The storms of late autumn came on among the mountains, heavy showers of
rain came down from the gray flying clouds and beat upon the dead
leaves of the forest and against the windows of the dwelling-houses.
Frank Linden sat at his writing-table in the room he had fitted up for
himself in the second story, and his eyes wandered from the denuded
branches in the garden to the mountains opposite. His surroundings were
as comfortable as it is possible for a bachelor's room to be--books and
weapons, a bright fire in the stove, good pictures on the walls, the
delicate perfume of a fine cigar, and yet in spite of all this the
expression on his handsome face was by no means a contented one.
He thrust aside a great sheet full of figures and took up instead a
sheet of writing-paper, on which he began rapidly to write:--
"My Dear Old Judge:
"How you would scoff at me if you could see me in my present downcast
mood. It is raining outside, and inside a flood of vexatious thoughts
is streaming over me. I have found out that playing at farming is a
pleasure only when one has a large purse that he can call his own. The
expenses are getting too much for me; everything has to be repaired or
renewed. Well, all this is true, but I do not complain, for in other
ways I have the greatest pleasure out of it. I cannot describe to you
how really poetic a walk through these autumn woods is, which I manage
to take almost daily with old Juno, thanks to the permission of the
royal forester, with whom I have made friends.
"And how delightful is the home coming beneath my own roof!
"But you, most prosaic of all mortals, are probably thinking only about
venison steaks or broiled field-fares, and you only know the mood of
the wild huntsman from hearsay.
"But I wanted to tell you how right you were when you declared of
Wolff: '_Hic niger est!_ Be on your guard against this man--he is a
scoundrel!' Perhaps that would be saying too much, but at any rate he
is troublesome. He sent me yesterday a ticket to a concert and wrote on
a bit of paper: 'Seats 38 to 40 taken by the Baumhagen family--I got
No. 37.' Then he added that the Baumhagens were the most distinguished
and the wealthiest of the patricians in the city--evidently those who
play first fiddle there.
"You know what my opinion is concerning millionaires--anything to
escape their neighborhood.
"Well, in short, I was vexed and sent him back the ticket with the
remark that I was the most unmusical person in the world. He has
already made several attacks of that nature on me, so I suppose there
must be a daughter.
"And now to come at length to the aim of this letter--you know that
Wolff has a heavy mortgage on Niendorf, at a very high rate of
interest. I simply cannot pay it, and wish to take up the mortgage;
would your sister be willing to take it at a moderate rate? I am ready
to give you any information.
"And what more shall I tell you? By the way, the old aunt--you did her
great injustice; I never saw a more inoffensive, more contented
creature than this old woman. A niece who comes to Niendorf every year
on a visit, and whom she seems very fond of, her tame goldfinch, and
her artificial flowers make up her whole world. She asked quite
anxiously if I would let her have her room here till she died. I
promised it faithfully. She has been telling me a good many things
about my uncle's last years. He must have been very eccentric. Wolff
was with him every day, playing euchre with him and the schoolmaster.
He died at the card-table, so to speak. The old lady told me in a
sepulchral voice that he actually died with clubs and diamonds in his
hands. He had just played out the ace and said, 'There is a bomb for
you!' and it was all over. I believe she felt a little horror of this
endings herself. I am going now into the city in spite of wind and rain
to make a few calls. I have got to do it sooner or later. I shall take
the steward with me; he will bring home a pair of farm-horses that he
bought the other day. Perhaps I may happen to stumble on my unknown
little godmother that I wrote you about the other day; so far luck has
not favored me."
He added greetings and his signature, and half an hour later he was on
his way to the city in faultless visiting costume.
Arrived in the hotel he inquired for a number of addresses, then began
with a sigh to do his duty according to that extraordinary custom which
Mrs. Grundy prescribes as necessary in "good society," that is, to call
upon perfect strangers at mid-day and exchange a few shallow phrases
and then to escape as quickly as possible. Thank Heaven! No one was at
home to-day although it was raining in torrents. From a sort of natural
opposition he left the Baumhagens to the last; he belonged to that
class to whom it is only necessary to praise a thing greatly in order
to create a strong dislike to it.
Just as he was on the point of making this visit, he met Mr. Wolff.
"You are going to the Baumhagens?" he asked, evidently agreeably
surprised. "There--there, that house with the bow-window. I wish you
good luck, Mr. Linden!"
Frank had a sharp answer on his lips but the little man had
disappeared. But a woman's figure stepped back hastily from the
bow-window above him.
"Very sorry," said the old servant-maid. "Mrs. Baumhagen is not at
home." He received the same answer in the lower story although he heard
the sounds of a Chopin waltz.
He heard an explanation of this in the hotel at dinner. A great ball
was to take place that evening, and such a festival naturally required
the most extensive preparations on the part of the feminine portion of
society; on such a day neither matron nor maiden was visible. Nothing
else was spoken of but this ball, and some of the gentlemen kindly
invited him to be present; he would find some pretty girls there.
"I am curious to know if the little Baumhagen will be there," said an
officer of Hussars.
"She may stay away for all I care," responded a very blond Referendary.
"She has a way of condescending to one that I can't endure. She is
perfectly eaten up with pride."
"She has just refused another offer, as I heard from Arthur
Fredericks," cried another.
"She is probably waiting for a prince," snarled a fourth.
"I don't care," said Colonel von Brelow, "you may say what you like,
she is a magnificent creature without a particle of provincialism about
her. There is race in the girl."
Frank Linden had listened with an interest which had almost awakened a
desire in him to take part in the ball. He half promised to appear,
took the address of a glove-shop and sat for a couple of hours in
lively conversation. After the lonely weeks he had been spending it
interested him more than he was willing to confess.
"I am really stooping to gossip," he said, amused at himself. When he
went out into the street, darkness had already come down on the short
November day, the gas-lamps were reflected back from the pools in the
street, the shop-windows were brilliantly lighted, and five long
strokes sounded from the tower of St. Benedict's.
He went round the corner of the hotel into the next street, and walked
slowly along on the narrow sidewalk, looking at the shops which were
all adorned with everything gay and brilliant for the approaching
Christmas holidays.
"Good-evening!" said suddenly a timid voice behind him. He turned
round. For a moment he could not remember the woman who stood timidly
before him, with a yoke on her shoulder from which hung two shining
pails. Then he recognized her--it was Johanna.
"I only wanted to thank you so very much," she began, "the sexton
brought me the present for the baby."
"And is my little godchild well?" he asked, walking beside the woman
and suddenly resolving to learn something about "her" at any price.
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Linden; it is but a weakly thing--trouble hasn't
been good for him. But if the gentleman would like to see him--it isn't
so very far and I'm going straight home now."
"Of course I should," he said, and learned as he went along, that she
carried milk twice a day for a farmer's wife.
"Does the young lady come to see her godson sometimes?"
"Ay, to be sure!" replied the woman. "She comes and the baby hasn't a
frock or a petticoat that she hasn't given him. She is so good, Miss
Gertrude. We were confirmed together," she added, with pride.
So her name was Gertrude.
They had still some distance to go, through narrow streets and alleys,
before the woman announced that they had reached her house. "There is a
light inside--perhaps it is mother, the child waked up I suppose. My
mother lives up stairs," she explained, "my father is a shoemaker."
The window was so low that a child might have looked in easily, so he
could overlook the whole room without difficulty.
"Stay," he whispered, holding Johanna's arm.
"O goodness! it is the young lady," she cried, "I hope she won't be
angry."
But Frank Linden did not reply. He saw only the slender girlish figure,
as she walked up and down with the crying child in her arms, talking to
him, dancing him till at last he stopped crying, looked solemnly in her
face for awhile and then began to crow.
"Now you see, you silly little goosie," sounded the clear girl's voice
in his ears, "you see who comes to take care of you when, you were
lying here all alone and all crumpled up, while your mother has to go
out from house to house through all the wind and rain;--you naughty
baby, you little rogue, do you know your name yet? Let's see.
Frank,--Frankie? O such a big boy! Now come here and don't cry a bit
more and you shall have on your warm little frock when your mother
comes." And she sat down before the stove and began to take off the
little red flannel frock.
[Illustration: "She sat down before the stove and began to take off the
little red flannel frock."]
"Ask if I may come in, Johanna," said Linden. And the next moment he
had entered behind the woman.
A flush of embarrassment came over the young girl's face, but she
frankly extended her hand. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Linden--mamma was
very sorry that she could not receive you this afternoon. You--"
He bowed. Then she belonged to one of the houses where he had called
to-day. But to which one?
"Do you know, I never knew till to-day that you were living in the
neighborhood," she continued brightly. "I was standing in our
bow-window when you came across the square, and saw you inquiring for
our house."
"Then I have the honor to see Miss Baumhagen?" he asked, somewhat
disturbed by this information.
"Gertrude Baumhagen," she replied. "Why do you look so surprised?"
With these words she took her cloak from the nearest chair, put a small
fur cap on her brown hair and took up her muff.
"I must go now, Johanna, but I will send the doctor to-morrow for the
baby. You must not let things go so,--you must take better care or else
he may have weak eyes all his life."
"Will you allow me to accompany you?" asked Linden, unable to take his
eyes off the graceful form. And that was Gertrude Baumhagen!
She assented. "I am not afraid for myself, but I am sure you would
never find your way out of this maze of streets into which my good
Johanna has enticed you. This part about here is quite the oldest part
of the town. You cannot see it this evening, but by daylight a walk
through this quarter would well repay you. I like this neighborhood,
though only people of the lower class live here," she continued,
walking with a firm step on the slippery pavement.
"Do you see down there on the corner that house with the great stone
steps in front and the bench under the tree? My grandmother was born in
that house, and the tree is a Spanish lilac. Grandfather fell in love
with her as she sat one evening under the tree rocking her youngest
brother. She has often told me about it. The lilac was in blossom and
she was just eighteen. Isn't it a perfect little poem?"
Then she laughed softly. "But I am telling you all this and I don't
know in the least what you think of such things."
They were just opposite the small house with the lilac tree. He stopped
and looked up. She perceived it and said: "I can never go by without
having happy thoughts and pleasant memories. Never was there a dearer
grandmother, she was so simple and so good." And as he was silent she
added, as if in explanation, "She was a granddaughter of the foreman in
grandpapa's factory."
Still nothing occurred to him to say and he could not utter a merely
conventional phrase.
She too remained silent for a while. "May I ask you," she then began,
"not to give too many presents to the baby--they are simple people who
might be easily spoiled."
He assented. "A man like me is so unpractical," he said, by way of
excuse. "I did not exactly know what was expected of me after I had
offered myself as godfather in such an intrusive manner."
"That was no intrusion, that was a feeling of humanity, Mr. Linden."
"I was afraid I might have seemed to you, too impulsive--too--" he
stopped.
"O no, no," she interrupted earnestly. "What can you think of me? I can
easily tell the true from the false--I was really very glad," she
added, with some hesitation.
"I thank you," he said.
And then they walked on in silence through the streets;--Gertrude
Baumhagen stopped before a flower-store behind whose great glass panes
a wealth of roses, violets and camellias glowed.
"Our ways separate here," she said, as she gave him her hand. "I have
something to do in here. Good-bye, Mr.--Godfather."
He had lifted his hat and taken her hand. "Good-bye, Miss Baumhagen."
And hesitatingly he asked--"Shall you be at the ball to-night?"
"Yes," she nodded, "at the request of the higher powers," and her blue
eyes rested quietly on his face. There was nothing of youthful pleasure
and joyful expectation to be read in them. "Mamma would have been in
despair if I had declined. Good-night, Mr. Linden."
The young man stood outside as she disappeared into the shop. He stood
still for a moment, then he went on his way.
So that was Gertrude Baumhagen! He really regretted that that was her
name, for he had taken a prejudice against the name, which he had
associated with vulgar purse-pride. The conversation at the hotel table
recurred to him. He had figured to himself a supercilious blonde who
used her privileges as a Baumhagen and the richest girl in the city, to
subject her admirers to all manner of caprices. And he had found the
Gertrude of the church, a lovely, slender girl, with a simple unspoiled
nature, possessing no other pride than that of a noble woman.
Involuntarily he walked faster. He would accept the kind invitation to
the ball. But when he reached the hotel he had changed his mind again.
He did not care to see her as a modern society woman, he would not
efface that lovely picture he had seen through the window of that poor
little house. He could not have borne it if she had met him in the
brilliant ball-room, with that air of condescension with which he had
heard her reproached to-day. He decided to dine at home.
With this thought he had walked down the street again till he reached
the flower-shop. On a sudden impulse he entered and asked for a simple
bouquet.
The woman had an immense bouquet in her hand at the moment, resembling
a cart-wheel surrounded by rich lace, which she was just giving to the
errand-boy.
"For Miss Baumhagen," she said, "here is the card."
Frank Linden saw a coat-of-arms over the name. He stepped back a
moment, undecided what to do. Then the shopwoman turned towards him.
"A simple bouquet," he repeated. There was none ready, but they could
make up one immediately. The young man himself chose the flowers from
the wet sand and gave them to her. It must have been a pleasant
occupation for he was constantly putting back a rose and substituting a
finer one for it. At last it was finished, a graceful bouquet of white
roses just tinted with pink, like a maiden's blush, interspersed with
maiden-hair and delicate ferns. He looked at the dainty blossoms once
more, then paid for it and went back to the hotel. Then he laid the
bouquet on the table, called for ink and paper, took a visiting-card
and wrote. Suddenly he stopped and smiled, "What nonsense!" he said,
half aloud, "she is sure to carry the big bouquet." Then he began again
and read it over. It was a little verse asking if the godfather might
at this late hour send to the godmother the flowers which according to
ancient custom he ought to have offered at the christening, and
modestly hoping she would honor them by carrying them to the ball that
night. He smiled again, put it into the envelope and gave the bouquet
and letter to a messenger with instructions to carry both to Miss
Baumhagen. And then a thought struck him--the ball began at eight
o'clock--that would be in ten minutes--he would see Gertrude Baumhagen,
see--if his bouquet--nonsense! Very likely! But then he would wait. "It
is well the judge does not see me now!" he whispered to himself. He
felt like a child at Christmas time, so happy was he and so full of
expectation as he wandered up and down the square in front of the
hotel.