She left behind her the pretty grounds around the ruin, and walked along the unfrequented path through the meadows upon the banks of the stream. Chilled by the melted snow from the mountains, that swelled it to a torrent, the little river rolled along, clay-coloured in hue; but the minnows showed here and there like flecks of molten silver, the soft, downy buds were thick upon the osiers, and beneath their protecting net-work the blue flowers of the hepatica were spreading everywhere,—it was easy to make a spring nosegay.
With a bunch of them in her hand, she sauntered on as far as the ancient wooden bridge. There was Susie's old bleaching-ground, the meadow, planted with fruit-trees. The councillor had spoken truly; the low picket fence that enclosed the garden was in perfect repair, and everything about the house, from the old tiled roof to the latticed arbour for the grapevines, was in thorough order. And it was really a charming old house, the despised "barracks." It was situated in a very retired spot on the banks of the river, and the leafy grove behind it, on the other side of the fence, gave it the character of a woodland cottage. Its exterior was not imposing, to be sure; it had only one row of windows, directly above which arose the roof with its gilded weather-cock and massive chimneys, one of which was actually smoking,—an incredible sight. It was long indeed since a fire had been kindled on that hearth or a lamp lighted within those walls. During the lifetime of the castle miller it had been used as a store-house for grain; the shutters had always been closed, and the door of entrance locked, except during harvest. At that time, little Kitty used to slip into what was called the fruit-room, an apartment adjoining the kitchen, with whitewashed walls and a large green stove, and fill her apron with rosy-cheeked apples and mellow pears. To-day, the shutters were wide open, and the young girl saw for the first time in her life the glitter of the panes of glass in the large windows. It was now Doctor Bruck's home.
Scarcely knowing why, she crossed the bridge and passed ground three sides of the house. Her heart beat slightly, for she really had no right to be seen here; but the soft turf smothered the sound of her footsteps, which indeed could never have been heard above the din of the rushing river and of the sparrows twittering upon the roof. Some of the windows were open; she could see, within, hanging baskets filled with green creeping plants and vines, and the bright glitter of burnished copper on the kitchen walls; the merry song of a bird, too, came through the window, mingling with the shrill chatter of the sparrows; but there was no sound of human life or occupation. She cautiously turned around the west corner to pass by the front of the house, and paused, startled.
In the large doorway that divided the front of the house into halves, and from which a broad flight of steps led down to the little lawn, stood a lady, slender, refined, almost virginal in appearance. A table standing beside her was piled with books and pictures, which she was engaged in dusting. She looked up in surprise at the shy intruder, and involuntarily dropped the picture in her hand,—it was Flora's photograph in an oval frame.
Impossible that this could be the dean's widow! After Flora's sneering description, Kitty had fancied her a little, bent, active housekeeper, her hands rough with hard work, grown gray amidst pots and pans, and liking nothing so much as baking pancakes; she could not reconcile the picture of her imagination with this lady, elderly to be sure, but with delicate, noble features, and gentle, earnest eyes, her still abundant fair hair covered with a kerchief of white lace.
Kitty grew more and more embarrassed, as, standing at the foot of the steps, she stammered out her excuses. "I used to play here as a child: I only came from Dresden a few days ago, and—— That is my sister," she added, hastily, pointing to the picture, and then breaking into a clear, merry laugh, and shaking her head at the extraordinary manner in which, in her confusion, she had introduced herself.
The lady laughed, too. She placed the picture upon the table, and, descending the steps, held out both hands to the young girl. "Then you are the doctor's youngest sister-in-law." A faint shadow crossed her face. "I did not know that there were visitors at Villa Baumgarten," she added, with the slightest tinge of irritation.
A shadow floated across Kitty's mind also at this moment. Was she, then, such a nonentity, such an entirely insignificant member of the Mangold family, that Doctor Bruck had not thought it worth while to mention having met her? She bit her lip, and silently followed the lady, who invited her into the house and opened a door in the large hall. Every movement of her slender figure was gentle and gracious.
"Here is my room,—my home for the rest of my life," she said, in a tone in which was plainly audible her satisfaction at having reached this harbour of refuge after years of weary wandering.
"Before my husband received the appointment of dean in the city, he had charge of a small country parish. Our means were not adequate, and all my economy in housekeeping was needed to maintain the dignity of his position; but it was the happiest time of my life. The dust and noise of the city were never good for my nerves; my longing for the quiet of woods and fields became almost morbid. I never spoke of it but the doctor privately made the purchase of this place with his savings, and showed it to me as my own a few hours afterwards." Her voice was husky with emotion as she spoke the last words. With what pride did she call her nephew "the doctor"! and as she spoke she smiled pleasantly. "Is it not a charming place,—quite a castle?" she asked. "See these folding-doors, and the graceful decoration of the ceilings. Those leather hangings, with their tarnished gold, must once have been very splendid; and out in the garden there are the remains of clipped yews and old statues of stone. The place was originally the dower-house, of one of the women of the Baumgarten family,—I learned that from an old chronicle. We have scrubbed and aired and warmed the rooms, but have altered nothing; we are not rich enough for that, and indeed there is no need of it."