The storms of late autumn came on among the mountains, heavy showers of rain came down from the gray flying clouds and beat upon the dead leaves of the forest and against the windows of the dwelling-houses. Frank Linden sat at his writing-table in the room he had fitted up for himself in the second story, and his eyes wandered from the denuded branches in the garden to the mountains opposite. His surroundings were as comfortable as it is possible for a bachelor's room to be--books and weapons, a bright fire in the stove, good pictures on the walls, the delicate perfume of a fine cigar, and yet in spite of all this the expression on his handsome face was by no means a contented one.
He thrust aside a great sheet full of figures and took up instead a sheet of writing-paper, on which he began rapidly to write:--
"My Dear Old Judge:"How you would scoff at me if you could see me in my present downcast mood. It is raining outside, and inside a flood of vexatious thoughts is streaming over me. I have found out that playing at farming is a pleasure only when one has a large purse that he can call his own. The expenses are getting too much for me; everything has to be repaired or renewed. Well, all this is true, but I do not complain, for in other ways I have the greatest pleasure out of it. I cannot describe to you how really poetic a walk through these autumn woods is, which I manage to take almost daily with old Juno, thanks to the permission of the royal forester, with whom I have made friends."And how delightful is the home coming beneath my own roof!"But you, most prosaic of all mortals, are probably thinking only about venison steaks or broiled field-fares, and you only know the mood of the wild huntsman from hearsay."But I wanted to tell you how right you were when you declared of Wolff: 'Hic niger est!Be on your guard against this man--he is a scoundrel!' Perhaps that would be saying too much, but at any rate he is troublesome. He sent me yesterday a ticket to a concert and wrote on a bit of paper: 'Seats 38 to 40 taken by the Baumhagen family--I got No. 37.' Then he added that the Baumhagens were the most distinguished and the wealthiest of the patricians in the city--evidently those who play first fiddle there."You know what my opinion is concerning millionaires--anything to escape their neighborhood."Well, in short, I was vexed and sent him back the ticket with the remark that I was the most unmusical person in the world. He has already made several attacks of that nature on me, so I suppose there must be a daughter."And now to come at length to the aim of this letter--you know that Wolff has a heavy mortgage on Niendorf, at a very high rate of interest. I simply cannot pay it, and wish to take up the mortgage; would your sister be willing to take it at a moderate rate? I am ready to give you any information."And what more shall I tell you? By the way, the old aunt--you did her great injustice; I never saw a more inoffensive, more contented creature than this old woman. A niece who comes to Niendorf every year on a visit, and whom she seems very fond of, her tame goldfinch, and her artificial flowers make up her whole world. She asked quite anxiously if I would let her have her room here till she died. I promised it faithfully. She has been telling me a good many things about my uncle's last years. He must have been very eccentric. Wolff was with him every day, playing euchre with him and the schoolmaster. He died at the card-table, so to speak. The old lady told me in a sepulchral voice that he actually died with clubs and diamonds in his hands. He had just played out the ace and said, 'There is a bomb for you!' and it was all over. I believe she felt a little horror of this endings herself. I am going now into the city in spite of wind and rain to make a few calls. I have got to do it sooner or later. I shall take the steward with me; he will bring home a pair of farm-horses that he bought the other day. Perhaps I may happen to stumble on my unknown little godmother that I wrote you about the other day; so far luck has not favored me."
"My Dear Old Judge:
"How you would scoff at me if you could see me in my present downcast mood. It is raining outside, and inside a flood of vexatious thoughts is streaming over me. I have found out that playing at farming is a pleasure only when one has a large purse that he can call his own. The expenses are getting too much for me; everything has to be repaired or renewed. Well, all this is true, but I do not complain, for in other ways I have the greatest pleasure out of it. I cannot describe to you how really poetic a walk through these autumn woods is, which I manage to take almost daily with old Juno, thanks to the permission of the royal forester, with whom I have made friends.
"And how delightful is the home coming beneath my own roof!
"But you, most prosaic of all mortals, are probably thinking only about venison steaks or broiled field-fares, and you only know the mood of the wild huntsman from hearsay.
"But I wanted to tell you how right you were when you declared of Wolff: 'Hic niger est!Be on your guard against this man--he is a scoundrel!' Perhaps that would be saying too much, but at any rate he is troublesome. He sent me yesterday a ticket to a concert and wrote on a bit of paper: 'Seats 38 to 40 taken by the Baumhagen family--I got No. 37.' Then he added that the Baumhagens were the most distinguished and the wealthiest of the patricians in the city--evidently those who play first fiddle there.
"You know what my opinion is concerning millionaires--anything to escape their neighborhood.
"Well, in short, I was vexed and sent him back the ticket with the remark that I was the most unmusical person in the world. He has already made several attacks of that nature on me, so I suppose there must be a daughter.
"And now to come at length to the aim of this letter--you know that Wolff has a heavy mortgage on Niendorf, at a very high rate of interest. I simply cannot pay it, and wish to take up the mortgage; would your sister be willing to take it at a moderate rate? I am ready to give you any information.
"And what more shall I tell you? By the way, the old aunt--you did her great injustice; I never saw a more inoffensive, more contented creature than this old woman. A niece who comes to Niendorf every year on a visit, and whom she seems very fond of, her tame goldfinch, and her artificial flowers make up her whole world. She asked quite anxiously if I would let her have her room here till she died. I promised it faithfully. She has been telling me a good many things about my uncle's last years. He must have been very eccentric. Wolff was with him every day, playing euchre with him and the schoolmaster. He died at the card-table, so to speak. The old lady told me in a sepulchral voice that he actually died with clubs and diamonds in his hands. He had just played out the ace and said, 'There is a bomb for you!' and it was all over. I believe she felt a little horror of this endings herself. I am going now into the city in spite of wind and rain to make a few calls. I have got to do it sooner or later. I shall take the steward with me; he will bring home a pair of farm-horses that he bought the other day. Perhaps I may happen to stumble on my unknown little godmother that I wrote you about the other day; so far luck has not favored me."
He added greetings and his signature, and half an hour later he was on his way to the city in faultless visiting costume.
Arrived in the hotel he inquired for a number of addresses, then began with a sigh to do his duty according to that extraordinary custom which Mrs. Grundy prescribes as necessary in "good society," that is, to call upon perfect strangers at mid-day and exchange a few shallow phrases and then to escape as quickly as possible. Thank Heaven! No one was at home to-day although it was raining in torrents. From a sort of natural opposition he left the Baumhagens to the last; he belonged to that class to whom it is only necessary to praise a thing greatly in order to create a strong dislike to it.
Just as he was on the point of making this visit, he met Mr. Wolff. "You are going to the Baumhagens?" he asked, evidently agreeably surprised. "There--there, that house with the bow-window. I wish you good luck, Mr. Linden!"
Frank had a sharp answer on his lips but the little man had disappeared. But a woman's figure stepped back hastily from the bow-window above him.
"Very sorry," said the old servant-maid. "Mrs. Baumhagen is not at home." He received the same answer in the lower story although he heard the sounds of a Chopin waltz.
He heard an explanation of this in the hotel at dinner. A great ball was to take place that evening, and such a festival naturally required the most extensive preparations on the part of the feminine portion of society; on such a day neither matron nor maiden was visible. Nothing else was spoken of but this ball, and some of the gentlemen kindly invited him to be present; he would find some pretty girls there.
"I am curious to know if the little Baumhagen will be there," said an officer of Hussars.
"She may stay away for all I care," responded a very blond Referendary. "She has a way of condescending to one that I can't endure. She is perfectly eaten up with pride."
"She has just refused another offer, as I heard from Arthur Fredericks," cried another.
"She is probably waiting for a prince," snarled a fourth.
"I don't care," said Colonel von Brelow, "you may say what you like, she is a magnificent creature without a particle of provincialism about her. There is race in the girl."
Frank Linden had listened with an interest which had almost awakened a desire in him to take part in the ball. He half promised to appear, took the address of a glove-shop and sat for a couple of hours in lively conversation. After the lonely weeks he had been spending it interested him more than he was willing to confess.
"I am really stooping to gossip," he said, amused at himself. When he went out into the street, darkness had already come down on the short November day, the gas-lamps were reflected back from the pools in the street, the shop-windows were brilliantly lighted, and five long strokes sounded from the tower of St. Benedict's.
He went round the corner of the hotel into the next street, and walked slowly along on the narrow sidewalk, looking at the shops which were all adorned with everything gay and brilliant for the approaching Christmas holidays.
"Good-evening!" said suddenly a timid voice behind him. He turned round. For a moment he could not remember the woman who stood timidly before him, with a yoke on her shoulder from which hung two shining pails. Then he recognized her--it was Johanna.
"I only wanted to thank you so very much," she began, "the sexton brought me the present for the baby."
"And is my little godchild well?" he asked, walking beside the woman and suddenly resolving to learn something about "her" at any price.
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Linden; it is but a weakly thing--trouble hasn't been good for him. But if the gentleman would like to see him--it isn't so very far and I'm going straight home now."
"Of course I should," he said, and learned as he went along, that she carried milk twice a day for a farmer's wife.
"Does the young lady come to see her godson sometimes?"
"Ay, to be sure!" replied the woman. "She comes and the baby hasn't a frock or a petticoat that she hasn't given him. She is so good, Miss Gertrude. We were confirmed together," she added, with pride.
So her name was Gertrude.
They had still some distance to go, through narrow streets and alleys, before the woman announced that they had reached her house. "There is a light inside--perhaps it is mother, the child waked up I suppose. My mother lives up stairs," she explained, "my father is a shoemaker."
The window was so low that a child might have looked in easily, so he could overlook the whole room without difficulty.
"Stay," he whispered, holding Johanna's arm.
"O goodness! it is the young lady," she cried, "I hope she won't be angry."
But Frank Linden did not reply. He saw only the slender girlish figure, as she walked up and down with the crying child in her arms, talking to him, dancing him till at last he stopped crying, looked solemnly in her face for awhile and then began to crow.
"Now you see, you silly little goosie," sounded the clear girl's voice in his ears, "you see who comes to take care of you when, you were lying here all alone and all crumpled up, while your mother has to go out from house to house through all the wind and rain;--you naughty baby, you little rogue, do you know your name yet? Let's see. Frank,--Frankie? O such a big boy! Now come here and don't cry a bit more and you shall have on your warm little frock when your mother comes." And she sat down before the stove and began to take off the little red flannel frock.
She sat down before the stove and began to take off the little red flannel frock.
"Ask if I may come in, Johanna," said Linden. And the next moment he had entered behind the woman.
A flush of embarrassment came over the young girl's face, but she frankly extended her hand. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Linden--mamma was very sorry that she could not receive you this afternoon. You--"
He bowed. Then she belonged to one of the houses where he had called to-day. But to which one?
"Do you know, I never knew till to-day that you were living in the neighborhood," she continued brightly. "I was standing in our bow-window when you came across the square, and saw you inquiring for our house."
"Then I have the honor to see Miss Baumhagen?" he asked, somewhat disturbed by this information.
"Gertrude Baumhagen," she replied. "Why do you look so surprised?"
With these words she took her cloak from the nearest chair, put a small fur cap on her brown hair and took up her muff.
"I must go now, Johanna, but I will send the doctor to-morrow for the baby. You must not let things go so,--you must take better care or else he may have weak eyes all his life."
"Will you allow me to accompany you?" asked Linden, unable to take his eyes off the graceful form. And that was Gertrude Baumhagen!
She assented. "I am not afraid for myself, but I am sure you would never find your way out of this maze of streets into which my good Johanna has enticed you. This part about here is quite the oldest part of the town. You cannot see it this evening, but by daylight a walk through this quarter would well repay you. I like this neighborhood, though only people of the lower class live here," she continued, walking with a firm step on the slippery pavement.
"Do you see down there on the corner that house with the great stone steps in front and the bench under the tree? My grandmother was born in that house, and the tree is a Spanish lilac. Grandfather fell in love with her as she sat one evening under the tree rocking her youngest brother. She has often told me about it. The lilac was in blossom and she was just eighteen. Isn't it a perfect little poem?"
Then she laughed softly. "But I am telling you all this and I don't know in the least what you think of such things."
They were just opposite the small house with the lilac tree. He stopped and looked up. She perceived it and said: "I can never go by without having happy thoughts and pleasant memories. Never was there a dearer grandmother, she was so simple and so good." And as he was silent she added, as if in explanation, "She was a granddaughter of the foreman in grandpapa's factory."
Still nothing occurred to him to say and he could not utter a merely conventional phrase.
She too remained silent for a while. "May I ask you," she then began, "not to give too many presents to the baby--they are simple people who might be easily spoiled."
He assented. "A man like me is so unpractical," he said, by way of excuse. "I did not exactly know what was expected of me after I had offered myself as godfather in such an intrusive manner."
"That was no intrusion, that was a feeling of humanity, Mr. Linden."
"I was afraid I might have seemed to you, too impulsive--too--" he stopped.
"O no, no," she interrupted earnestly. "What can you think of me? I can easily tell the true from the false--I was really very glad," she added, with some hesitation.
"I thank you," he said.
And then they walked on in silence through the streets;--Gertrude Baumhagen stopped before a flower-store behind whose great glass panes a wealth of roses, violets and camellias glowed.
"Our ways separate here," she said, as she gave him her hand. "I have something to do in here. Good-bye, Mr.--Godfather."
He had lifted his hat and taken her hand. "Good-bye, Miss Baumhagen." And hesitatingly he asked--"Shall you be at the ball to-night?"
"Yes," she nodded, "at the request of the higher powers," and her blue eyes rested quietly on his face. There was nothing of youthful pleasure and joyful expectation to be read in them. "Mamma would have been in despair if I had declined. Good-night, Mr. Linden."
The young man stood outside as she disappeared into the shop. He stood still for a moment, then he went on his way.
So that was Gertrude Baumhagen! He really regretted that that was her name, for he had taken a prejudice against the name, which he had associated with vulgar purse-pride. The conversation at the hotel table recurred to him. He had figured to himself a supercilious blonde who used her privileges as a Baumhagen and the richest girl in the city, to subject her admirers to all manner of caprices. And he had found the Gertrude of the church, a lovely, slender girl, with a simple unspoiled nature, possessing no other pride than that of a noble woman.
Involuntarily he walked faster. He would accept the kind invitation to the ball. But when he reached the hotel he had changed his mind again. He did not care to see her as a modern society woman, he would not efface that lovely picture he had seen through the window of that poor little house. He could not have borne it if she had met him in the brilliant ball-room, with that air of condescension with which he had heard her reproached to-day. He decided to dine at home.
With this thought he had walked down the street again till he reached the flower-shop. On a sudden impulse he entered and asked for a simple bouquet.
The woman had an immense bouquet in her hand at the moment, resembling a cart-wheel surrounded by rich lace, which she was just giving to the errand-boy.
"For Miss Baumhagen," she said, "here is the card."
Frank Linden saw a coat-of-arms over the name. He stepped back a moment, undecided what to do. Then the shopwoman turned towards him.
"A simple bouquet," he repeated. There was none ready, but they could make up one immediately. The young man himself chose the flowers from the wet sand and gave them to her. It must have been a pleasant occupation for he was constantly putting back a rose and substituting a finer one for it. At last it was finished, a graceful bouquet of white roses just tinted with pink, like a maiden's blush, interspersed with maiden-hair and delicate ferns. He looked at the dainty blossoms once more, then paid for it and went back to the hotel. Then he laid the bouquet on the table, called for ink and paper, took a visiting-card and wrote. Suddenly he stopped and smiled, "What nonsense!" he said, half aloud, "she is sure to carry the big bouquet." Then he began again and read it over. It was a little verse asking if the godfather might at this late hour send to the godmother the flowers which according to ancient custom he ought to have offered at the christening, and modestly hoping she would honor them by carrying them to the ball that night. He smiled again, put it into the envelope and gave the bouquet and letter to a messenger with instructions to carry both to Miss Baumhagen. And then a thought struck him--the ball began at eight o'clock--that would be in ten minutes--he would see Gertrude Baumhagen, see--if his bouquet--nonsense! Very likely! But then he would wait. "It is well the judge does not see me now!" he whispered to himself. He felt like a child at Christmas time, so happy was he and so full of expectation as he wandered up and down the square in front of the hotel.
The clock struck eight. Gentlemen on foot had already been coming to the hotel for some time, then ladies arrived, and at length the first carriage containing guests for the ball rolled up, dainty feet tripped up the steps, and rich silks rustled as they walked. Carriage followed carriage; now came an elegant equipage with magnificent gray horses, a charming slight woman's figure in a light blue dress covered with delicate lace, bent forward, and a silvery laugh sounded in Linden's ear. "It is Mrs. Fredericks," he heard the people murmur behind him.
So that was her sister!
The beautiful young wife swept up the steps like a lovely fairy, followed by her husband in a faultless black dress-coat, carrying her fan and bouquet.
The carriage dashed across the marketplace again, to return in less than five minutes.
"Gertrude!" whispered Linden, drawing involuntarily further back into the shadow. A short stout lady in a light gray dress descended from the carriage, then she glided out and stood beside her mother, slender and graceful in her shimmering white silk, her beautiful shoulders lightly covered, and in her hand a well-known bouquet of pale roses. But this was not the girl of a few hours back. The small head was bent back as if the massive light brown braids were too heavy for it, and an expression of proud reserve which he had not before perceived, rested on the open countenance.
Two gentlemen started forward to greet the ladies; the first gallantly offered his arm to the mother, the other approached the young girl. She thanked him proudly, scarcely touching his arm with her finger-tips. Then suddenly this figure from which he could not take his eyes, vanished like a beautiful vision.
The encounter had left him in a mood of intense excitement. He bestowed a dollar on a poor woman who stood beside him with a miserable child in her arms, and he ordered out so big a glass of hot wine for old Summerfeld, his coachman, that the old man was alarmed and hoped "they should get home all right."
"What folly it is," said Linden to himself. And when a moment later his carriage drove up, and at the same moment the notes of a Strauss waltz struck his ear, he began to hum the air of "The Rose of the South." Then the carriage rattled over the market-place out on the dark country road, and sooner than usual he was at home in his quiet little room, taking a thousand pleasant thoughts with him.
In the manor-house at Niendorf there was one room in which roses bloomed in masses; not only in the boxes between the double windows or in the pots on the sill according to the season, but in the room itself, thousands of earth's fairest flowers were wreathed about the pictures and furniture. It had a strange effect, especially when instead of the sleeping beauty one might have expected to find here, one perceived a very old woman in an arm chair by the window, unweariedly engaged in cutting leaves and petals out of colored silk paper, shaping and putting them together so that at length a rose trembled on its wire stem, looking as natural from a little distance as if it had just been cut from the bush. Aunt Rosalie could not live without making roses; she lavished half her modest income on silk paper, and every one whom she wished well, received a wreath of roses as a present, red, pink, white and yellow blossoms tastefully intermixed. All the village beauties wore roses of Aunt Rosalie's manufacture in their well-oiled hair at the village dances. The graves in the church-yard displayed masses of white and crimson roses from the same store, torn and faded by wind and sun. The little church was lavishly decked every year by Aunt Rosalie, with these witnesses to her skill.
She was known therefore throughout the village to young and old as "Aunt Rose" or "Miss Rose," and not seldom was she followed in her walks by a crowd of children, especially little girls, with the petition "a rose for me too!" And "Aunt Rose" was always prepared for them; the less successful specimens were kept entirely for this purpose and were distributed from her capacious reticule with a lavish hand.
Frank Linden had long been accustomed to spend an occasional hour in the old lady's society. At the sight of her something of the atmosphere of peace which surrounded her seemed to descend upon him and calmed and soothed him. She would sit calm and still at her little table, her small withered hands busied in forming the "symbols of a well-rounded life." By degrees she had related to him in a quaintly solemn tone, stories of the lives which had passed under the pointed gables of this roof. There was little light and much shade among them, much guilt, and error, a dark bit of life-history. A married pair who did not agree, an only child idolized by both, and this only son covered himself and his parents with disgrace and fled to America, where he died. The parents were left behind without hope or comfort in the world, each reproaching the other for the failure in their son's training. Then the wife died of grief, and now began an endless term of loneliness for the elderly man under a ban of misanthropy and scorn of his kind; loving no one but his dog, associating with no one except with Wolff, who brought the news and gossip of the town, and treating even him with a disdain bordering on insult.
"But you see, my dear nephew," the old aunt had added, "there are men who are more like hounds than the hounds themselves,--dogs will cry out when they are trodden upon, but the sort to which he belongs will smile humbly at the hardest kick--and William found such a man necessary to him."
It was snowing; the mountains were all white, the garden lay shrouded under a shining white coverlid, and white snow-flakes were dancing in the air. Frank Linden had come back from hunting with the steward, and after dinner he went into Aunt Rosalie's room. She rose as he entered and came towards him.
"There you see, my dear nephew, what happens when you go out for a day. You have had a visit, such a splendid fashionable visitor in a magnificent sleigh. I was just taking my walk in the corridor as he came up the stairs and here is his card,"--she searched in her reticule--"which he left for you."
Frank took the card and read. "Arthur Fredericks." "Oh, I am sorry," he said, really regretting his loss. "When was he here?"
"Oh, just at noon precisely, when most Christians are eating their dinner," she replied. "And the postman has been here too and brought a letter for you. Oh, dear, where is it now? Where could I have put it?" And she turned about and began to look for it, first on the table among the pieces of silk paper and then on the floor, assisted by the young man.
"What did the letter look like, dearest Aunt?"
"Blue--or gray--blue, I think," she replied, all out of breath, turning out the contents of her red silk reticule. She brought out a mass of rose-buds and an immense handkerchief edged with lace, but nothing else.
"Was the letter small or large?" he inquired from behind the sofa.
"Large and thick," gasped Aunt Rosalie. "Such a thing never happened to me before in my life--it is really dreadful." And with astounding agility she turned over the things on the consumptive little piano and tossed the antique sheets of music about.
"Perhaps it got into the stove, Auntie."
"No, no, it has not been unscrewed since this morning."
Frank Linden went to the bell and rung. "Don't take any more trouble about it, Auntie, the letter is sure to turn up; let the maid look for it."
Dorothy came and looked, and looked behind all the furniture, and shaking out all the curtains--but in vain.
"Well, we will give it up," declared Linden at length--"I suppose it is a letter from my mother or from the Judge--I can ask them what they had to say. Let us drink our coffee. Auntie."
"I shan't sleep the whole night," declared the little old lady in much excitement.
"O don't think any more about it," he begged her, good-humoredly. "I am sure there was nothing of any great importance in it. Tell me some of your old stories now, they will just suit this weather."
But the wrinkled face under the great cap still wore an anxious look, and the dim eyes kept straying away from the coffee cups searchingly round the room, lingering thoughtfully on the green lamp-shade. Evidently there was no hope of a conversation with her. After awhile the young man rose to go to his own room.
"Yes, go, go," she said, relieved, "and then I can think where I could have put that letter. Oh, my memory! my memory! I am growing so old."
He walked along the corridor and mounted the staircase into the second story. The twilight of the short winter day had already darkened all the comers. It was painfully still in the house, only the echo of his own footsteps sounding in his ear. It was such a day as his friend had predicted for him--horribly lonely and empty, it seemed to rest like a heavy weight on this world-remote house. One cannot always read, cannot always be busy, especially when the thoughts stray uneasily out over forest and meadow to a distinct goal, and always return anxious and doubting.
He stood in his room at the window and watched the snow flakes fluttering down in the darkening air, and fell into a dream as he had done every day for the last week. He gave himself up to it so entirely that he fancied he could distinctly hear a light step behind him on the carpet, and the soft tones of a woman's voice, saying, "Frank, Frankie!" He turned and gazed into the dusky room. What if she were to open the door now,--what if she should come in with the child in her arms? Why should it not be, why could it not be? Were these walls not strong enough, these rooms not cosy and homelike enough to hold such happiness?
He began to walk up and down. Folly! Nonsense! What was he thinking of? Oh, if he had never come here, or better still if she were only the daughter of the foreman like her grandmother, and sat on the bench before the little house under the lilac tree, then everything would be so simple. He would not for the world enter that mad race for Gertrude Baumhagen's money-bags, in which so many had already come to grief. But her sweet friendship?--
And then he fell helpless again before the charm of her eyes.
He was suffering from those doubts, from those alternating fears and hopes that torment every man who is in love. And Frank Linden in his loneliness had long since acknowledged to himself that he only wanted Gertrude Baumhagen to complete his happiness.
His was by no means a shy or retiring nature. On the contrary, he possessed that modest boldness which seems so natural to some people on whom society looks with favor. If he were owner of a large estate instead of this "hole"--as the Judge designated Niendorf--he would rather have asked to-day than to-morrow if she would be his wife, without too great a shyness of the money-bags. But as it was, he could not, he must make his way a little first, and before he could do that, who could tell what might have happened to Gertrude Baumhagen?
He bit his lip at the thought--the result was always the same. But was a true heart nothing then, and a strong will? If the Judge were only here so he could ask him--
During these thoughts he had lighted the lamp. There lay the card on the table, which Aunt Rosalie had given him. "Arthur Fredericks." He smiled as he thought of the little insignificant man to whom her sister had given her heart, and he could not think of Gertrude as belonging to him in any way. At last a return visit from him! And there were some half effaced words written with a pencil.
"Very sorry not to have met you; hope you will come to a little supper at our house the day after Christmas."
It was the first invitation to Gertrude's house. He wrote an acceptance at once. Then he remembered that he had ordered the sleigh to go to the city to do some errands there. He would send the hotel porter across with the card.
Christmas had passed and the last of the holidays had come with rain and thaw; it stripped off the brilliant white snowy coverlid from the earth as if it had been only a festal decoration, and the black earth was good enough for ordinary days.
Mrs. Baumhagen was sitting in a peevish mood at the window in her room looking out over the market-place. She had a slight headache, and besides--there was nothing at all to do to-day, no theatre, no party, not even the whist club, and yesterday at Jenny's it had been very dull. Finally she was vexed with Gertrude who, contrary to all custom, had talked eagerly to her neighbor at dinner, that stranger who had run after her in the church that time.
It was foolish of the children to have placed him beside her.
"A letter, Mrs. Baumhagen." Sophie brought in a simple white envelope.
"Without any post-mark? Who left it?" she asked, looking at the handwriting which was quite unknown to her.
"An old servant or coachman, I did not know him."
Mrs. Baumhagen shook her head as she took the letter and read it.
She rose suddenly, with a deep flush on her face, and called:
"Gertrude! Gertrude!"
The young girl came at once.
The active little woman had already rung the bell and said to Sophie as she entered:
"Call Mrs. Fredericks and my son-in-law, tell them to come quickly, quickly!--Gertrude, I must have an explanation of this. But I must collect myself first, must--"
"Mamma," entreated the young girl, turning slightly pale, "let us discuss the matter alone--why should Jenny and Arthur--?"
"Do you know then what is in this letter?" cried the excited mother.
"Yes," replied Gertrude, firmly, coming up to the arm chair into which her mother had thrown herself.
"With your consent, child?--Gertrude?"
"With my consent, mamma," repeated the young girl, a clear, bright crimson staining the beautiful face.
Mrs. Baumhagen said not another word, but began to cry bitterly.
"When did you permit him to write to me?" she asked, after a long pause, drying her eyes.
"Yesterday, mamma."
At this moment Jenny thrust her pretty blonde head in at the door.
"Jenny!" cried the mother, the tears again starting to her eyes, and the obstinate lines about the mouth coming out more distinctly.
"For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" cried the young wife.
"Jenny, child! Gertrude is engaged!"
Mrs. Jenny recovered her composure at once. "Well," she cried, lightly, "is that so great a misfortune?"
"But, to whom, to whom!" cried the mother.
"Well?" inquired Jenny.
"To that--that--yesterday--Linden is his name, Frank Linden. Here it is down in black and white,--a man that I have hardly seen three times!"
Jenny turned her large and wondering eyes upon Gertrude, who was still standing behind her mother's chair.
"Good gracious, Gertrude," she cried, "what possessed you to think of him?"
"What possessed you to think of Arthur?" asked the young girl, straightening herself up. "How do people ever think of each other? I don't know, I only know that I love him, and I have pledged him my word."
"When, I should like to know?"
"Last evening, in your red room, Jenny,--if you think thewhenhas anything to do with the matter."
"But, so suddenly, without any preparation. What guarantee have you that he--?"
"As good a guarantee at least," interrupted Gertrude, now pale to the lips, "as I should have had if I had accepted Lieutenant von Lowenberg's proposal the other day."
"Yes, yes, she is right there, mamma," said Jenny.
"Oh, of course!" was the reply, "I am to say yes and amen at once. But I must speak to Arthur first and to Aunt Pauline and Uncle Henry. I will not take the responsibility of such a step on myself alone in any case."
"Mamma, you will not go asking the whole neighborhood," said the young girl, in a trembling voice. "It only concerns you and me, and--" she drew a long breath--"I shall hardly change my mind in consequence of any representations."
"But Arthur could make inquiries about him," interrupted Jenny.
"Thank you, Jenny, I beg you will spare yourself the trouble. My heart speaks loudly enough for him. If I had not known my own mind weeks ago, I should not be standing before you as I am now."
"You are an ungrateful and heartless child," sobbed her mother. "You think you will conquer me by your obstinacy. Your father used to drive me wild with just that same calmness. It makes me tremble all over only just to see those firmly closed lips and those calm eyes. It is dreadful!"
Gertrude remained standing a few minutes, then without a word of reply she left the room.
"It is a speculation on his part," said Mrs. Jenny, carelessly, "there is no doubt of that."
"And she believes all he tells her," sobbed the mother. "That unlucky christening was the cause of it all. She is so impressed by anything of that sort."
Jenny nodded.
"And now she will just settle down forever at that wretched Niendorf, for there is no turning her when she has once made up her mind."
"Heaven forgive me, she has the Baumhagen obstinacy in full measure; I know what I have suffered from it."
"This Linden is handsome," remarked Jenny, taking no notice of the violent weeping. "Goodness, what a stir it will make through the town! She might have taken some one else. But did I not always tell you, mamma, that she was sure to do something foolish?"
"Arthur!" she cried to her husband who had just come in, "just fancy, Gertrude has engaged herself to that--Linden."
"The devil she has!" escaped Arthur Fredericks' lips.
"Tell me, my dear son, what do you know about him? You must have heard something at the Club, or--"
Mrs. Baumhagen had let her handkerchief fall, and was gazing with a look of woe at her son-in-law.
"Oh, he is a nice fellow enough, but poor as a church mouse. He knows what he is about when he makes up to Gertrude. Confound it! If I had known what he was up to, I would never have asked him here."
"Yes, and she declares she will not give him up," said Jenny.
"I believe that, without any assurances from you; she is your sister. When you have once got a thing into your head--well, I know what happens."
"Arthur!" sobbed the elder lady, reproachfully.
"I must beg, Arthur, that you will not always be charging me with spite and obstinacy," pouted the younger.
"But, my dear child, it is perfectly true--"
"Don't be always contradicting!" cried Mrs. Jenny, energetically, stamping her foot and taking out her handkerchief, ready to cry at a moment's notice. He knew this manœuvre of old and drew his hand hastily through his hair.
"Very well then, what am I to do about it?" he asked. "What do you want of me?"
"Your advice, Arthur," groaned the mother-in-law.
"My advice? Well then--say yes."
"But he is so entirely without means, as I heard the other day," interposed Mrs. Baumhagen.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Bah! Gertrude can afford to marry a poor man. Besides--I don't know much about Niendorf, but I should think something might be made of it under good management. He seems to be the man for the place, and Wolff was telling me the other day that Linden was going to raise sheep on a large scale."
"That last bit of information of course settles the matter," remarked Jenny, ironically.
"No, no," cried the mother, sobbing again, "you none of you take it seriously enough. I cannot bring myself to consent, I have hardly exchanged half a dozen words with this Linden. Oh, what unheard-of presumption!" She rose from her chair, and crimson with excitement threw herself on the lounge.
"Now look out for hysterics," whispered Arthur, indifferently, taking out a cigar.
Jenny answered only by a look, but that was blighting. She took her train in her hand and swept past her astonished husband.
"Take me with you," he said, gayly.
"Jenny, stay with me," cried her mother, "don't leave me now."
And the young wife turned back, met her husband at the door, and passed him with her nose in the air to sit down beside her mother.
Oh, he had a long account to settle with her; she would have her revenge yet for his disagreeable remarks at the breakfast-table when she quite innocently praised Colonel von Brelow. He was not expecting anything pleasant either; she could see that at once, but only let him wait a little!
"How, mamma?" she inquired, "did you think I had anything to say to Arthur? Bah! He is an Othello--a blind one--they are always the worst."
"Ah, Jenny, that unhappy child--Gertrude."
"Oh, yes, to be sure," assented the young wife, "that stupid nonsense of Gertrude's--"
In the meantime the young girl was standing before her father's picture, her whole being in a tumult between happiness and pain. She had not closed her eyes the night before since she had shyly given him her hand with a scarcely whispered, "yes."
She knew he loved her; she had fancied a hundred times what it would be when he should tell her of it, and now it had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. She had loved him long already, ever since she had seen him that first time; and since then she had escaped none of the joy and pain of a secret attachment.
She took nothing lightly, did nothing by halves, and she had given herself up wholly to this fascination. Whoever should try to take him from her now, must tear her heart out of her breast.
As she stood there the tears ran down over her pale face in great drops, but a smile lingered about the small pouting mouth.
"I know it very well," she whispered, nodding at her father's picture, "you would be sure to like him, papa!" And a happy memory of the words he had spoken yesterday came back to her, of his lonely house, of his longing for her, and that he could offer her nothing but that modest home and a faithful heart.
His only wealth at present was a multitude of cares.
"Let me bear the cares with you, no happiness on earth would be greater than this," she wished to say, but she had only drooped her eyes and given him her hand--the words would not pass her lips.
It was as if she had been walking in the deepest shadow and had suddenly come out into the warm, life-giving sunshine. "It is too much, too much happiness!" she had thought this morning when she got up. She thought so still, and it seemed to her that the tears she shed were only a just tribute to her overpowering happiness. If her mother had consented at once, if she had said, "He shall be like a beloved son to me, bring him to me at once," that would have been too much, but this refusal, this distrust seemed to be meant to tone down her bliss a little. It was like the snow-storm in spring, which covers the early leaves and blossoms,--but when it is past do they not bloom out in double beauty?
The conversation in the next room grew more eager. Gertrude heard the complaining voice of her mother more clearly than before. It had a painful effect upon her and she cast a glance involuntarily at her father's picture, as if he could still hear what had been the torture of his life. Gertrude could recall so many scenes of complaint and crying in that very room. How often had her father's authoritative voice penetrated to her ear: "Very well, Ottilie, you shall have your way, but--spare me!" And how often had a pallid man entered through that door and thrown himself silently on the sofa as if he found a refuge here with his child. Ah, and it had been so too on that day, that dreadful day, when afterwards it had grown so still, so deathly still.
And there it was again, the loud weeping, the complaints against Heaven that had made her the most miserable of women, and now was punishing her through her children. Then there was an opening and shutting of doors, a running about of servants; Gertrude even fancied she could perceive the penetrating odor of valerian which Mrs. Baumhagen was accustomed to take for her nervous attacks. And then the door flew open and Jenny came in.
"Mamma is quite miserable," she said, reproachfully; "I had to send for the doctor, and Sophie is putting wet compresses on her head. A lovely day, I must say!"
"I am so sorry, Jenny," said the young girl.
"Oh, yes, but it was a very sudden blow. I must honestly confess that I cannot understand you, Gertrude. You must have refused more than ten good offers, you were always so fastidious, and now you have taken the first best that offered."
"The best certainly," thought Gertrude, but she was silent.
The young wife mistakenly considered this as the effect of her words.
"Now just consider, child," she continued, "think it over again, you--"
"Stop, Jenny," cried the young girl in a firm voice. "What gives you the right to speak so to me? Have I ever uttered a word about your choice? Did I not welcome Arthur kindly? What advantages has he over Linden? I alone have to judge as to the wisdom of this step, for I alone must bear the consequences. It is not right to try to influence a person in a matter that is so individual, that so entirely concerns that person alone."
"Good gracious, don't get so excited about it!" cried Jenny. "We do not consider him an eligibleparti, because he is entirely without fortune."
A deep shadow passed over Gertrude's pale face. "Oh, put aside the question of money," she entreated; "do not disturb the sweetest dream of my life--don't speak of it, Jenny."
But Jenny continued--"No, I will not keep silent, for you live in dreamland, and you must look a little at the realities of life that you may not fall too suddenly out of your fancied heaven. Perhaps you imagine that Frank Linden would have shown such haste if you had not been Gertrude Baumhagen? Most certainly he would not! I consider it my duty to tell you that mamma, as well as Arthur and I, are of the opinion that his first thought was of the capital our good father--" She stopped, for Gertrude stood before her, tall and threatening.
"You may comfort yourself, Jenny," she gasped out. "I believe in him, and I shall speak no word in his defence. You and the others may think what you please, I cannot prevent it, cannot even resent it, you--" She stopped, she would not utter the bitter words.--"Be so kind as to tell mamma that I will not break my word to him." She added, more calmly, "I shall be so grateful to you, Jenny--if any one can do anything with her it is you--her darling!"