CHAPTER XXII.
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.