The next morning broke dull and gloomy, clouded by the thick fog which late autumn often brings in its train. It was still very early, and only just light without, when Colonel Wilten entered the Castle. He came on foot, and was at once shown into the Baron's private study by a servant who had previously received his instructions. Raven appeared immediately. He was quite ready, but his features bore no trace of a past vigil, or a restless night. He had, indeed, slept profoundly up to the moment when his servant had called him. On coming in, he advanced to greet the Colonel with his usual self-possession and quiet gravity. Some few observations were exchanged having reference to the fog, the drive before them, the place and hour of meeting--then Raven drew out the key of his writing-table, and gave it to the Colonel.
"I must ask you, in case of my death, to take on yourself the first and most necessary arrangements," he said. "My papers will be found in order. There, in that compartment, lies my will, with a few personal memoranda which I yesterday noted down. There you will also find a letter which I beg you to forward without delay to its address. It is directed to Dr. Rudolph Brunnow."
"To your adversary of to-day?" asked the Colonel, in astonishment.
"Yes. It contains an explanation which I owe him, but which cannot be given before the duel. He will find it there in writing--but now, one thing more." The Baron paused a moment, and then slowly drew a second letter from his breast pocket. "These lines are destined for my ward, Gabrielle von Harder. I should wish, however, that she might be in some measure prepared before receiving them, or the news of any ... accident ... the shock to her would be terrible. I will ask you, therefore, to place this letter in her hands yourself; but to go to work with prudence, with extreme prudence. A tender young creature like Gabrielle needs care. If the intelligence were imparted to her too brusquely, too suddenly, it might kill her."
Wilten had some difficulty in concealing his surprise at this speech, which was a half-confession. He began to understand why his son's suit had not been more warmly countenanced.
"I have your promise?" asked the Baron.
"In case of your death, the young Baroness Harder shall receive the letter from my own hands, and I myself will break the news to her with every precaution in my power. I give you my word."
"I thank you," said Raven, visibly relieved. "And now it is time we should set out. My carriage is waiting below. May I ask you to drive round alone to the back of the Castle-hill, where I will join you? I wish to avoid drawing attention to this unusually early journey, and prefer not to go out by the principal entrance. I will come through the Castle-garden."
This arrangement struck Wilten as odd, but he assented to it in silence. Raven rang for his hat and coat, and when his valet had brought both, the two gentlemen left the room together, separating below at the foot of the staircase.
As the Baron crossed the Castle-yard, he met Councillor Moser, who was just coming out of his dwelling, and who appeared much surprised at seeing his chief abroad at this unwonted hour. Raven stopped.
"What, Councillor? On foot so early?"
"I was only looking out at the weather, your Excellency," explained the Councillor. "I am in the habit of taking a constitutional in the morning, but when I see this cold, damp fog I prefer to remain at home."
"You do well," rejoined the Baron. "The weather is not inviting."
"And yet your Excellency is going out?" hazarded Moser.
"On a necessary errand which cannot be delayed. Good-morning, and good-bye."
So saying, the Baron held out his hand, which the old gentleman took reverentially, but in some confusion. He had often received marks of the kindly feeling entertained towards him by his chief, but had never been honoured by any such approach to familiarity. This unwonted friendliness encouraged the Councillor to speak words he had long pondered in his heart.
"If I may be allowed a question," he began timidly. "They are saying ... there was a report in the town yesterday evening that your Excellency is intending to retire from office. Is it true? Are you really leaving?"
"Yes, I am going," said Raven, with quiet decision; "and going very shortly."
The Councillor's head drooped sorrowfully.
"In that case, I shall not remain here myself," he replied in a low voice. "I have long thought of asking to be relieved from my duties."
The Baron looked at him in silence. The old man's fidelity touched him. Moser alone had stood by him, true and staunch to the last; he alone had held to his allegiance, unshaken by the attacks, refusing to be misled by all the calumnies.
"Go back into the house, my dear sir," said Raven, kindly. "You will take cold out here in the chill morning air, lightly clad as you are. Once more, adieu."
Again he took the old man's hand, pressing it this time with a quick, warm pressure; then he went on his way.
The Councillor stood looking after him. He, who habitually had such a horror of taking cold, forgot now that he was bare-headed and without an overcoat. That shake of the hand had bewildered him, and the "adieu" sounded so strangely in his ears. He felt as if he must hurry after his chief and put another question to him, just to look in his face and hear his voice once more, and the thought of the impropriety he should be committing alone prevented him. Not until the Baron had passed out of sight did he return to his dwelling; a deep sigh escaped his breast as he mounted the stairs. It had come, then! The Governor had actually tendered his resignation!
Meanwhile Raven walked with slow steps through the Castle-garden. He had not been able to resist the desire he felt to enter it once again, and the visit involved little or no delay. A small door in the wall gave direct communication with the Castle-hill, a footpath leading down thence towards the town. The Governor had always used this mode of egress when he wished that his appearance at any particular place should be a surprise, and so preferred not to quit the Castle by the principal entrance, and to pass the sentry-posts. He would in all probability arrive below simultaneously with the carriage, which had to make a considerable round by the high-road.
At the Nixies' Well the Baron lingered a few minutes. What had become of the bright moonlit Eden of yesterday evening? All was now closely wrapped in the morning mist. The grass, slightly frosted over, glistened white with rime. The mighty limes, with their sparse foliage, loomed, weird and dark, through the screen of vapour, and the drooping branches strewed the ground with their wet and faded leaves. The nixies' fountain still murmured on, but its shining shower was now transformed into a mere dismal, colourless rain, which dripped incessantly over the grey weather-beaten statues at the base; there was something unspeakably sad in its constant, weary monotony. The transfiguring light, which had glorified all with its splendour, had disappeared, and stern reality stood revealed--autumn in its dreariest aspect, autumn cheerless and desolate.
Raven drew his cloak more closely about him; the morning wind pierced with an icy chill. He turned to the parapet whence the broad prospect could generally best be seen. So recently as yesterday the valley had lain there, dim, but mysteriously lovely in the magic moonlight sheen; now the vast space was filled with seething masses of grey mist. Here and there one of the city towers emerged vaguely, piercing the dense clouds; but the valley, the mountains and distant horizon were altogether shrouded from view. The Baron's gaze wandered over the city, which had so long obeyed his rule, to lose itself in the surging sea of fog at his feet. What was its secret? What lay hidden beyond? A golden sunlit morrow, or grey cycles of endless gloom?
One last look up at the Castle--but a fleeting glance, for Gabrielle's room was on the other side of the building, and her windows could not be seen from hence--then Raven opened the small door in the garden-wall and stepped out into the open country. He arrived at the foot of the hill just as the carriage reached that spot. A minute later he was seated at Colonel Wilten's side, and soon the town and Castle lay far behind them.
Swiftly they travelled on, past the steaming meadows, by the bank of the brawling, fast-flowing river, onwards towards the mountains. In half an hour the goal was reached; they arrived at the skirt of the forests which covered the hill-sides. Here the Baron and his companion alighted, and pursued their way on foot to the appointed place of meeting. The adversary's party was already on the ground. It consisted of Dr. Brunnow, his second, and his son, who, it had been agreed, was to render any medical assistance which might be required. A silent greeting was exchanged, a short parley followed between the seconds, then those gentlemen proceeded to make the necessary preparations.
Max stood by his father, whose pale face and haggard eyes told of a sleepless night, and who in vain strove to hide his feverish agitation. His lips were tightly set, and the hand his son held twitched every now and then with a nervous quiver.
"Compose yourself, father," Max whispered; "your hand is so unsteady, you will hardly be able to press the trigger."
"No fear, I shall be able," replied the Doctor, in the same subdued voice, glancing at the pistols, which were at that moment being loaded by the seconds.
"Colonel Wilten's attention is already attracted this way," said Max, significantly. "Will you let him think that you are thus agitated by fear of a bullet?"
Brunnow gave an angry start.
"True," he said. "The strangers present cannot guess what is passing within me. They shall not, at least, take me for a coward."
He made an effort to collect himself, and succeeded in assuming a calmer demeanour; but he avoided glancing towards the spot where the Baron stood. In his usual haughty attitude, with a look of cold determination on his features, Raven, quite unmoved, awaited the coming event.
The mists began gradually to disperse; already the mountain summits and the villages on the higher lands came in sight. The sun must just have risen, for the whole eastern horizon was suffused with a red glow; as yet, however, the rays were not intense enough to fight a way through the thick vapour. The town still lay shrouded in its moist white veil; but the Castle on the heights was visible now, shadowy, indeed, and in a sort of mirage, but growing every minute more clear and definite. There Gabrielle slept in peaceful ignorance, dreaming of the morrow and the felicity to come; while here the momentous die was cast which was to decide her fate.
Colonel Wilten now declared that all was ready, and the combatants stepped on to the ground. Raven stood well erect, his eye clear and full, the hand which held his pistol absolutely steady, as though certain of its aim. Brunnow's composure was evidently forced, and sustained by a great effort. Though the approach of the decisive moment, and the fear of misinterpretation, in some measure restored firmness to his bearing, his hand shook visibly as he levelled the deadly weapon at the breast of the friend he had once so ardently loved.
Wilten gave the signal. The two shots crashed forth together; and, for a moment, both adversaries stood upright, facing each other. Then one man dropped his weapon, pressed his hand to his breast, took a step back, and fell, without uttering a sound.
Arno Raven lay stretched on the ground, and the white rime on the grass around him grew dark with a deep-red stain.
Max hastily assured himself that his father was unhurt, and then hurried to the side of the wounded man, whom the Colonel was already endeavouring to succour. Brunnow stood motionless, clutching his pistol, and gazing over with fixed, vacant eyes at the group opposite him. The gentleman who had acted as his second came up to him and spoke.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, in a low voice. "Was it not the Baron who challenged you? He fired in the air."
The word seemed to dispel the torpor which paralysed Brunnow. He threw down his pistol, and rushed over to the others.
"Arno!" he cried, with an exceeding bitter cry of despair. Max was attempting to staunch the blood; but his father thrust him violently aside, as though he alone had a right to that place, tore from him the handkerchief, and pressed it to the wound. The young man withdrew in silence, signing to the Colonel and his father's second, who were looking on at the scene in surprise and concern, to step aside with him.
"Can you give the Baron no assistance?" asked the Colonel, in a half-whisper.
"There is none to be given," replied Max. "My first glance at the wound showed me it was mortal. It is only a question of a few minutes, and my father will do what is necessary. I beg of you to leave him alone with the dying man."
"Of the two shots, one only could have proved fatal," said Brunnow's second, meaningly.
The Colonel nodded.
"I saw it too. Raven averted his pistol at the last moment. Strange!"
The three men looked at each other in silence. They began to divine for what reasons this duel had been provoked; but none gave utterance to his thoughts. They felt that at yonder spot, where the adversary knelt by the side of his fallen foe, a scene was being enacted which had nothing in common with the ordinary circumstances of a duel; and, respecting the young doctor's request, they remained reverentially at a distance.
Brunnow had passed one arm round the wounded man, whose head lay on his breast, and supported him, while with the other hand he pressed the handkerchief to the bleeding part. Whether it were the pain of this touch, or the bitter cry "Arno!" which brought him back to consciousness, Raven opened his eyes and made a faint, deprecatory gesture.
"Let that be," he said. "You aimed well. I was sure of it."
"Arno, why have you done this thing to me?" groaned Brunnow. "Must it be my hand, none but mine? Oh! I see now, I understand why you drove me to it."
There was such anguish in his tone that it affected even the dying man. He tried to hold out his hand to the speaker.
"Forgive me, Rudolph," he said, but half audibly. "Do not reproach yourself. I thank you."
His voice forsook him, but with a supreme effort he raised himself, and his roving eyes seemed to search for something in the distance, Brunnow supported him, striving with mortal anxiety to stem the flow of blood, the red life-stream which his own hand had let loose; yet his science told him that here no exertions could avail to succour or to save.
Suddenly the sun broke through the veil of mist. Yonder, on the heights, stood the Castle, illuminated by the morning splendour. Its walls and towers gleamed in the rosy flood, and its windows flashed swift lightning greetings over to the valley beneath. Arno's eyes were fixed intently on one spot; his last look was for the "sunbeam" which even now sent a bright message to him from thence. In another moment the picture paled, the shining vision receded farther and farther from view. Dark shadows gathered about the dying man. Before his dimmed eyes came as the eddy of cool water closing in upon him, and he was drawn down, down into mysterious, glimmering depths where all earthly sounds were hushed, where all the striving and the strife, the happiness and sorrow of life, died away into one long continuous dream; while, intermingling with this dream, there ran ever an unvarying far-off murmur, the low spirit-singing of a spring borne faintly below from some immeasurable distance.
Brunnow laid the dead man gently down. He himself would have risen, but his strength abandoned him, and he sank unconscious to the ground beside the lifeless body of the comrade, the friend of his youth.
A new era had dawned upon the land. The last four years had wrought many changes, and had left but little remaining of the old régime. The once persecuted and oppressed Liberal party now stood at the head of affairs, and with this complete reversal of the situation a revolution of opinion had come about in every sphere of official activity.
Tendencies which had once been combated and repressed were now free to develop themselves in the broad light of day, and these altered circumstances had naturally introduced a new set of men into the arena.
Among those whom the political current of the day had swiftly raised to a prominent position was George Winterfeld. As Ministerial Councillor he already filled a post of unusual importance for a man of his years. The Governor who now administered the affairs of the R---- province was, in all respects, the opposite of his predecessor. Liberal in his opinions, mild and forbearing in action, innocent of any leaning to that despotism which had once ruled the land with a rod of iron, he was, it must be added, quite incapable of resolute, energetic action, the need of which would at times still make itself felt.
Immediately after the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, Brunnow had left the town, yielding to his son's earnest solicitations. Max implored him not to run the risk of a fresh imprisonment, to which his share in the late duel had rendered him liable, and which, to a man of his advanced years, broken by recent events, might probably prove fatal.
The Doctor had, as is known, previously resolved on leaving his native land for ever; so, before the news of the duel was bruited in the town, he quietly departed, returning to his haven in Switzerland. Thence he published to the world a statement, emphatically worded, clearing the memory of his late friend. In this statement he declared that for years he had lived under an erroneous impression which Raven's last disclosures had completely dispelled. Those accusations, so pregnant of disaster, had been untrue, and had done the dead man a cruel wrong. This testimony from the antagonist by whose hand the Baron had fallen, naturally carried great weight, though the matter was no more susceptible of proof now than it had been previously. Death took up the pleading for the defence, and, as is usual in such cases, won the day. That credence which would have been refused the living man, was accorded to the dead; and it was currently reported that with his dying breath the Governor of R---- had declared the shameful charge against him to be a calumny and a lie.
Raven had provided largely for his servants; with the exception, however, of their ample legacies, his whole fortune was bequeathed to his ward, the young Baroness Harder. After Arno's death, Gabrielle had been prostrated by a long and terrible illness, from which she but very slowly recovered. Since that time she had been living with her mother in the capital, where the rich heiress was, of course, besieged by suitors, to none of whom she inclined a willing ear. She seemed, indeed, to put the idea of marriage far from her, to the despair of the Baroness, who would often exhaust all her powers of eloquence in the vain hope of bringing her daughter round to her views. Gabrielle had lately come of age, and was now absolute mistress of her property. It was, therefore, in her mother's opinion, high time that she should make a choice.
Councillor Moser had retired from his post four years ago. The death of his chief had been a great blow to him, and had gone far towards inducing him to carry out his long-cherished project. Another motive, however, combined with this. A man could not, he felt, with dignified consistency, remain in the service of the State when an alliance had been contracted between a member of his family and the son of a reactionary demagogue. This misfortune had really overtaken the unhappy Councillor. He had struggled against it long and manfully, but to no purpose. Max Brunnow gave him no peace until he yielded. That irrepressible wooer appeared regularly, day after day, always ready to assure his dear father-in-law of the delight he felt at their future connection, and of his profound conviction that no better son-in-law than himself was to be found the wide world over. If the old gentleman flew into a rage, this unscrupulous doctor menaced him with apoplexy, and prescribed a composing draught. If he forbade his unwelcome guest the house. Max declared that he could not live without seeing his betrothed, and came next day an hour earlier. At length the Councillor resigned himself to his fate. He was one of those, who, if a thing be constantly repeated to them, come in the end to believe in it. Forced now to hear, day by day, that this son-in-law was excellent as he was unavoidable, he at last allowed himself to be converted, and accepted both propositions as conveying incontrovertible facts.
The "spiritual guardians" were rather more difficult to deal with. They naturally refused to recognise the betrothal, and invoked heaven and the powers of darkness to their aid in opposing it. They menaced the bridegroom-elect with the pains of eternal punishment; he, in his turn, menaced them with the press, and declared he would take the whole town into his confidence, and relate in all the papers how they were trying to tear his bride from him, in order to incarcerate her in a convent against her will. This caused them to reflect. The Governor's fall had plainly shown the power of newspaper articles.
It was judged prudent to yield. The enemy retreated, and Max, triumphant, remained master of the field. He was wise enough to hasten on the wedding as much as possible, and a month or two later he carried his young wife off to Switzerland. Brunnow, now possessed of independent means, thanks to the property he had recently inherited, insisted that his son and daughter-in-law should make his house their home for the present, as Max, absorbed by the strategy of his rapid campaign, had not found time to establish a practice of his own before marriage. The young man set himself diligently to work to regain lost time, and met with much success in his profession; nevertheless, the family remained domiciled under one common roof.
The relations between father and son had undergone a complete change since that scene by the latter's sick-bed; and if ever any little difference threatened to arise, Agnes stepped in, and soon made all straight by her gentle mediation, the young wife having very speedily won her father-in-law's whole heart to herself. The Councillor still lived on in R----, under the sceptre of Christine; but this state of things seemed to suit him, and he travelled southwards regularly once a year to pay his daughter a visit.
Summer had come round again. The lake and the town on its shores lay bathed in bright sunshine; the mountains, wreathed around in thin mist, rose half shadowy in the distance. Rudolph Brunnow's house, once so small and unpretending, was much more handsome of aspect now. The garden had been nearly doubled in size by purchase of the adjacent lots of ground, and the dwelling-house itself had been rebuilt and considerably enlarged, room now being required in it for two families. Young Dr. Brunnow was in the habit of going his rounds in the morning, but on this particular day his patients looked for him in vain. Max stood idly in the garden, talking to a guest who had arrived half an hour before.
"Come with me now, George, that I may have you to myself a little," said he, urgently. "If my father gets hold of you, he will not let you out of his hands again, and I consider your visit is to me in the first place. It was a surprise! I had no idea you were in Switzerland."
"I came on an official errand," replied George; "a mission to our embassy at B----. My business there was settled more quickly than I expected, and I could not refuse myself the pleasure of looking in upon you on my return journey."
The last four years had wrought but little change in Winterfeld. He had grown somewhat more manly, more matured, and his carriage, always calm and assured, had gained in dignity. The former transparent pallor of his complexion had long since yielded to the brighter tint of health; but his brow, once so clear, was clouded by a shadow, and the beautiful blue eyes, which in the old days had been grave only, were sombre now, gloomy even, in their expression. This man of two-and-thirty, so fortunate in his position and prospects, seemed to carry about with him some secret care which took all zest from life. Max Brunnow's appearance, on the other hand, completely bore out his assertion that he found himself very comfortable in this good-for-nothing world, and amply testified to the fact that Agnes had quickly learned to excel in all matronly virtues.
"I say, George," asked Max, in the course of their conversation, "how long is it to be before you are Minister?"
George laughed.
"A good many years, probably. As a preliminary, I am now Ministerial Councillor."
"And the right hand of the men in office, the soul of the present administration. Oh, we are well up here as to all that is going on in the capital. My father-in-law keeps me exactly informed on the subject. The good city of R---- still does a little in the opposition line, the result, probably, of long habit. The new Governor is Liberal to the backbone, and tolerance itself. They cannot find any real fault with him, and this, of course, is aggravating to them."
"They miss the mighty personal influence which Raven exercised, and which compelled admiration even from his enemies," said George. "The present Governor is honest and well-meaning, but he is not a man of extraordinary mark, and is, perhaps, hardly equal to so important and responsible a post. So the Councillor still lives on in R----. I thought he would migrate at last, in order to be near his daughter."
"The bare notion was an insult," laughed Max, "You imagined that my father-in-law, the very quintessence of loyalty, would accord to a pitiful republic the honour of possessing him as a citizen? No, he will live and die under the wing of his most gracious sovereign. To tell the truth, I doubt whether things would always go smoothly, were the old gentleman and my father to be constantly in presence. They are too strongly in contrast ever to agree thoroughly."
Winterfeld glanced back at the house.
"Max, it struck me that your father was looking very worn and aged."
Max shook his head.
"He cannot get over Raven's death. I thought time would assuage his grief--but no! As a medical man, I may not conceal from myself the fact that he is going from us. I know the symptoms well."
He spoke sadly, and George's face too wore a troubled look.
"He cannot put from him the memory of one he loved so well," said the latter. "The remembrance is wearing him away. I can understand that."
"Yes, you appear to me to be on that road yourself," exclaimed the young doctor. "Last time we met, I was not allowed to say a word on the subject, but now you look even more melancholy and gloomily interesting than then. So out with it--confess."
George shook his head.
"Spare me, Max. You know I am incorrigible; moreover, on this point I think you hardly understand me."
"How should I? A hardened realist like myself cannot be admitted into the sanctuary of your inmost feelings!"
Winterfeld frowned, and turned away, but Max went on, quite undisturbed:
"This anxious hesitation and avoidance of a happiness which by a bold stroke you might yet secure, this overstrained delicacy of feeling, these doubts and scruples, will last until you find yourself forestalled by another less delicate than yourself, and then for a second time you will wear the willow. Yes, I see my words offend you, but I tell you this--whereas, and seeing that, you cannot get the better of this unreasonable love of yours, you must marry. The thing is as clear as day."
"Your experience would naturally lead you to suggest such a course," said George, with a forced smile. "You have made trial of the remedy with the happiest result. Your wife is a charming creature."
"Yes, she does honour to my treatment, does she not?"
Chatting thus, they had completed the round of the garden, and now again approached the house. In the veranda sat Dr. Brunnow and his daughter-in-law, who was reading the newspaper to him. The Doctor was certainly much aged, and it was not difficult to see that he was ill both in body and mind. His former irritability had vanished, and had given place to a sort of dull apathy which but rarely kindled with a gleam of the old passionate fire. Agnes, on the other hand, had developed into a blooming young woman, uniting with all her own gentleness of aspect a certain new dignity of look and bearing. A boy of about two years was playing at his mother's feet. Directly he caught sight of the gentlemen, he rose to his feet, and, still with a rather tottering gait, ran forward to meet his father. Max cleared the steps at a bound, and threw the child high in the air.
"Look at this young man," he cried, with paternal pride, holding the sturdy, rosy-cheeked youngster towards his friend. Then he turned to his wife, "George will stay with us to-day, dear," he said. "He must set out on his journey again to-morrow, I am sorry to say--but until then he will be our guest. Will you see that all is made ready for him?"
The young wife was indeed charming in her manner, as she turned, and in gracious words expressed to her husband's friend the pleasure his visit gave her. Then she rose, wishing, she said, to make sure that the spare room was in perfect order.
"I will take the boy with me," she observed. "He is accustomed to have an hour's nap at noon. You will carry him up to his bedroom for me, Max, will you not?"
"I must stay with George," replied her husband. "The young one must learn to get upstairs by himself. He is big enough."
"As you like, dear," said Agnes, with sweet and ready acquiescence; "but Rudolph is so used to be carried by you. He will cry, if you won't do as he wants."
"He has that from his mother," said Max.
With unruffled serenity the young wife stooped and took the child in her arms. He was a strong, vigorous boy, but no very great weight. His mother, however, seemed to find him too heavy for her, for she had to stop at the door to take breath, casting a rather reproachful glance behind her, as she did so. In a second Max was at her side.
"How often have I told you not to over-exert yourself in this manner?" said he, in the old dictatorial tone. "Give me the child. I will take him upstairs."
So saying, he relieved her of the boy, and actually carried him up to the first floor, which was reserved for the young couple's use. Agnes mildly bent her head and followed, submitting, as was her wont, to her husband's will in all things.
George looked after them, a faint, derisive smile hovering about his lips.
"Take warning by my son, and draw out no programme with reference to your future marriage," said the elder Brunnow. "A woman upsets all your plans and all your reckoning with a breath."
The words were intended playfully, but the speaker's eyes were fixed with an earnest scrutiny on the young man he addressed.
George shook his head.
"My future marriage?" he repeated. "I shall never marry. You know my resolve full well."
"Yes, but I have always combated it. At your age, one cannot bid a final adieu to happiness, and you especially are not made to stand alone. Ambition will never fill your life. You need family, domestic ties."
Winterfeld made no reply. He leaned forward on the veranda railings, and looked out at the lake. The doctor laid his hand on his shoulder.
"George, does the old wound still bleed?"
George turned round. In the sorrowful eyes which met his, he recognised a kindred spirit.
"There are wounds which never close," he replied. "I cannot, perhaps, make such passionate demonstration of my feelings as some, but when I once give myself heart and soul, my attachment knows no change. I could not put it from me, even if I would."
"Have you seen Gabrielle lately?" asked Brunnow, after a pause.
"Yes, too often for my peace. I am now constantly thrown into the society which she frequents, and in the capital unexpected meetings are almost inevitable. I come upon her sometimes in the midst of a brilliant assembly, and we are both forced calmly to face the situation, though we would gladly fly from each other, were it possible. It would have been better for me, had I never seen her since the day I lost her. These constant meetings stir up the memories of the past within me, and rob me of my composure and self-command. I suffer horribly under it, I assure you."
"So it was chance alone that directed your steps here? It is as I suspected."
Winterfeld looked at the Doctor in astonishment.
"I have explained to you that I came to Switzerland on an official mission, and wished to take you and Max by surprise."
"Max has not told you then that the ladies von Harder are here?"
"Who is here?" ejaculated George. "Gabrielle?"
"With her mother. They have been living in that villa yonder for the last few weeks. The Baroness is somewhat out of health, and has put herself in the hands of one of our most celebrated physicians. There has, of course, been no sort of communication between us and the two ladies. I need not tell you what memories would restrain Gabrielle from setting foot in the house in which I dwell."
"It is well that I leave to-morrow," said George, in an agitated tone. "Perhaps I might not have been spared the pain of a meeting even here, and here, in this place where the few happy days of my love were spent, I really could not have borne it."
"Will you not make some attempt to end this estrangement? Think, George, the happiness of your whole life is at stake. In your place, I would accept this strange coincidence as a hint from Destiny, and once again put the decisive question. Your position and, still more, the future which lies before you, guarantee you against any mortification, though the girl to whom you proffer your suit be a rich heiress. You had less to lay in the balance formerly, when you boldly declared your love to the Baroness Harder."
"I was loved then in return," cried George, with a rush of bitterness; "or, at least, I fancied so. Now we have between us that hour of parting in which my foolish dream was dispelled for ever. Gabrielle, certainly, would not wish to call it up again. I have often seen by her shy, anxious avoidance of me how she feared I might seek to approach her."
"That very fear should have encouraged you," interposed Brunnow. "Those who are quite indifferent to us, we pass by coldly and without remark. If you really will not venture----"
"Never," George interrupted him, with some vehemence. "Shall I come before her to hear from her mouth a second time that her heart is given to another, that even beyond the grave that other preserves his rights, that she knows, loves none but him? I have borne it once, and that is enough. Let us speak now of other matters. Dr. Brunnow. You see I am not calm enough to pursue this subject."
Brunnow was silent. The conversation was here put an end to, for Max came in and laid forcible hands on his friend again. The Doctor left the two alone, and retired to his study. For a good quarter of an hour, he there paced in silence up and down, lost in meditation; then he took up his hat, and, passing out, left the house.
The villa now inhabited by Madame von Harder and her daughter was much handsomer in appearance, and more sumptuously furnished, than the modest chalet which had served them as a residence on the occasion of their former visit.
The Baroness now thought it imperatively necessary to live at all times in a style befitting their rank; she clung to this satisfaction which she had once so painfully missed, and Gabrielle yielded to her entirely as regarded external things. Carriages and servants had therefore, of course, followed in their train, and Madame von Harder had just driven out on an excursion to the town, leaving her daughter at home alone.
Gabrielle stood on the terrace which fronted the lake. Yes, that was she, that slender figure with fair hair, clad in a light summer dress. The fresh sweet face had lost nothing of its fascinating charm, but the charm itself was changed. The old happy buoyancy, the radiant brightness had vanished, gone with the saucy, childish merriment which once laughed in those sunny brown eyes--but, in lieu of them, the face had gained the one thing which had been wanting to it: intensity of expression. Whether it lay in the sorrowful lines about her mouth, which not even a smile could altogether chase away, or in the shadow hiding in those deep dark eyes--small matter, it was there, and the soul, which spoke in it, idealised, perfected her whole being.
Leaning slightly forward against the balustrade, Gabrielle gazed out at the landscape, dreamily absorbed in thought. She turned half impatiently, as a servant appeared, and presented a card.
Hardly had she glanced at it when she grew very pale, and the card trembled in her hands.
"The gentleman begs that he may be allowed to see the Baroness on an urgent matter of business," reported the servant.
"Show the gentleman in," she answered, and left the terrace to receive her visitor.
In another minute Dr. Brunnow entered the drawing-room.
For a few seconds the two stood silently face to face. They met now for the first time, and yet each knew as much of the other as if they had been intimately acquainted for years. The bent, elderly man and the blooming young maiden, strangers to each other personally, were united by one common tie; a name, a dead man's name, formed an invisible link between them.
The Doctor bowed, and stepped nearer. Gabrielle involuntarily shrank from him. He saw it, and stopped.
"You hardly expected that I should ever approach you, Fräulein von Harder," he began. "I do so at the risk of being repulsed. My name must, I know, have an ominous sound in your ears."
Gabrielle stood before him, by a great effort compelling herself to be calm. The colour had not yet returned to her cheeks, and her voice shook audibly as she replied:
"Your coming certainly takes me by surprise, Dr. Brunnow. I did not think my presence would ever be sought by the man who----"
"At whose hand Arno Raven met his death," completed Brunnow. "You are right to recoil from him who caused that death, but, believe me, my dear young lady, I would rather have turned the deadly weapon against my own breast than have seen him fall."
"He forced the duel on you?" asked the girl, in a low voice. "I have long suspected it."
"Yes, forced it on me in a way which left me no alternative. Had I known ... but his pistol was so steadily levelled at me, how could I guess that at the decisive moment he would avert its aim? My hand shook, and sought so to direct its shot as only to wound. This very agitation proved fatal--my bullet pierced the heart of my former friend!"
Gabrielle shivered, but the weary, concentrated pain in his voice disarmed her.
"Arno bore you no ill-will," she replied. "But a few hours before his death, he related to me all his past; and then I learned what you had really been to him--as much, perhaps, as he to you."
"And yet he could require that of me!" said Brunnow, with mournful bitterness. "He desired to die; but why should he choose my hand to do the deed? Was I not the friend of old days--the friend of his youth? That was hard--harder even than my distrust of him had deserved. He must have known what a load he was laying on me for the rest of my life--ay, a crushing load! And, I tell you, it is killing me!"
Gabrielle looked into the old man's pale face, deeply lined and furrowed by grief; which said more plainly than any words what he had suffered, and was still suffering. She felt how profoundly her lost Arno was mourned--how fervently he had been loved, and this broke down all the barriers between them. Trembling with emotion, she stretched out both hands to the old man.
"I knew that here I should be understood," he said, taking her hands in his. "Arno loved you; that was enough for me."
His eyes rested on the girl's fair features, as though he were searching in them for some trace of the past.
"I come with a request," he began, after a short silence--"with a petition which perhaps no one else could address to you without wounding your feelings. I have let you see what Arno was to me; you will not, therefore, misconstrue the motives which brought me here, I will tell them to you briefly. My son has a friend----"
Gabrielle started. She drew away her hands.
"A friend whom you know--to whom you were once attached. That first love yielded before a more ardent, mightier passion. To my mind, this needs neither to be explained nor justified. Better than anyone do I know how irresistibly Arno could draw to himself those whom he wished to enchain. But now he is dead--and you are free. Does no voice within you speak a word for the early love of your youth?"
"My heart has never ceased to speak for him. It grieved when we were torn apart; yet I sacrificed him and his happiness--I had no choice, indeed, but to sacrifice them, for another voice spoke more loudly within me. I cannot forget Arno."
"Forget!" repeated Brunnow, with emphasis. "No, you cannot forget him; and no other man can you love as you have loved him. I believe that fully."
"No other," said Gabrielle, firmly; "and that is why I never can be George's wife."
"Must we always think of our own happiness?" asked Brunnow, sadly. "Is it not a great thing to make others happy? Winterfeld is at my son's house. Chance has brought him to us; he had no idea of your being here until I told him of it. Then his silence and reserve gave way, and I had a glimpse into the depths of his love, which is still ardent and faithful as ever. He will never find consolation in other ties. I know him--he will go through life a lonely man; and, amid all the success that awaits him, will feel only the emptiness, the void which that cruel parting from you left with him. You are young still, Gabrielle--you have your whole life before you. Devote that life to him--he is worthy of it."
She turned from him hastily.
"No more!" she said. "Spare me these recollections. If you speak in George's name----"
"He knows nothing of my being here," interrupted the Doctor. "On the contrary, he would have held me back. Do not suppose that George will ever again come to you with his suit spontaneously; he rejects such an idea with vehemence--and he is right. You once sent him away. It is for you to call him back."
Greatly agitated, torn by conflicting emotions, Gabrielle pressed both hands on her bosom, as though forcibly to keep down some rising feeling. "I cannot--cannot. And George would not accept the poor affection I have now to offer him."
"He will accept it, for he is one of those unselfish beings who give more than they receive."
Gabrielle raised her eyes to the speaker. They were full of a grave, sad reproach.
"And you can speak these words to me? You, Arno's friend, can wish to put another in his place?"
"No, by Heaven, not that!" cried Brunnow, with a flash of the old fire. "His place shall remain to him. No Winterfeld can rob him of that. These noble spotless characters, who quietly pursue their path through life, to whom no shadow of blame attaches, we admire and set on high. Natures such as Arno's are not created to dispense happiness. They cast over all they love a shade from the cloud which covers them; yet it is better worth to suffer with and for them--to share their fate, than to be serenely happy at the ideally good man's side. You yourself have felt something of this, Gabrielle--have you not?"
The old glow suddenly flamed from the ashes. Brunnow's bent form was drawn erect as he spoke these words with passionate warmth, and for a moment the bright enthusiasm of youth kindled in his eyes again. Gabrielle leaned her head on his shoulder, and wept--wept as though her heart would break.
"And now, do not let me go from you without an answer," said the Doctor, after a pause. "I have so seldom in my life brought happiness to those about me, that I would fain do so once before I depart hence, and my time here is growing short. May I give George any hope? Will you see him again?"
"I will try," she said faintly.
The proceedings of the Brunnow family that afternoon were decidedly peculiar. In the first place, the Doctor called his son into his study, and a strictly private conference took place between them. The subject discussed seemed to produce a most exhilarating effect on Max, for he caught his father in his arms and gave him a vigorous hug, such as he had once threatened to bestow on his papa-in-law, the Councillor. Directly after this the young surgeon held a parley, likewise strictly private, with his wife in their own sitting-room, and from this interview the pair came back somewhat fluttered and excited. Then Madame Agnes disappeared, and was lost to sight for some time, during which interval Max took possession of his friend, not stirring from his side an inch. Under other circumstances, George would have perceived that something unusual was going on; but the news he had heard that morning had greatly disturbed him, and he had some difficulty in preserving his usual outward composure. Unfortunately, Max showed no sympathy whatever with his friend's interesting melancholy, though he was well aware of its cause. On the contrary, he tormented the unhappy lover with all sorts of questions and suggestions, and dragged him out at last under some crudely imagined pretext into the garden again.
"But what should I go to the summer-house now for?" asked George, almost impatiently. "I was in there this morning, admiring the prospect."
"Well, there is an arrangement of my father's you have got to admire now, an arrangement made simply and entirely in your honour. My father has shown himself practical for once in a way. Come along with me, you'll be surprised."
The summer-house, a small pavilion perched on the edge of the lake, certainly offered a glorious prospect.
"There are ladies inside," said Winterfeld, as they approached the tiny building.
"Some callers on my wife, I suppose," replied Max, indifferently. "Ah! there is Agnes."
Madame Agnes did, indeed, at this juncture appear on the scene, and exchanged a look of intelligence with her husband, who at once executed a manœuvre simple as it was adroit. He let his unsuspecting friend walk on before him, then, without more ado, gave him a sudden push over the threshold and pulled the door to behind him. Then he turned to his wife in triumph.
"There they are in the trap, and if George does not come out of that an affianced husband, may the Lord have mercy on him. Now the great point is to prevent their being disturbed. It is highly derogatory for a married man and the head of a family to stand sentinel while a love-declaration is in progress, but, in consideration of the very peculiar circumstances, I will once more condescend to the task. Go into the house, Agnes, and tell my father it has succeeded magnificently."
While Agnes went off to discharge her commission, a brief but most comprehensive scene was being enacted in the pavilion.
"Gabrielle!" cried George, and moved hastily forwards, as though he would have rushed up to her; then, bethinking himself, he stopped short. "Baroness Harder!"
"George!" said Gabrielle, with gentle reproach in her tone.
"Forgive me; I did not know--could not guess---- What brought you here?"
Gabrielle cast down her eyes without speaking; but in her silence there was an encouragement, and George understood it.
"What brought you to this place?" he repeated, with passionate insistence. "Gabrielle, speak. Did you know I was here?"
"Yes," was the low, but steady answer.
George stood by her now, but as yet he did not even take her hand.
"How am I to interpret that?" he asked, all the old tenderness surging up within him as he searched her face eagerly for his answer. "This is not our first meeting since the day that we became strangers to each other, but I have always read in your eyes that strangers we were to remain. May I, dare I, hope at length to read another verdict in them?"
Yes, those eyes told another tale, as she raised them to him now with frank, sweet entreaty.
"George," said Gabrielle, earnestly, "I gave you great pain once. You know what divided us, what has held us apart for years. I then destroyed all your hopes of happiness. You made no complaint, had no word of reproach for me, and yet it was a hard trial, and you suffered cruelly. I would fain give back some of the lost brightness to your life. Tell me, have I still the power?"
Ah, could she ask? The fervour with which George clasped his beloved to his heart spoke the reply before his lips could frame it. Again his arms were round her; again she listened to his words of love, as she had listened years before. In those early days she had, indeed, known nothing of the keen, surpassing joy she had since tasted, when, folded to Arno's breast, she had, as it were, been lifted to the very pinnacle of human bliss--when, in a few short hours, she had lived through a life-time of felicity--alas! quickly to be plunged into a very abyss of woe, and taught the lesson of life's misery.
Bitter had been the trial through which she had passed; but once again a warm, cheering ray fell on her path, like sunshine. Gabrielle would have been no true woman if it had not gladdened her heart to find herself thus truly, faithfully loved, and it is a well-established truth that happiness bestowed on another brings its reward to the giver!
Without, the landscape lay flooded in sunlight--the broad gleaming lake, the blue mountains in the distance, all sparkling in the noonday beams. Even so before the plighted pair the unclouded future stretched rich in hope and fair in promise, a long series of gladsome, happy days. All around was so sunny and bright and clear--and yet in this hour of her betrothal a shade fell on Gabrielle. Was there magic in the air about her? Faint rumours reached her ears, whispered messages telling of a moonlight night, and borne over from a distance, there came to her the even sound of flowing water, the low rippling murmur of a spring.
For a moment all the golden sunshine vanished, blotted out by a tear.
Gabrielle felt that life and love were given back to her, but, remembering the price paid, she felt too that love, life, and happiness were dearly bought!