The house-door stood open, while the one leading into the kitchen was closed. Kitty slipped on tip-toe through the dark hall and entered the widow's sitting-room. Here she would try to become calmer, in this darkening, tranquil spot, full of the fragrance of flowers and a refreshing warmth. She seated herself in the arm-chair behind the work-table. The laurels arched above her, the violets and hyacinths on the window-sill sent forth a delicious odour, and the canary-bird, who was just adjusting himself in the gloom for repose, hopped from perch to perch, with an occasional shrill chirp: there was some life near her, if only in the breast of a timid little bird. But she did not grow calmer. Through these rooms the lovely forsaken woman had wandered in her widow's weeds, and the smiling cherubs still ornamenting the ceiling had looked down upon her outbreaks of anguish, her bitter despair. In vain did Kitty try to banish the phantom, and the thought that perhaps Bruck, too, might not survive the pain of separation. Had not Henriette said so? she had seen his intense affection in the early days of his betrothal; she must know how it would be.
The dean's widow entered with the lamp which she placed every evening upon the doctor's study-table. She closed the windows, pulled down the shades, saw that the fire in the stove burned clear, and then left the room, without having perceived the young girl in her retreat. Her gentle step died away as the door closed, but immediately afterward a manly tread was heard in the hall, and the doctor came into the room.
He paused for a moment upon the threshold, and drew a long breath, passing his hand across his brow; he was as unconscious as his aunt had been of the presence, behind the leafy screen at the window, of a human heart throbbing in mortal agitation. The girlish figure cowered, breathless, closer to the window. Was this a miserable, despairing, lonely man for evermore?
He hastily traversed this room and his own, and went to his study-table. Kitty noiselessly arose. Standing in the middle of the room, she could see him in his study where the light of the lamp clearly illumined his face, which still showed traces of the passion that had so lately mastered him. Cheek and brow were crimson, as if he had been walking far and fast beneath a noonday sun. He had indeed travelled a weary road, leading through ruined hopes and illusions destroyed! Had he reached the end, the dreary goal where the lovely Fata Morgana melted away and the terrible solitude of the future confronted him?
As he stood, he wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he then put into an envelope. He did it hastily, in evident agitation. He addressed it as hurriedly. Whose name did he write? Could he think of aught in this hour save the terrible crisis through which he was passing? The letter could be for no one but Flora. Was it a last farewell, or the crushing denunciation of a dying man?
And now he poured water into the milk-white glass into which she had so lately put her wild-flowers, and, opening a drawer in his table, took from it a tiny vial. From this, carefully holding it against the light, he dropped five clear drops into the glass of water.
The intense emotion which, gradually increasing, had hitherto seemed to paralyze the young girl as she stood thus watching the wretched man, now urged her to action. She suddenly stood by his side, and, placing one hand upon his shoulder, with the other seized the glass he was conveying to his lips, and slowly drew it away.
She could not utter a sound; but all the anguish, the compassionate pity, that filled her soul shone in the brown eyes raised to his in a mute entreaty more eloquent than words. She started back. Good heavens! what had she done? She almost sank on the floor beneath the gaze of astonished inquiry that she encountered. Stammering some inarticulate words, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
He understood it all in a moment. Placing the fatal glass upon the table, he took both her hands in his and drew her towards him. "Kitty, my dear child," he said, in tremulous tones, looking into the tearful face which she tried to turn from him, as she shook her head. The girl, usually so self-possessed and strong, looked at this moment what she really was in years, in experience, and in unspotted purity; her sensibilities, warm and unhackneyed, had led her on to what now left her a prey to maidenly confusion.
She gently withdrew her hands, and hurriedly put her kerchief to her eyes. "Ah, I have deeply offended you, Doctor Bruck!" she said, still struggling with her tears. "You can never forget my folly. Good heaven! how could I suppose that——" She bit her lip to keep from a fresh outburst of weeping. "But do not judge me too harshly," she added, tremulously. "What I have endured to-day might well have confused a far stronger mind than mine."