Gold Elsie

by E. Marlitt

She had in her hand a bowl full of grain, and threw a handful upon the stones at her feet. A great noise ensued; the doves fluttered down from the roof, the fowls left their roosts and nests with loud cacklings, and the watch-dog felt it his duty to assist in the universal clamour by barking loudly.

Elizabeth was astonished. It is true, her uncle had been married, but he never had any children, as she knew; who then was this young girl, of whom no mention had been made in his letter? She descended the steps that led to the court-yard, and approached the stranger: "Do you live at the Lodge?" she asked, kindly.

The black eyes were riveted searchingly upon her for one moment, with a look of unmistakable surprise, then an expression of annoyance flitted across her delicate lips, which closed more tightly than before; the eyelids fell over the glittering eyes, and she turned silently away, as though entirely unconscious of the presence or address of any one, and continued feeding the fowls with the grain.

Just then Sabina passed through the hall with the coffee-tray. She beckoned confidentially to Elizabeth, who stood amazed, and, when she drew near, bade her follow her into the house, saying: "Come, child, you can do nothing with her."

In the sitting-room, Elizabeth found all as comfortable and happy as if they had lived together for years. Her mother was sitting in a large arm-chair, which the forester had pushed near a window that commanded a lovely view down one of the vistas of the forest. A large striped cat had sprung confidingly into her lap, where it was purring with satisfaction beneath the small hand that was gently stroking it. And for little Ernst, the four walls of the room were a perfect museum of all imaginable curiosities. He had climbed into one chair after another, and was then standing in speechless admiration before a glass case containing a gorgeous collection of butterflies. The two men were seated, side by side, upon the lounge, in deep consultation concerning the future abode of the family, and, as Elizabeth entered, she heard her uncle say, "Well, if the old ruin on the mountain cannot afford you shelter, you must stay here with me. I can move my writing-table and all my other matters out of your way for awhile, and then I will besiege the authorities in the town until they consent to add another story to the right wing of my old house."

Elizabeth took off her travelling cloak, and assisted old Sabina to set the table. The first shadow had fallen upon the enjoyment that had filled her soul. Never before had any advance of hers been met with unkindness. That she owed this exemption from the ill humour of others to her beauty, the charm of her manner, and the childlike purity of her nature, which exercised an unconscious influence upon all around her, had never occurred to her. She had taken it for granted that she should experience only kindness from all, since she was conscious of meaning well by all the world. Her disappointment at the repulse was all the greater, because the sight of a young girl of about her own age had caused her such surprise and joy; and the beautiful face of the stranger had interested her deeply. The studied arrangement of the girl's dress had not struck her, as she herself had never yet known the desire of heightening her attractions by the aids of the toilet. Her father and mother had always assured her that no time spent in the cultivation of mind and heart was lost, and that if they were what they should be, her exterior could never be unattractive, whatever might be the form with which nature had endowed her.

The thoughtful expression of Elizabeth's face did not escape her mother's notice. She called her to her, and her daughter began an account of the meeting; but at the first words the forester turned towards her. A deep wrinkle appeared between his bushy eyebrows, and made his face dark and gloomy.

"Indeed," he said, "have you seen her already? Well, then, let me tell you who and what she is. I took her into my house some years ago, that she might assist Sabina in her housekeeping. She is a distant relative of my deceased wife, and has no parents, brothers nor sisters. I wished to do good, but I have provided myself with a perpetual scourge,—although I do not deserve it. She had not been here a month before I discovered that she had not a single healthy thought in her entire composition; she is a mass of exaggerated ideas and inconceivable arrogance. I had half a mind to send her back to the place she came from, but Sabina, who has still less cause than I to love her, entreated me not to do it. Why, I cannot tell, for the girl gave her a great deal of trouble, and was insolent. I did all I could to tame her haughty spirit by giving her regular duties to perform, and for awhile matters went on pretty well. But about a year ago a certain Baroness Lessen came to live over at Lindhof,—that is the name of the former Gnadewitz property, which the heir-at-law sold to a Herr von Walde. The possessor himself, who has neither wife nor child, is a kind of antiquary, travels a great deal, and leaves his only sister under the charge of the aforesaid baroness, more's the pity, for she turns everything upside down. Years ago, when I used to hear great piety spoken of, all my veneration was excited, and I wished at least to take my cap off; but now, when I hear of such things, I clench my fist and pull my hat down over my eyes, for the world has greatly changed. The Baroness Lessen belongs to those pious souls who grow cruel, hard, and narrow-minded out of what they call pure fear of the Lord; who persecute a fellow-creature who does not cast his eyes down hypocritically, but lifts them to heaven where God dwells, as persistently as a hound hunts down game. This is the herd to which my excellent niece belongs; there could not be a better soil for all the weeds that her brain generates, and all sorts of annoyances are the consequence. She made acquaintance with a lady's-maid over there, and spent all her leisure time with her. At first I was content enough, until all at once she began with her plans,—for our conversion, as she calls it. Sabina was a miserable sinner, because she would not leave off work, at least ten times a day, to pray; the poor old thing, who never misses church every Sunday at Lindhof, even through wind and rain, and often with rheumatism racking her old bones, and who has lived a faithful, laborious life, infinitely more religious than sixty years of idleness spent upon her knees. And then my fine moralist attacked me; but there she found her match, and contented herself with a single effort. Then I forbade all intercourse with Lindhof; but my prohibition was of little use, for whenever my back is turned she takes occasion to slip over there. Of course, there can be no question of any gratitude towards me; I have no bond of union with her as her guardian, and that makes my task of guiding and guarding her doubly difficult. God only knows what insane idea has taken possession of her now, but for two months she has been perfectly dumb, not only here at home, but everywhere. For that space of time not a single word has passed her lips. Neither sternness nor gentle entreaty produces the slightest effect upon her. She attends to her duties just as she used to do, eats and drinks like every one else, and is not one whit less vain or wise in her own conceit. But because she grew pale, and did not look very well, I consulted a physician, who had formerly known her, with regard to her health. He assured me that her physical health was excellent, and advised that she should be treated with gentle firmness, as the minds of several of her family had previously been somewhat affected. He said, too, that she would grow tired of her entire silence, and would begin talking some fine day like a magpie. I am content to wait; but in the mean time it is a sore trial to me. All my life I have longed to have happy faces around me, and would rather eat bread and salt with cheerful people than the costliest dainties with morose companions. Come, my Fair one with the golden locks," he concluded, stroking Elizabeth's head with his huge hand, "push your mother's arm-chair up to the table, tie a napkin round the neck of that little rogue who is staring his eyes out at my case of rifles, and let us breakfast together, for you all need repose, and must rest your weary limbs after your long journey. After dinner we must begin to think of Castle Gnadeck; but first strengthen your eyes with a little sleep, lest they should be dazzled by the splendour which will flash upon them up there."

After breakfast, while her father and mother were asleep and little Ernst was dreaming in a large bed of the wonders of the forest-lodge, Elizabeth unpacked in the upper room, which her uncle had resigned to her, all that was necessary for the coming night. She would not for the world have gone to sleep. She went repeatedly to the window and looked across to the wooded mountain which arose behind the lodge. There, above the tops of the trees, she could see a black streak, which stood out distinctly against the clear blue sky. That was, as old Sabina said, an ancient iron flag-staff upon the roof of Castle Gnadeck, from which in times long gone by the proud banner of the Gnadewitzes had flouted the air. Was there behind those trees the asylum for which she longed, where her parents might rest their feet, weary with long wandering upon foreign soil?

And then her eyes sought the court-yard below, but the dumb girl did not appear again. She had not come to breakfast, and seemed to wish to avoid all intercourse with the guests at the lodge. For this Elizabeth was very sorry. Although her uncle's account had not been promising, a youthful spirit is not quick to resign its illusions, and would rather be undeceived by the bursting of its gay bubble than admonished by the experience of age. The beautiful girl, who could so determinedly conceal her secret behind closed lips, became doubly interesting to her, and she exhausted herself in conjectures as to the cause of this silence.