This dreaded and detested "dower-house" had grown into a fairy habitation. Rich curtains hung at the windows; everything shone in newness and beauty,—the smooth floors, the elegant furniture, the frescoes, the chandeliers; even the kitchen was thoroughly fitted up, down to the commonest iron spoon. This "bijou" was to have been hers as long as she lived, and she had scorned it for fear lest it might exile her from the society wont to gather at the councillor's. And now—and now!
Meanwhile, Flora was contending for her possessions; but all her arguments, even her appeal to the testimony of the servants, were in vain. "Fräulein Mangold," the officials courteously persisted, "might reclaim her own afterwards, but at present everything must be placed under seal." And for hours there was a passing to and fro, up and down stairs. All the plants adorning the house were placed in the conservatories, one key after another was turned in the lock, and every open window was closed. It was dreary to mark the silence and darkness that settled down wherever the officials had finished their work. Amidst it all the servants grumbled openly about the wages due them; but each one made ready to leave the house, where every comfort lay behind lock and key, and where the flesh-pots no longer simmered on the fire. The gardener alone remained, and was lodged in the servants' hall.
While this confusion reigned, the soul of the sick girl above-stairs unfolded its wings to leave, calmly and peacefully, after the conflict of years, the worn and weary body.
Henriette's room was unvisited by the officials; everything about the dying girl was her own. Great pains were taken to avoid even a loud footfall on the third floor, and nothing approached the parting soul that could startle or annoy it. She looked through her window into the rosy heavens; she watched the swallows, their white breasts and wings looking like silver crosses floating among the pink evening clouds. On the previous day, thin wreaths of vapour had still floated above the ruin, and distant noises had troubled the sick girl's mind, causing it to dwell painfully upon the terrible spot where the crashing walls had buried beneath their fragments the "rash man" to whom, with all his weaknesses, she had clung in sisterly affection. But at this solemn evening hour, at the close of the day and of a brief mortal existence, there was nothing to remind one of previous horrors.
The doctor sat by Henriette's bedside. He saw how the rapid finger of death emphasized and sharpened each outline of the face, still informed for a brief space of time with consciousness. The ebbing stream of life moved her pulses in faint isolated throbs, like retreating waves returning now and then to plash once more upon a deserted shore.
"Flora!" the dying girl whispered, with a speaking glance.
"Do you wish to see her?" he asked, making ready to go for her.
Henriette faintly shook her head. "You will not be vexed that I wish to be alone with you and Kitty until——" She did not finish the sentence, but plucked at the fading crimson vine-leaves upon the coverlet. "I will spare her, and she will be grateful,"—there was a faint shade of irony in her smile,—"she detests touching scenes. You will take her my farewell, Leo."
The doctor silently inclined his head. By his side stood Kitty. Her heart beat fast; her dying sister had no suspicion that the relations upon which her mind was dwelling no longer existed. Should she learn the truth? She glanced anxiously at the doctor's face: it was grave and composed; no sudden and unexpected announcement should disturb the peace of the departing soul, and for preparation there was no time.
Henriette's eyes wandered to the evening sky. "How exquisitely clear and rosy! It must be a heavenly delight for the freed soul to bathe in such splendour!" she whispered, fervently. "Will it ever be allowed to look back here? I only want to look once, to see"—she turned her head on the pillow with difficulty, and gazed, with eyes glowing for the first time with unutterable love, full at Bruck—"if you are happy, Leo. Then I care not how distant are the starry worlds to which I may be borne." Even in this her last hour the poor girl could not bring herself to say, "I must know you happy, or I shall not be content, for I have loved you intensely with every fibre of my heart."