The dean's widow came in to lay a branch of budding syringa upon the invalid's coverlet as a greeting from the golden spring that was flinging abroad all sweet odours and the songs of birds upon its health-giving breezes. She insisted upon resuming her place by the bed, declaring that Kitty was not needed there at present, but must go out into the garden and breathe the fresh, sunny air; she surely needed it, for her face still showed traces of yesterday's agitation.
The young girl left the room. Yes, air and sunshine had always proved her good friends, bringing the delicious consciousness of youthful vigour, clearing her moral perceptions, and dispelling all morbid sensations. And the dean's widow was right: the world was all May, the promise of the year was everywhere, and the mild air saturated with sunshine breathed health into mind and body. Kitty went out of the house-door and stood upon the steps, inhaling the fresh breeze as she involuntarily extended her round, firmly-moulded arms. Then, descending into the garden, she looked beyond the low picket-fence into the blue distance, beyond the meadows, beyond the river rolling through them, beyond the cottage-roofs and the church-spire. Oh, mysterious human heart, that in presence of all this glory was still so sad and cast down!
From the low wood-shed at the bottom of the garden came a constant, melodious twitter, and from beneath the eaves darted small, feathered creatures, their backs shining with a steely lustre, their throats rusty brown. The first swallows had come. Those eaves had been their nest for years. How often, as a child, had Kitty, lying in the grass, watched their outcomings and ingoings! but then their chatter had sounded lonely and sad in her ears, accompanied by the monotonous murmur of the water, the only other sound that broke the desolate silence reigning about the deserted house, unless upon autumn days, when the ripe fruit would now and then fall with a soft thud upon the sod. Now spoiled petted birds were trilling their songs from the open windows; the smoke from the chimney soared aloft, and spread a thin, sun-gilded veil above the meadow; beside the shed stood the kennel, and the cross, bristly house-dog tore at his chain and snapped at a pretty little light-brown hen that boldly ventured near him to get a few scattered grains of wheat. The housemaid had brought from her village house a cock and some hens, at the widow's request. Yes, everything must revive the memory of the country parsonage of long ago.
Kitty chased the cackling hen away from the cross, growling dog, and wandered slowly about beneath the fruit-trees The dry, dead grass of the old year was here and there dashed with that blue which calls up a gleam of pleasure into the saddest eyes: the first violets were blossoming, and the tall, shapely girl bent as eagerly to pluck them as had the little "miller's mouse" years ago. How strange it seemed to her that only a few weeks before, as her grandfather's heiress, she had been mistress here! The sum which the doctor had paid for this little homestead belonged to her,—the honest, careful savings thrown in with the hoarded wealth of the grasping corn-dealer. She started, and involuntarily dropped the violets she had plucked. The same keen sensation of disgrace and humiliation which she had experienced yesterday in the midst of those furious women again assailed her. At the first shock she had protested against the terrible accusation; but now, whenever she called up in her memory her grandfather's coarse, hard face, she could not but admit to herself that he might have said the cruel words about the "starving mice," and in positive pain she clenched her hands. She knew well that on her mother's side she was sprung from the lowest class of society; she had never dreamed of wishing it otherwise,—she had rather gratefully acknowledged the splendid gift of perfect health and vigour bequeathed to her by her grandmother, whose stalwart arm had wielded the axe in the bracing woodland air; but the coarseness and brutality with which the former mill-servant had treated the poor in his pursuit of wealth disgusted and sickened her, and she could not bear to think of the iron safe with its hoarded treasures.
Without knowing it, her walk towards the river quickened almost to a run. Just where the hawthorn hedge bounding the little garden ran for a short distance along the river-bank, glittered some scattered splinters of white glass, the fragments of the little vessel from which she had on the previous evening drunk the soothing mixture. The maid had carelessly thrown them where the water might perhaps carry them away. A sharp pang shot through Kitty's heart, and tears rushed to her eyes, as she thought of that scene in the doctor's house. How far she had been carried by her impulsiveness! Although the refined, reserved man had instantly spoken soothing words of excuse for her rashness, he must inwardly have smiled in scorn of the strong, healthy girl whose brain could be so filled with sickly sentimental fancies. Never again would she be so misled by her weakly sympathetic nature! No; she would rather pass for cruel, hard,—yes, even shrewish. And the doctor should never have cause to laugh at her again,—ah, he would soon have no opportunity to do so. In a little while Henriette would be removed to the villa; all connection between it and the house by the river would be at an end; the doctor would not even mention the names of the inmates of Villa Baumgarten. After what had occurred yesterday evening,—that scene of which she had been the sole witness,—Flora's return was impossible, however firmly Doctor Bruck might insist upon his rights; this very day must convince him. All must be at an end between himself and Flora, if she kept away. Or would he fulfil Henriette's fears?—would he be unable to repress the desire, upon his return from the interview with the prince, to tell Flora himself of the change in his affairs? If he did stop at the villa, the diamonds upon the finger where he had placed he betrothal ring would tell him instantly, and far more plainly than in words, what he had to expect.
Suddenly Kitty ran back from the river-bank to the garden; a terrible noise, that might possibly disturb Henriette, was heard from the direction of the wood-shed: the chickens were flying screaming and cackling in all directions, and the dog, with loosened chain dragging after him, was making straight for the unfortunate yellow hen that had previously aroused his ire. Kitty ran to the rescue; she seized him by the collar just as he had torn a mouthful of feathers out of the tail of his unhappy victim.
She laughed like a child at the rumpled hen running with a querulous cackle into the wood-shed, and dragged the dog back to his kennel. The unruly beast tugged and resisted, snapping at the strong, girlish hand that was firmly leading him back to captivity.
This struggle for mastery might well have looked dangerous to a spectator, for the dog was vicious, savage, and large, of a strong, muscular build, and the tawny stripes on his back and sides gave him a tiger-like appearance; but he struggled and writhed in vain. With her left hand Kitty fastened the chain again into the iron ring in the side of the kennel, and then, suddenly releasing the animal, gave a backward spring; the brute rushed after her, but only succeeded in tearing off a piece of the hem of her dress.
"You villain!" she said, shaking her finger at him, and then picking up her skirt to examine the injury it had sustained. She heard hasty steps approaching from the bridge, and knew that it was the doctor returning from town, but she did not look up. She hoped he would go into the house without observing her. Perhaps he was coming from the villa in most melancholy mood. He had been so quiet and silent to-day, it almost seemed to her that with the gentle, lingering "Good-night! good-night!" of the previous evening he had meant to mark a boundary between his former and his present life.
He did not go into the house, however, but came directly towards Kitty, raising his cane at the growling, barking dog, who, thus threatened, became silent, and lay down at the door of his kennel. The doctor took a stone and hammered the link of the chain farther upon the hook. "I shall have to get rid of this brute: he is too savage and unmanageable," he said, as he threw away the stone. "His capacity as a watch-dog is not worth the terror he occasions. You, it is true, seemed to have small fear of him; I am afraid that in your consciousness of strength you might be easily led into rashness." This he said in a grave, almost reproachful tone; he had probably been a witness of the scene that had just occurred as he approached on the opposite side of the river.