Late autumn is wont to be a rough, inclement season in the neighbourhood of mountains, and this year, in and about R----, it had not belied its character; but now, at its close. Nature seemed by a supreme effort to rouse all her dying energies. The past days had been unusually clear and mild, so that the months appeared to have travelled back in their course. The earth fell to dreaming one last brief dream of sunshine and summer breezes, before it surrendered itself to grim Winter's icy chains.
It was afternoon now. Baron von Raven sat at his writing-table, engaged in looking through his papers. For some time past, his testamentary arrangements had been made; but there was still much to set in order. Colonel Wilten had promptly responded to the call made upon him. Though he no longer considered an alliance with Raven's family desirable for his son, the constraint and coolness which had lately, since their explanation, existed between himself and the Baron, had been annoying and painful to him; and he seized with alacrity this occasion of rendering the latter a service. He promised to settle all the necessary details, and to come round himself, and report as to what had been agreed upon regarding the duel, which was, if possible, to take place early on the following morning.
Raven had just finished a letter, which he folded and addressed to "Doctor Rudolph Brunnow." The lines on his gloomy brow grew deeper still, as with sure and steady strokes he traced the name on the paper.
"Would that I could have spared you, Rudolph!" he muttered. "The remembrance of this fatal hour will be with you to your dying day. I know it--but there was no alternative."
He laid the letter aside, and again took up the pen; but this time it was less obedient to the hand that wielded it. Some minutes elapsed before he wrote the first few lines; then he stopped suddenly--began anew--hesitated once more, and finally tore up the sheet. Why leave a farewell, every word of which must be barbed with bitterness? The letter would only be a standing reproach to her for whom it was intended.
The Baron threw down his pen, and rested his head on his hand. Not without reason had he dreaded the moment when the one great passion of his life, which had betrayed him into a passing weakness, but which he had resolutely driven from him far into the background, should break the restraining dykes, and rush in upon him again with its swift, strong current. He had maintained a perfectly calm demeanour during the last few hours--though hatred, indignation, and deeply mortified pride were at their fierce work with him; he had gone into the minutiæ of his affairs, arranging everything with his customary exactitude; but now all was in order--all was finished, except ... Lo! with a rush, the tide of long pent-up passion returned upon him with all its old irresistible force, and before it the strong man's composure gave way.
It was no soft or tender emotion which filled his breast. Arno Raven was not one easily to give up what he desired, or lightly to forgive where he believed himself wronged. He, of his own free will, had decreed the separation--had sent Gabrielle from him; and he did not repent it. No half-measures suited him. "Let it be this, or that," had been his motto through life; so now he would have absolute and undivided possession of his love, or he preferred to lose her altogether. Well, he had lost her--given her over to another who could rally to his aid the mighty influences of youth and a first love.
The Baron never doubted that the connection with Winterfeld had been renewed in the capital. The tyrannical guardian, who had so long stood between the young people, separating them, had now stepped back, leaving them free to draw together again; and the Baroness was far too weak, too wanting in character, to oppose any lasting resistance to her daughter's wishes, when no longer fettered by fear of her brother-in-law. Besides, Winterfeld's position had changed. He had risen in a most unexpected manner, and would surely rise further--thus the great barrier to the marriage was withdrawn. All was going the natural, appointed course, which he, in his madness, had sought to check and stay. How, indeed, could such a young creature as Gabrielle understand, far less return, a passion so profound, so all-absorbing as his? It had dazzled her, perhaps, had flattered her vanity, to find herself the object of his love; but there could be no question of any deeper feeling on her part--and, a choice being offered her, the blooming maiden, standing on the threshold of life, naturally turned to him who could bring youth as his dowry, who could set before her a long vista of happy years. That gay, sunny being had neither part nor lot in his destiny. The thought of her was altogether out of keeping with this dark hour of defeat, when a man's shattered honour lay in ruins about him, a man's life hung upon a thread.
The fine, but short, autumn day was fast declining, and the rays of the setting sun sought and found their way into the study. Through the deep bay window came a broad, golden stream of light, filling the sombre room with a strange transfiguring gleam. Raven's look rested moodily on the brilliant flood. So had the sunbeam glanced across his life, gilding, glorifying all for a brief space, to disappear suddenly, leaving him again to loneliness and darkness. In vain he tried to free himself from the remembrance, to stifle it by bitter reasoning--in vain! by every road his thoughts travelled back to Gabrielle; every object about him seemed to suggest her name--his mind was full of her. He had resolved to have done with the past, with the world, with life; but this wild, overpowering longing for the only being he had ever loved, chained him to the existence he was preparing to quit. A sigh, so deep as to be almost a groan, burst from his labouring breast. He was alone now, and needed not the mask of proud impassible calm. To have preserved it longer would have exceeded all human strength. He pressed his hand to his burning brow, and closed his eyes.
Some time went by, and he still sat on, absorbed in his gloomy brooding; then the door opened gently, almost inaudibly, and as gently closed again. Raven did not notice it, and did not stir, until the rustle of a woman's dress close at hand startled him. He turned, and a great spasm passed across his face; but the exclamation he would have uttered died on his lips, and he gazed with speechless amazement, almost with awe, at the vision before him, which could only be a creation of his disordered fancy. Opposite him, in the full stream of light, stood Gabrielle, motionless, surrounded by an aureole of golden rays, as though in verity she were but an apparition called up by the earnest, passionate craving of a despairing heart, a phantom which would next minute vanish mysteriously as it had come.