Suddenly her temples throbbed; a vague terror assailed her. That sick man tottering so uncertainly alone in the tower-cellar! Like some fever-bred phantom, the horrible thought that had shocked her once before in sight of the tower again occurred to her. "I pray you, Moritz, be careful with the light," she cried anxiously after him.
He might have been deep in thought, or perhaps his nerves were in that unusually irritable state when a loud voice sufficed to terrify; he started as if struck by a shot.
"What do you mean by that?" he called back, hoarsely. "Are you seeing ghosts by daylight, Kitty?" he instantly added, with a burst of laughter that mortified his ward, as he vanished among the trees, waving his hand and holding himself erect.
Scarcely half an hour later, Kitty was walking along the river-bank. Her errand to the mill accomplished, she found she had time to snatch one sweet, stolen glance at the house by the river. How her heart beat as she saw the weather-cock on the roof gleaming in the sunlight through the quivering birch-leaves! How she started at the crunching of the gravel on the path beneath her tread! She came like an exile to have one last look of a beloved country. She leaned against the trunk of the poplar that stood by the bridge, whence she had stamped that last scene so ineffaceably on her memory,—the peeping children, their heads showing against the brilliant landscape beyond as upon a golden background, the strong stern man by the garden-table seeming crushed by some inexplicable emotion.
All was quiet now in the shaded garden. The trees, then in all the pride of spring, were now bending with the load of bright-coloured fruit that filled the air with its fragrance, and the trellis was hardly seen beneath its purple load. Only one shy glimpse towards the corner window, where stood the doctor’s writing-table. He was not at home; he was hastening from one bedside to another, driven by professional cares. And he no longer occupied that room. White muslin curtains adorned the window; upon the sill, among the pots of Alpine violets in full bloom, lay a snow-white kitten, and two knitting hands and a woman’s head crowned with snowy hair beneath a muslin fichu could be distinguished there; the Frau Dean’s old friend was already established. He too had burned his ships behind him; he was ready to go, and the day after the morrow, the "last moment" would come, when her proud, heartless sister would stand beside him in glistening white satin, to become mistress of the mansion to a man of note. Had she once struggled as bitterly—that fair young dame of by-gone days—as did the girl who now, in a burst of tears, clasped her arms about the poplar’s slender stem and pressed her brow painfully against the rough, hard bark? She of the legend had once been loved, if deserted at last; no blame could be attached to her; but here an evil jealousy was gnawing at the heart of one unloved, and she whom she envied was—her own sister.