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.
CHAPTER VIII.
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.