At the Councillor's; or, A Nameless History

by E. Marlitt

Kitty stepped upon the bridge, and, resting her hands on the frail balustrade, looked down. The waters rushed beneath her feet, struggling against every stone that maintained its place in the bed of the stream, every root that projected from the shore, and in the struggle dashing up mimic showers of spray; but at a little distance the pale crescent moon was mirrored in its depths as though nothing could ever efface it. Was love thus steadfast in the human heart? Could the fiercest struggles beat around it in vain? Did it never fade, although its ideal were shattered? No; she had just seen that it did not.

Wondrous indeed must be this passion of love! Once already beneath that very roof it had hounded on a human soul through every stage of misery and despair. Many years before, as the dean's widow had related to Kitty on one of their homeward walks, the lovely young widow of a Baron von Baumgarten had lived in the house by the river. Her husband's heir and successor, the scion of a collateral branch, a handsome young cavalier, had daily come from his inherited castle to have one look at the lovely face shrouded in its widow's weeds. He might not enter the house, for she transgressed no bounds that custom had assigned to a young widow. But he would ride across the narrow bridge on his black steed and rein in the foaming fiery charger close to the wall of the house, that he might inhale the air she had breathed and kiss devotedly her small white hand. Those who saw him declared that when her period of mourning was past the beautiful widow would once more reign as mistress in Castle Baumgarten.

But once he was absent for some months at a foreign court, and it was rumoured that he would bring home with him a bride of noble birth. The fair young widow, when this rumour reached her ears, only smiled, and watched for him all the more constantly from her window. She never credited such treachery until the sound of trumpets and revelry from the castle announced the lord's return with his proud, stately bride, and that a gorgeous banquet had been arranged in honour of their arrival.

And the next day he rode across the wooden bridge with his wife, to present her to the fair dame in the house by the river. The gay tulips upon her brocade robe glittered in the distance, upon the fan in her hand a coronet gleamed in diamonds, and the greyhound that had formerly accompanied his master ran before her horse, not, as formerly, to hasten to the window whence a fair hand had fed him with sugar and bits of bread,—no, it ran along the river-bank to a spot where it barked and whined piteously. There upon the water lay a snow-white garment, tossed to and fro by the waves which could not float it down the stream, for the long, fair braids of its owner were entangled among the roots under the riverbank, and the pale, dead face was held fast, that the false love might gaze once more into the wide, glazed eyes.

The window whence she had looked so confidently to see him once more ride across the bridge was the same through which the doctor's study-lamp threw its nightly beam. There she must have stood in her bitter despair, watching the water hurrying past from the castle resounding with the marriage revelry, and she had been mastered by a fierce desire to plunge her fair body beneath the waves, that they might bear her far, far away from the scene of her past happiness. And now after long, long years the same struggle was going on in the same spot. No, not the same struggle! Was he not a man, strong of soul? Even should the unhappy woman, who had hidden all her misery in the grave by one swift plunge, arise from the water and stretch out her white arms to lure him in, he would not heed her. Kitty shuddered. Had not Henriette said that whoever had once seen Flora love could understand that a man would die sooner than resign her? And was there now any choice for him, since she had told him that she hated him?

Kitty ran hastily back into the garden, as if the drowned woman with the long, fair braids were actually arising by the dim shore to bar her way.

It was growing dark. The forest which had been the scene of the rude attack of the afternoon looked like a black pall over the low hills, and the ploughed meadow-land lay smooth and still, giving no token that millions of living germs were there thrusting forth tiny arms beneath the thin crust, ready to issue forth into the golden sunlight a waving field of grain. Upon the roof the weathercock creaked in the moaning evening wind, which was gradually increasing and would bring torrents of spring rain during the night. The boughs of the silver poplars by the fence tossed to and fro, and the loose branches in the half-finished arbour cracked beneath its strong breath. Those branches were still bare. When they were covered with leafy greenery, how would it be with everything that lay at present unsolved in the dark lap of destiny? Would the dean's widow ever sit there in the green retreat she so loved, peaceful and happy as in the little parsonage garden of long ago? Never, if her darling were unhappy or if she lost him.

Kitty timidly turned around the western end of the house. The softened light of a night-lamp gleamed from the windows of the sick-room: the struggle was not yet ended. The doctor stood by one of the windows, his back turned to the young girl, his right hand raised as if imposing silence. What had she just been saying,—that figure in the dim background, not tall enough to allow more of her to be seen than the defiant movement of the white lace fichu above the golden blonde curls on the forehead? Had she again impertinently alluded to his profession?

Kitty shivered with nervous agitation, and in her indignation she half resolved to interfere to recall the faithless woman to a sense of her duty. Should she not enter at once, place herself by his side, and confront her perjured sister with all the might of her maidenly scorn and anger? What an idea! What would he say to such interference on the part of a third person? Suppose he should look round at the intruder with cool surprise, or thrust her aside as he had lately done by the "determined" little blue flowers—shame and mortification would annihilate her.

She walked hurriedly on, shivering with cold. Robust girl as she was, clear in mind and sound in nerve, she was suddenly seized with a horror of the solitude about her, of the pale light of the golden crescent hung in the heavens, of the monotonous gurgling murmur of the rushing water. Through the kitchen window she saw the dean's widow seated by the shining kitchen lamp, engaged in some household occupation,—a peaceful contrast to the scene in the sick-room. Quiet and soothing as the picture was, in her present feverish state of mind and body she could not join the tranquil old lady, whose clear glance would soon have detected her agitation.