Gertrude Baumhagen had quickly crossed the quiet square, had opened a
door in the opposite wall, and was at home. She passed rapidly through
the box-edged path of the old-fashioned garden, and across a quiet
spacious court into the house. In the large vaulted hall, she found her
brother-in-law standing beside a tall velocipede. He was dressed
elegantly and according to the latest fashion, a costly diamond
sparkled on the blue cravat, while he wore another on his white hand.
He was fair-haired, with pink cheeks, and a small moustache on his
upper lip, and was perhaps about thirty. A servant was occupied in
cleaning the shining steel of the bicycle with a piece of chamois
leather.
"Are you going for a ride, Arthur?" asked the young girl, pleasantly.
"I am going to make off, Gertrude," he replied, peevishly. "What on
earth can I do at home? Jenny has got a ladies' tea party again to-day
by way of variety--and what am I to do? I am going with Carl Roeben to
Bodenstadt--a man must look out for himself a little."
"I am just going up to your house," said the young girl. "I am cross
with Jenny and am going to scold her."
"You will be lucky then if you don't come off second best, my dear
sister-in-law," cried Arthur Fredericks, laughing.
She shook her head gravely, and mounted the broad staircase, whose dark
carved balustrade harmonized well with the crimson Smyrna carpet which
covered the steps, held down by shining brass rods. Huge laurel-trees
in tubs stood on either side of the tall door, which led to the first
floor. On the left, the staircase went on to the upper story. Gertrude
Baumhagen pressed on the button of the electric bell and instantly the
door was opened by a servant-maid in a brilliantly white apron, while a
clear voice called out,
"Yes, yes, I am at home--you have come just in time, Gertrude."
In the large entrance hall, which was finished in old German style, a
young matron stood before a magnificent buffet, busied in taking out
all manner of silver-plate from the open cupboard. She wore a dainty
little lace cap on her light brown hair, and a house-dress of fine
light blue cashmere, richly trimmed with lace. She was very pretty,
even now when she was pouting, but there was no resemblance between the
two sisters.
"You are not even dressed yet, Jenny?" cried the young girl. "Then I
might have waited a good while in the church. It was really very
awkward, your not coming."
The young matron stopped and set down the great glass dish encircled by
two massive silver snakes, in dismay. Then she clapped her hands and
began to laugh heartily.
"There now!" she cried, "this whole day I have been going about the
house with a feeling that there was something I had to do, and I
couldn't think what it was. O that is too rich! Caroline, you might
have reminded me!" she continued, turning to the maid, who was just
laying a heavy linen table-cloth on the massive oak-table in the middle
of the room.
"Mrs. Fredericks laid down to sleep and said expressly that I was not
to wake her before four o'clock," said the maid in her own defence.
"Well, so I did," yawned the young matron; "I was so tired, his
lordship was in a bad temper, and the baby was so frightfully noisy. It
is no great misfortune, either; I can easily make up for it by sending
her something tomorrow."
"Why, Jenny! Have you forgotten that it was I who told Johanna that you
and I would be godmothers? I thought it was our _duty_--the man was
killed in our factory."
"O fiddle-dedee, pet," interposed Mrs. Jenny, "I hate that everlasting
god mothering! I have already three round dozens of godchildren as
surely as I stand here---_poor_ people are not required for that
purpose, I assure you. Come, I have finished here now, we will go to
the nursery for awhile, or"--casting a glance at the old-fashioned
clock--"still better, mamma has had some patterns for evening-dresses
sent her--wait a minute and I will come up with you; the company won't
come yet for an hour and a half."
She turned round gracefully once more as if to survey her work. The
buffet shone with silver dishes, a bright fire burned in the open
fireplace, the heavy chandelier as well as the sconces before the tall
glass were filled with dark red twisted candles, and as Caroline drew
back the heavy embroidered _portiere_, a room almost too luxuriously
furnished became visible--a room all crimson; even through the stained
glass of the bow-window the evening light sent red reflections in the
labyrinth of chairs and sofas, lounges and tables, while white marble
statues stood out against the dark green of costly greenhouse plants.
"It looks pleasant, doesn't it, Gertrude?" said the young wife. "I have
not opened the great drawing-room because there will be only a few
ladies. The wife of the Home Minister has accepted. Are you coming in
for an hour?"
"No, thanks," replied the young girl, mounting the stairs with her
sister to her mother's apartment. "Send me the baby for awhile, I like
so much to have him."
"Oh, yes, the young gentleman shall make his appearance," nodded Mrs.
Jenny, "provided he doesn't sleep like a little dormouse."
"Do you go in to mamma," said Gertrude. "I will change my dress and
then come."
The rooms were the same as in the lower story, also richly furnished,
though not in the new "aesthetic" style, yet they were not less elegant
and comfortable. The sisters separated in the ante-room, and Gertrude
Baumhagen went to her own room. She occupied the room with the
bow-window, but here the daylight was not broken by costly stained
glass: it came in, unhindered, in floods through the clear panes,
before which outside, numberless flowers waved in the soft breeze.
Directly opposite were the gables of the Rathhaus; like airy lace-work,
the rich ornamentation of the towers was marked out against the glowing
evening sky.
This bow-window was a delightful place; here stood her work-table, and
behind it on an easel, the portrait of the late Mr. Baumhagen. The
resemblance between the father and daughter was visible at a glance;
there was the same light brown hair, the intellectual brow, the small,
fine nose, and the eyes too were the same. She had always been his
darling, and it was her care that fresh flowers should always be placed
in the gold network of the frame. And where she sat at work her hands
would sometimes rest in her lap and her eyes would turn to the picture.
"My dear, good papa!" she would whisper then, as if he must understand.
To-day also, she walked quickly towards the bow-window and looked long
at the picture. "You would have done that too," she said, softly,
"wouldn't you, papa!" An earnest expression came suddenly into the
young eyes, something like inexpressible longing. "No, every one is not
like mamma and Jenny; there are warm human hearts, there are hearts
that feel compassion for a stranger's needs, for whom the detested--"
she stopped suddenly her small hands had clenched themselves and her
eyes filled with tears.
She began to pace up and down the room. The soft, thick carpet deadened
the sound of her footsteps, but the heavy silk rustled after her with
an anxious sound.
What humiliations she had to endure daily and hourly from the fact of
being a rich girl! She owed everything to the circumstance of having a
fortune. Jenny had just now declared to her again that she had only
been godmother, because--Ah, no matter, she knew better. Johanna was
too modest. But she had not yet recovered from that other blow. A week
ago there had been man[oe]uvres in the neighborhood, and the colonel
with his adjutant had had his quarters for two days in the Baumhagen
house. She could not really remember that she had spoken more than a
few commonplace words to the adjutant, and twenty-four hours after the
troops had left the city--yesterday--a letter lay before her filled
with the most ardent protestations of love and an entreaty for her
hand. She had taken the letter and gone to her mother with it, with the
words: "Here is some one who wishes to marry my money. Will you write
the answer, mamma? I cannot."
Now she was dreading the mention of this letter. She was not afraid
that her mother would try to persuade her. No, no, she had always been
independent enough not to order her life according to the will of
another, but the matter would be discussed and the division between
mother and daughter would only be made wider than ever.
She started; the door opened and her sister's voice called: "Do come,
Gertrude, I can't make up my mind about that new red."
The young girl crossed the hall and a moment after stood in her
mother's drawing-room, before her mother, a small woman with almost too
rosy cheeks, and an exceedingly obstinate expression about the full
mouth. She sat on the sofa beneath the large Swiss landscape, the work
of a celebrated Duesseldorf master--Mrs. Baumhagen was fond of relating
that she had paid five hundred dollars for it--and tossed about with
her small hands, covered with diamonds, a mass of dress patterns.
"Gertrude," she cried, "this would do for you." And she held out a bit
of blue silk. "It is a pity you are so different, it is so nice for two
sisters to dress alike."
"What is suitable for a married woman, is not fit for a girl," declared
Mrs. Jenny. "Gertrude ought to get married, she is twenty years old."
"Ah! that reminds me,"--the mother had been turning over the patterns
during the conversation,--"there is that letter from your last admirer,
I must answer it. What am I to write him?--
"See here, Jenny, this brown ground with the blue spots is pretty,
isn't it?--It is really a great bore to answer letters like that; why
don't you do it yourself?"
"I am afraid my answer would not be dispassionate enough," replied the
girl, calmly.
"Do you like him?" asked her sister.
The young girl ignored the question.
"I am afraid I might be bitter, and nothing is required but a purely
business-like answer, as the question was purely one of business."
"You are delicious!" laughed the young wife. "O what a pity you had not
lived in the middle ages, when the knights were obliged to go through
so long a probation! Little goose, you must learn to take the world as
it is. Do you suppose Arthur would have married _me_ if I had had
nothing? I assure you he would never have thought of it! And do you
suppose I would have taken _him_ if I had not known he was in good
circumstances? Never! And what would you have more from us? we are a
comparatively happy couple."
Gertrude looked at her sister in surprise, with a questioning look in
her blue eyes.
"Comparatively happy?" she repeated in a low tone.
"Good gracious, yes, he has his whims--one has to put up with them,"
declared her sister,
"Pray don't quarrel to-day," said Mrs. Baumhagen, taking her eye-glass
from her snub-nose; "besides I will write the letter. It is for that I
am your mother." She sighed.
"But in this matter I think Jenny is right. Gertrude, you take far too
ideal views of the world. We have all seen to what such ideas lead."
Another sigh. "I will not try to persuade you, I did not say anything
to influence Jenny; you both know that very well. For my own part I
have nothing against this Mr. Mr.--Mr.--" the name did not occur to her
at once.
The young girl laughed, but her eyes looked scornful. "His address is
given with great distinctness in the letter," she said.
"There is no great hurry, I suppose," continued her mother. "I have my
whist-party this evening; if I am not there punctually I must pay a
fine; besides, I don't feel like writing." She yawned slightly.
"The evenings are getting very long now--did you know, Jenny, that an
opera troupe is coming here?"
Jenny answered in the affirmative, and added that she must go and
dress.
"Good night," she cried, merrily, from the door; "we shall not meet
again to-day."
"Good night, mamma," said Gertrude also.
"Are you going down to Jenny?" asked Mrs. Baumhagen.
The girl shook her head.
"What are you going to do all the evening?"
"I don't know, mamma. I have all sorts of things to do. Perhaps I shall
read."
"Ah! Well, good night, my child."
She waved her hand and Gertrude went away. She took off her silk dress
when she reached her room and exchanged it for a soft cashmere, then
she went into her pretty sitting-room. It was already twilight and
the lamps were being lighted in the street below. She stood in the
bow-window and watched one flame leap out after the other and the
windows of the houses brighten. Even the old apple-woman, under the
shelter of the statue of Roland, hung out her lantern under her
gigantic white umbrella. Gertrude knew all this so well; it had been
just the same when she was a tiny girl, and there was no change--only
here inside it was all so different--so utterly different.
Where were those happy evenings when she had sat here beside her
father--where was the old comfort and happiness? They must have hidden
themselves away in his coffin, for ever since that dreadful day when
they had carried her father away, it had been cold and empty in the
house and in the young girl's heart. He had been so ill, so melancholy;
it was fortunate that it had happened, so people said to the widow, who
was almost wild in her passionate grief, but she had gone on a journey
at once with Jenny, and had spent the winter in Nice. Gertrude would
not go with them on any account. Her eyes, which had looked on such
misery, could not look out upon God's laughing world,--her shattered
nerves could not bear the gay whirl of such a life. She had stayed
behind with an old aunt--Aunt Louise slept almost all day, when she was
not eating or drinking coffee, and the young girl had learned all the
horrors of loneliness. She had been ill in body and mind, and when her
mother and sister had returned, she learned that one may be lonely even
in company, and lonely she had remained until the present day.
Urged by a longing for affection, she had again and again tried to find
excuses for her mother, and to adapt herself to her mode of life. She
had allowed herself to be drawn into the whirl of pleasure into which
the pleasure-loving woman had plunged so soon as her time of mourning
was over. She had tried to persuade herself that concerts, balls, and
all the gayeties of society really gave her pleasure and satisfied her.
But her sense of right rebelled against this self-deception. She
began to ponder on the vacuity of all about her, on this and that
conversation, on the whole whirl around her, and she grew less able to
comprehend it. She could not understand how people could find so much
amusement in things that seemed to her not worth a thought. The art of
fluttering through life, skimming the cream of all its excitements as
Jenny did, she did not understand. To wear the most elegant costume at
a ball, to stay at the dearest hotels on a journey, to be celebrated
for giving the finest dinners--all that was not worth thinking about.
Once she had asked if she might not read aloud in the evenings they
spent alone, as she used to do when her father was alive. After
receiving permission she had come in with a radiant face, bringing
"Ekkehard," the last book which her father had given her. With flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes, she had read on and on, but as she chanced
to look up there sat Jenny, looking through the last number of the
"Journal of Fashion," while her mother was sound asleep. She did not
say a word but she never read aloud again.
The large tears ran suddenly down her cheeks. One of those moments had
suddenly come over her again, when she stretched out her arms
despairingly after some human soul that would understand her, that
would love her a little, only a little, for herself alone. She had
grown so distrustful that she ascribed all kindness from strangers to
her wealth and the position which her family held in society. She was
quite conscious that she was repellent and unamiable, designedly so--no
one should know how poor she really felt. It was not necessary for them
to know that she wrung her hands and asked, "What shall I do? What do I
live for?" She had inherited from her father a delight in work, a need
for being of use--every responsible person feels a desire to be happy
and to make others happy--but she felt her life so great a burden, it
was so shallow, so distasteful, so full of petty interests.
She quickly dried her tears and turned; the door had opened and an old
servant entered.
"You are forgetting your tea again, Miss Gertrude," she began,
reproachfully. "It is all ready in the dining-room. I have brought in
the tea so it will cool a little, but you must come now."
The young girl thanked her pleasantly and followed her. She returned in
a very short time, nothing tasted good when she was so alone. She
lighted the lamp and took a book and read. It had grown still gradually
outside in the street, quarter after quarter struck from St. Benedict's
tower, until it was eleven o'clock. A carriage drove up--her mother was
coming home.
Gertrude closed her book, it was bedtime. The hall-door closed, steps
went past Gertrude's door--but no, some one was coming in.
Mrs. Baumhagen still wore her black Spanish lace mantilla over her
head. She only wished to ask her daughter what all this was about the
christening this afternoon. The pastor's wife had told her a story of a
curious kind of godfather; the pastor had come home full of it.
"Jenny did not come," explained the young girl, "and a strange
gentleman offered to stand."
"But how horribly pushing," cried the excited little woman. "You should
have drawn back, child--who knows what sort of a person he may be."
"I don't know him, mamma. But whoever he may be, he was so very
good; he never supposed, I am sure, that his kindness could be
misunderstood."
"There," cried Mrs. Baumhagen, "you see it is always so with you--you
are so easily imposed upon by that sort of thing, Gertrude,--really I
get very anxious about you. Did you know that Baron von Lowenberg--I
remember the name now--is a distant connection of the ducal house of
A.? Mrs. von S---- knows the whole family, they are charming people.
But I will not influence you, I am only telling you this by the way.
Sophie tells me an invitation has come from the Stadtraethin for
to-morrow. One never has a day to one's self. You will come too? It is
about the Society festival; you young girls will have something to do.
"Jenny had a light still," she continued, without noticing her
daughter's silence. "Arthur brought home Carl Roeben, who came for his
young wife, and Lina was just coming up out of the cellar with
champagne.--I beg you will not tell any one about that scene in the
church to-day; I have asked the pastor's wife to be silent too.
"Good night, my child. Of course the tea wasn't fit to drink at Mrs.
S---- as usual."
"Good-night, mamma," replied Gertrude. She took the lamp and looked at
her father's picture once more, then she went to bed. She awoke
suddenly out of a half-slumber; she had heard the voice so distinctly
that she had heard in the church to-day for the first time. She sat up
with her heart beating quickly. No, what she had experienced today had
been no dream. Like a ray of sunshine fell that friendly act of the
unknown into this world of egotism and heartlessness. And then she
staid long awake.