Christmas had passed and the last of the holidays had come with rain
and thaw; it stripped off the brilliant white snowy coverlid from the
earth as if it had been only a festal decoration, and the black earth
was good enough for ordinary days.
Mrs. Baumhagen was sitting in a peevish mood at the window in her room
looking out over the market-place. She had a slight headache, and
besides--there was nothing at all to do to-day, no theatre, no party,
not even the whist club, and yesterday at Jenny's it had been very
dull. Finally she was vexed with Gertrude who, contrary to all custom,
had talked eagerly to her neighbor at dinner, that stranger who had run
after her in the church that time.
It was foolish of the children to have placed him beside her.
"A letter, Mrs. Baumhagen." Sophie brought in a simple white envelope.
"Without any post-mark? Who left it?" she asked, looking at the
handwriting which was quite unknown to her.
"An old servant or coachman, I did not know him."
Mrs. Baumhagen shook her head as she took the letter and read it.
She rose suddenly, with a deep flush on her face, and called:
"Gertrude! Gertrude!"
The young girl came at once.
The active little woman had already rung the bell and said to Sophie as
she entered:
"Call Mrs. Fredericks and my son-in-law, tell them to come quickly,
quickly!--Gertrude, I must have an explanation of this. But I must
collect myself first, must--"
"Mamma," entreated the young girl, turning slightly pale, "let us
discuss the matter alone--why should Jenny and Arthur--?"
"Do you know then what is in this letter?" cried the excited mother.
"Yes," replied Gertrude, firmly, coming up to the arm chair into which
her mother had thrown herself.
"With your consent, child?--Gertrude?"
"With my consent, mamma," repeated the young girl, a clear, bright
crimson staining the beautiful face.
Mrs. Baumhagen said not another word, but began to cry bitterly.
"When did you permit him to write to me?" she asked, after a long
pause, drying her eyes.
"Yesterday, mamma."
At this moment Jenny thrust her pretty blonde head in at the door.
"Jenny!" cried the mother, the tears again starting to her eyes, and
the obstinate lines about the mouth coming out more distinctly.
"For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" cried the young wife.
"Jenny, child! Gertrude is engaged!"
Mrs. Jenny recovered her composure at once. "Well," she cried, lightly,
"is that so great a misfortune?"
"But, to whom, to whom!" cried the mother.
"Well?" inquired Jenny.
"To that--that--yesterday--Linden is his name, Frank Linden. Here it is
down in black and white,--a man that I have hardly seen three times!"
Jenny turned her large and wondering eyes upon Gertrude, who was still
standing behind her mother's chair.
"Good gracious, Gertrude," she cried, "what possessed you to think of
him?"
"What possessed you to think of Arthur?" asked the young girl,
straightening herself up. "How do people ever think of each other? I
don't know, I only know that I love him, and I have pledged him my
word."
"When, I should like to know?"
"Last evening, in your red room, Jenny,--if you think the _when_ has
anything to do with the matter."
"But, so suddenly, without any preparation. What guarantee have you
that he--?"
"As good a guarantee at least," interrupted Gertrude, now pale to the
lips, "as I should have had if I had accepted Lieutenant von
Lowenberg's proposal the other day."
"Yes, yes, she is right there, mamma," said Jenny.
"Oh, of course!" was the reply, "I am to say yes and amen at once. But
I must speak to Arthur first and to Aunt Pauline and Uncle Henry. I
will not take the responsibility of such a step on myself alone in any
case."
"Mamma, you will not go asking the whole neighborhood," said the young
girl, in a trembling voice. "It only concerns you and me, and--" she
drew a long breath--"I shall hardly change my mind in consequence of
any representations."
"But Arthur could make inquiries about him," interrupted Jenny.
"Thank you, Jenny, I beg you will spare yourself the trouble. My heart
speaks loudly enough for him. If I had not known my own mind weeks ago,
I should not be standing before you as I am now."
"You are an ungrateful and heartless child," sobbed her mother. "You
think you will conquer me by your obstinacy. Your father used to drive
me wild with just that same calmness. It makes me tremble all over only
just to see those firmly closed lips and those calm eyes. It is
dreadful!"
Gertrude remained standing a few minutes, then without a word of reply
she left the room.
"It is a speculation on his part," said Mrs. Jenny, carelessly, "there
is no doubt of that."
"And she believes all he tells her," sobbed the mother. "That unlucky
christening was the cause of it all. She is so impressed by anything of
that sort."
Jenny nodded.
"And now she will just settle down forever at that wretched Niendorf,
for there is no turning her when she has once made up her mind."
"Heaven forgive me, she has the Baumhagen obstinacy in full measure; I
know what I have suffered from it."
"This Linden is handsome," remarked Jenny, taking no notice of the
violent weeping. "Goodness, what a stir it will make through the town!
She might have taken some one else. But did I not always tell you,
mamma, that she was sure to do something foolish?"
"Arthur!" she cried to her husband who had just come in, "just fancy,
Gertrude has engaged herself to that--Linden."
"The devil she has!" escaped Arthur Fredericks' lips.
"Tell me, my dear son, what do you know about him? You must have heard
something at the Club, or--"
Mrs. Baumhagen had let her handkerchief fall, and was gazing with a
look of woe at her son-in-law.
"Oh, he is a nice fellow enough, but poor as a church mouse. He knows
what he is about when he makes up to Gertrude. Confound it! If I had
known what he was up to, I would never have asked him here."
"Yes, and she declares she will not give him up," said Jenny.
"I believe that, without any assurances from you; she is your sister.
When you have once got a thing into your head--well, I know what
happens."
"Arthur!" sobbed the elder lady, reproachfully.
"I must beg, Arthur, that you will not always be charging me with spite
and obstinacy," pouted the younger.
"But, my dear child, it is perfectly true--"
"Don't be always contradicting!" cried Mrs. Jenny, energetically,
stamping her foot and taking out her handkerchief, ready to cry at a
moment's notice. He knew this man[oe]uvre of old and drew his hand
hastily through his hair.
"Very well then, what am I to do about it?" he asked. "What do you want
of me?"
"Your advice, Arthur," groaned the mother-in-law.
"My advice? Well then--say yes."
"But he is so entirely without means, as I heard the other day,"
interposed Mrs. Baumhagen.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Bah! Gertrude can afford to marry a poor
man. Besides--I don't know much about Niendorf, but I should think
something might be made of it under good management. He seems to be the
man for the place, and Wolff was telling me the other day that Linden
was going to raise sheep on a large scale."
"That last bit of information of course settles the matter," remarked
Jenny, ironically.
"No, no," cried the mother, sobbing again, "you none of you take it
seriously enough. I cannot bring myself to consent, I have hardly
exchanged half a dozen words with this Linden. Oh, what unheard-of
presumption!" She rose from her chair, and crimson with excitement
threw herself on the lounge.
"Now look out for hysterics," whispered Arthur, indifferently, taking
out a cigar.
Jenny answered only by a look, but that was blighting. She took her
train in her hand and swept past her astonished husband.
"Take me with you," he said, gayly.
"Jenny, stay with me," cried her mother, "don't leave me now."
And the young wife turned back, met her husband at the door, and passed
him with her nose in the air to sit down beside her mother.
Oh, he had a long account to settle with her; she would have her
revenge yet for his disagreeable remarks at the breakfast-table when
she quite innocently praised Colonel von Brelow. He was not expecting
anything pleasant either; she could see that at once, but only let him
wait a little!
"How, mamma?" she inquired, "did you think I had anything to say to
Arthur? Bah! He is an Othello--a blind one--they are always the worst."
"Ah, Jenny, that unhappy child--Gertrude."
"Oh, yes, to be sure," assented the young wife, "that stupid nonsense
of Gertrude's--"
In the meantime the young girl was standing before her father's
picture, her whole being in a tumult between happiness and pain. She
had not closed her eyes the night before since she had shyly given him
her hand with a scarcely whispered, "yes."
She knew he loved her; she had fancied a hundred times what it would be
when he should tell her of it, and now it had come so suddenly, so
unexpectedly. She had loved him long already, ever since she had seen
him that first time; and since then she had escaped none of the joy and
pain of a secret attachment.
She took nothing lightly, did nothing by halves, and she had given
herself up wholly to this fascination. Whoever should try to take him
from her now, must tear her heart out of her breast.
As she stood there the tears ran down over her pale face in great
drops, but a smile lingered about the small pouting mouth.
"I know it very well," she whispered, nodding at her father's picture,
"you would be sure to like him, papa!" And a happy memory of the words
he had spoken yesterday came back to her, of his lonely house, of his
longing for her, and that he could offer her nothing but that modest
home and a faithful heart.
His only wealth at present was a multitude of cares.
"Let me bear the cares with you, no happiness on earth would be greater
than this," she wished to say, but she had only drooped her eyes and
given him her hand--the words would not pass her lips.
It was as if she had been walking in the deepest shadow and had
suddenly come out into the warm, life-giving sunshine. "It is too much,
too much happiness!" she had thought this morning when she got up. She
thought so still, and it seemed to her that the tears she shed were
only a just tribute to her overpowering happiness. If her mother had
consented at once, if she had said, "He shall be like a beloved son to
me, bring him to me at once," that would have been too much, but this
refusal, this distrust seemed to be meant to tone down her bliss a
little. It was like the snow-storm in spring, which covers the early
leaves and blossoms,--but when it is past do they not bloom out in
double beauty?
The conversation in the next room grew more eager. Gertrude heard the
complaining voice of her mother more clearly than before. It had a
painful effect upon her and she cast a glance involuntarily at her
father's picture, as if he could still hear what had been the torture
of his life. Gertrude could recall so many scenes of complaint and
crying in that very room. How often had her father's authoritative
voice penetrated to her ear: "Very well, Ottilie, you shall have your
way, but--spare me!" And how often had a pallid man entered through
that door and thrown himself silently on the sofa as if he found a
refuge here with his child. Ah, and it had been so too on that day,
that dreadful day, when afterwards it had grown so still, so deathly
still.
And there it was again, the loud weeping, the complaints against Heaven
that had made her the most miserable of women, and now was punishing
her through her children. Then there was an opening and shutting of
doors, a running about of servants; Gertrude even fancied she could
perceive the penetrating odor of valerian which Mrs. Baumhagen was
accustomed to take for her nervous attacks. And then the door flew open
and Jenny came in.
"Mamma is quite miserable," she said, reproachfully; "I had to send for
the doctor, and Sophie is putting wet compresses on her head. A lovely
day, I must say!"
"I am so sorry, Jenny," said the young girl.
"Oh, yes, but it was a very sudden blow. I must honestly confess that I
cannot understand you, Gertrude. You must have refused more than ten
good offers, you were always so fastidious, and now you have taken the
first best that offered."
"The best certainly," thought Gertrude, but she was silent.
The young wife mistakenly considered this as the effect of her words.
"Now just consider, child," she continued, "think it over again, you--"
"Stop, Jenny," cried the young girl in a firm voice. "What gives you
the right to speak so to me? Have I ever uttered a word about your
choice? Did I not welcome Arthur kindly? What advantages has he over
Linden? I alone have to judge as to the wisdom of this step, for I
alone must bear the consequences. It is not right to try to influence a
person in a matter that is so individual, that so entirely concerns
that person alone."
"Good gracious, don't get so excited about it!" cried Jenny. "We do not
consider him an eligible _parti_, because he is entirely without
fortune."
A deep shadow passed over Gertrude's pale face. "Oh, put aside the
question of money," she entreated; "do not disturb the sweetest dream
of my life--don't speak of it, Jenny."
But Jenny continued--"No, I will not keep silent, for you live in
dreamland, and you must look a little at the realities of life that you
may not fall too suddenly out of your fancied heaven. Perhaps you
imagine that Frank Linden would have shown such haste if you had not
been Gertrude Baumhagen? Most certainly he would not! I consider
it my duty to tell you that mamma, as well as Arthur and I, are
of the opinion that his first thought was of the capital our good
father--" She stopped, for Gertrude stood before her, tall and
threatening.
"You may comfort yourself, Jenny," she gasped out. "I believe in him,
and I shall speak no word in his defence. You and the others may think
what you please, I cannot prevent it, cannot even resent it, you--" She
stopped, she would not utter the bitter words.--"Be so kind as to tell
mamma that I will not break my word to him." She added, more calmly, "I
shall be so grateful to you, Jenny--if any one can do anything with her
it is you--her darling!"