeed? I should have thought that such an obstacle in the way of your suit would also have prohibited a declaration of your sentiments."
"Had it been premeditated, certainly; but, your Excellency, that was not the case. In an unguarded moment my secret escaped me: only when it had found utterance, when my words had been accepted, did reflection regain the upper hand; and then I was forced to confess to myself that for the present I could advance no grounds entitling me to approach Baroness Harder as a suitor for her daughter's hand."
"It is well you make the admission yourself," remarked the Baron, with withering scorn. "I should otherwise have been under the necessity of making the fact clear to you. If Fräulein von Harder has made you promises, they, naturally, count for nothing, having been given without my knowledge or her mother's; and it would be simply absurd for you to build on them. Romantic notions should be left to the domain of romance. I regret that my niece should have lent an ear to such extravagant folly, but you will hardly expect me to deal with it as a matter calling for serious consideration."
The young man's face began to flush beneath this contemptuous treatment, and the rising irritation within him betrayed itself in his voice, as he answered:
"I do not know that an earnest and pure affection, which has been tarnished by no unworthy thought, which has held its object as some high and sacred thing apart, should be met by derision only. I have kept it a secret so far, and have caused Fräulein von Harder to do so likewise, because I knew that time and much continuous labour on my part were needed to remove the obstacles that stand in my path, because I foresaw that every effort would be made to separate us. In that alone am I culpable. My conduct in that respect may deserve blame, but those who have had experience of love will not judge me too harshly. I own I was not prepared to find our mutual attachment treated as mere romantic folly."
"And what do you expect me to think of it?" asked Raven, ironically. "It seems to me you have every reason to be grateful to me for adopting this view of the case, as it alone admits of a lenient judgment. If I knew that you and Gabrielle were seriously contemplating the possibility of a union----" He paused, but the look which completed the sentence was significant enough, and fraught with evil presage.
"Would your Excellency have preferred that we should be attached without contemplating a lifelong union?" asked George, quietly.
"Mr. Winterfeld, you forget yourself," thundered the Baron. "The blame of this secret understanding lies not with my niece, but with you. That young girl was not in a position to measure its importance, or rightly to estimate the situation. You were fully able to do both, and were aware of the barriers which stood between you; it is with you, therefore, I must now reckon. You are one of my youngest clerks, without name or rank, without fortune or prospects. By what right do you venture to aspire to the hand of the young Baroness Harder, who is accustomed to all the luxuries of life, and who has a claim to move in circles widely remote from yours?"
"By the same right as that whereon Baron von Raven relied, when, under circumstances in all respects similar, he sued for the hand of the Minister's daughter, who subsequently became his wife--by right of my confidence in the future."
Raven bit his lip. "It appears to be with you a foregone conclusion that in point of success your career will resemble mine. It is rather venturesome on your part to place yourself thus boldly on a par with me. Besides, the comparison does not hold good. I was one of the Minister's most intimate friends long before I became his son-in-law. I knew that he favoured my suit, and had assured myself of his consent before I addressed his daughter. That is the only honourable course to pursue in such matters. Mark what I say, Mr. Winterfeld."
"Your Excellency, no doubt, acted more correctly, and with more deliberation; but--I loved Gabrielle!"
A furious gleam shot from the Baron's eyes, as he turned them on the audacious offender who dared to remind him that his own marriage had been one of calculation.
"I must beg of you, in my presence, to give the Baroness Harder her fitting title," said he, in his sharpest tone. "As to the disinterestedness of your affection, were you unaware of the fact that my niece is generally looked upon as my heiress?"
"No; but I supposed that any dispositions to that effect would be reversed in the event of the young Baroness's marrying without her guardian's consent."
"The supposition was correct. And you are really selfish enough to rob the girl you profess to love of all the advantages bestowed on her by birth and fortune? You would condemn her to an existence which would be nothing but one long series of sacrifices? A most noble and disinterested love, truly! Fortunately, Gabrielle Harder is not the heroine required for such an idyl; and I will take care that she does not become the victim of a youthful error, which she would expiate with swift and bitter repentance."
George was silent. That was the sore spot with him. He had often felt, as the Baron said, that Gabrielle was the last woman in the world for such abnegation as this "idyl" demanded.
"Let us make an end of this," said Raven, drawing himself up, and waving his hand imperiously. "I cannot concede to my niece a right to dispose of her future without my knowledge or consent, and I decline to enter into a discussion respecting wishes and hopes, which are, for me, simply non-existent. You know that a guardian's powers are unlimited as a father's, and you are bound to submit to my decision. I shall expect that you, as a man of honour, will abstain from any attempt to carry on this clandestine understanding, which is calculated to injure the young lady's fame, and has already disturbed her relations with her family. Open intercourse I, naturally, prohibit from this date. You will give me your word that you will in no way seek to communicate with my ward in secret."
"If I am allowed once more to see and speak to Baroness Harder, even though it be in the presence of her mother."
"No."
"Then I cannot give the required promise."
"Reflect well, Assessor. Remember who it is you are braving," warned the Baron, and there was unmistakable menace in his tone.
The young man's fine clear eyes met those of his chief fearlessly, yet the sombre fire smouldering in these latter was of a nature to make him pause and reflect. The two men stood face to face, like wrestlers, measuring each other's strength before the struggle. The younger, calm and resolute; the elder, vibrating in every nerve with terrible agitation.
"I brave only a harsh and unjust sentence," said George, taking up the last words, "Your Excellency decrees our separation, and we must yield to the sentence, having no arms wherewith to defend ourselves; but to refuse us an interview--the last, probably, for years--is, I repeat it, both harsh and unjust. I do not know how Fräulein von Harder may be worked upon, in what manner my silence and reserve may be interpreted to her. I must, at least, tell her, once for all, that I maintain my right to her hand, and that I will spare no exertion to deserve it. This I shall attempt to say by letter or by word of mouth, with or without your Excellency's leave."
He bowed and went, not waiting for the usual signal of dismissal. Raven threw himself into a chair. The interview had taken an unexpected course. His intercourse with Winterfeld had hitherto been simply official. He had always considered him to be talented and clever in his profession, without ascribing to him any very extraordinary merit--the difference of position precluded all close contact and deeper interest. To-day, for the first time, they had met, not as superior and subaltern, but as man to man; and to-day the Baron had discovered that behind that modest demeanour and that mild, clear brow, there lay concealed an energy equal to his own.
He was accustomed to break down all resistance by the sheer might of his imposing word and presence, but on this occasion that might and all the prestige of his exalted station had been summoned to his aid in vain. He had succeeded neither in abasing nor in intimidating his adversary; in more than one respect he must acknowledge him as his peer. Gabrielle had bestowed her love on no unworthy object; this was the secret trouble which gnawed at the man's heart, as he lay back brooding in his chair. He would have given much really to be able to look on this attachment as a piece of youthful folly, and to tear the two asunder in the name of reason and common sense. Now there remained to him only that miserable pretext of rank and fortune, and his own case might be cited to show how easily these obstacles are surmounted when an energetic will sets itself to break them down; though, with him, the incentive to action had been of another and a lower order.
That most beautiful and sacred privilege of youth, a spontaneous, soaring passion, heedless of hindrances, and oblivious of worldly possibilities, Arno Raven had never enjoyed, or cared to enjoy. He had put from him the dream of love and happiness, while love and happiness were the just appanage of his years; his ambitious plans left him no time to indulge in dreaming. Now, in the autumn of his life, the fair vision rose before him, golden, ethereal, spreading about him its soft, delusive shimmer, taking his best strength captive, until he suddenly awoke, and found himself in the presence of a stern, cruel reality. Youth yearns after youth, and the middle-aged man, at the very zenith of his success and greatness, looked from his lonely height on the waste desolate tract around. Perhaps in this hour he would have given his hardly-won success and all the sweets of power only to be young again.
Dr. Max Brunnow learned from his friend's mouth the sentence of banishment passed on him by Councillor Moser; he treated the whole subject, however, with most unbecoming levity.
"I positively should have gone again," he said, laughing. "That excellent old gentleman, with his bureaucratic majesty of demeanour and his prodigious cravat, is a sight worth seeing, and the girl is really in want of rational medical advice; I can understand that 'the most loyal subject of his most gracious Majesty' should banish my father's son from the precincts of his home, but it is a pity my practice in R---- should be thus summarily brought to an end. It promised to be, if not remunerative, at least amusing."
Another case soon came under the young man's notice, which, though even less likely to be lucrative, provided in an unhoped-for degree the "amusement" here so ruthlessly denied him. George had begged his friend to visit the wife of a poor law-writer who occasionally copied for the Assessor, and for whom the latter had often obtained employment in the Government bureaux. The wife had long been suffering from some wasting disease. The doctor called in to her came but seldom, declared with a shrug of the shoulders that there was not much to be done, and finally ceased his visits altogether, the family being in impoverished circumstances and quite unable to pay his fees. Max at once responded to his friend's appeal, and went next day to the cottage indicated to him as the patient's dwelling, which was situated in the suburb lying at the foot of the Castle-hill.
A little girl about ten years of age opened the door, and admitted the young surgeon to a scantily-furnished room. Two younger children ceased from their play to stare at the strange gentleman with big eyes of astonishment; the mother, wrapped in blankets and supported by pillows, sat in an old arm-chair. Max was going straight up to the invalid when he paused suddenly, seeing at her side a young lady with pale cheeks and smoothly-braided hair, attired in a dark, nun-like dress. She was reading aloud from a volume she held in her hand, its gilt edges and the cross on the cover unmistakably denoting a prayer-book. The young lady was Councillor Moser's daughter. She ceased reading, and rose in some confusion on recognising the new-comer.
"Good-morning, Fräulein," said Max, quietly. "Excuse my disturbing you, but mine is a doctor's errand to an invalid, and this time I really am the person expected, and no mistake."
The young girl crimsoned to the temples, and drew back. She made no reply. Dr. Brunnow now introduced himself to the sick woman, who was prepared for his visit. He began at once to question her as to her symptoms, in order to ascertain the precise stage the malady had reached. He went to work in no specially mild or considerate manner, not attempting consolation, or even giving any decided hope or encouragement; but his brief, clear remarks, and prompt, definite instructions, inspired confidence, and produced on his patient a remarkably soothing effect.
Meanwhile Agnes Moser had remained in the background, busying herself with the children. She seemed hardly to know whether she ought to go or stay, but at length determined on the former course. She put on her hat, and took leave of the invalid, who expressed her warm and earnest thanks for the girl's kindness. But if Agnes thought so to escape further intercourse with Dr. Brunnow, she was mistaken. With a few brief parting words he enjoined strict attention to his instructions, promised to return the following day, and then, with the utmost coolness and easy serenity, followed the girl as she went out.
"So I am not to look on you as my patient any longer, Fräulein?" he began, as soon as they were out of doors. "Your father seems to attribute to me all the blame of a misunderstanding for which I really was not responsible. He had me informed in the most unequivocal terms that he did not desire a renewal of my visit."
Agnes cast down her eyes in painful embarrassment.
"I beg your pardon, Dr. Brunnow; the fault was mine alone. Pray believe that it is no want of confidence in your professional skill which induces my father to decline your advice. There are, I believe, other grounds----"
"Political grounds!" interrupted Max, with undisguised irony. "Councillor Moser detests the revolutionary name I bear; he insists upon seeing in me a socialist and a demagogue. Far be it from me to impose my counsels on him or on you, but I should like to ask the fate of my prescription. You made no use of it, I suppose."
"Oh yes," replied Agnes, in a low voice. "I took the medicine."
"With any good result?"
"Yes. I feel better since I began it."
"I am glad to hear that. But how does my worthy colleague, who is now treating you, approve of your taking another doctor's advice?"
"No one is treating me just at present," confessed the young girl. "Dr. Helm, who was originally sent for, took the mistake that had occurred in very ill part. I suppose I was rather embarrassed and at a loss what to do when he called, for he withdrew at once on finding that a prescription had already been given, and he received the excuses my father has since made him very coolly indeed. As I felt better the very day after I began your medicine, I thought--well, I have just gone on following your instructions."
"Keep to that," said Max, dryly. "There can be nothing treasonable in a bottle of medicine. The Councillor himself must admit so much."
They had now reached the Castle-hill, and Agnes stopped, confidently expecting that her companion would here leave her; but he merely remarked, "You are going through the Castle-hill gardens, I suppose. That is my way too," and remained by her side, looking as though it were the most simple and natural thing in the world for him to bear her company.
The young girl glanced timidly and anxiously up at him. Her shyness would not allow her to decline his escort, so she resigned herself to the inevitable, and they walked on together.
"As regards my present patient," the young surgeon recommenced; "her condition is precarious no doubt, but not altogether hopeless. Perhaps we may yet be able to preserve her to her family. From the poor woman's expressions of gratitude, I gather that you have already made her frequent visits."
"We heard of the family's distressed circumstances," answered Agnes. "The husband occasionally does some work for the Chancellery, and my father knows him to be industrious and deserving; so I determined I would go and see the invalid, to give her, at least, some spiritual consolation."
"Spiritual consolation is quite superfluous at present," said Max, in his rough way. "Strong beef-tea and nourishing wine would be of a great deal more use."
Fräulein Agnes seemed inclined to execute one of those rapid retreats which at their first meeting had marked her horror of his impious speeches; but on this occasion she thought better of it, and held her ground. There was even a spice of sharpness in her gentle low-toned voice, as she answered:
"I have provided for such wants as well, and will continue to do so to the extent of my ability; but it seemed to me urgently necessary that this sick woman should be prepared for the Heaven which may shortly open its gates to her."
"Rather a singular occupation for a young lady of your years," remarked Max. "At your age it is usual to prefer the things of this world, and to leave heavenly joys to take care of themselves."
Agnes was evidently offended at his jesting manner. Her accustomed gentleness forsook her for a moment, and she answered in rather an angry tone:
"I have already renounced the world, and such pious offices are only a preparation for my future vocation. In a few months I am to take the veil."
Max stopped abruptly, and looked at her in amazement.
"My dear young lady, this won't do at all!" he cried suddenly.
"Dr. Brunnow, I must beg of you----" interrupted the young girl, warningly; but Dr. Brunnow was not deterred by this protest against his unwarrantable interference.
"I tell you this won't do at all," he repeated decidedly. "You are in ill health, of a very delicate constitution, and you need the greatest care if you wish to get permanently cured. Cloister-life, with its severe regulations, its retirement, and all the fatigue and excitement of prayer and penance which make up its daily routine, is utterly unsuited to a person of your temperament. The result to you would infallibly be a pulmonary complaint--consumption--death!"
The young doctor delivered this speech with oracular solemnity, as though he in person would be called on to dispense the threatened fate, and his words did not fail in their effect, Agnes looked at him with a scared expression of countenance; then she bowed her head resignedly, and said in an almost inaudible voice:
"I did not think my illness was so serious."
"It is not serious, if you will lead a sensible and natural life," said Max, quite wrathfully; "but convent-life is the climax of all that is unnatural and absurd, and you would assuredly fall a victim to it before many years were over."
Agnes considered whether it would not become her speedily and at once to fly from this doctor, whose impiety was becoming more and more manifest; but she determined to cast one last searching glance into the depths of his depravity before going, so she asked in her turn:
"You hate all monasteries and convents?"
"It is my vocation to combat all the plagues and ills that afflict suffering humanity," replied the young surgeon, with malicious sincerity.
"And you hate religion as well?"
"Well, that depends upon what you call by that name. Convents and religion are very different things, you know."
This was too much for the nun-elect. She hastened her steps, in order to escape from so dangerous a neighbourhood; but she gained nothing by this strategy. Max immediately fell into her pace, and they continued side by side as before.
"You are of a contrary opinion, of course," he went on, no reply from her being forthcoming; "but you have been brought up in a different way of thinking, and amid different surroundings from those to which I am accustomed. As for me, I should like to see all convents----"
"Swept from the face of the earth," put in the young girl, in a tremulous voice.
"Not exactly that," said practical Max. "It would be a pity to demolish so many handsome buildings, and their inhabitants might be turned to some useful account. The nuns, for instance, one might marry off."
"Marry off the nuns!" repeated Agnes, staring at the speaker in petrified horror and amazement.
"Yes; why not?" he asked, with perfect equanimity. "I don't suppose there would be much chance of opposition on their part. It really would be a capital thing to oblige all the nuns to enter into matrimony."
Agnes must have felt some vague fear that the fate with which her future sisters in the faith were menaced might suddenly overtake herself, for now she fairly began to run--in vain, for Max ran also.
"The notion is not so dreadful as you fancy. Every sensible person gets married, and the great majority find it answer. It is really unpardonable to instil into a young girl's mind such a horror of things which come as a matter of course, and which---- Yes, Fräulein, we must stop a minute now and rest. I have no breath left. Thank God, your lungs are still as sound as a bell, or they could not have stood that rapid charge."
Agnes stopped likewise, for she too was panting for breath. Her cheeks, usually so pale, were rosy now with the exertion, and the bright colour suited her delicate little face most admirably. Dr. Brunnow perceived this, but it did not tend to soften his mood. On the contrary, he frowned reprovingly as he caught the girl's wrist, and proceeded to feel her pulse.
"Why heat yourself in this most unnecessary manner? I told you you were to be careful and to avoid fatigue. You will go home slowly now, and I must beg that when you go out for a walk you will choose some warmer covering than this thin mantle. Persevere with the medicine I prescribed for you, and, for the rest, I can only repeat my former instructions--air, exercise, cheerful occupation for the mind. Will you follow out all this punctually?"
"Yes," whispered Agnes, altogether intimidated by the tone of command assumed by the young doctor, who, despite her father's august prohibition, still played the part of family physician, and who held her little hand so firmly in his while speaking.
"I shall depend on your promise. As to my patient down yonder, we can share the treatment between us. Prepare the woman for the next world by all means, if you wish. I will do what I can to keep her in this as long as possible, and I think her husband and children will be grateful to me for it. I wish you good-morning, Fräulein."
With that he took off his hat, bowed, and, turning, struck off into the road which led to the town, while Agnes pursued her way home. Obedient to the command laid upon her, she walked slowly at the regulation pace; but, inwardly, her spirit revolted against this Dr. Brunnow. He certainly was a dreadful person, without religion, without principles of any sort, sneering at the most sacred things, and so rough and unfeeling in his manner withal! But, indeed, what could one expect from the son of a man who had wished to upset Church and State, and who had communicated to his children the same pernicious tendencies? The Councillor had related to his daughter the story of the exile's crimes, painting them in the blackest colours. She was altogether of his opinion that both Brunnows, father and son, were to be held in abhorrence; at the same time, she resolved to pay a visit to the sick woman on the morrow. It was obviously her duty to counteract, so far as in her lay, the influence of this doctor, who might, possibly, cure his patients, restoring them to bodily health, but who, while so doing, endangered their souls' salvation by declaring all spiritual consolation to be quite "superfluous."