At the Councillor's; or, A Nameless History

by E. Marlitt

The air was cool and dry below there; the tiled floor shone as if polished; not a grain of dust, not a cobweb, could be seen upon the stone ribs of the mighty arches, and the glasses on the shelves, the green for hock, the clear for champagne, were bright as crystal; it was easy to see that no more care was expended on the drawing-rooms than upon these subterranean halls. And where the finest wine was stored, where only a faint glimmer of daylight pierced the vaulted gloom, in the very darkest corner, stood the two barrels of historic gunpowder, in such complete preservation that Kitty had lately declared with a laugh that she was sure they must be renewed from time to time, like the famous ink-spot at the Wartburg. She never liked this corner; she could not understand how the rich man could endure it night and day beneath his feet; and when her fancy conjured up the ghostly ancestress of the Von Baumgartens gliding hither and thither with her gleaming torch, she shuddered with horror.

Her gaze wandered over the blackened pile; one single spark alighting there below, and the old tower, built for eternity though it seemed, would burst asunder, and everything of price or value that human hands had there treasured up would be dispersed abroad in atoms; those iron walls would be broken down, and the papers, to which clung the curses of the poor, be scattered to the winds.

She shrank from the thought, and yet thus her own personality might be delivered from the golden mask that excited the greed of the avaricious. Horrified at the picture of destruction which her imagination had conjured up, she had covered her eyes with her hands, and now, letting them drop, she looked up with a deep-drawn sigh into the golden air above the tower, where Henriette's doves were wheeling, while before the window in the steep wall, that bore upon its top the last remnants of the stately colonnade, hung the thrush's cage belonging to the councillor's servant. Rosemary and marigolds were blooming upon the window-sill, from which drooped a green curtain of wild hop-vines. The little bird was singing at the top of his voice, incited thereto by the flapping of the doves' wings, while the deer had come noiselessly down the grassy incline and were gazing across the water at the tall, slender mortal whose fancies had been so terrible, so full of despair.

The deer and the doves knew her well,—the young girl used often to feed them with crumbs and biscuit; but to-day she only took a silent leave of them, although the doves were alighting on the grass on the other side of the bridge, and the boldest of them were venturing across it, looking for the accustomed food. Kitty walked along the bank of the stream, and soon heard the merry voices of children mingling with the murmur of its waters. The Frau Dean's little pupils were still at play in the garden, and in spite of the girl's depression of spirits, in spite of her mental suffering, the source of which she hardly understood herself, the sound brought a sensation of pleasure to her soul. Those little creatures, with their innocent eyes and happy hearts, did not love her as the heiress; they did not even know of the existence of the iron safe; they took gratefully their simple evening meal, and hardly asked whence it came. To them she was the dear "Fräulein Kitty," whose words of praise they strove to win, to whose ear they confided the troubled confession of childish wrong committed or childish injustice endured. Here at least she was loved,—honestly loved for herself alone.

She hastened her steps; the nearer she drew to the house the more it seemed to her that she was returning to her true home. The maid appeared between the two poplars that stood on either side of the bridge, and walked, basket on arm, towards the town to make her evening purchases. She, too, was a faithful creature, whose services were not all rendered merely for the sake of money; her good-natured, honest face seemed to belong of right to the household in the modest house by the river.

As Kitty crossed the bridge the children were not in sight: they were playing behind the house; the watch-dog greeted her with a lazy flap of his tail as he lay at the door of his kennel. He had long been her good friend, and his character had undergone such a change for the better that the yellow hen was allowed to parade the green within an inch of his nose without molestation.

The house-door stood wide open, and, as the maid was absent, the dean's widow was probably within. Kitty was just ascending the steps, when she heard the doctor speaking in the hall. She stood as if rooted to the spot.

"No, aunt; the noise wearies me. I have this constant trouble in my head," he said. "If I have a moment to spend in this green retreat, I wish to rest. I need rest,—rest!" Was that voice, trembling with nervous impatience and suppressed pain, really his? "I know, aunt, that what I ask of you is a sacrifice, but nevertheless I implore you to suspend your classes during the few months of my remaining here. I will gladly hire a room in town and engage a teacher for the time, so that your pupils may not lose anything——"

"Oh, my dear Leo, you know you have only to speak the word," his aunt interrupted him. "How could I suspect that my classes had suddenly grown so wearisome to you? You shall never hear another sound from them,—I will take care of that. I am sorry only on one account,—Kitty——"

"Always that girl!" the doctor exclaimed, as if his aunt's gentle mention of that name had destroyed the last remnant of his patience and self-control. "You never think of me."