It was late before Uncle Henry and Arthur set out for home and late when the little judge went to his room. They had all three sat for a good while in Frank's study, talking of past and present times.
"We shall be very gay," said Frank, "when Aunt Rosa's niece comes. You will not be so much alone then, Gertrude, when I am away in the fields."
"I am never lonely," she replied, quietly. "I have never had a girl-friend, and now it seems superfluous to me." And she looked at him with her grave deep eyes.
"Madam," inquired the judge, putting the end of his cigar in a meerschaum mouthpiece, "has he written poetry to you too?" And he pointed to Frank with a sly laugh.
Gertrude flushed.
"Of course," she replied.
"Ah, he can't help writing verses," said the little man, teasingly, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
"I tell you, Mrs. Linden, sometimes it seizes upon him like a perfect fever; and the things that a fellow like that finds to write about! Poets really are born liars. At the moment when the sweet verses flow out on the paper, they actually believe every word they write--it is really touching!"
"Spare me, Richard, I beg of you," laughed the young host, half angrily.
"Isn't it true?" asked the judge. "Only think of your celebrated poem on the gypsy girl. I was there when you saw the brown maiden on the Römerberg, and in the evening it was already written down in your note-book that she wandered through the streets with winged feet, with straying hair, and shy black eyes in which a longing for the moorland lay and for the wind which through the reed-grass sweeps--and so on. Ha, ha! And she really came from the Jew's quarter and went begging from house to house for old rags."
They all three laughed, Gertrude the most heartily; then she became suddenly grave.
"You are a malicious fellow," declared Frank, rising to light a candle. "It is late, Richard, and we are early risers here."
As the friends bade each other good-night at the door of the guest-chamber, the judge said,
"Well, Frank, I congratulate you. You have won a prize--such a dear, sensible little woman!
"As for theother--my dear fellow, what did I tell you about that man? Well, good-night! That Uncle Henry is a good old soul, too,--now take yourself off."
Gertrude was standing by the open window in her room, looking out into the night. The lamplight from the next room shone in faintly. Dark clouds were gathering, far away over the mountains there were flashes of lightning and in the garden a chorus of nightingales was singing.
"Gertrude," said a voice behind her.
"Frank," she replied, leaning her head on his shoulder.
"Hush! Listen! It is so lovely tonight."
They stood thus for awhile in silence. This afternoon's conversation was still lingering in Linden's mind. Uncle Henry could not understand why he should not cut his timber from his own woods. But the Niendorf woods had been greatly thinned out and no new plantations made.
"Tell me, Gertrude," he began, suddenly, "where is your villa 'Waldruhe?'"
His young wife started as if a snake had stung her. "Our--my villa?" she gasped, "how did you know--who told you about the villa?"
He was silent. "I cannot remember who," he said after a pause, "but some one must have told me that there is a little wood belonging to it. But, Gertrude, what is the matter?" he inquired. "You are trembling!"
"Ah, Frank, who told you aboutthat?" she reiterated, "andwhat?"
Her voice had so sad a ring in it that he perceived at once that he had hurt her.
"Gertrude, have I hurt you? I beg your pardon a thousand times; I was only thinking of cheaper timber which I might have cut there this winter."
"Timber? There? It is only a park. Ah, Frank--"
"But what is it pray?" he asked with a little impatience. "I cannot possibly know--"
"No, you cannot know," she assented. "It was only the shock--I ought to have told you long ago, only it is so frightfully hard for me to speak of it. You ought to know about it too, but--tell me who told you about it?"
"But when I assure you, my child, that I cannot remember."
"Frank," said his young wife, in a low, hesitating tone, "out there--in 'Waldruhe,' my poor father died--"
"My little wife!" he said, comfortingly.
"It was there--he--he killed himself." Her voice was scarcely audible.
He bent down over her, greatly shocked. "My poor child, I did not know that, or I would not have spoken of it."
"And I found him, Frank. He built 'Waldruhe' when I was but a child, and he used to go and stay there for weeks together. It is so hard to talk of it--he was not happy, Frank. Ah, we will not dwell on it. Mamma did not understand him, and it was the day after Christmas and I knew they had had a dispute; that is not the right word for it either, for papa never contradicted her, and he bore so patiently all her crying and complaining. After awhile I heard the carriage drive away. It was in the morning--and I had such a strange feeling of anxiety and dread and after dinner I put on my hat and cloak and ran out of the Bergedorf gate along the high road, on and on till I came to 'Waldruhe.' I was surprised to see that the blinds were shut in his room, but I saw the fresh wheel-tracks in front of the house. The gardener's wife, who lives in a little cottage on the place, said he was upstairs. Hewasupstairs--yes--but he was dead!"
He was up stairs--yes--but he was dead.
She stood close beside him, encircled by his arm, as she told her story. He could feel how she trembled and how cold her hands were.
"Don't speak of it any more, my darling," he entreated, "you will make yourself ill."
"Yes, I was ill, Frank, for a whole year," she said. "It was a fearful time; I could not forgive my mother. From that moment the gulf arose which parts us to-day, and nothing can bridge it over. I was so horribly lonely, Frank, before I found you. But the villa?--Yes, it belongs to me; papa destined it for me when he built it. I have had some very pleasant days with him there, but now the very thought of it is dreadful to me. It is empty and deserted. I have never been there since. It is so horrible to find a person whom one has so honored and loved--to find him so--"
"Forgive me, Gertrude," he said, gently.
"You could not know, Frank. No one knows it but ourselves." And as if to turn his thoughts to something else she continued hurriedly, "Thank you so much, love, for that lovely poem, 'Thou art unspeakably beloved.'"
And she stroked his hand and pressed it to her lips.
"My poor little Gertrude!"
They stood thus together for awhile wrapped about with the sweet atmosphere of spring.
"A thunder-shower is coming up," he said at length; and she freed herself from his arms and left the room. Frank could hear her going softly about the corridor here and there, shutting the doors and windows, and jingling her keys. She was looking to see if everything was in order for the night.
He put his hand to his forehead and tried to recall who had spoken to him of the villa. He passed on into his lighted room as if he could think better there. After awhile the young wife came back, with her key-basket on her arm. The sweet face was lifted up to him.
"Frank," said she, "what did the agent want of you to-day?"
He stared at her as if a flash of lightning had struck him.
"That is it! that is it!" And he struck his forehead as if something he had been seeking for in vain had suddenly occurred to him.
"What did he want? Oh, nothing, Gertrude, nothing of any consequence."
She looked at him in surprise, but she said nothing. It was not her way to ask a second time when she got no answer. It really was of no consequence.
It had rained heavily in the night, with thunder and lightning, but nature seemed to have no mind to-day to carry out her coquettish love of contrasts; she did not laugh, as usual, with redoubled gayety in blue sky and golden sunshine on forest and field: gloomily she spread a gray curtain over the landscape, so uniformly gray that the sun could not find the smallest cleft through which to send down a friendly greeting, and it rained unceasingly, a perfect country rain.
Frank came back from the fields rejoicing over the weather, and Gertrude waved her handkerchief to him out of the window as she did every morning.
"All the flowers are ruined, Frank," she cried down to him, "what a pity!"
He came up in high good humor. "No money could pay for this rain, darling," he said; "I am a real farmer now, my mood varies according to the weather."
"And mine too!" remarked his wife. "Such a gray day makes me melancholy."
He went towards her as she sat at her writing-table turning over books and papers.
"Just look, Frank," as she held out to him a packet daintily tied up with blue ribbons; "these are all verses of yours, arranged according to order. When we have our silver wedding I shall have them printed and bound. These on cream-colored paper were written during our engagement, and these different scraps, white and blue and gray, were written since our marriage, when you take anything that comes, thinking I suppose that it is good enough forMrs.Gertrude."
She looked up at him with a smile. He bent down over her,
"And now I shall buy a very special kind of paper for my next verses, Gertrude."
"Why?"
"Bright, like the little bundles the storks carry under their wings. And I shall write on it--"
She grew crimson. "A cradle-song," she finished softly.
He nodded and put her hand to his lips. But she threw both arms round his neck. "Then it would be sweet and home-like, Frank. Then we should love each other better than ever--if that were possible."
"Here, little wife, I wrote this for you today in the field in the rain." He took out his note-book from his pocket and put it in her hand.
"I will just go and see what the judge is about, the rascal," he called back from the door.
And she sat still and read, her face as grave and earnest as if she were reading in the Bible.
She was startled from her reading by the snapping of a whip before the window. She looked out quickly--there stood the Baumhagen carriage; the coachman in his white rubber coat and the cover drawn over his hat, the iron-gray horses black with the drenching rain. She opened the window to see if any one got out. Johanna came out and the coachman gave her a letter with which she ran quickly back into the house.
Gertrude was startled. An accident at home? She flew to the door.
"A letter, ma'am."
She hastily tore it open.
"Come at once--I must speak to you without delay.
"Your Mother."
Such were the oracularly brief contents of the note.
"Bring me my things, Johanna, and tell my husband."
"Frank," she cried, as he entered, hurriedly, "something must have happened."
"Don't be alarmed," he besought her, though unable quite to conceal his own uneasiness.
"Yes, yes. Oh, if I only knew what it was! I feel so anxious."
He took her things from the servant and put the cloak round Gertrude's shoulders.
"I hope it has nothing to do with Arthur and Jenny. They were very strange to each other, yesterday."
Gertrude looked at him and shook her head. "No, no, they were always like that."
"Then I am surprised that he did not run away long ago," he said, drily.
"Or she," retorted Gertrude tying her bonnet.
"I could not stand such everlasting complaints, Gertrude," said he, buttoning her left glove.
"Nor I, Frank. Good-bye. You must make my excuses at dinner. God grant it is nothing very bad."
She looked round the room once more, then went quickly up to her work-table and thrust the note-book into her pocket.
When a few minutes later the landau passed out of the great iron gate she put her head out of the window. He stood on the steps looking after her. As she turned he took off his hat and waved it.
How handsome he was, how stately and how good!
She leaned back on the cushions. She felt a vague alarm--it was the first time she had left the house without him. Strange thoughts came over her--how dreadful it would be if she should not find him again, or even--if she should lose him utterly. Could she go on living then? Live--yes--but how?
It would be frightful to be a widow! Still more frightful if they were to part--one here, the other there, hating each other, or indifferent!
Could Arthur and Jenny, really--? Oh, God in Heaven preserve us from such woe!
She looked out of the window. The coachman was driving at a dizzy pace. There lay the city before her in the mist. Again her thoughts wandered, faster than the horses went. She took the note-book out of her pocket to read the verses, but the letters danced before her eyes, and she put it away again.
In the attic at home stood the old cradle in which her father had been rocked, and Jenny, and she herself. The grandmother in the narrow street had had it as part of her outfit. She would get it out for herself if God should ever fulfil her wish. Jenny's darling had lain in another bed, the clumsy old cradle did not seem suitable in the elegant chamber of the young mother, but in the modest room at Niendorf, where the vines crept about the windows and the big old stove looked so cosy and comfortable, it would be quite in place, just between the stove and the wardrobe in a cosy corner by itself. She smiled like a happy child. She could not believe that her life could be so beautiful, so rich.
The carriage was now rattling through the city gate; she would be at home in a minute now, and her heart began to beat loudly. If she only knew what it was.
The porter opened the carriage door and she got out and ran up the stairs to Jenny's apartment. The entrance door of her mother's apartment stood open. No one was to be seen and she entered the hall. How dear and familiar everything looked! Even the tall clock lifted up its voice, and struck the quarter before two. She took off her cloak and went to her mother's room. Here, too, the door was ajar. Just as she was going to enter she suddenly drew back her hand.
"And I tell you, Ottilie, it will be the worst act of your life, if you fling all this in the child's face without the slightest preparation. Whether it is true or false why should you destroy her young happiness? There are other ways and means."
It was Uncle Henry. He spoke in a tone of the deepest vexation.
"Shall she hear it from strangers?" cried the voice of her weeping mother; "the whole town is ringing with it, and is she to go about as if she were blind and deaf?"
"I am trembling all over," Gertrude now heard Jenny say; "it is outrageous, we are made forever ridiculous. It was only last evening that I said to Mrs. S----, 'You can't imagine what an idyllic Arcadian happiness has its dwelling out there in Niendorf.'"
"Confound your logic! I tell you--" cried the little man angrily. But he stopped suddenly, for there on the threshold stood Gertrude Linden.
"Are you talking of us?" she asked, her terrified eyes wandering over the group and resting at length on her mother, who at sight of her had sunk back weeping in her chair.
"Yes, child."
The old man hastened towards her and tried to draw her away.
"It's a thoughtless whim of your mother to send for you here; nothing at all has happened; really, it is only some stupid gossip, a misunderstanding perfectly absurd. Come across to the other room and I will explain it all."
"No, no, uncle, I must know it, must know it all."
She withdrew her hand from his and went up to her mother.
"Here I am, mamma; now tell me everything, but quickly, I entreat you."
She looked down on the weeping woman with a face that was deathly pale, standing motionless before her in her light summer costume. Only the strings of her bonnet, which were tied on the side in a simple bow, rose and fell quickly, and bore witness to her great agitation.
"I can't tell her," sobbed Mrs. Baumhagen, "you tell her, Jenny."
Gertrude turned to her sister at once. She cast down her eyes and wound the black velvet ribbon of her morning-dress nervously round her finger.
"Your husband is in a very unpleasant situation," she began in a low tone.
"In what respect?" asked Gertrude.
"It is a disagreeable affair, but nothing to make such solemn faces over," burst out the old gentleman, who was standing at the window.
"He had--" Jenny hesitated again, "a conversation with Wolff yesterday."
"I know it," replied Gertrude.
"Wolff had a claim on him which your husband will not recognize and--"
"For Heaven's sake, make an end of it!" The old gentleman brought his fist down angrily on the window-sill. "Do you want to give her the poison drop by drop?"
He took Gertrude's hand again, and tried to find words to explain.
"You see, Gertrude, it is not so bad; it often happens, and this Wolff may have thrust himself forward, in short--he is a sort of a walking encyclopædia, knows everybody hereabouts, and whenever any one wants to know anything he is sure to be able to tell him. So your husband--well, how shall I excuse it?--he inquired about your circumstances, do you understand?--before he offered himself to you--voilà tout. It happens hundreds of times, child, and you are reasonable, Gertrude, aren't you?"
The young wife stood motionless as a statue. Only gradually the color came to her cheeks.
"That is a lie!" she cried, drawing a long breath. "Did you bring me here forthat?"
"But Wolff was here," moaned Mrs. Baumhagen, "asking for my intervention."
"No, he came tous," corrected Jenny, "early this morning; he wanted to speak to Arthur, but Arthur--" she hesitated, "last evening Arthur--"
"You may as well say that Arthur started off suddenly on a journey in the night," interposed Mrs. Baumhagen sharply, "I am very fortunate in my children's marriages!"
"Well, I can't help it if he gets angry at every little thing," laughed the young wife, quite undisturbed. "Besides we are very happy."
"A pretty kind of happiness," grumbled the old gentleman to himself, so low that no one but Gertrude could hear it. Then he added aloud, "A hurried journey on business, we will call it, a sudden journey on business, preceded by a little curtain lecture."
"Oh, to be sure, a journey on business," said Mrs. Baumhagen in a tone of pique, "to Manchester."
"What has that got to do with Gertrude's affairs?" asked Uncle Henry, "It is enough that Arthur was not there, and the gentleman went up another flight and spoke to your mother, my child. It is not worth mentioning--if I had only been here sooner. It is very disagreeable that you should have heard of it, but believe me, my child, they all do it now-a-days."
The good-natured little man clapped her kindly on the shoulder.
Mrs. Baumhagen, however, started up like an angry lioness.
"Don't talk such nonsense! How can you smooth it over? It was nothing but a common swindle. I hope Gertrude has enough sense of dignity to tell Mr. Linden that--"
"Not another word!"
The young wife stood almost threatening before her in the middle of the room.
"But for mercy's sake! It will be the most scandalous case that was ever known," sobbed the excited lady. "He is going to sue Linden--you will both have to appear in court."
Gertrude did not utter a syllable.
"Have the kindness to order a carriage, uncle," she entreated.
"No, you must not go away so! you look shockingly," was the anxious cry of her mother and sister.
"Do listen to reason, Gertrude," said Jenny in a complaining tone.
"We must silence Wolff--uncle can inquire how much he asks for his services, and--"
"And you will come to us again," sobbed her mother. "Gertrude, Gertrude, my poor unhappy child, did I not foresee this?"
"This is too much!" growled the old gentleman. "Confound these women! Don't let them talk you into anything, child," he cried, forcibly; "settle it with your husband alone."
"A carriage, uncle," reiterated the young wife.
"Wait a while at least," entreated Jenny, "till mamma's lawyer--"
"Oh," groaned Uncle Henry, "if Arthur had only been here, this confounded affair wouldn't have been left in the women's hands. I will get you a carriage, Gertrude. Your nags are at the factory, Jenny? Very well. Excuse me a moment."
Gertrude was standing in the window like one stunned; she had as yet no clear understanding of the matter. "The whole city is talking about it," she heard her mother sob. Of what then? She tried forcibly to collect her thoughts, but in vain. Only one thing: it is not true! went over and over in her mind.
She clenched her little hand in its leather glove. "A lie! A lie!" fell again from her lips. But this lie had spread itself like a heavy mist over her young happiness, bringing so much vague alarm that her breath came thick and fast.
"Shall I go with you?" asked Jenny. The carriage was just coming across the square.
"No, thank you. I require no third person between my husband and myself."
Her words sounded cold and hard.
"You look so miserable," groaned her mother.
"Then the sooner I get home the better."
"At least send back a messenger at once."
"Perhaps you think he beats me too?" she inquired, ironically, turning to go.
"Child! child!" cried Mrs. Baumhagen, stretching out her arms towards her, "be reasonable, don't be so blind where facts speak so loudly."
But she did not turn back. Calmly she took down her mantle from the hat-stand. Sophie gazed anxiously into the pale, still face of the young wife, who quite forgot to say a pleasant word to the old servant. At the carriage-door stood Uncle Henry.
"Let me go with you, Gertrude," he entreated.
She shook her head.
"It is only out of pure selfishness, Gertrude," he continued. "If I don't know how it is going with you I shall be ill."
"No, uncle. We two require no one; we shall get on better alone."
"Don't break the staff at once, child," he said, gently,
"I do not need to do that, Uncle Henry."
He lifted his hat from his bald head. There was a reverent expression in his eyes.
"Good-bye, Gertrude, little Gertrude. If I had had my way, you would not have heard a word of it."
She bent her head gravely.
"It is best so, uncle."
Then she went back the way she had come.
The rain beat against the rattling panes and dashed against the leather top of the carriage, and they went so slowly. The young wife gazed out into the misty landscape. The splendor of the blossoms had vanished, the white petals were swimming in the pools in the streets.
"Oh, only one sunbeam!" she thought, the weather oppressed and weighed her down so.
Absurd! How could any one be so influenced by foolish gossip! Mamma always looked on the dark side of everything--and even if she always told the truth, she had been imposed upon by this story. Poor Frank! Now there would be vexation--the first! She would tell him of it playfully--after dinner, when they were alone together, then she would say, "Frank, I must tell you something that will make you laugh. Just fancy, you have a very bitter enemy, and his revenge is so absurd, he declares"--she was smiling now herself--"Yes, that is the way it shall be."
She was just passing the old watch tower. What was she thinking of as she passed this place a few hours before? Oh yes--a crimson flush spread over her countenance--of the cradle in the attic. She could see the old cradle so plainly before her; two red roses were painted on one end, in the middle a golden star, and beneath it stood written: "Happy are they who are happy in their children."
She put her hand in her pocket and took out the note-book--the carriage was crawling so slowly up the hill--she could not remember it all yet, she must read the verses again.
It was a vision he had had of her kneeling before a cradle, singing a cradle-song about the father bringing something home to his son from the green wood.
She let the paper fall. She knew what song he meant--the old nursery song that she had been singing to her godchild when he had heard her from the window outside. He had told her about it and that in that moment he had come quite under her spell.
She pressed the book to her lips. Ah, how far beneath her seemed envy and spite! how powerless they seemed before the expectation of such happiness!
Just then a piece of paper fell down, a piece of blue writing-paper. She picked it up; it was part of a letter on the blank side of which was written in Frank's handwriting:
"Half a hundred-weight grass-seed, mixed," with the address of a manufactory of farming utensils.
She turned it over, looked at it carelessly, then suddenly every trace of color left her face. She raised her eyes with a scared expression in them, then looked down again--yes, there it was!
"----Besides the above-mentioned property Miss Gertrude Baumhagen owns a villa near Bergedorf. A massive building, splendidly furnished, with stables, gardener's house and a garden-lot of ten acres, partly wood, enclosed by a massive wall."The property is recorded in the name of the young lady, being valued at twenty-four thousand dollars."For any further details I am quite at your service,"Very respectfully yours,"C. Wolff, Agent.D. 21 Dec. 1882."
"----Besides the above-mentioned property Miss Gertrude Baumhagen owns a villa near Bergedorf. A massive building, splendidly furnished, with stables, gardener's house and a garden-lot of ten acres, partly wood, enclosed by a massive wall.
"The property is recorded in the name of the young lady, being valued at twenty-four thousand dollars.
"For any further details I am quite at your service,
"Very respectfully yours,
"C. Wolff, Agent.
D. 21 Dec. 1882."
Gertrude tried to read it again, but her hand trembled so violently that the letters danced before her eyes. She had seen it, however, distinctly enough; it would not change read it as often as she might. With pitiless certainty the conviction forced itself upon her: it is the truth, the horrible truth! and every word of his had been a lie.
She had been bought and sold like a piece of merchandise--she,shehad been caught in such a snare!
She had takenthatfor love which had been only the commonest mercenary speculation.
Ah, the humiliation was nothing to the dreadful feeling that stole over her and chilled her to the heart--the pain of wounded pride and with it the old bitter perversity. She had not felt it lately, she had been good, happiness makes one so good--and now? and now?
The carriage rolled quickly down the hill to Niendorf and stopped before the house. Half-unconsciously the young wife descended and stood in the rain on the steps of the veranda. It seemed to her as if she were here for the first time; the small windows, the gray old walls with the pointed roof--how ugly they were, how strange! All the flowers in the garden beaten down by the rain--the charm that love gives fled, only bare, sober, sad reality! and on the threshold crouched the demon of selfishness, of cold calculation.
She passed through the garden hall and up the stairs to her room. In the corridor Johanna met her.
"The master went away in the carriage directly after breakfast," she announced. "He laid a note on your work-table, ma'am."
"I have a headache, Johanna, don't disturb me now," she said, faintly.
When she reached her own room she bolted first the door behind her and then that which opened into his room. And then she read the note.
"The barometer has risen and the judge insists on going up the Brocken, I go with him to Ille. I have something to do there and I shall not be very late home--Thine,Frank."
"The barometer has risen and the judge insists on going up the Brocken, I go with him to Ille. I have something to do there and I shall not be very late home--Thine,
Frank."
And below a postscript from the guest:
"Don't be angry, Mrs. Linden. I belong to that class of persons who cannot see a mountain without feeling an irresistible desire to ascend it. I take the Brocken first, so when the weather clears again I can bear the sight of it from my window with equanimity. I will send your Frank home again soon, safe and sound."
"Don't be angry, Mrs. Linden. I belong to that class of persons who cannot see a mountain without feeling an irresistible desire to ascend it. I take the Brocken first, so when the weather clears again I can bear the sight of it from my window with equanimity. I will send your Frank home again soon, safe and sound."
Thank Heaven, he would not be back so very soon--but what was to be done now? She sat motionless before her work-table, gazing out into the garden without seeing anything there. Hour after hour passed. Once or twice she passed her hand across her eyes--they were dry and hot, and about the mouth was graven a deep line of scorn and contempt. Towards evening there was a knock at the door. She did not turn her head.
"Mrs. Linden!" called the servant. No answer and the steps died away outside.
Gertrude Linden got up then and went to her writing-desk. Calmly she opened the pretty blotting-book, drew up a chair, grasped a pen and seated herself to write. She had thought of it long enough; without hesitation the words flowed from her pen:
"I will beg Uncle Henry to explain everything to you as gently as possible. I cannot speak of it myself--it is the most painful disappointment of my whole life. I only ask you at present to confirm my own declaration that I must live in retirement for some time on account of my health. It will not take long to decide upon something.Gertrude."
"I will beg Uncle Henry to explain everything to you as gently as possible. I cannot speak of it myself--it is the most painful disappointment of my whole life. I only ask you at present to confirm my own declaration that I must live in retirement for some time on account of my health. It will not take long to decide upon something.
Gertrude."
She sealed the note and put it on the writing table in her husband's room. She put the packet of poems beside it and the note-book also. What should she do with it? The poem was nothing to her--it was only an old habit of his to write verses; the judge had let that out yesterday. He had only made use of it in this case as a useful means for making the deception complete. A man who writes tender verses while at the same time he is privately acquainting himself with the amount of the lady's fortune through an agent--that was a tragi-comedy indeed, that would make a good plot for a farce--andshewas to be the heroine!
She kept the fragment of that dreadful letter. Then she wrote a note to her mother and one to Uncle Henry, then took out her watch and looked for a time-table.
Whither? The Berlin express which connected them with all the outer world was already gone. Then she must wait until tomorrow--and then? Somewhere she must go--she must be alone! Only not with mamma and Jenny, somewhere far away from here.
She suddenly sprang up with startled eyes, she heard a voice, his voice.
"Has my wife come back?"
Then a merry whistle, a few bars from "Boccaccio" and hasty steps in the corridor. Now his hand was on the door-knob. It was locked.
"Gertrude!" he called.
She was standing in the middle of the room, her lips pressed together, her eyes stretched wide open, but she did not stir.
He supposed she was not there and went quietly into his own room. She heard him open the door of the bedroom.
"Gertrude!" he called again.
Back into his own room; he spoke to the dog, whistled a few bars of his opera-air again, moved about here and there and then stopped--now he was tearing a paper--now he was reading her note.
"Gertrude, Gertrude, I know you are in your room. Open the door!"
His voice sounded calm and kind, but she stood still as a statue.
"Please open the door!" now sounded authoritatively.
"No," she answered loudly.
"You are laboring under some horrible mistake! Some one has been telling you something--let me speak to you, child!"
She came a step nearer.
"I cannot," she said.
"I must entreat you to open the door. Even a criminal is heard before he is condemned."
"No," she declared, and went to the window, where she remained.
"Confound your--obstinacy," sounded in her ears.
There was a crash and a splitting of wood and the door was burst open.
Then a crash, a splitting of wood--the door was burst open and Frank Linden stood on the threshold.
"Now I demand an explanation," he said angrily, the swollen veins standing out on his white forehead, which formed a strange contrast to his brown face.
She did not turn towards him.
"Uncle Henry will tell you what there is to tell," she replied, coldly.
He strode up to her and laid his hand on her shoulder, but she drew back, and the blue eyes, usually so soft, looked at him so coldly and strangely that he started back, deeply shocked.
"I have deceived you, Gertrude? you, Gertrude?" he asked, "what have I done? What is my crime?"
"Nothing--"
"That is no answer, Gertrude."
"Oh, it is only such a trifle--I cannot talk to you about it."
"Very well! Then I will go to Uncle Henry at once."
She made no answer.
"And you wish to go away? To leave me alone?" he inquired again.
She hesitated a moment.
"Yes, yes," she then said, hastily, "away from here."
"Why do you keep up this farce, Gertrude."
"Farce?" She laughed shortly.
"Gertrude, you hurt me."
"Not more than you have hurt me."
"But, confound it, I ask you--how?" he cried in fierce anger.
She had drawn back a little and looked at him with dignity.
"Pray, order the carriage and go to Uncle Henry," she replied, coldly.
"Yes, by Heaven, you are right," he cried, quite beside himself, "you are more than perverse!"
"I told you so before; it is my character."
"Gertrude," he began, "I am easily aroused, and nothing angers me so much as passive opposition. It is our duty to have trust in one another--tell me what troubles you; itcanbe explained. I am conscious of no wrong done to you."
"That is a matter of opinion," said she.
"Very well. I declare to you that I am not in the least curious--and I give you time to reconsider."
He turned to go.
"That is certainly the most convenient thing to do in this matter," she retorted, bitterly.
He hesitated, but he went nevertheless, closed the broken door behind him as well as he could and began to walk up and down his room.
She pressed her forehead against the window-pane and gazed out into the garden. It had stopped raining; the clouds were lifting in the west and displaying gleams of the setting sun. Then the heavy masses of fog broke away and at the same moment the landscape blazed out in brilliant sunshine like a beautiful woman laughing through her tears.
Ifshecould only weep! They who have a capacity for tears are favored. Weeping makes the heart light, the mood softer--but there were no tears for her.
In the late twilight the iron-gray horses stopped before the door and Jenny got out of the carriage.
She ran lightly as a cat up the veranda steps and suddenly stood in the garden-hall before Frank Linden, who sat at the table alone. Gertrude's plate was untouched.
"So late, Jenny?" he asked.
"I want to speak to Gertrude."
"You will find my--wife in her room."
Jenny cast a quick glance at him from her bright eyes. Had the blow fallen? She had nearly died of anxiety at home.
"Is not Gertrude well?" she inquired, innocently.
He hesitated a moment.
"She seems rather excited and tired. I think something has happened to disturb her in the course of the day."
"Ah, indeed!" said Mrs. Fredericks. "Well, I will go and see her myself."
She passed through the hall. The lamp was not yet lighted and in the darkness she stumbled over something and nearly fell. As she uttered a slight cry, Johanna hastened in with a light.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, ma'am, it is the young lady's trunk, who arrived about a quarter of an hour ago. Dora forgot to carry it to her room."
Jenny cast an angry glance at the modest box, ran up the stairs and knocked at her sister's door.
"It is I, Gertrude," she called out in her clear ringing voice. She heard light footsteps and the bolt was gently drawn back and the door opened.
"You, Jenny?" inquired Gertrude, just as Frank had said a few minutes before, "you, Jenny?"
It was almost dark in the room; Jenny could not see her sister's face.
"Why do you sit here in the dark, Gertrude? I beg of you tell me quick all that has happened. Mamma and I are dying of anxiety."
"You need have no anxiety," replied Gertrude. "It is all right."
"All right?" asked Jenny in surprise. "You cannot make me believe that,Healone at the table andyouup here with your door locked--come confess, child, that you have not made it up."
"Please take a seat, Jenny," said the young wife, wearily.
Jenny sat down on the lounge, and Gertrude took up her position at the window again. It was still as death in the room and in the whole house.
"It would have been wiser if you had not married at all, Gertrude," began her sister, with a sigh.
"But, it can't be helped--you are tied fast--oh, yes! You must put up with everything, you must not even have an opinion of your own, I am quite ill too from the vexation I had last evening. At last I ran up to mamma. She was dreadfully frightened when she saw me standing before her bed in my night-dress. I cried all night long. This morning I waited. I thought he would come up for me, he was usually so remorseful--but he didn't come and as I was taking breakfast with mamma Sophie brought me a card from him in which he very coolly informed me that he had gone to Manchester for a fortnight. Well--I wish him a happy journey!"
Gertrude made no reply.
"You must not take it so dreadfully to heart, child," continued the young matron. "Good gracious, it is well it is no worse. All women have something to put up with and sometimes it is far worse than this."
"Have they?" asked Gertrude, in a low voice.
"Yes, of course!" cried Jenny, in surprise.
"Do you think a woman can take up her bundle and march off? Bah! Then no woman would stay with her husband a moment. No, no,--people get reconciled to one another and they just take the first opportunity to pay each other off. That is always great fun for me. Just you see, pet, how good Arthur will be when he comes back; for a whole month he will be the nicest husband in the world."
"That would be an impossibility for me," cried Gertrude, clearly and firmly. "To-day bitter as death, to-morrow fondly loving; it is simply shameful."
Jenny was silent.
"Good gracious," she said at length, yawning, "one is as good as the other! If I were to separate from Arthur,--who knows but I might get a worse one! For of course I should marry again, what else can a woman do? By the way, mamma spoke to the lawyer--he urgently advised her to hush up the matter as well as possible. Mamma thought differently, but Mr. Sneider declared--you see now, onecan'tget away even if one wants to--that there were no grounds for a divorce, and I said to mamma too, 'Gertrude,' said I, 'leave him? Incredible! She is dead in love with the man. He might have murdered somebody, I really believe, and she would still find excuses for him.' Was I right?"
Gertrude suffered tortures. She wrung her hands in silence and her eyes were fixed on the dark sky above her in which the evening star was now sparkling with a greenish light. Jenny yawned again.
"Ah, just think," she continued, "you don't know what we quarrelled about, Arthur and I. He reproached me with spending too much on my dress; of course that was only a pretext to give vent to his ill temper--there were business letters very likely containing bad news. I replied that did not concern him, I did not inquire into his expenses. Then he was cross and declared that I had tried in Nice to copy the dresses of the elegant French women. But it is not true, for I only bought two dresses there. Gracious, yes, they were rather dearer than if my dressmaker in Berlin had made them. Of course I said again, 'That is not your affair, for I pay for them.' Then he talked in a very moral strain about honorable women and German women who helped to increase the prosperity of a house. Other fortunes besides ours had been thrown away and when the truth was known it was always the fault of 'Madame.' He found fault with mamma for making herself so ridiculous with her youthful costumes, and at last he declared we owed some duty to our future children--Heaven preserve me! I have had to give up my poor sweet little Walter, and I will have no more. The pain of losing him was too great; I should die of anxiety. In short, he played the part of a real provincial Philistine, and finally even that of Othello, for he declared Col. von Brelow always had such a confidential air with me. That was too much for my patience. I proposed that we should separate then. You understand I only said so--for he is pretty obedient generally, when I hold the reins tight. And as I said before one can't get free for nothing. 'I will go at once!' I cried, and then I ran up to mamma."
"Stop, I beg of you," cried Gertrude, hastily rising. She rang for a light and when Johanna brought the lamp it lighted up a feverish face, and eyes swollen as if with burning tears, and yet Gertrude had not wept.
"How you look, child," remarked Jenny. "Well, and what is to be done now? I must tell mamma something, it was for that I came."
She cast a glance at the dainty time-piece above the writing-table.
"Five minutes to nine--I must be going home. Do tell me how you mean to arrange matters?"
"You shall hear to-morrow--the day after to-morrow--I don't know yet," stammered the young wife, pressing her hand on her aching head.
"Only don't make a scandal, Gertrude," and Jenny took up her gray cloak with its red silk lining and tied the lace strings of her hat.
"If the affair is settled as Mr. Sneider advises, it is the best you can do. By the way, how does Frank take it? Has he confessed it? To be sure, what else could he do? Well, let me hear to-morrow then, at latest. By the way, child, it has just occurred to me--that day that Linden called on us the first time, that fellow, that Wolff, came with him across the square to our house. I was sitting in the bay-window and I was surprised to see how confidentially Wolff clapped him on the shoulder."
Gertrude stood motionless. Ah, she had seen the same thing; she recalled it so clearly at this moment.
"Yes, yes," she stammered.
"The lawyer says he does a great deal of that sort of business. But now good-night, my pet--will you send in word or shall we send some one out in the morning?"
"I will send word," replied Gertrude.
She did not go out with her sister, she stood still in her place, her head gunk on her breast, her arms hanging nerveless by her side. This conversation with Jenny had opened an abyss before her eyes; she no longer knew what she should do, only one thing was clear, she could not stay with him; she could not endure a life of indifference by his side, and--any other life would never again be possible to them. "Never!" she said aloud with decision, "Never!"
She heard his steps now in the next room; then the steps went away again and presently she heard them on the gravel-walk in the garden till they finally died away. She was so tired and it was so cold, and she could not realize that there had ever been a time when it had been different,--when she had been happy--she seemed to herself so degraded.
She had that fatal letter still in her hand, where it burnt like glowing coals. She knew an old maid, the daughter of a poor official, who was soured and embittered. For thirteen years she had been engaged to a poor referendary, and finally they had recognized the fact that they never would be rich enough to marry. She had remained lonely and pitied by all who knew her history.
Ah, if she could only have exchanged with her, who had been loved for her own sake! And even if she could forgive him for not having loved her, the lie, the hypocrisy she could never forgive--never, never. Her faith in him was gone.
Half unconsciously she had wandered out into the corridor, and felt a little refreshed by the cooler air. She ran quickly down the steps into the garden. From the kitchen came the sounds of talking and laughing; the gardener was talking nonsense to the maids--the mistress' eye was wanting.
There was no light in the garden-hall, but Aunt Rosa's windows were unusually brilliant and a youthful shadow was marked out on the white curtain. That must be the expected niece.
Gertrude walked on in the gravel-walks; the nightingales were singing and there were sounds of singing in the steward's room, a deep sympathetic tenor and a sorrowful melody.
On and on she went in the fragrant garden. Then she cried out suddenly,
"Frank!"
She had come upon him suddenly at a turning of the path.
"Gertrude!" returned he, trying to take her hand.
"Don't touch me!" she cried. "I was not looking for you, but as we have met, I will ask you for something."
In order to support herself she clutched the branches of a lilac-bush with her little hand.
"With all my heart, Gertrude," he replied gently. "Forgive my violence, anger catches me unawares sometimes. I promise you it shall not happen again."
He stopped, waiting to hear her request. For a while they stood there in silence, then she spoke slowly, almost unintelligibly in her great agitation. "Give me my freedom again--it is impossible any longer to--"
"I do not understand you," he replied, coldly, "what do you mean?"
"I will leave you everything, everything--only give me my freedom! We cannot live together any longer, don't you see that?" she cried quite beside herself.
"Speak lower!" he commanded, stamping angrily with his foot.
"Say yes!" entreated the young wife with a voice nearly choked with emotion.
"I say no!" was the answer. "Take my arm and come."
"I willnot! I will not!" she cried, snatching away her hand which he had taken.
"You are greatly excited this evening, you will come now into the house with me; tomorrow we will talk further on the subject and in the clear daylight you can tell me what reasons you have for thinking our living together impossible."
"Now, at once, if you wish it!" she gasped out. "Because two things are wanting, two little trifling things only,--trust and esteem! I will not speak of love--you have not been true to me, Frank, you have deceived me and lost my confidence. Let me go, I entreat you, for the love of Heaven--let me go!"
As he made no reply, she went on rapidly, her words almost stumbling over each other so fast they came. "I know that I have no right in law; people would laugh at a woman who demanded her freedom on no better grounds than that she had been lied to once. So I come as a suppliant; be so very good as to let me go, I cannot bear to live with you in mistrust and--and--"
"Come, Gertrude," he said, gently, "you are ill. Come into the house now and let us talk it over in our room--come!"
"Ill--yes! I wish I might die," she murmured.
Then she suddenly grew calm and went back into the house with him. He opened the door of his room and she went in, but she passed quickly through into her own, threw herself on her lounge, drew the soft coverlid over her and closed her eyes. Frank stood helpless before her.
"I will have a cup of tea made for you," said the young man, kindly.
She looked unspeakably wretched, as she lay there, the long black lashes resting like dark shadows on her white cheeks. She must have suffered frightfully.
"Go to bed, Gertrude," he begged anxiously, "it will be better for you and tomorrow we will talk about this."
"I shall stay here," she replied decisively, turning her head away.
Then he lost patience.
"Confound your silly obstinacy!" he cried angrily. "Do you think I am a foolish boy? I will show you how naughty children ought to be treated!"
Then he turned and banging the door after him he went away.