The Baron scanned the youthful countenance before him, which was, indeed, far less rosy and fresh than usual. A shadow lay on it, a trace of some lurking trouble or anxiety very foreign to the wonted expression of that bright, sunny face.
Raven took the young girl's hand. He felt that it trembled and sought to disengage itself from his grasp; but he held it notwithstanding, held it firmly, yet without any friendly pressure, and his voice was cold and quiet as he spoke.
"I know what alarmed you at our last interview. Dissimulation would be useless, I feel; but you have nothing more to fear--it is over already. I require from you the sacrifice of a youthful inclination, and I must, first of all, show you by example how such sentiments may be overcome. I have been tempted occasionally to lose sight of the difference existing between your years and mine. You have recalled to me in time that youth willingly consorts with youth alone, and I thank you for the reminder. Forget that which was revealed to you in an unguarded moment. Nothing shall occur to alarm you again. I have fought down graver and deeper troubles, and I am accustomed to subordinate my feelings to my will. The dream is over, for I have determined that over it must be."
As he spoke, Gabrielle had raised her eyes to his face, and they still dwelt there, full of timid, doubting inquiry, but she made no answer. Her hand slid unresistingly to her side as he released it.
"And now take confidence in me again, child," continued Raven. "If I am severe to you in this matter of your love, believe that I am moved only by a sense of my duty as a guardian responsible for the welfare of an inexperienced young girl committed to his charge. Will you promise this?"
"Yes, Uncle Arno." Lingeringly, and with an accent of strange constraint, the name came from the young girl's lips. The old freedom and self-possession with which she had hitherto approached her "Uncle Arno" was gone, never to return.
"I have spoken to Assessor Winterfeld," Raven began again; "and have made known to him that I refuse, in the most decided manner, my consent to your engagement. This decision is irrevocable, for I know that such a union would, after the first fleeting illusions were dissipated, be productive of much care and bitter regret to you, and for your sake I must and will prevent it. You have been brought up with aristocratic notions, and with habits suitable to your rank; you are accustomed to wealth and luxury, and will never feel at home in another sphere. At the best, Winterfeld could only offer you the most simple domestic life and very moderate means. Such a marriage would entail on you a dreary, obscure existence, and daily, hourly privations, for you must necessarily leave behind you those comforts which have been so dear, so indispensable to you hitherto. There may be in the world characters strong enough to brave all this, boldly to enter on a course of ceaseless, unwearying self-abnegation. You are not equal to such heroism: to endure it you would need to transform your whole nature; and I have let the Assessor feel what egotism he would be guilty of, were he to require such sacrifices from you."
"He only asks me to endure them for a few years," interposed Gabrielle. "George Winterfeld is but at the beginning of his career. He will work his way up, as you yourself have done."
Raven shrugged his shoulders.
"It may be, or it may be not. He certainly is not one of those men who take fortune by storm; he will, at best, conquer, win success by persistent quiet labour. But for this long years are needed, and above all, he must be free, independent, as he is at present. Family cares, and the thousand ties and considerations with which they shackle a man, would leave him no space for the development of his talents and of his ambitious projects. He would fall into the every-day routine of one who works only to live, and, so falling, would be lost to all higher aims. In this fate you, of course, would be involved. You do not realise what it is to be dependent for your living on a sum hardly greater than that which now defrays the expenses of your toilet. I must save you from a practical experience of that most painful of ideals--love in a cottage."