The first rays of the morning sun were resting like reddish gold on the tips of the forest trees which crowded close up to the white villa-like house. Magnificent oaks, like giant sentinels, stood on the lawn before the massive wall. A narrow, little-used path wound in between them, such as are to be found in places not intended to be walked upon. The great trees gave out little shade as yet, the oak-tree is late in getting its leaves; those that had already appeared looked young and shrivelled against the knotted branches, and formed a delightful contrast to the dark green of the evergreens on the other side of the garden wall, mingled with the tender misty foliage of the birches. "Waldruhe" lay as if dreaming in this early stillness. The green jalousies were all closed, like sleepy eyelids; on the roof a row of bright-feathered pigeons were sunning themselves. The lawn before the house was like a wilderness, the grass-grown paths scarcely distinguishable, which led from the great iron gate to the veranda steps. From a side-building a little smoke rose up to the blue sky, and a cat sat crouched on the wooden bench beside the hall-door. There was no sound except the joyful trills of the larks as they soared out of sight in the blue sky.
She leaned with her ungloved hands against the misty bars of the gate.
From under the oaks a slender woman's figure drew near. She walked slowly, and her eyes glanced now to the left over the green wheat fields to the open country, and now rested on the trees beside her. She must have come a long way, for the delicate face looked worn and weary, dark shadows were under her eyes, and the bottom of her dress was damp as were also the small shoes which peeped out under the gray woollen robe. She went straight up to the iron gate, clasped the rusty bars with her ungloved hands and looked at the house somewhat in the attitude of an curious child, but her eyes were too grave for that. Beside her stood a brown dog wagging his tail, raising inquiringly his shrewd eyes to her face, but she took no heed of the animal that had followed her so faithfully. Her thoughts took only one direction.
She had never been here since that day when she had run hither in desperate fear, to arrive--only too late. Everything was the same now as then--just as lonely and deserted. She pulled the bell, how hard it pulled! Ah, no hand had touched it since!
It is true Sophie came here conscientiously every spring and every autumn to beat the furniture and air the rooms, but no one else. Mrs. Baumhagen had from the first declared this idyllic whim of her husband's an absurdity, and Jenny always called the country house "Whim Hall." She had been here once but would never come again, "one would die of ennui among those stupid trees."
At length the bell gave out a faint tinkle. Thereupon arose a fierce barking in the side-building and a woman of some fifty years in a wadded petticoat and a red-flannel bed-gown came out of the house. She stared at the young lady in amazement, then she clapped her hands together and ran back into the house with her slippers flapping at each step, returning presently with a bunch of keys.
"Merciful powers!" cried she as she opened the door, "I can't believe my own eyes--Mrs. Linden! Have you been taking a morning walk, ma'am? I've always wondered if you wouldn't come here some day with your husband--and now here you are--and that is a pleasure to be sure!" And she ran before, opening the doors.
"It is all in order, Mrs. Linden--my man always insists upon that--'Just you see,' he says, 'some day some of the ladies will be popping in on you.'" And the square little body ran on again to open a door. "It is all as it used to be--there is your bed and there are the books, only the evergreens and the beeches have grown taller."
The young wife nodded.
"Bring me a little hot milk," she said, shivering, "as soon as you can, Mrs. Rode."
"This very minute!" And the old woman hurried away. Gertrude could hear the clatter of her slippers on the stairs and the shutting of the hall door. At last she was alone.
A cool green twilight reigned in the room from the branches of the beeches which pressed close up to the pane. It was not so dark here that last summer she had spent in "Waldruhe." Otherwise--the woman was right--everything was as it had been then, the mirror in its pear-wood frame still displayed the Centaurs drawing their bows in the yellow and black ground of the upper part; above the small old-fashioned writing-table still hung the engraving, "Paul and Virginia" under the palm trees; the green curtains of the great canopied bed were not in the least faded, the sofa was as uncomfortable as ever, and the table stood before it with the same plush cover. She had passed so many pleasant hours here, in the sweet spring evenings at the open window, and on stormy autumn evenings when the clouds were flying in the sky, the storm came down from the mountains and beat against the lonely house. The rain pattered against the panes, and the woods began to rustle with a melancholy sound. Then the curtains were drawn, the fire burned brightly in the fireplace, and opposite in the cosy sitting-room her father sat at a game of cards. She was the hostess here in "Waldruhe," and she felt so proud of going into the kitchen with her white apron on and of going down into the cellar, and then at dinner all the old gentlemen complimented her on the success of her venison pie. The dear old friends--there was only Uncle Henry left now.
There on that bed they had laid the fainting girl when they had found her by her father's death-bed.
The young wife shivered suddenly. "He died of his unhappy marriage," she had once heard Uncle Henry say--in a low tone, but she had understood him nevertheless.
Mamma did not love him, she had loved another man, and she had told him so once, when they were quarreling about some trifle.
"I should have been happier with the other one--I liked him at any rate, but--he was poor."
Gertrude understood it all now; she had her father's character, she was proud, too. Oh, those gloomy years when she was growing to understand what sunshine was wanting in the house!
"If it were not for the children," he had said once, angrily, "I would have put an end to it long ago."
O what a torture it is when two people are bound together by the law of God and man who would yet gladly put a whole world between them! Unworthy? Immoral?
Had not her father done well when he went voluntarily? But ah, how hard was the going when one loves! How then? Love and esteem belong together--ah, it was imagination, all imagination!
She grew suddenly a shade paler; she thought how her father had loved her and she thought of the little cradle in the attic at home. Thank God, it was only a dream, a wish, a nothing, and yet--Oh, this sickening dread!
She went towards the bed, she was so tired; she nestled her head in the pillow, drew up the coverlid and closed her eyes. And then she seemed to be always seeing and hearing the words that she had written to-day to leave on his writing-table. And she murmured, "Have compassion on me, let me go! Do not follow me, leave me the only place that belongs to me!"
The housekeeper brought some hot milk and she drank it. She would go to sleep, she said, but she could not sleep. She was always listening; she thought she heard horses' hoofs and carriage wheels. Ah, not that, not that!
Hour after hour passed and still she lay motionless; she had no longer the strength to move. Why can one not die when one will?
The noon-day bell was ringing in the village when a carriage drove up and soon after steps came up the stairs.
Thank God, it was not he!
Uncle Henry put his troubled face in at the door.
"Really," he said, "you are here then! But why, child, why?"
She had risen hastily and now stood before the little old gentleman.
"You bring me an answer, uncle?"
"Yes, to be sure. But I would rather far do something else. How happens it that your precious set should choose me for your amiable messenger?"
He threw himself down on the sofa with such force that it fairly groaned under his weight.
"Have you any cognac here?" he inquired, "I am quite upset."
She shook her head without speaking and only gazed at him with gloomy eyes.
"No, I suppose not," grumbled Uncle Henry. "Well then, he says if it amuses you to stay here you are quite welcome to do so."
She started perceptibly,
"Oh, ta, ta! That is the upshot of it--about that," he continued, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Linden did not say much," he went on, "he was in a silent rage over your flight--however, he kept himself well in hand. He would not keep you, he said, nor would he drag you back to his house by force. He will send Johanna to wait on you, and hopes to be able to fulfil any other desire of yours. He will arrange everything--and it is to be hoped you will soon see your error. And," wound up Uncle Henry, "now that we have got so far, I should be glad to learn from you what is to happen, when you, with your well known obstinacy, do not feel inclined to own yourself wrong?"
She was silent.
"As for the rest, Frank utterly denies having had any connection with Wolff. And, I should like to know, Gertrude--you were always a reasonable woman--why have you taken it into your head to believe that old ass who was always known as a scoundrel, rather than your husband?"
Gertrude quickly put her hand in her pocket and grasped the letter--there was her proof. She made a motion to give it to him--but no, she could not do it, she could not bring out the small hand that had closed tightly over the fatal paper.
"You ought both of you to give way a little, I think," said Uncle Henry after awhile. "You are married now, and--au fond--what if he did inquire about your fortune?"
Her frowning glance stopped him.
"Now-a-days it is not such a wonderful thing if a man--" he stammered on.
"It is not that, it is not that, uncle! Stop, I beg of you!" cried Gertrude.
"Oh yes, I understand, women are more sensitive in such matters, and justly too," assented Uncle Henry. "Well, I fear the name of Baumhagen will be the talk of the town again for the next six months. Goodbye, Gertrude. I can't exactly say I have enjoyed my visit. Don't be too lonely."
At the door he turned back again.
"You know it will come before the courts. Frank refuses to recognize the claims of the fellow Wolff."
She shook her head.
"He will not refuse," she answered, calmly, "but I wish you would take the matter in hand, uncle, and pay Wolff for his trouble."
Her eyes filled suddenly with angry tears.
"Oh, ta, ta! Why should I meddle with the matter?"
The old gentleman was deeply moved.
"I ask it of you, uncle, before it becomes the talk of the town."
A sob choked her words.
"Ah, do you think, my child, it is not already whispered about? Hm!--Well I will do it, but entirely from selfish motives, you know. Do you think it isn't disagreeable to me, too? Oh, ta, ta! What big drops those were! But will you promise me then to let well enough alone! What? You cannot leave him!"
The tears seemed frozen in her eyes.
"No," she replied, "but we shall agree upon a separation."
"Are you mad, child?" cried the old gentleman with a crimson face.
She turned her eyes slowly away.
"He only wanted my money; let him keep it," was her murmured reply, "Iwas only a necessary incumbrance,--I!"
"Oh, that is only your sensitiveness," said her uncle soothingly.
"Do you know me so little?" she inquired, drawing herself up to her full height. Her swollen eyes looked into his with an expression of cold decision.
The little man hastily shut the door behind him. It was exactly as if his dead brother were looking at him. In a most uncomfortable frame of mind, he got into his carriage. Confound it! here he was plunged into difficulties again by his good nature.
Gertrude remained alone. For one moment she looked after him and then she covered her face with her hands despairingly, threw herself on the little sofa and wept.
It was towards evening. Frank Linden mounted the steps, stood on the terrace and whistled shrilly out into the garden. He waited awhile and then shook his head. "The brute has gone with her," he said in a low voice; "even an animal like that takes part against me." He went back into the dining-room and stumbled over Johanna, who was busy at the side-board.
"You will go over to 'Waldruhe' in an hour," he said, looking past her. "Take what clothes are necessary for my wife with you. Whatever else she may desire is at her disposal at any moment."
Johanna glanced at him shyly, the face that was usually so glowing looked so ashy pale in the evening light.
"If I could have half an hour more, Mr. Linden--I want to show the young lady something about the milk cellar."
"The young lady? ah--yes--"
"Yes, the young lady who came to visit Miss Rosa yesterday. She offered her services, sir, when she heard that Mrs. Linden had gone away. I don't know how I can manage without her either, Dora is so stupid and she has so much to do besides."
Before he could reply, the door opened softly and behind Aunt Rosa's wonderful figure appeared a dark girl with red cheeks and shining eyes, who when she perceived him made a rather awkward curtsy, and was at once introduced as Addie Strom.
Frank bowed to the ladies, stammered out a few civil words, and asked to be excused for leaving them as he had letters to write.
"I am so sorry," said Aunt. Rosa, "that Mrs. Linden is not at home."
He nodded impatiently.
"She will soon be back," he replied as he went out.
"If Addie can help about the house a little--" sounded the shrill tones of the old lady behind him.
"Don't give yourself any trouble," was his reply.
"I should be glad to do it," said Adelaide, timidly.
Another silent bow from him and then he went out with great strides. That too!
He ran hastily down the steps into the garden. He took the letter out of his pocket once more which he had found lying on his writing-table that morning, and read it through. The writing was not as dainty as usual--the letters were hard and firm and large and yet unsteady, as if written, in great excitement.
The blood rushed in a hot wave to his heart. "It will come right." He put away the letter and took another from his pocketbook which had been brought half an hour before by an express messenger.
"I have just come from Wolff, with whom I intended to make an arrangement of this fatal affair. The scoundrel, unfortunately, was taken ill of typhus fever yesterday, and nothing is to be done with him at present. I can only regret that you should have consulted this man of all others, and I do not understand why you have not satisfied him. As soon as the gentleman isau faitagain I shall take the liberty, in the interest of my family and especially of my niece, to settle the matter quietly, and beg you not to make the matter worse by any imprudence on your part. You must have some consideration for the family.
"May an old man give you a little advice? I am a very tolerant judge in this matter, but a woman thinks differently about it. Acknowledge the truth openly to your insulted little wife--with a person of her character it is the only way to gain her pardon. I will gladly do all in my power to set this foolish affair before her in the mildest light--"
"Consideration!" he murmured, "consideration for the family!"
Then he laughed aloud and went on more quickly into the deepening twilight. What should he do in the house, in the empty rooms, at the inhospitable table with his heart full of bitterness? Childish, foolish obstinacy it was in her--and no trust in him! How had he deserved that she should give him up at once without even hearing him? Well, she would get over it, she would come again, but--the spell was broken, the bloom, the freshness was gone.
He must have his rights without regard to the Baumhagen family, or to her on whom he would not have permitted the winds of heaven to blow too roughly. She could not have hurt him more, than by giving more credence to that scoundrel than to him--she who usually was so calm--calm?
He could see her eyes before him now, those eyes in which strong passion glowed. He had seen them blaze with anger more than once, he had heard her agitating sobs, her voice husky with emotion as she spoke of her father. He saw her again as she had been the evening before their marriage when she pressed his hands passionately to her lips, a mute eloquent gesture, a thanksgiving for the refuge of his breast. And now? It had already burned out this passionate love, had failed before the first trial.
It was already dark when he returned from his walk. Johanna was gone. The maid whom he met in the corridor told him she had taken her child and a trunk full of clothing and the books which had been sent to Mrs. Linden yesterday.
He went to her room; the sweet scent of violets of which she was so fond pervaded the atmosphere, the afghan on the lounge lay just as it had fallen when she threw it off as she rose. He could not stay---a longing for her seized upon him so powerfully that it well-nigh unmanned him, and he went back to the dining-room. He opened the door half-unconsciously--there sat the judge at the table, dusty and dishevelled from his Brocken tour, but contented to his inmost soul. But--how came this stranger here doing the honors?
The rosy little brunette was just setting the table. She had put on a white apron over her dark dress, the bib fastened smoothly across her full bust. She was just depositing with her round arm half-uncovered by the elbow-sleeve, a plate of cold meat by the judge's place, placing the bottle of beer beside it. And as she did so she laughed at the weary little man so that all her white teeth were displayed.
And this must he bear too, to make his comfort complete! Let them eat who would! Soon he was sitting upstairs in the corner of the sofa in his own room; outside the darkness of a spring night came down, and a girl's voice was singing as if in emulation of the nightingales; that must be the little brunette, Adelaide. At last he heard it sounding up from the depths of the garden.
He did not stir until the judge stood before him.
"Now, I should really like to know, Frank--are you bewitched or am I? What is the matter? Where is madame? The little black thing downstairs, who seems to have fallen out of the clouds, says she is 'gone.'--Gone? What does it mean?"
"Gone!" repeated Frank Linden. It sounded so strange that his friend started.
"Something has happened, Frank,--that old woman, the mother-in-law, has done it. Oh, these women!"
"No, no, it is that affair with Wolff."
The judge gave vent to a long whistle, then he sat down beside Linden and clapped him on the shoulder.
"We'll managehim, Frank," he said, comfortingly, "andshewill come back, shemustcome back; you will not even need to ask her. But it was the most foolish thing she could do to run away."
And he began to describe a case that had come up in Frankfort a short time before on the ground of wilful desertion.
Linden sprang up.
"Spare me your law cases," he said roughly. "Do you suppose I would bring her back by force?"
"And what if she will not come of herself, Frank?"
"She will come," he replied, shortly.
"And that scoundrel Wolff?"
Frank Linden gave his friend a cigar and took one himself, though he did not light it, and as he sat down again he said:
"You can ask that? Have I been in the habit of putting up with imposition, Richard?"
"No, but on what does the man found his claim?"
Frank shrugged his shoulders. "I told you before, that he declared when I turned him out, that he would know how to secure his rights. He is ill now, however," he added.
"Oh, that is fatal!" lamented the judge. He was silent, for just then the full, deep girl's voice came up from the garden:
"Du hast mir viel gegeben,Du schenktest mir dein Herz,Du nahmst mir Alles wieder,Und liessest mir den Schmerz."
"Du hast mir viel gegeben,Du schenktest mir dein Herz,Du nahmst mir Alles wieder,Und liessest mir den Schmerz."
"It must be very hard, Frank," murmured his friend after a few moments of deep silence. "Very hard--I mean, to go the right way to work with a woman. How will you act? With sternness, or with gentleness? Will you write her a harsh letter, or will you send her some verses? In such an evening as this, I think I could almost write poetry myself. I say, Frank, light the lamp and let us read the paper."
"Richard," said the young man as he rose, "if you will give me your advice in regard to this affair of Wolff's, I shall be grateful to you, but leave my wife out of the question altogether; that is my affair alone."
Mrs. Baumhagen had conquered her aversion to "Waldruhe" and had come to see her youngest daughter. Something must be done--at any rate she could not any longer endure the sympathetic inquiries for the health of the young Mrs. Linden. Somethingmustbe done.
Gertrude was sitting at the window reading in her cool dusky room, at least she held a book in her hand; at her feet lay Linden's dog. She started in dismay as she heard footsteps in the corridor and for one moment a deep flush spread over her face.
"Ah, mamma," she said, wearily, as Mrs. Baumhagen rustled in in a light gray toilet, her hat lavishly adorned with violets as being appropriate to half-mourning, the round face more deeply flushed than usual with the heat of the spring sun and her excitement.
"This can't go on any longer, child," she began, kissing her daughter tenderly on the forehead. "How you look, and how cold it is here! Jenny sent her love; she went to Paris this morning to meet Arthur. Why didn't you go too, as I proposed?"
"I did not feel well enough," replied Gertrude.
"You look pale, and it is no wonder. I never could bear such want of consideration, either."
Gertrude sat down again in her old place.
"Has Uncle Henry been here?" inquired Mrs. Baumhagen.
"He was here yesterday."
"Well, then, you know that Linden has forbidden him any interference with Wolff?"
"Yes, mamma."
"And that this Mr. Wolff has been at the point of death for three days? His death would be the best thing that could happen, for of course everything would come to an end then. I don't know whether the people in the city have any idea of the true state of the case, but they suspect something and they overwhelm me with inquiries about you."
Gertrude nodded slightly, she knew all that already from her uncle.
"And hasn't he been here? Did he not ask your pardon, has he not tried to get you back?" asked Mrs. Baumhagen, breathlessly.
"No," was the half-choked reply.
"Poor child!"
The mother pressed her cambric handkerchief to her eyes.
"It is brutal, really brutal! Thank God that your eyes have been opened so soon. But you cannot stay here the whole time before the separation?"
Gertrude started and looked at her mother with wide eyes. She herself had thought of nothing but a separation. But when she heard the dreadful word spoken, it fell on her like a thunderbolt.
"Yes," she said at length, wringing her hands nervously, "where should I stay?"
"And for pity's sake, what do you do here from morning till night?"
"I read and go to walk, and--" I grieve, she would have added, but she was silent. What did her mother know of grief!
"My poor child!"
Mrs. Baumhagen was really crying now. This atmosphere weighed on her nerves. There was something oppressive in the air, and they really had a dreadful time before them. What if he should not consent to a separation? Why had God given the child such an unbending will which had brought her into this misery! If she had only followed her mother's advice. Mrs. Baumhagen had taken an aversion to the man from the first moment.
"I think I must go home, my headache--" she stammered, unscrewing her bottle of smelling salts.
"If you want anything, Gertrude, write or send to me. Do you want a piano or books? I have Daudet's latest novel. Ah, child, there are many trials in life and especially in married life. You haven't experienced the worst of it yet."
"Thank you, mamma."
The young wife followed the mother down the corridor and down the stairs to the hall door. Mrs. Baumhagen said good-bye with a cheerful smile--the coachman need not know everything.
"I hope you will soon be better, Gertrude," she said, loudly. "Be persevering in your water-cure."
Gertrude, left alone, went on into the garden. At the end of the wall where the path curved was a little summer-house, with a roof of bark shaped like a mushroom. Here she stopped and looked out into the country which lay before her in all the glow and fragrance of the evening light. Behind the wooded hills of the Thurmberg stood the dear, cosy little house. She walked in spirit through all its rooms, but she forced her thoughts past one door, the room with the old mahogany furniture into which she had gone first on her wedding eve. And she leaned more firmly against the wall and gazed out at the setting sun which stood in the sky like a fiery red ball, till the tears streamed from her eyes, and her heart ached with mortification and humiliation. Why did that day always come back to her so, and that evening, the first in that room? The evening when she had slipped from his arms, down to his very feet, hiding her face in his hands, overwhelmed with her deep gratitude. Must he not have smiled to himself at the foolish, passionate, blindly credulous woman? And angry tears fell from her eyes down over her pale cheeks, her hands trembled, and her pride grew stronger every minute.
She turned and went back to the house, the dog still following, and when she reached her room she sat down on the ground like a child and put her arms round her brown companion's neck. She could weep now, she could cry aloud and no one would hear. Johanna had gone to Niendorf to get some books and all sorts of necessary things.
When Johanna came back at length, Gertrude sat in the corner of the sofa as quiet as ever. The lamp was lighted and she was reading. Johanna brought out a timid "Good evening!" which was acknowledged by a silent nod. She laid a few rosebuds down beside the book. "The first from the Niendorf garden, ma'am."
And when no answer came, she went on talking as she took the clothes out of the basket and packed them away in the wardrobe.
"Dora is gone, Mrs. Linden. She could not get on with Miss Adelaide, and the master packed her off. He is so angry. Mr. Baumhagen, who has just been there, complained bitterly of the dinner to-day. I was in the kitchen when he came in and said he had never eaten such miserable peas in his life and the ham was cut the wrong way. Then Miss Adelaide cried and complained, and declared she did it all only out of good-nature. And the judge tried to comfort her and said it was a pity to spoil her beautiful eyes.--The judge sent his compliments too, and said he would come to say good-bye to you, ma'am. He is going away in a few days. Mr. Baumhagen sent greetings too, and Miss Rosa and little Miss Adelaide--"
"Pray get the tea, Johanna," said the young lady, interrupting the stream of words.
"The milk was sour, too, ma'am, and it is so cool too. Ah, you ought to see the milk-cellar! Everything is going to ruin--it would really be better if you would only agree that Miss Adelaide should come here and let me go to the master."
"You will stay here," replied Gertrude, bending her eyes on her book.
"The master looks so pale," proceeded the chattering woman. "Mr. Baumhagen was telling him in the garden-hall today that Wolff is dying, and he struck his hand on the table till all the dishes rattled and said, 'Everything goes against me in this matter!'"
Gertrude looked up. The color came back into her pale cheek, and she drew a long breath.
"Dying?" she asked.
"Yes. I heard Mr. Baumhagen trying to soothe him--saying it was all for the best and he hoped everything might be comfortably settled now."
"What was my uncle doing there?" inquired Gertrude.
Johanna was embarrassed.
"I don't know, Mrs. Linden, but if I am not mistaken, he was trying to persuade Mr. Linden to--that--ah, ma'am!"--Johanna came and stood before the table which she had set so daintily.
"What is between you and Mr. Linden I don't know, and it is none of my business to ask. But you see, ma'am, I have had a husband too, that I loved dearly--and life is so short, and I think we shouldn't make even one hour of it bitter, ma'am; the dead never come back again. But if I could know that my Fritz was still in the world and was sitting over there behind the hills, not so very far away from me--good Lord, how I would run to him even if he was ever so cross with me! I would fall on his neck and say, 'Fritz, you may scold me and beat me, it is all one to me so long as I have you!'"
And the young widow forgot the respect due to her mistress and threw a corner of her apron over her eyes and began to cry bitterly.
"Don't cry, Johanna," said Gertrude. "You don't understand--I too would rather it were so than that--" She stopped, overpowered by a feeling of choking anguish.
Johanna shook her head.
"'Taint right," she said, as she went out.
And Gertrude left the table and seated herself at the window, laying her forehead against the cool pane. Are not some words as powerful as if God himself had spoken them?
When some time after, Johanna entered the room again, she found it empty, and the table untouched. And as she began to remove the simple dishes, Gertrude entered and put a key down on the table. She had been in her father's room and the pale face with its frame of brown hair, looked as if turned to stone.
"If visitors come to-morrow, or at any time, I cannot receive them," she said, "unless it be my Uncle Henry."
And she took up her book again and began to read.
The house had long been quiet, when she put down the book for a moment and gazed into space.
"No!" she murmured, "no!"
Three days later the Niendorf carriage stopped before the gate of "Waldruhe," and waited there a quarter of an hour in the blazing heat of the mid-day sun, so that the gardener's children could gaze to their heart's content on the brilliant coloring of Aunt Rosa's violet parasol and the red ostrich feathers which adorned Adelaide's summer hat, mingling effectively with the dark curly hair which hung in a fringe over the youthful forehead. This sight must have been an agreeable one to the judge also, for he did not take his eyes off his prettyvis-à-vis.
"Mrs. Linden regrets that she is not well enough to receive visitors," announced Johanna with her eyes cast down.
Two of the occupants of the carriage looked disappointed, while the judge felt in his pocket for his card-case.
"There!" He gave the servant the turned-down card.
"And here is a letter, animportant letter--do you understand, Johanna? My compliments, and I trust she will soon recover."
"So do I," said the young girl, timidly.
Aunt Rosa, however, was silent, and when they looked at her more closely they saw she was asleep, the wrinkled old face nodding absurdly above the enormous bow under her chin.
"Burmann, drive slowly, when we get to the wood," whispered the judge, "Miss Rosa is asleep."
The coachman made a clucking sound with his tongue and drove noiselessly over the soft grass-grown road. Johanna could see that the judge moved over from the middle of the seat opposite the young lady and that she glowed suddenly like the feathers on her hat.
Johanna went back into the house with her card and letter and gave them to Gertrude.
"A letter?" inquired the young wife.
"The judge gave it to me," replied Johanna, as she left the room in which, in spite of the outside heat, the air was always damp and cold.
Gertrude slowly opened the letter. It was in his handwriting--she had expected it. Her heart beat so quickly she could scarcely breathe, and the letters danced before her eyes. It was some time before she could read it:
"Gertrude--Wolff died last evening. It is no longer possible to call him to account on earth; it is no longer possible to expose his guilt. He has gone to his grave without having cleared me from his calumny. I remain before you as a guilty person, and I can do nothing more than declare once more that we--you and I, are the victims of a scoundrel. I have never spoken with Wolff of your fortune nor called in his intervention in any way. I leave the rest to you and to your consideration. I shall never force you to return to me, neither shall I ever consent to a divorce. Come home, Gertrude, come soon and all shall be forgotten. The house is empty, and my heart is still more so--have faith in me again.YourFrank."'
"Gertrude--Wolff died last evening. It is no longer possible to call him to account on earth; it is no longer possible to expose his guilt. He has gone to his grave without having cleared me from his calumny. I remain before you as a guilty person, and I can do nothing more than declare once more that we--you and I, are the victims of a scoundrel. I have never spoken with Wolff of your fortune nor called in his intervention in any way. I leave the rest to you and to your consideration. I shall never force you to return to me, neither shall I ever consent to a divorce. Come home, Gertrude, come soon and all shall be forgotten. The house is empty, and my heart is still more so--have faith in me again.YourFrank."'
She had just finished reading these words when Uncle Henry came in. The little gentleman had evidently dined well--his face shone with good-humor.
"Still here?" he cried. And as she did not reply he looked at her more closely. "Well, you are not angry again?"
But the young wife swayed suddenly and Uncle Henry sprang towards her only just in time to keep her from falling, and called anxiously for Johanna. They laid the slender figure on the sofa and bathed her temples with cold water.
"Speak to me, child!" he cried, "speak to me!" and he repeated it till she opened her eyes.
"I cannot," she said after awhile.
"What?" asked the asthmatic old gentleman.
"Go to him Icannot! Must I?"
"Merciful Heavens!" groaned Uncle Henry, "do be reasonable! Of course you must unless you want him to be ruined."
"I must?" she repeated, adding as if for her own comfort, "No, I must not! I cannot force myself to have confidence in him, I cannot pretend what I do not feel. No, I must not!"
And she sprang up and ran through the room to the door, trembling with excitement.
"Oh, ta, ta!" The old man ran his hands through his hair. "Then stay here! Let your house and home go to ruin, and the husband to whom you have pledged your faith into the bargain."
"Yes, yes," she murmured, "you are right, but I cannot!"
And she grasped the little purse in her pocket which held that fatal letter.
It seemed as if this brought her back at once to herself. She grew quiet, she lay back on her lounge and rested her head on the cushion.
"Pardon me, uncle--I know what I am doing."
"That is exactly what you don't know," he muttered.
"Yes, I do," was the pettish reply. "Or do you think I ought to go there and beg him with folded hands to take me back into favor again?" And something like scorn curved her lips.
"It would be the most sensible thing you could do," replied Uncle Henry, rather angrily.
She bent back her head proudly.
"No!" came from her lips, "not if I were still more miserable than I am! I can forgive him, but--fawn upon him like--like a hound--no!"
"God forgive me, but it is nothing but the purest arrogance that animates you," cried the old man. "Who gave you the right to set yourself so high above him? He was a poor man who could not marry without money--is it a crime that he should have asked a question as to this matter? It happens to every princess. You are stern and unloving and unjust. Have you never done anything wrong?"
She had started at his first reproachful words like a frightened child, now she sprang up and as she knelt down before him her eyes looked up at him imploringly.
"Uncle, do you know how I loved him? Do you know how a woman can love? I looked up to him as to the noblest being on earth, so lofty, so great he seemed to me. I have lain at his feet, and at night I folded my hands and thanked God that he had given me this man for my husband. I thought he was the only one who did not look on me only as a rich girl, and he has told me so a hundred times. Uncle, you have been always alone, you don't know how people can love! And then to come down and see in him only a common man, a man who does not disdain to tell a lie--O, I would rather have died!" And she hid her face in her trembling hands. "And there, where I have been so happy, shall I satisfy myself with the coldest duty? I must be his wife and know that it was not love that brought me to his side? I shall hear his tender words and not think, 'He does not mean them?' He will say something to me and I shall torment myself with doubts whether he really means it? Oh, hell itself could not be more dreadful, for I loved him!"
Tears stood in the old man's eyes. He stroked Gertrude's smooth hair in some embarrassment.
"Stand up, Gertrude," he said, gently; and after a pause he added, "The Bible says we shall forgive."
"Yes, with all my heart," she murmured. "And if you see him tell him so. Ah, if he had come and had said--'Forgive me'--but so--"
An idea came into Uncle Henry's head.
"Then would you give in, child?" he inquired.
"Yes," she stammered, "hard as it would be."
The old egotist knew then what he had to do. He led the weeping Gertrude to her little sofa, asked Johanna for a glass of wine and then drove to Niendorf. As he went he could see always before him the beautiful tear-stained face, and could hear her sad voice. As he ran up the steps to the garden-hall rather hastily he saw through the glass door the little brunette Adelaide sitting at the table with the judge, who was just uncorking a wine-bottle. Both were so deeply engaged in gazing at each other and blushing and gazing again that they were not conscious of the presence of the old spy outside.
"Really, this is a pretty time to be carousing in this house," thought Uncle Baumhagen. As he entered he brought the couple back to the bald present with a gruff "Good morning," and the judge began at once a lament over the horrible ill-luck of this Wolff's dying six months too soon.
"What is going on here?" asked Uncle Henry, inhaling the fragrance of the wood-ruff.
"The partingmai-trankfor the judge," replied Miss Adelaide.
"Oh, ta, ta! You are going away?"
"I must," replied the little man with a regretful look at the young girl. "Besides, my dear sir, since this dreadful wifeless time has begun it is melancholy in Niendorf. Linden has been as overwhelmed, since the news of the death came last evening, as if his dearest friend had gone down into the grave with that limb of Satan. Heaven knows he could not have been more anxious about a near relation, and his horses have nearly run their legs off with making inquiries about the fellow's health. I really believe he would have given the doctor of this distinguished citizen a premium for preserving his precious life."
Uncle Henry grumbled something which sounded almost like a curse. "Where is Linden?" he inquired.
"Upstairs!" replied Miss Adelaide. "He has been there ever since this morning, at least we--" indicating the judge and herself--"dined alone with auntie, then we went to 'Waldruhe' but we did not get in, and now it is out of sheer desperation that we made a bowl ofmai-trank. But won't you taste a little of it, Mr. Baumhagen?"
She had filled a glass and offered it to the old gentleman with laughing eyes.
Uncle Henry cast a half-angry, half-eager glance at the glass in the small hand.
"Witch!" he growled, and marched out of the room as haughtily as a Spaniard. He was in too serious a mood to enter into their "chatter." But a clear laugh sounded behind him.
"I wish the judge would pack that little monkey in his trunk and send her off to Frankfort or to Guinea for all I care."
He found the young master of the house at his writing-table. "Linden," he began, without sitting down, "the carriage is waiting down-stairs, come with me to your little wife; if you will only beg her forgiveness, everything will be all right again."
Frank Linden looked at him calmly.
"Do you know what I should be doing?" he asked--"I should acknowledge a wrong of which I have never been guilty."
"Ah, nonsense! Never mind that! This is the question now, will you have your wife back again or not?"
"Is that the condition on which my wife will return to me?"
"Why, of course. Oh, ta, ta! I am sure at least that she would come then."
"I am sorry, but I cannot do it," replied the young man, growing a shade paler. "It is not for me to beg pardon."
"You are an obstinate set, and that is all there is about it," thundered Uncle Henry. "We are glad that the scoundrel is dead, and now here we are in just the same place as we were before."
"The scoundrel's death is a very unfortunate event for me, uncle."
"You will not?" asked the old gentleman again.
"Ask her pardon--no!"
"Then good-bye!" And Uncle Henry put on his hat and hastily left the room and the house.
"Allow me to accompany you down," said Frank, following the little man, who jumped into the carriage as if he were fleeing from some one.
But before the horses started he bent forward and an expression of intense anxiety rested on his honest old face.
"See here, Frank," he whispered, "it is a foolish pride of yours. Women have their little whims and caprices. It is true I never had a wife--thank Heaven for that!--but I know them very well for all that. They have such ideas, they must all be worshipped, and the little one is particularly sharp about it. She is like her father, my good old Lebrecht, a little romantic--I always said the child read too much. Now do you be the wise one to give in. You have not been so hurt either, and--besides she is a charming little woman."
"As soon as Gertrude comes back everything shall be forgotten," replied Linden, shutting the carriage door.
"But she won't come so, my boy. Don't you know the Baumhagen obstinacy yet?" cried Uncle Henry in despair.
He shrugged his shoulders and stepped back.
"To Waldruhe!" shouted the old man angrily to the coachman, and away he went.
"My young gentleman is playing a dangerous game as injured innocence," he growled, pounding his cane on the bottom of the carriage. The nearer he came to the villa, the redder grew his angry round face. When he reached "Waldruhe" he did not have to go upstairs. Gertrude was in the park. She was standing at the end of a shady alley and perceiving her uncle she came towards him, in her simple white summer dress.
"Uncle," she gasped out, and two anxious eyes sought to read his face.
"Come," said the old man, taking her hand, "let us walk along this path. It will do me good. I shall have a stroke if I stand still. To make my story short, child--he will not."
"Uncle, what have you done?" cried Gertrude, a flush of mortification covering her face. "You have been to him?"
"'Yes,' I said, 'go and ask her forgiveness and everything will come right--women are like that!' and he--"
She pressed her hand on her heart.
"Uncle!" she cried.
"And he said: No! That would be owning a fault which he had not committed. There, my child! I have tried once more to play the part of peace-maker, but--now I wash my hands of it all. You must do it for yourselves now. Anger is bad for me, as you know, and I have had enough now to last me a month. Good-bye, Gertrude!"
"Good-bye, uncle, I thank you."
He had gone a few steps when the old egotist looked round once more. She was leaning against the trunk of a beech-tree like one who has received a blow. Her eyes were cast down, a strange smile played about her mouth.
"Poor child!" he stammered out, taking his hat from his burning forehead, and then he went back to her.
"Come now, you must keep your spirits up," he said kindly. "Over there in Niendorf that black little monkey was making amai-trankfor the judge who is going away. What do you say, Gertrude, shall we go and have some? Come, I will take you over quite quietly. You see we would go so softly into the dining-room, and I am not an egotist if you are not--one--two--three--in each others' arms--you will cry 'Frank!' he will say 'Gertrude!' and all will be forgotten. Gertrude, my good little Gertrude, do be reasonable. Is life so very blissful that one dares fling away the golden days of youth and happiness? Come, come, take my advice just this once."
He had grasped her slender wrist, but she freed herself hastily and her face grew rigid. "No, no, that is all over!" she said in a hard distinct tone.