The young wife left her sister's room almost in consternation. She could find nothing to say to Gertrude's unexpected reliance upon her. The sisters had never understood each other. Jenny could not comprehend now how any one could be so blinded and so unwise, and she was startled as if by something pure and lofty as the clear girlish eyes rested on her, which could still discover poetry amid all the dusty prose of life. She sat down again beside the sofa.
"Mamma," she whispered, after a pause, during which she balanced her small slipper thoughtfully on the tip of her toe, "Mamma, I really believe you can't help it--will you have a little eau de cologne?--Gertrude is so madly in love with him. I am sure you will have to give your consent, notwithstanding it is so great a disappointment."
Gertrude remained standing in the middle of the room looking after her sister. She felt sorry for her. It must be dreadful when one could no longer believe in love and disinterestedness, and the image of Frank Linden's true eyes rose up before her as clear as his pure heart itself. Can a man look like that with ulterior motives? can a man speak so with a lie in his heart? She could have laughed aloud in her blissful certainty. Even though she were poor, a beggar indeed, he would still love her.
In the afternoon a great conference was held. At twelve o'clock an order was suddenly given from the sofa to have the drawing-room heated, the Dresden coffee service taken out, and some cakes sent for from the confectioner's. Madame Ottilie would hold a family counsel.
The aroma of Sophie's celebrated coffee penetrated even to Gertrude's lonely room. She could hear the doors open and shut, and now and then the voice of Aunt Pauline, and Uncle Henry's comfortable laugh. The day drew near its close and still no conclusion seemed to have been arrived at, but Gertrude sat calmly in her bow-window and waited. He would be calm too, she was sure of that--he had her word. Steps at last--that must be her uncle.
"Well, Miss Gertrude!" he called out into the dusky room--"he came, he saw, he conquered--eh? Fine doings, these. Your mother is in a pretty temper over the presumption of the bold youth. He will need all his fascinations to gain her favor as a mother-in-law. Well, come in now, and thank me for her consent."
"I knew it, uncle," she said, pleasantly. "I was sure you would stand by me."
He was a little old gentleman with a little round body, which he always fed well in his splendid bachelor dinners; always in good humor, especially after a good glass of wine. And as he knew what an agreeable effect this always had upon him, he never failed for the benefit of mankind, to make use of this means of making himself amiable and merry. He now took the tall, slender girl laughingly by the hand as if she were a child, and led her towards the door.
"Live and let live, Gertrude!" he cried. "It is out of pure egotism that I made such a commotion about it. You need not thank me, I was only joking. You see, I can stand anything but a scene and a woman's tears, and your mother understands that sort of thing to a T. That always upsets me you know. 'Don't make a fuss, Ottilie,' I said. 'Why shouldn't the little one marry that handsome young fellow? You Baumhagen girls are lucky enough to be able to take a man simply because you like him.' Ta, ta! Here comes the bride!" he called out, letting Gertrude pass before him into the lighted room.
She walked with a light step and a grave face up to her mother, who was reclining in the corner of the sofa as if she were entirely worn out by the important discussion. By her side sat the thin aunt in a black silk dress, her blond cap reposing on her brown false front, in full consciousness of her dignity. Jenny sat near her while Arthur was standing by the stove. The ladies had been drinking coffee, the gentlemen wine. The violet velvet curtains were drawn and everything looked cosy and comfortable.
"I thank you, mamma," said Gertrude.
Mrs. Baumhagen nodded slightly and touched her daughter's lips with hers. "May you never repent this step," she said, faintly; "it is not without great anxiety that I give my consent, and I have yielded only in consequence of my knowledge of your unbending--yes, I must say it now--passionate character--and for the sake of peace."
A bitter smile played about Gertrude's mouth.
"I thank you, mamma," she repeated.
"My dear Gertrude," began her aunt, solemnly, "take from me too--"
"Oh, come," interposed Uncle Henry, very ungallantly, "do have compassion, in the first place on me, but next on that languishing youth in Niendorf, and send him his answer. It has happened before now that dreadful consequences have followed such suspense; I could tell you some blood-curdling stories about it, I assure you. Come, we will write out a telegram," he continued, drawing a notebook from his pocket and tearing out a leaf, while he borrowed a pencil from his dear nephew Arthur.
"Well, what shall it be, Gertrude?" he inquired, when he was ready to write. "'Come to my arms!' or 'Thine forever!' or 'Speak to my mother,' or--ha! ha! I have it--'My mother will see you; come to-morrow and get her consent. Gertrude Baumhagen.' 'And get her consent,'" he spelt out as he wrote.
"Thanks, uncle," said the young girl; "I would rather write it myself in my room; his coachman is waiting at the hotel opposite."
She could hear her uncle's hearty laugh over the poor fellow who had been sighing in suspense from eleven o'clock this morning till now, and then she shut her door. With a trembling hand she lighted her lamp and wrote: "Mamma has consented; I shall expect you to-morrow. Your Gertrude."
The old Sophie, who had been a servant in the Baumhagen house before the master was married, took the note. "I will carry it across myself, Miss Gertrude," she said, "and if it was pouring harder than it is, and if I got my rheumatism back for it, I would go all the same. I have the fate of two people in my hand in this little bit of paper. God grant that it may bring joy to you both. Miss Gertrude."
Gertrude pressed her hand and then went to the bow-window and looked through the glass to watch Sophie as she crossed the square. Her white apron fluttered now under the street-lamp near the old apple-woman, and then under the swinging lamp before the hotel. If the old man would only drive as fast as his horses could carry him! Every minute of waiting seemed too long to her now.
Then the white apron appeared again under the hotel lamp, but there was somebody before it. Gertrude pressed her hands suddenly against her beating heart. "Frank!" she gasped, and her limbs almost refused to support her as she tried to make a few steps; He had waited for the answer himself!
"There he is, there he is, my bridegroom!" escaped from the quivering lips. The whole sacred signification of that blessed word overpowered her. Then Sophie opened the door softly and he crossed the threshold of the dainty maiden's boudoir, and shut the door as softly behind him. The faithful old servant could only see how her proud young mistress nestled into his arms and mutely received his kisses--"Oh, what a wonderful thing this love is!" she said, smiling to herself.
Then she turned towards the drawing-room, but when she reached the door she turned away with a shake of her head. They would all be rushing in and she would not shorten these blessed minutes for Gertrude. It would be time enough to go to "madam" in a quarter of an hour. And she busied herself in the corridor in order to be at hand at the right moment, in case they should both forget all about the mother in the multiplicity of things they had to say.
It was midnight before Linden finally drove home. The jovial uncle had gotten up a little celebration of the betrothal on the spur of the moment, and made a long speech himself. Then Mrs. Jenny had been very gay and had laughed and jested with her brother-in-lawin spe. But Mrs. Baumhagen, after a private interview of half an hour with the young man, remained silent and grave, and played out her role of anxious mother to the end. She scarcely touched her lips to the glass of champagne when the company drank to the health of the young betrothed.
Frank Linden, however, had not taken offence at her coldness. She knew him so slightly, and he had come like a hungry wolf to rob her of her one little lamb.
It must be dreadful to give up a daughter, he thought, and especially such a daughter as Gertrude. He was touched to the heart; he thought of his own old mother, he thought how gloomy the future had looked to him only a few weeks ago and how sunny it was now; and all these sunny rays shone out from a pair of blue eyes in a sweet, pale, girlish face. He did not know himself how he had happened to speak to her so quickly of his love. He saw again that brilliantly lighted crimson room of yesterday, and the dim twilight in the bow-window room; there she stood in the wonderful light, a mingled moonlight and candle-light. The Christmas tree was lighted in the next room and the voices and laughter of the company floated to his ears. She had turned as he approached her and he had seen tears on her cheeks. But she laughed as she perceived his dismay.
"Ah, it is because Christmas always reminds me of papa. He has been dead seven years yesterday."
One word had led to another and at length they had found their hands clasped together.
"I would gladly have held this little hand fast that time in the church. Would you have been angry, Gertrude?" and she had shaken her head and looked up at him, smiling through her tears, trusting and sweet, this proud young creature--his bride, soon to be his wife!
He started up out of his dream. The carriage stopped at the steps and the house rose dark above him--only behind Aunt Rosa's windows was a light still shining. He went up the steps as if in a dream and entered the garden hall. He looked round as if he had entered the room for the first time, so strange it looked, so changed, so bare and cold. And he thought of the time when someone would be waiting for him here. He could not imagine such happiness.
The door opened softly behind him and as he turned he saw Aunt Rosa appearing like a ghost.
"I have been waiting for you, my dear nephew," she cried out in her shrill voice; "I have found that letter at last, thank Heaven! It is upstairs in your room, and it has taken a weight off my mind, I assure you, Frank." She nodded kindly at him from under her enormous cap. "You are late getting home. I am tired and am going to bed now. Goodnight, good-night!"
And she moved lightly like a ghost to the door.
"Auntie!" cried a voice behind her so loud and gay that she turned round in amazement. But then he was beside her and had clasped her in both arms, and before she knew what was happening to her, the shy old maiden lady felt a resounding kiss on her cheek.
"What on earth, Frank Linden--have you gone out of your mind?"
"O, auntie, I can't keep it to myself, I shall choke if I do. So don't be cross. If I had my old mother here, I should kiss the old lady to death for pure bliss. You must congratulate me. Gertrude Baumhagen will be my wife."
Aunt Rosa's half-shocked, half-vexed countenance grew rigid. "Is it possible," she whispered, in amazement, "she will marry into our old house? And the family have consented?"
"A Baumhagen--yes! And she will marry into this old house and the family have consented. Aunt Rosa."
"God's blessing on you! God's richest blessing!" she whispered, but she shook her head and looked at him incredulously. "I shan't sleep a bit to-night," she continued. "I am glad, I rejoice with all my heart, but you might have told me to-morrow. It is done now. Good night, Frank. I am glad indeed; this old house needs a mistress. God grant that she may be a good one." And she pressed his hand as she left him.
He too went to his room. The lamp was burning on the round table and a letter lay beneath it. Ah, true! the long-lost letter! He took it up abstractedly--it was in Wolff's handwriting. He put it down again; what could he want? Some business of course. Should he spoil this happy hour with unpleasant, perhaps care-bringing news? No, let the letter wait--till--but he had already taken it up and broken the seal.
But he had already taken it up and broken the seal.
It was a long letter and as he read, he bit his lips hard. "Pitiful scoundrel!" he said at length, aloud, "it is well this letter did not reach me sooner, or things would not have happened as they have." And as if shrinking with disgust from the very touch of the paper, he flung it into the nearest drawer of his writing-table.
"Vile wretches, who make the most sacred things a matter of traffic!"
He sat for a long time lost in thought, and a deep furrow marked itself out between his brows. Then he wrote a long letter to his friend, the judge, and gradually his face cleared again--he was telling him about Gertrude.
"Good morning, Uncle Henry," said Gertrude, who was sitting at her work-table in the bow-window. She rose as she spoke and went to meet the stout little gentleman as he entered.
"Well, it is lucky that one of you at least is at home," he replied, rubbing his glasses with his red handkerchief, after giving Gertrude's hand a hearty shake. "I wonder if one of the women-kind except you could possibly stay at home for a day. Mrs. Jenny is making calls, Mrs. Ottilie is gone to a coffee party--it is easy to see that a strong hand to hold the reins is wanting here."
Gertrude smiled.
"Uncle, don't scold, but come and sit down," she said. "You come just in time for me; I had just written a little note to you to ask you to come and see me. I need your advice."
"Oh! but not immediately, child, not immediately! I have just had my dinner," he explained, "and nothing can be more dangerous than hard thinking just after a meal. Ta, ta! There, this is comfortable; now tell me something pleasant, child--about your lover; for instance, how many kisses did he give you yesterday? Honestly now, Gertrude."
He had stretched himself out comfortably in an arm-chair, and his young niece pushed a footstool under his feet and put an afghan over his knees.
"None at all, uncle," she said, gravely; "people do not ask about such things either, you know. Besides I see Frank very seldom," she hesitated. "Mamma goes out so much, and I cannot receive him when she is not at home. And, uncle, it is about that that I wanted to speak to you. Mamma,"--she hesitated again,--"mamma makes me so anxious by all manner of remarks about Linden's circumstances. You know, uncle--"
"And you think she knows all about them?" said the old gentleman. "Oh, of course, ta, ta!"
"Yes, uncle. You see the day before yesterday mamma went out to dine with Jenny, and when she came back she called me into her room, and as soon as I got there I saw that something had happened. Just fancy, uncle, she had been in Niendorf to see, as mamma expressed it, the place where her daughter was going to bury herself. It would be horrible, she declared, to take a young wife to this peasant house; it was not fit for any one to live in; she had felt as if she were in some third-rate farm-house. Linden was sitting in a room--she could touch the ceiling with her hand it was so low, and it was all so poor and common. In short, I could not go there, and if I would not give up my whim of being Mr. Linden's wife, she would have to build a house for me first, for he--he--well, he certainly would not be able to do it, and it would be much more convenient too, to have a snug nest made for him by his mother-in-law. Jenny, who was present at this scene, agreed with her in everything. Oh, uncle, I am so sorry for him, and it is all on my account."
"Did your mother speak to him about building?" asked Uncle Henry.
She drew her hand across her forehead.
"I don't know--I went away without answering. If I had made any reply, it would have been of no use--we battle with unequal weapons, or rather I cannot use my weapons, for she is still my mother."
Her uncle's eyes gazed at her with unmistakable compassion--she was so pale and she had a weary look about her mouth.
"You poor child! I see they do not make your engagement time exactly a Paradise to you," he thought; but he only cleared his throat and said nothing.
"And what can I do about it?" he asked, after a pause.
"I am going to tell you that now," said Gertrude. "You see I have to torment you. I am not on such terms with Arthur that he could advise me in this. I want to ask you, uncle, to speak to Frank--I must know how great his pecuniary difficulties are, and--"
"Nonsense, child," interrupted the old gentleman, evidently unpleasantly surprised,--"Why should you drag me in? Pecuniary difficulties! What can you do about it? For the present you have nothing to do with it--and you will find out about it soon enough."
"You mean because we are not yet man and wife?" she asked.
"Of course!" he nodded.
"O, it is quite the same thing, uncle," she cried, eagerly. "From the moment of our betrothal, I have considered myself as belonging to him entirely, and everything of mine as his. Then why, since I can already dispose of a part of my property as I please, should I not help him out of what may perhaps be a very unpleasant situation?"
"But, my dear child--"
"Let me have my say out, uncle. You know I have ten thousand dollars that came from my grandmother, about which no one has anything to say but myself, and you shall pay over these ten thousand dollars to Linden. I suppose he will have to build--he may need all sorts of things then, and he will be fretted and worried--do this for me, uncle; you seeIcannot talk to him about such things."
"Indeed, I will not, Miss Gertrude."
"Why?"
"Because he would take it, finally--or he would be angry. Thanks, ever so much."
"But I want him to take it."
He was silent.
"When are you going to be married, child?" he inquired at length.
A rosy flush passed over Gertrude's face--"Mamma has not said anything about it yet. Frank wants it to be in April, and--I do not want to increase his difficulties by my reception."
"Very well, very well, he can wait as long as that," said the old gentleman.
She looked disappointed, but she said nothing.
"I don't want to go against your wishes, little one," he continued, perceiving her sorrowful looks. "I only want to do what is right in matters of business. Now you see if you are bent on following out this plan you will throw away a fine sum of money--in order to make your nest a right comfortable one.Amantes,amentes--that is to say in plain English, lovers are mad--and when you wake up to what you have done all your fat is in the fire."
Gertrude said nothing, but she wore a pained expression about her mouth.Hetoo spoke so. How often lately had she heard the same thing? Even her pleasure in the single present Linden had made her had been spoiled by similar insulting remarks.
"Oh, don't look so miserable about it, little one," yawned the old gentleman; "what have I said? We men are all egotists with one another I assure you. Why then will you confirm your lover in his egotism and let the roasted larks fly into his mouth beforehand? Keep a tight rein over him, Gertrude, that is the only sensible thing to do; you must not let him be anything more than the Prince Consort--keep the reins of government in your own little fists; confound it, I believe you can rule too!"
"Uncle," said the young girl, softly going up to him, "Uncle, you are a hypocrite, you say things that you don't believe yourself. You are all egotists? And I don't know any one in the world who has less claim to the title than you."
"Really, child," he declared, laughing, "I am an egotist of the purest water."
"Indeed? Who gives as much as you to the poor of the city? Who supports the whole family of the poor teacher, with rent, clothes, food and drink?Whonow, uncle?"
"All selfishness, pure selfishness!" he cried.
"Prove it, uncle, prove it logically."
"Nothing easier. You know the story of how I got a cramp in my leg and dragged myself into the nearest house on the Steinstrasse, and sank down on the first chair I could find. I was just going to dinner; had invited Gustave Seyfried and Augustus Seemann to dine with me--well, you know they have lived in Paris and London. So there I sat in that little low room. The people were at dinner and a dish of thin potato soup stood on the table, that would have been hardly enough for the man alone. Seven children--seven children, mind you, Gertrude,--stood round, and the mother was dealing out their portions. She began with the youngest; the oldest, a lad of fourteen, got the last of the dish. There was not much in it, and I shall never forget the look of those sunken hungry eyes as they rested on that empty bowl. It made me feel so queer all at once. I asked casually, what the man's business was? Teacher of language at twelve cents an hour! He could not get a permanent position on account of his ill health. Good God, Gertrude! Four hours a day would give him fifty cents and he had seven children!
"Well, do you know, that day we had oysters before the soup, and they were rather dear just then, so I reckoned up that each one of those smooth little delicacies cost as much as an hour's lesson, in which the poor man talked his poor, weak throat hoarse. They wouldn't go down my throat in spite of their slipperiness. I couldn't swallow more than half a dozen and that was disagreeable. At every course it was the same story, and when Louis uncorked the champagne, every pop seemed to go straight to my stomach. I never ate a more uncomfortable dinner--it disagreed with me besides, and I had to take some soda water. 'Confound it!' I said, 'this thing can't go on,' and--you know, child, that a good dinner is the purest pleasure in the world for men of my sort. So there was nothing for me, if I wanted to enjoy my oysters again, but to comfort myself with the thought that the seven hungry mouths were also busy about their dinner. So I sent John to the teacher's wife to ask her how much money she needed a month to feed all seven, with herself and her husband into the bargain, so they would have enough. And, good gracious, it wasn't such an enormous sum, and so I pay her a certain sum every month and I can enjoy my dinner again at the hotel. Now, prove if you can that that isn't pure selfishness."
"Oh, of course, uncle," said the young girl, with brightening eyes, "but I like that sort of selfishness."
"It is all one, Gertrude; I am sending Hannah into retirement now out of selfishness; she is getting so stout that she can't get through the door any more with the coffee tray. And I ask you if I am to keep another servant to open the double doors for her, just for the sake of the old asthmatic woman? That would be fine! So I said to her this morning, 'Hannah, you can go at Easter, and I will continue your wages as a pension.' She was delighted, because she can go to her daughter, now."
"Uncle, I know you very well. I can trust to you," coaxed Gertrude. "You will speak to Frank, won't you?"
"Oh, well, yes, yes, only don't blush so. Now you see you have spoiled my dessert with all your talking. When does her serene highness come home?"
"I don't know," replied the young girl.
"To be sure, these coffee-parties are never to be counted upon. So you two lovers only see each other on state occasions, like Romeo and Juliet, or when you have company yourselves?"
Gertrude nodded silently.
"Is it possible!" cried the little gentleman as he rose to go--"as if the time of an engagement were not the happiest in the world. Afterwards it is all pure prose, my child. And they are spoiling this time for you now--well, you just wait. I must go now to my card-party. I will look in on your mother this evening. Good bye; my love to him when you write."
"Good-bye, uncle. Don't forget that I shall trust to your selfishness."
When the old gentleman had closed the door behind him, she sat down to her desk, look out a letter and began to read it. It was his last letter; it had come this morning and it contained some verses.
How she delighted in these verses in her loneliness! Nothing in the world could separate them! She would indemnify him a thousandfold by her love for all he had to endure now. She tried by a thousand sweet, loving words to make him forget the scorn which her friends scarcely tried to conceal for his boldness and presumption. His manly pride must suffer so greatly under it. More than once the blood had mounted quickly to his forehead, and more than once had he taken leave earlier than he need, as if he could not keep silent and for the sake of peace took refuge in flight.
"I wish I had you in Niendorf now, Gertrude," he had said at the last farewell. "I cannot bear it very patiently to be looked through as if I were only air, by your mother."
And she had nestled closer to him, trembling with agitation.
"Mamma does not mean anything by it, Frank," replied her lips, though her heart knew better. And then he had pressed her passionately to him as he said,
"If I did not love you so much, Gertrude!"
"But it will soon be spring, Frank."
And to-day the verses had come with a bouquet of violets.
She started as she heard Jenny's voice, and immediately after her sister came in, angry and excited.
"I must come to you for a little rest, Gertrude," she said. "Linden is not here? Thank goodness! I can't stand it at home any longer, the baby is so fretful and screams and cries enough to deafen one. The doctor says he must be put to bed, so I have tucked him into his crib. There is always something to upset and fret one."
Gertrude started. Well at any rate he was in good hands with Caroline, she thought.
"Are you going to the masked ball--you and Linden?" asked the young wife.
"No," replied Gertrude, putting away her letter.
"Why not?"
"Why should we go? I do not like to dance, as you know, Jenny."
"Has Uncle Henry been here?"
"Yes. Is the baby really ill?"
"Oh, nonsense! a little feverish, that is all. We are going to the Dressels this evening. Arthur has sent to Berlin for pictures of costumes, for our quadrille. But you don't care for that. You will bury yourself by and by entirely in Niendorf. The Landrath said to Arthur the other day, 'Your sister-in-law will not be in her proper position; she ought to have married a man in such a position that she would be a leader in society.' You would have been an ornament to any salon and now you are going to the Niendorf cow-stalls."
"Andhowglad I am!" said Gertrude, her eyes shining.
"Mrs. Fredericks, ma'am," called the pretty maid just then, "won't you please come down? The baby is so hot and restless."
Jenny nodded, looked hastily at a half-finished piece of embroidery and left the room. When Gertrude followed after a short time she was told that the baby was doing very well and that Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks were dressing for the evening. And so she went upstairs again to her lonely room.
A week later the iron-gray horses were bringing the close carriage back from the church-yard at a sharp trot. On the back seat sat Arthur Fredericks with Uncle Henry beside him; opposite was Linden. They wore crape around their hats and a band of crape on the left arm.
The winter had come back once more in full force before taking its final departure. It was snowing, and the great flakes settled down on a little new-made grave within the iron railings of the Baumhagen family burial-place. Jenny's golden-haired darling was dead!
No one in the carriage spoke a word, and when the three gentlemen got out each went his own way after a silent handshake: Uncle Henry to take a glass of cognac, Arthur to his desolate young wife, while Linden went up to Gertrude. He did not find her in the drawing-room; probably she was with her sister. Presently he heard a slight rustling. He strode across the soft carpet and stood in the open door-way of the room with the bay-window.
"Gertrude!" he cried, in dismay, "for Heaven's sake, what is the matter?"
She was kneeling before her little sofa, her head hidden in her arms, her whole frame, convulsed with long, tearless sobs.
"Gertrude!"
He put his arms round her and tried to raise her, when she lifted up her head and stood up.
"Tell me what has happened, Gertrude," he urged; "is it grief for the loss of the little one? I entreat you to be calm--you will make yourself ill."
She had not shed any tears, she only looked deathly pale and her hands, which rested in his, were cold as ice.
"Come," he said, "tell me what it is?"
And he drew her towards him.
She clung to him as she had never done before.
"It will be all right again," she whispered, "now I am with you."
"Were you afraid? Has anything happened to you?" he inquired, tenderly.
She nodded.
"Yes," she said, hastily, "a little while ago I chanced to hear a few words mamma was saying to Aunt Pauline--they came up from Jenny's--I suppose they did not think I was here--I don't know. Mamma was still crying very much about the baby and--then she said Jenny must go away--she must have a change--this apathy was so dangerous. You know she has not spoken a word for three days--and--I must accompany her on a long journey--so I--" She stopped and bit her quivering lips.
"So you might forget me if possible?" he inquired, gravely.
He put his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes. She did not reply, but he read the confirmation of his suspicion in her tearful eyes.
"Are they so anxious to be rid of me? Is their dislike so strong, Gertrude? And you?" He felt how she trembled.
"Oh!" she cried with a passion which made Linden start, "Oh, I--do you know there are moments when something seems to take possession of me with the power of a demon--I am swept away by the force of my wrath--I--I do not know what I say and do--I am ashamed now--I ought to have been calm--they cannot separate us, no--they cannot. Now mamma is lying on the sofa in her room and Sophie has gone for the doctor. Ah, Frank, I have borne it all so patiently all these long years--is it so great a sin that my long suppressed feelings should have burst out at last, that my self-control should have given way for once? I was violent--I have always thought I was so calm--those words that I heard seemed to sweep me away like a storm--I don't know what reproaches I may have spoken against my mother. And to-day, just to-day, when they have carried away the only sunbeam that was in this house for me!"
"We will go to your mother, Gertrude, and beg her to pardon us for loving each other so much--come!"
He had said this to comfort her, and because he felt that something must be done. His own desire would have been to take the young girl by the hand and lead her away out of this house.
She freed herself from him and looked at him in amazement. "Ask pardon? And for that?"
"Gertrude, don't misunderstand me." He felt almost embarrassed before her great wondering eyes.
"I meant that we should show your mother calmly and quietly that we cannot give each other up. Say something to her in excuse for your vehemence. Come, I will go with you."
"No, I cannot!" she cried, "I cannot beg forgiveness when I have been so injured in all that I hold most sacred. I cannot!" she reiterated, going past him to the deep window.
He followed her and took her hand; a strange feeling had come over him. Until now he had only seen in her a calm, reasonable woman. But she misunderstood him.
"No!" she cried, "don't ask me, Frank. I will not do it, I cannot, I never could! Not even when I was a child, though she shut me up for hours in a dark room."
"I was not going to urge you," he said; "only give me your hand, I must know whether this is really you, Gertrude."
She bent down and pressed a kiss on his right hand. "Ifyouwere not in the world, Frank, if I had to be here all alone!" she whispered warmly.
"But you have all this trouble on my account," he replied, much moved.
She shook her head.
"Only do not misunderstand me," she continued, "and have patience with my faults. You will promise me that, Frank, will you not?" she urged in an anxious tone. "You see I am so perverse when I feel injured; I get as hard as a stone then and everything good seems to die out of me. I could hate those people who thrust their low ideas on me! Frank, you don't know how I have suffered from this already."
They still stood hand in hand. The snow whirled about before the window in the twilight of the short winter day. It was so still here inside, so warm and cosy.
"Frank!" she whispered.
"My Gertrude!"
"You are not angry with me?"
"No, no. We will bear with each other's faults and we will try to improve when we are all alone by our two selves."
"You have no faults," she said, proudly, in a tone of conviction, drawing closer to him.
He was grave.
"Yes, Gertrude, I am very vehement, I sometimes have terrible fits of passion."
"Those are not the worst men," she said, putting her arm round his neck.
"Are you so sure of that?" he asked, smiling into the lovely face that looked so gentle now in the twilight.
"Yes. My grandmother always said so," she replied.
"The grandmother in the old time?"
"Yes, dearest. Oh, if you had only known her! But I should like to see your mother," she added.
"We will go to see her, darling, as soon as we are married. When will that be?"
"Frank," she said, instead of answering, "don't let us go on a journey at once; let me know first what it is to have a home where love, trust and mutual understanding dwell together. Let me learn first whatpeaceis."
"Yes, my Gertrude. Would to God I could carry you off to the old house to-morrow."
"Gertrude!" called a shrill voice from the next room.
She started.
"Mamma!" she whispered. "Come!" They went together. Mrs. Baumhagen was standing beside her writing-table. Sophie had just brought the lamp, the light of which shone full on the mother's round flushed face, on which rested an unusually decided expression.
"I am glad you are here, Linden," she said to the young man, turning down the leaf of the writing-table and taking her seat before it.
"How much time do you require to put your house in order so that Gertrude could live in it?"
"Not long," he replied. "Some rooms need new carpets, and trifles of that sort--that is all."
"Very well--I shall be satisfied," she replied, coldly. "Then to-morrow you will have the goodness to send your papers in to the clergyman and have the banns published. In three weeks I shall leave for the South with my eldest daughter, and before I go I wish to have this--this affair arranged."
Linden bowed.
"I thank you, madam."
Gertrude stood silent, white to the lips, but she did not look at him. He knew she was suffering tortures for his sake.
"Now I wish to settle some things with my daughter," continued Mrs. Baumhagen, "with regard to her trousseau and the marriage contract."
He turned to go at once, but stopped to kiss his bride's hand and looked at her with imploring eyes. "Be calm," he whispered.
Gertrude laid her hand on her lover's mouth.
"I will have no marriage contract," she said aloud.
"Then your fortune will be common property," was her mother's answer.
"That is what I desire," she replied. "If I can give myself, I will not keep my money from him. That would seem to me beyond measure, foolish."
Mrs. Baumhagen shrugged her shoulders and turned away. The two were standing close together and the bitter words died on her lips.
"Your guardian may talk to you about that," she said. "Will you be so kind, Linden, as to find my brother-in-law? I wish to speak with him."
He kissed Gertrude on the forehead, took his hat and went. Thank Heaven! he should soon be able to shelter her in his own house, this proud young girl who loved him so.
He walked quickly across the square. The fresh air did him good. He felt thoroughly indignant that any one should endeavor to separate them, putting hundreds of miles between them. How easily might a misunderstanding arise, how easily with such a character as hers, whom only the appearance of pettiness would suffice to arouse to scorn, hatred and defiance! How many couples who were deeply attached to each other had been separated in this way before now! He dared not think what would have become of him if it had happened so with them.
"'St!--'St,"--sounded behind him, and as he turned on the slippery sidewalk he saw Uncle Henry coming down the hotel steps. He had evidently been dining, and his jovial countenance displayed an astonishing mixture of sadness and physical comfort.
"I have had my dinner, Linden," he began, putting his arm through the young man's. "I was very much cast down by this affair of this morning. You don't misunderstand me I hope? Eh? I am not one of those who lose their appetites when misfortune comes. I approve of our ancestors who had funeral feasts. I assure you, Linden, that wasn't such a bad idea as we of to-day fancy it. Give all honor to the dead, but the living must have their rights, and to them belong eating and drinking, which keep soul and body together. Ta, ta! A funeral always upsets me. The poor little fellow! I was fond of him all the same, you may be sure. I am sure you have not dined yet. Women never eat under such circumstances, every one knows."
"I was just going to look for you," replied Linden. "My future mother-in-law wishes to see you. We--are going to be married in three weeks."
The little man in the fur coat stopped, and looked at Linden as if he did not believe his ears.
"How? What? She has changed her mind very suddenly--did Gertrude improve the opportunity of her softened mood, or--?"
"Gertrude would never do that--no, Mrs. Baumhagen wishes to travel for some time with her eldest daughter, and--"
"Oh, ta, ta! And Gertrude is not to go?"
"On the contrary--but she would not."
"Aha! Now it dawns upon me, something has happened. Her serene Highness has been trying--now, I understand--travelling, new scenes, new people--out of sight, out of mind. Ha! ha! she is a born diplomatist. Well, I will come, only let us take the longest way; the fresh air does me good. I am glad though, heartily glad--in three weeks it is to be then?"
The gentlemen walked on together in silence through the snow. It was wonderfully quiet in the streets in spite of the traffic of business. Men and carriages seemed to sweep over the white snow. The air was mild, with a slight touch of spring, and Frank Linden thought of his home and of the small room next his own, which would not long remain unoccupied.
"How do you do, my dear fellow!" said a voice beside him, and a little man popped up in front of him, holding his hat high above his bald head--his sharp little face beaming with friendliness. Linden bowed. Uncle Henry carelessly touched the brim of his hat.
"How do you come to know this Wolff?" he asked, looking after the man, who was winding his way sinuously in and out among the crowd. "He is a fellow who would spoil my appetite if I met him before dinner."
"I am or rather was connected with him by business, through my old uncle--he had money from him on a mortgage on Niendorf," explained Linden.
"From that cravat-manufacturer? The old man was not very wise."
Linden did not reply. They had just turned into a quiet side-street.
"Does he still hold the mortgage?" asked Mr. Baumhagen.
"No, my friend's sister has taken it."
"Indeed! Why did you not come tomeabout it? You could have had some of Gertrude's money--"
Frank Linden made a gesture of refusal.
"Oh--I promised the child; she has authorized me to put a certain capital at your disposal," explained the old gentleman.
"Thanks," replied Linden, shortly; "I will not have money matters mixed up with my courtship."
"And the new house at Niendorf?"
"Gertrude knows that she must not expect a fairy palace. Moreover we can live very comfortably there in the old rooms, though they are low and small. I have a very pretty garden-hall, and as for the view from the windows it would be hard to find another like it if you travel ever so far."
"Oh, the child is happy enough, but how about her serene Highness?" chimed in Mr. Baumhagen.
"I would far rather have her say, 'My child has gone to live in a peasant's house,' than, 'Wehad to build first,'" remarked Linden, drily.
The old gentleman laughed comfortably to himself.
"Yes, yes, that is just what she would say--and she wants to go on a journey--it is astonishing! My dear old mother sought comfort in occupation when my father died--that was the good old custom--now-a-days people go on a journey. It would be better for Jenny, poor thing, if she were to sorrow deeply here in her home. But no, she must be dragged away so the whistle of the locomotive may drive away her last memory of her little one's voice. Linden!" The old man stopped and laid his hand on his shoulder. "Gertrude is not like that, you may take my word for it. She would not go away from the little grave out there--not now. She has her faults too, but--it is all right with herhere," striking his breast. "Heaven grant she may be truly happy with you in the old nest. She has earned it by her sad youth--through her father."
Frank nodded. He knew it all very well, just as the old egotist told it to him.
"Well, now we must go," continued Uncle Henry; "my sister-in-law wants to speak to me about the wedding, I suppose."
"I think it is about the marriage contract," said Frank Linden, "and I want to beg you to urge upon Gertrude to yield to her mother's wishes--I shall like it better."
"Hm!" said the old man, clearing his throat. "I yield, thou yieldest, he yields, she--willnotyield! She is a perverse little monkey--pardon. But it is no use mincing matters. She takes it from her father. He was a splendid man of business, but as soon as his feelings were concerned, away with prudence, wisdom, calculation, and what not. Oh, ta, ta! But here we are."
Mrs. Baumhagen received them very quietly, Gertrude was not with her.
"She is in her room," she said to Linden, as he looked round for her. "She expects you."
He found her in the deep window. There was no lamp in the room, and the light from the fire played on the carpet, "Gertrude," he said, "how can I thank you!" And he took her hands, which burned in his like fire.
"For what?" she asked.
"For everything, Gertrude! You were quiet with your mother?" he added, quietly, as she was silent.
"Perfectly so," she replied; "I thought of you. But I am determined not to have a marriage settlement."
"You foolish girl. I might be unfortunate and have bad harvests and things of that sort--then you would suffer too."
She nodded and smiled.
"To be sure, and I would help you with all I possess. And if we have bad harvests and nothing, nothing will succeed, and we have nothing more in the world, then--" she stopped and looked at him with her happy, tear-stained eyes--"then we will starve together, won't we, you and I?"