The wedding-day came, not as such joyful days usually come. It was as still as death in the house, which was still plunged in the deepest mourning.
The large suite of rooms had been opened and warmed, and over Gertrude's door hung a garland of sober evergreen. The day before the door-bell had had no rest, and one costly present after another had been handed in. All the magnificence of massive silver, majolica, Persian rugs and other costly things had been spread out on a long table in the bow-window room. A gardener's assistant was still moving softly about in the salon, decorating the improvised altar with orange trees. The fine perfume ofpastilleslingered in the air and the flame from the open fire was reflected in the glass drops of the chandelier and the smoothmarqueterieof the floor. Outside, the weather was treacherously mild. It was the first of March.
Mrs. Baumhagen had been crying and groaning all the morning, and between the arrangements for the wedding, she had been giving orders respecting her own journey. The huge trunks stood ready packed in the hall. The next day but one they would start for Heidelberg to see a celebrated doctor.
As for Gertrude's trousseau, her mother had not concerned herself about it--she would attend to it herself. Gertrude's taste was very extraordinary, at the best; if she liked blue Gertrude would be sure to pronounce for red, it had always been so. Ah, this day was a dreadful one to her, and it was only the end of weeks of torture. Since the funeral of the baby, when her daughter had made such a scene, they had been colder than ever to each other. Gertrude's eyes could look so large, so wistful, as if they were always asking, "Why do you disturb my happiness?"
She should be glad when they had fairly started on their journey.
At this time the ladies were all dressing; the wedding was to take place at five o'clock. The faithful Sophie was helping Gertrude to-day--she would not permit any one to take her place.
Gertrude had put on her wedding-dress, and Sophie was kneeling before her, buttoning the white satin boots.
"Ah, Miss Gertrude," sighed the old woman, "it will be so lonely in the house now. Little Walter dead and you away!"
"But I shall be so happy, Sophie." The soft girlish hand stroked the withered old face which looked up at her so sadly.
"God grant it! God grant it!" murmured the old woman as she rose. "Now comes the veil and the wreath, but I am too clumsy for that, Miss Gertrude--but, ah, here is Mrs. Fredericks."
Jenny entered through the young girl's sitting-room. She wore a dress of deep black transparent crêpe, and a white camellia rested on the soft light braids. She was deathly pale and her eyes were red with weeping.
"I will help you, Gertrude," she said, languidly, beginning to fasten the veil on her sister's brown hair. "Do you remember how you put on my wreath, Gertrude? Ah, if one could only know at such a time what dreadful grief was coming!"
"Jenny," entreated Gertrude, "don't give yourself up to your grief so. When I came down when Walter died, and Arthur was holding you so tenderly in his arms I thought what great comfort you had in each other. That is after all the greatest happiness, when two people can stand by each other, in sorrow and trial."
"Oh," said Jenny, her lip curling disdainfully; "I assure you Arthur is half-comforted already. He can talk of other things, he can eat and drink and go to business, he can even play euchre. Wonderful happiness it is indeed!"
"Ah, Jenny, you cannot expect him to feel the grief that a mother does, he--"
"Oh, you will find it out too," interrupted the young wife. "Men are all selfish."
Gertrude rose suddenly from her chair. She was silent, but her eyes rested reproachfully on her sister as if to say, "Is that the blessing you give me to take with me?"
But her lips said only, "Not all, I know better."
Jenny stood in some embarrassment. "I must go down to Arthur now or he will never be ready at the right time, and then it will be time for me to come up to receive the guests."
The train of her dress swept over the carpet like a dark shadow as she went.
Gertrude sat down for a while in the deep window. The white silk fell in shimmering folds about her beautiful figure, and the grave young face looked out from the misty veil as from a cloud. She folded her hands and looked at her father's picture. "I will take you with me to-night, papa." And her thoughts flew off to the quiet country-house. She did not know it yet. Only once, when she had driven through the village on a picnic, had she seen a sharp-gabled roof and gray walls rising up among the trees. Who would have thought that this would one day be her home!
She felt as if it were heartless in her not to feel the departure from her father's house more. And from her mother? Ah, her mother! Papa had loved her, very much at one time. Should she go away without one tear, without one kind motherly word? Gertrude forgot everything in this blissful moment; she remembered only the good, the time when she was a happy child and her mother used to kiss her tenderly. She would not go without a reconciliation.
She rose, gathered up the long train of her wedding-dress and went across the dusky hall to her mother's chamber. She knocked softly and opened the door.
Mrs. Baumhagen was standing before the tall mirror in a black moiré antique, with black feathers and lace in her still brown hair. Gertrude could see her face in the glass; it was covered thick with powder, which she was just rubbing into her skin with a hare's foot.
Mrs. Baumhagen looked round and gazed at her daughter. She made a lovely bride, far more imposing than Jenny--and all for that Linden! She said nothing, she only sighed heavily and turned back to the glass.
"Mamma," began Gertrude, "I wanted to ask you something."
"In a moment."
Gertrude waited quietly till the last touch of the powder-puff had been laid on the temples, then Mrs. Baumhagen took the long black gloves, seated herself on a lounge at the foot of her large red-curtained bed, and began to put them on.
"What do you want, Gertrude?"
"Mamma, what do I want? I wanted to say good-bye to you." She sat down beside her mother and took her hand.
Mrs. Baumhagen nodded to her. "Yes, we sha'nt see each other for some time."
"Mamma, are you still angry with me?" asked the girl, hesitatingly, her eyes filling with tears.
"Forgive me, now," she entreated. "I have been vehement and perverse sometimes, but--"
"Oh, no matter--don't bring it up now," said her mother. "I only hope most heartily that you may be happy, and may never repent your obstinacy and perversity."
"Never!" cried Gertrude with perfect conviction.
Mrs. Baumhagen continued to button her gloves. The room was stifling with the heavy odors of lavender water and patchouly, and her heavy silk rustled as she exerted herself to button the somewhat refractory gloves. She made no reply.
"May I ask one more favor, mamma?"
"Certainly."
The girl involuntarily folded her hands in her lap.
"Mamma, show a little kindness to Linden--do try to like him a little--make to-day really a day of honor to him. Oh, mamma," she continued after a pause, "if he is offended to-day it will pierce my heart like a knife--dear mamma--"
The big tears trembled on her lashes.
Once more she asked, "Will you, mamma?"
Mrs. Baumhagen was just ready. She stretched out both her little hands, looked at them inside and out, and said without looking up:
"Kind?--of course--like him? One cannot force one's self to do that, my child. I hardly know him."
"For my sake," Gertrude would have said, but she bethought herself. The days of her childhood had passed, and since then--?
Mrs. Baumhagen rose.
"It is almost five," she remarked. "Go back to your room. Linden will be here in a moment."
She kissed Gertrude on the forehead, then quickly on the lips.
"Go, my child,--you know I don't like to be upset--God grant you all happiness." Gertrude went back to her room, chilled to the heart. A tall figure stepped hastily out of the window recess, and a strong arm was around her.
"It is you!" she said, drawing a long breath, while a rosy flush overspread her face.
The little wedding-party were assembled in the salon, the mother, Arthur, Jenny, Aunt Pauline and Uncle Henry. Two young cousins in white tulle made the only points of light amid the gloomy black.
"For Heaven's sake don't wear such long faces!" cried Uncle Henry, who looked as if the wedding had upset him as much as the funeral. "It is dismal enough as it is:--"
The door opened and the old clergyman entered. Uncle Henry went to meet him, greeted him loudly, and then disappeared with unusual haste to bring in the bride and bridegroom.
The afternoon sunshine flooded the rich salon, overpowering the light of the candles in the chandelier and the candelabra, and its rays rested on the young couple before the altar.
The voice of the clergyman, sounded mild and clear. They had met for the first time in the house of God, he said; evidently the Lord had brought them together, and what the Lord had joined together no man should put asunder. He spoke of love which beareth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Gertrude had chosen the text herself.
Then they exchanged rings. They knelt for the blessing, and they rose husband and wife.
Then they went up to their mother. Like Gertrude, Frank Linden saw all things in a different light in this hour. He held out his hand, and though he could find no words, he meant to promise by this hand-shake to guard the life just entrusted to him, as the very apple of his eye, his whole life long.
But Mrs. Baumhagen kissed the young wife daintily on the forehead, laid her fingers as daintily for one moment in his extended hand, and then turned to the clergyman who approached with his congratulations.
The young couple looked at each other, and as he looked into her anxious eyes he pressed her arm closer with his, and she grew calm and almost cheerful.
Uncle Henry had arranged the wedding-dinner, as was to be expected.
The curtains were drawn in the dining-room, which had a northern aspect, the lamps were lighted, and all the family silver shone and sparkled on the table. The old gentler man understood his business. He had had sleepless nights over it lately, it is true, but the menu was exquisite. The only pity was that he and Aunt Pauline and Arthur were the only ones who were capable of appreciating it, according to his ideas. The chilling mood still rested on the company, even through Uncle Henry's toasts, not even yielding to the champagne. The old egotist was almost in despair.
When the company adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee, Gertrude went to her room. A quarter of an hour later she came into the hall in her travelling dress. Her husband stood there waiting for her.
From the drawing-room they could hear the murmur of the company--here all was quiet.
She looked round her once more and nodded to the old clock in the corner.
"Good-bye, Sophie," she said, as she went down the staircase on his arm, and the old woman bent over the bannisters in a sudden burst of tears--"Say good-bye to all of them."
Brilliantly lighted windows shone out upon them in Niendorf when Frank lifted her out of the carriage, and led her up the steps. The sky was cloudy, and the fresh spring air was wonderfully soft and odorous.
"Come in!" he cried, opening the brown old house-door.
"Oh, what roses!" she cried with delight.
The balustrade of the staircase, the doorways, the chains from which the lamps swung were all lavishly adorned with roses, and by the dim light they glowed against the green background as if they were real blossoms.
Kind Aunt Rosa!
Hand in hand they mounted the staircase and walked down the corridor. It was only plastered, but it was quite covered with odorous evergreen. "This is our sitting-room, Gertrude, till yours is ready."
She stood on the threshold and looked in with eager eyes. It looked exceedingly cosy and home-like, this low room, pleasantly lighted by the lamp; and a beautiful hunting hound sprang up, whining with joy at sight of his master, whom he had not seen for the whole day. She entered, still holding his hand, in a sort of trembling happiness.
"Oh, what a beautiful dog! And there is your writing-table, and that is the book-case, and what a dear old face that is in the gold frame. Is it your mother, Frank? Yes, I thought she must look like that. And what a pretty tea-table set for two! Oh, dearest!" And the proud spoiled child of luxury lay weeping on his breast.
The proud spoiled child of luxury lay weeping in his arms.
"Here--it shall remain as it is, Frank--here it is warm and bright; no bitter word can ever be spoken here."
"Don't think of it any more," he whispered, comfortingly. "We have left all evil behind us. We are owners here, and we will have nothing but peace and love in our household."
"Yes," she said, smiling through her tears, "you are right. What have we to do with the outer world?"
They were standing together in front of his writing-table. A majolica vase stood on it filled with spring flowers.
"What an exquisite scent of violets!" she whispered, drawing in a long breath, and freeing herself from his arms.
A card lay among the flowers. Both hands were extended for it at once.
Heartiest congratulations on your marriage, from
C. Wolff, Agent.
"How did you happen to know him?Whyshould he send that?" asked her eyes.
But he threw the card carelessly on the table and kissed her on the forehead.
Spring is delicious when one is happy. The trees in the Niendorf garden put out their leaves one by one, a green veil hung over the budding forests, and violets were blooming everywhere; Gertrude's whole domain was filled with the scent of the blue children of spring. The voice of the young wife sounded through the old house like the note of a lark, and when Frank returned all sunburned from the fields, a white handkerchief waved from the shining windows upstairs, and when he reached the court it was fluttering in her hand on the topmost step.
"You have come at last, dearest," she would cry then.
And the walks in the woods, the evenings when he read aloud, and then the furnishing the house! How sweet it was to consult together, to make selections, to buy new things and how delighted they both were when they happened to think of the same things!
So the house was furnished by degrees. Workmen and upholsterers did their best. Aunt Rosa's room alone remained untouched, and the master's cosy room, in which they had passed their first happy weeks together.
And now everything was ready, homelike and comfortable without any pretension. The low rooms were not suited to display costly carved furniture, so with excellent taste they had both chosen only the simplest things.
"By-and-by, when we build a new house, Gertrude," he said, and she assented.
"First we will improve the estate, Frank--it is so pleasant in these dear old rooms."
The garden-hall been fitted up as a dining-room. Close by was a drawing-room with dark curtains and soft carpets; on the walls Uncle Henry's wedding present, two large oil paintings--a sunny landscape and a wintry sea-coast. From behind great green palms stood out a noble bust of Hermes. Sofas, low seats and arm-chairs everywhere, and wherever there was the smallest space it was filled up with a vase of fresh flowers.
Upstairs, next to the master's room, was that of the young wife, where her father's picture now stood behind the work-table, by the window.
The door between the two rooms stood open, and bright striped Turkish curtains drawn back, permitted Gertrude from her place by the window, to see the writing-table at which he was working. And from the window might be seen the wooded mountains beyond the green garden, and farther away still the distant Brocken, half-hidden in the clouds.
The young wife had cleared out all the cupboards; in the kitchen the last new tin had been hung up on the hooks, and shone and sparkled in the bright sunshine as if it were pure silver. In the store-room jars and pots were all full and in order, as she turned the key with a happy smile, and put it into the spick-and-span new key-basket on her arm.
"Come, Frank," she said, after he had been admiring all this splendor, "now we will go through all the rooms again."
"There are not many of them, Gertrude," he laughed.
"Enough for us, Frank; we do not need any more."
And they went through the garden hall, and admired the stately buffet and the hanging-lamp of polished brass, which swung over the great dining-table. They went into the drawing-room, and admired the pictures again which the sun lighted up so beautifully, and then they stopped, looked in each other's eyes and kissed each other.
"It is all just as I like it, Frank," said she, "plain and suitable, but nothing sham, no imitations. I hate pretence--everything ought to be genuine, as real and true as my love and your heart, you dear, good fellow.--Now everything is perfect in the house," she continued, picking up a thread from the carpet. "No one would recognize it; it is the most charming little house for miles around. And it did not cost nearly as much as Jenny's trousseau and wedding-journey."
They were standing in the open hall door, and the young man looked with brightening eyes across the garden to the outbuildings which had exchanged their leaky roofs for new shining blue slates.
"You are right, Gertrude, it is a pretty sight; we will sit here often. And to-morrow they will begin to build the new barns. They must be ready when we harvest the first rye."
"Frank," she asked, mischievously, "do you still think as you did a week after our wedding when we spoke about this for the first time, and you were really childish and absolutelywouldnot take anything of that which is yours by every right human and divine? And you would have let the cows be rained on in their stalls and the farm-servants in their beds."
"No, Gertrude, not now," he replied.
"And why, you Iron-will?"
"Because we love each other, love each other unspeakably."
"The adjective is not necessary," corrected she.
"Don't you believe that one may love unspeakably?" asked he with a smile.
"It sounds like a figure of speech."
He laughed aloud, and drew her out on the veranda.
"Our home," he said; "come, let us go through the garden and a little way into the wood."
The next day Gertrude opened the windows of the guest-chamber, and made everything there bright and fresh. The table in the dining-room was gayly decked, and Frank drove to the city in the new carriage to bring the judge from the station.
Gertrude was glad of the opportunity of seeing him, Frank had told her so much about his old friend. She had laughed heartily over his droll descriptions of his friend's peculiarities, how in company when he tried to pay a compliment he invariably managed to make it a back-handed one, to his own infinite astonishment.
She would take especial pains with her dress for this "jewel" of a man, as Frank called him. She put a rosette of lace in her hair, Frank liked that so much, it looked so matronly, almost like a little cap. When she went up to the toilet-table with this graceful emblem of her youthful dignity, to look at herself in the glass, she saw there a bouquet of lilies of the valley with a paper wound round their stems.
"From him, from Frank," she whispered, growing crimson with delight.
He had said good-bye to her with such a merry smile. She hastily unwound the paper from the flowers and read it.
They were verses turning on the expression he had made use of the day before,--"loving unspeakably," and justifying himself for using it by pointing out that for long after he had seen and loved her he knew not how to call her, where she dwelt, nor who she was, and so he might literally be said to have loved her "unspeakably."
"That is how he proves himself in the right," she murmured with blissful looks, pressing the paper to her lips. "And he is right, indeed, he does love me 'unspeakably.' Ah, I am a very happy woman!"
And she put the lilies of the valley in her dress, the verses in her pocket, took the key-basket and went to the dining-room once more on a tour of inspection round the table, and then as she had nothing to do for the moment, she knocked at Aunt Rosa's door, which was only separated from the dining-room by a small entry.
The old lady was sitting at the window making roses. There was to be a wedding in the village at Whitsuntide. A small man was sitting opposite her, who greeted the entrance of the young wife with a low bow.
"Beg a thousand pardons, madam,--I wanted to speak to your husband--I heard he had gone out and the lady here permitted me to wait for him."
"What does he say, Mrs. Linden?" inquired the old lady, shaking hands, "I did not permit him to do any such thing. He came in himself--and here he is."
"My name is Wolff, madam," said the agent by way of introduction.
"Must you speak to my husband to-day? It will not be convenient, for we have company to dinner. Can't I arrange it?" inquired Gertrude.
"O, no--no--" said he, very decidedly, bowing as he spoke. "I must speak to Mr. Linden himself, but I can come again, there is no hurry, I used to come here every day. Good morning, ladies."
"What could he want, auntie?" inquired the young wife after he had gone.
"Well, I can tell you what he wanted ofme--he wanted toquestionme. He would have liked to look through the key-hole to find out how it looked in your house. But sit down, my dear."
These two understood each other perfectly. Sometimes the old lady drank coffee with Gertrude and then she had many questions to answer. In this way it had come out quite by chance that she had been a schoolmate of Gertrude's grandmother.
Sometimes they went to walk together and Gertrude learned to know the village people, found out who the poor ones were and a little of the history of the place. Aunt Rosa's pictures were rather roughly drawn, she did not like every one, but Linden was her idol next to a young niece of hers.
"He is so nice," she used to say, "he is so courteous to the old as well as the young."
And Gertrude returned the compliment by declaring she could not imagine the house without Aunt Rosa.
To-day, the young mistress of the house could not stay long quietly in the rose-room. It was strange, but she felt anxious about her husband. If only he had had no accident with the new horses, she thought, as she went out on the veranda.
The blooming garden lay quiet and still before her in the mid-day sunshine. Suddenly a shadow came over her face--there, under the chestnut-trees, where the sunbeams broke through the leaves in golden flecks. There was no doubt of it--it was he, the man in Aunt Rosa's room. How happened he to penetrate into the garden? Where had she heard his name before? She started as if she had touched something unpleasant. "Wolff,"--it was the name on the card that came with the flowers on her wedding eve. Yes, to be sure. But she hadseenthe man, too, somewhere before--where was it? Perhaps in the factory with Arthur, very likely.
She raised her head and her eyes began to sparkle. There was the carriage just turning in at the gate.Hewas driving and on the front seat beside the expected guest sat Uncle Henry, waving his red handkerchief.
The gentlemen were all in the best of humor--it was a lively meeting.
"It looks something like here now, Frank," said the little judge, clapping Linden on the shoulder and shaking hands with his wife. He was so pleased that he even inquired for Aunt Rosa.
"Do you know, child," said Uncle Henry by way of excuse for his presence, "I should not be here so soon again, but the landlord of the hotel died this morning--and I couldn't eat there, it was out of the question. You have some asparagus?"
"I shall not tell any tales out of school, uncle."
She put her arm in that of the old gentleman and went up the steps with her guests. At the top she turned her head and then walked quickly to the balustrade of the veranda.
There stood Wolff bowing before her husband, his hat in his hand, his face covered with smiles.
"O, ta, ta!" said Uncle Henry.
"How comes he here, Gertrude?"
The judge looked out from under his blue spectacles with earnest attention at the two men. Just then Linden waved his hand shortly and they strode along the way which led to the court and the outer gate, Wolff still speaking eagerly.
Gertrude bent far over the iron railing. It seemed to her that Frank was vexed. Now they stood still. Frank opened the gate and pointed outward with an unmistakable and very energetic gesture.
Mr. Wolff hesitated, he began to speak again--again the mute gesture still more energetic, and the little man disappeared like a flash. The gate fell clanging in the lock and Frank came back, but slowly as if he must recover himself first and deeply flushed as if from intense anger.
Gertrude went to meet him, but said nothing. She would not ask him for explanations before their guests. She very stealthily pressed his hand and spoke cheerfully of her pleasure in her guests.
"Charming!" he said, absently, "but Gertrude, pray entertain Uncle Henry--Richard--come with me a moment--I must--I will show you your room." And the two friends left the room together.
"Do you know that you are going to have some more visitors this afternoon?" asked the old gentleman, settling himself comfortably in a chair. "Your mother and the Fredericks,--they came back yesterday morning. Jenny looks blooming as a rose, and, thank Heaven! Arthur has got his milk-face burned a little with the sun."
"Yes," replied Gertrude, "he was with them at the Italian lakes for a month." And then as if she had only just taken in his whole meaning,--"How glad I am that mamma is coming out here at once! Ah, uncle, if she would only get reconciled to Frank!"
"Eh, what? Gertrude, don't distress yourself, it will all come right. Besides he is not a man to put up with much nonsense!"
"What could this Wolff have wanted with him?"
"Hm! what are they about in Heaven's name?" asked her uncle, impatiently.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, absently.
"Hungry? How can you use such common expressions? A dish of pork and beans would suffice for hunger. I have an appetite, my child. O, ta, ta, the asparagus will be spoiled if those two stay so long in their room."
It was a very cosy group that Mrs. Baumhagen's eyes rested on as she, with Jenny and Arthur, mounted the veranda steps.
They were sitting over their dessert, and Uncle Henry, with his napkin in his buttonhole, his champagne-glass in his hand, shouted out a stentorious "welcome!" while the young host and hostess hurried down the steps, Gertrude with crimson cheeks. She was so proud, so happy.
Mrs. Baumhagen looked at her daughter in amazement. The pale, quiet girl had become as blooming as a rose. "It is the honeymoon still," she said to herself, and her eyes never ceased to follow her youngest child during the whole time of her stay.
The coffee-table was set out under the chestnuts. It was a beautiful spot. The eye glanced over the green lawn, past the magnificent trees to the quaint old dwelling-house with its high gables and its ivy-grown walls. The doors of the garden-hall stood open, and from the flagstaff fluttered gayly a black-and-white flag.
"An idyll like a picture by Voss," laughed the little judge.
The young host gallantly escorted his mother-in-law through the garden. Every cloud had vanished from his brow, he was cheerful and agreeable.
"But very sure of himself," Jenny remarked, later, to her mother. "He feels himself quite the host and master of the house."
The uncomfortable feeling which he had always had in his mother-in-law's presence, had disappeared. To her amazement he permitted himself once or twice quite calmly to contradict her. Arthur had never dared to do that. And Gertrude, how ridiculous! while she presided over the coffee in her calm way, her eyes were continually turning to him as soon as he spoke. "As you like, Frank,"--"What do you think, Frank?" etc. And when her mother hoped Gertrude would not fail to call on her Aunt Pauline on her birthday, the next day, she asked appealingly, "Can I, Frank? Can I have the carriage?"
"Certainly, Gertrude," was the reply.
Then Mrs. Baumhagen put down her dainty coffee cup and leaned back in her garden chair. The child was not in her right mind! that was too much. But Arthur Fredericks applauded loudly.
"Gertrude," he called out across the table, "talk to this--" he seized the hand of his wife who angrily tried to draw it away. "What does Katherine say as an amiable wife to her sister? Words that sound as sweet to us as a message from a better world."
"To be sure!" laughed Gertrude, not in the least offended by the ironical tone.
"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for theeAnd for thy maintenance; commits his bodyTo painful labor, both by sea and land; To watch the night in storms, the day in coldWhile thou liest warm at home secure and safe;And craves no other tribute at thy handsBut love, fair looks and true obedience,--Too little payment for so great a debt."
"You see, Arthur, I have my Shakespeare at my tongue's end."
Mrs. Baumhagen suddenly broke up the coffee party. She seemed heated, for she was fanning herself with her handkerchief.
"Gertrude, you must show us the house," she exclaimed. "Come, Jenny, we will leave the gentlemen to their cigars."
"Gladly, mamma," said the young girl, easily.
She led her mother and sister through the kitchen and cellar, through the chambers, and through the whole house. In the dining-room a pretty young woman in a spotless white apron was engaged in clearing off the table. Gertrude gave her some orders in a low tone as she passed.
"That is Johanna, whose husband was killed," said Jenny.
"Yes," replied her sister, "I have engaged her as housekeeper. She is very capable, and I like to have a familiar face about me."
"With the child?" asked the mother, scornfully.
"Of course," replied the young wife. "She lives in the other wing. It is a pleasure to see how the little fellow improves in the country air."
"Who lives in this wing?" inquired Jenny.
"Aunt Rosa."
"Good gracious! A sort of mother-in-law?" cried her sister in consternation.
Gertrude shook her head. "No, she is quite inoffensive, she belongs to the inventory--so to speak. But I would like Frank to have his mother here, the old lady is so alone and she is not very well."
Jenny laughed aloud, but Mrs. Baumhagen rustled so angrily into the next room that all the ribbons on her rather youthful toilette fluttered and waved in the air.
"Gertrude!" cried Jenny, "you will not be so senseless!"
The young wife made no reply. She opened a wardrobe door in the corridor and said,
"This is the linen, Jenny; we need so much in the country. That is the chest for the finest linen and for the china, and this is my room. This way, mamma."
"It might have been a little less simple," remarked her mother, who had recovered herself, though the flush of excitement still rested on her full cheeks.
"I did not wish to be so very unlike Frank, who kept his old furniture; besides we are only in moderate circumstances, you know, mamma, and we are only just beginning."
Her mother cleared her throat and sat down in one of the small arm-chairs. Jenny wandered about the room, looking at the pictures and ornaments, slightly humming to herself as she did so. Gertrude stood thoughtfully beside her mother and felt her heart grow cold as ice. It was the old feeling of estrangement which always thrust itself between her and her mother and sister--they had nothing in common. She grieved over it as she had always done, but she no longer felt the bitter pain of former days. Slowly her hand sought the pocket of her dress, and touched lightly a rustling paper--"Thou art unspeakably beloved." Ah, that was compensation enough for anything, and she lifted her head with a happy smile.
"But you have not told me anything about your delightful journey yet, and your letters were so very short."
"O, yes," said Jenny, yawning as she took up a terra cotta figure and gazed at it on all sides, "it was perfectly delightful in Nice. Now that I am back again, I begin to feel what a provincial little circle it is that we vegetate in here."
"We will go again, next year, Providence permitting," added Mrs. Baumhagen. "Only I must beg to be excused from Arthur's company. He was really just as childish as your father used to be in his time. Jenny must not do this and Jenny should not do that, mustn't go here and mustn't stand there, in short he was a perfect torment, as if we women did not know ourselves what it is proper to do."
Jenny seated herself too.
"Never mind, mamma, he is still suffering for his folly. I have not allowed him to forget the scene he made for us at Monte Carlo yet."
"O yes, Heaven knows you are a very happy couple," exclaimed her mother.
"But I think it is time for us to be going home," she continued, taking her costly watch from her belt. "We will go and get your husband. Come."
The three ladies went back to the garden to the table where the gentlemen were comfortably chatting over their cigars. Frank was in earnest conversation with Aunt Rosa, who in her best array, sat enthroned in the seat Mrs. Baumhagen had left only a short time before. Gertrude hastened to introduce her mother and sister to the old lady. There was no help for it--they were obliged to sit down again for a short time out of politeness. Mrs. Baumhagen, with a bored look, Jenny with scarcely concealed amusement at the wonderful little old lady.
"Gertrude," began Frank, "Aunt Rosa came to tell us that she expects company."
"I hope it won't put you out," said the old lady, turning to Gertrude. "My niece always visits me every year at this time. You have heard me say that the child is passionately fond of the woods and mountains and she cheers me up a little."
"Is it that pretty little girl you have told us about so often, Aunt Rosa?" asked Gertrude, kindly; and as the former nodded, she continued,
"Oh, she will be heartily welcome, won't she, Frank? When is she coming, and what is her name?"
"I expect her in a day or two, and her name is Adelaide Strom," replied Aunt Rosa. "I always call her Addie."
[Illustration: "Gertrude hastened to introduce her mother and sister to the old lady."]
Then she began to explain the relationship which had the result of making all the company dizzy.
"My mother's sister married a Strom, and her step-son is the cousin of Adelaide's grandfather--"
Here Mrs. Baumhagen rose with great rustling. "I must go home," she said, interrupting the explanation. "It is high time we were gone."
Jenny, who was standing behind her husband's chair, laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Please order the carriage."
"Why, what do you mean, child?" said he in a tone of vexation. "We have only just come!"
"But mamma wishes it."
"Mamma? But why?" he asked, shortly. "We are having a delightful talk."
"Won't you stay till evening, Mrs. Baumhagen?" asked Frank, courteously.
"My head aches a little," was the reply.
Arthur ran his hand despairingly through his hair. This "headache" was the weapon with which every reasonable argument was overthrown.
"Very well, then, do you go," he muttered, grimly. "I will come home with Uncle Henry."
"Yes, to be sure, my dear fellow," cried the old gentleman, much pleased. "I shall be very glad of your company; we will try the Moselle, eh, Frank?"
"Uncle Henry filled up the cellar for our wedding-present," explained the young host as he rose to order the carriage.
"And so richly," added Gertrude.
"Oh, ta, ta!"
The old gentleman had risen and was helping his sister-in-law on with her cloak, with somewhat asthmatic politeness.
"It was pure selfishness, Ottilie. Only that a man might get a drop fit to drink when one arrived here, weary and thirsty."
"Gertrude," whispered Jenny, taking her sister a little aside, "how can you be so foolish as to allow a young girl to be brought into the house? I tell you it is really dreadful; they are always in the way, theyalwayswant to be admired, they are always wanting to help and never fail to pay most touching attentions to the host. It is really inconsiderate of the old lady to impose her on you. Invent some excuse for keeping her away. I speak from experience, my love. Arthur invited a cousin once, you remember, I nearly died of vexation."
Gertrude laughed.
"Ah, Jenny," she said, shaking her head. The she hastened after her mother, who was already seated in the carriage.
"Come again soon," she said cordially, when Jenny had taken her seat also.
"I shall expect a visit from you next," was the reply. "You must be making a few calls in town some time."
"We haven't thought about it yet," cried Gertrude, gayly.
"Pray do see that Arthur gets home before the small hours. Uncle Henry never knows when to go," cried Jenny in a tone of vexation.
And the carriage rolled away.