The young wife left her sister's room almost in consternation. She
could find nothing to say to Gertrude's unexpected reliance upon her.
The sisters had never understood each other. Jenny could not comprehend
now how any one could be so blinded and so unwise, and she was startled
as if by something pure and lofty as the clear girlish eyes rested on
her, which could still discover poetry amid all the dusty prose of
life. She sat down again beside the sofa.
"Mamma," she whispered, after a pause, during which she balanced
her small slipper thoughtfully on the tip of her toe, "Mamma, I
really believe you can't help it--will you have a little eau de
cologne?--Gertrude is so madly in love with him. I am sure you will
have to give your consent, notwithstanding it is so great a
disappointment."
Gertrude remained standing in the middle of the room looking after her
sister. She felt sorry for her. It must be dreadful when one could no
longer believe in love and disinterestedness, and the image of Frank
Linden's true eyes rose up before her as clear as his pure heart
itself. Can a man look like that with ulterior motives? can a man speak
so with a lie in his heart? She could have laughed aloud in her
blissful certainty. Even though she were poor, a beggar indeed, he
would still love her.
In the afternoon a great conference was held. At twelve o'clock an
order was suddenly given from the sofa to have the drawing-room heated,
the Dresden coffee service taken out, and some cakes sent for from the
confectioner's. Madame Ottilie would hold a family counsel.
The aroma of Sophie's celebrated coffee penetrated even to Gertrude's
lonely room. She could hear the doors open and shut, and now and then
the voice of Aunt Pauline, and Uncle Henry's comfortable laugh. The day
drew near its close and still no conclusion seemed to have been arrived
at, but Gertrude sat calmly in her bow-window and waited. He would be
calm too, she was sure of that--he had her word. Steps at last--that
must be her uncle.
"Well, Miss Gertrude!" he called out into the dusky room--"he came, he
saw, he conquered--eh? Fine doings, these. Your mother is in a pretty
temper over the presumption of the bold youth. He will need all his
fascinations to gain her favor as a mother-in-law. Well, come in now,
and thank me for her consent."
"I knew it, uncle," she said, pleasantly. "I was sure you would stand
by me."
He was a little old gentleman with a little round body, which he always
fed well in his splendid bachelor dinners; always in good humor,
especially after a good glass of wine. And as he knew what an agreeable
effect this always had upon him, he never failed for the benefit of
mankind, to make use of this means of making himself amiable and merry.
He now took the tall, slender girl laughingly by the hand as if she
were a child, and led her towards the door.
"Live and let live, Gertrude!" he cried. "It is out of pure egotism
that I made such a commotion about it. You need not thank me, I was
only joking. You see, I can stand anything but a scene and a woman's
tears, and your mother understands that sort of thing to a T. That
always upsets me you know. 'Don't make a fuss, Ottilie,' I said. 'Why
shouldn't the little one marry that handsome young fellow? You
Baumhagen girls are lucky enough to be able to take a man simply
because you like him.' Ta, ta! Here comes the bride!" he called out,
letting Gertrude pass before him into the lighted room.
She walked with a light step and a grave face up to her mother, who was
reclining in the corner of the sofa as if she were entirely worn out by
the important discussion. By her side sat the thin aunt in a black silk
dress, her blond cap reposing on her brown false front, in full
consciousness of her dignity. Jenny sat near her while Arthur was
standing by the stove. The ladies had been drinking coffee, the
gentlemen wine. The violet velvet curtains were drawn and everything
looked cosy and comfortable.
"I thank you, mamma," said Gertrude.
Mrs. Baumhagen nodded slightly and touched her daughter's lips with
hers. "May you never repent this step," she said, faintly; "it is not
without great anxiety that I give my consent, and I have yielded only
in consequence of my knowledge of your unbending--yes, I must say it
now--passionate character--and for the sake of peace."
A bitter smile played about Gertrude's mouth.
"I thank you, mamma," she repeated.
"My dear Gertrude," began her aunt, solemnly, "take from me too--"
"Oh, come," interposed Uncle Henry, very ungallantly, "do have
compassion, in the first place on me, but next on that languishing
youth in Niendorf, and send him his answer. It has happened before now
that dreadful consequences have followed such suspense; I could tell
you some blood-curdling stories about it, I assure you. Come, we will
write out a telegram," he continued, drawing a notebook from his pocket
and tearing out a leaf, while he borrowed a pencil from his dear nephew
Arthur.
"Well, what shall it be, Gertrude?" he inquired, when he was ready to
write. "'Come to my arms!' or 'Thine forever!' or 'Speak to my mother,'
or--ha! ha! I have it--'My mother will see you; come to-morrow and get
her consent. Gertrude Baumhagen.' 'And get her consent,'" he spelt out
as he wrote.
"Thanks, uncle," said the young girl; "I would rather write it myself
in my room; his coachman is waiting at the hotel opposite."
She could hear her uncle's hearty laugh over the poor fellow who had
been sighing in suspense from eleven o'clock this morning till now, and
then she shut her door. With a trembling hand she lighted her lamp and
wrote: "Mamma has consented; I shall expect you to-morrow. Your
Gertrude."
The old Sophie, who had been a servant in the Baumhagen house before
the master was married, took the note. "I will carry it across myself,
Miss Gertrude," she said, "and if it was pouring harder than it is, and
if I got my rheumatism back for it, I would go all the same. I have the
fate of two people in my hand in this little bit of paper. God grant
that it may bring joy to you both. Miss Gertrude."
Gertrude pressed her hand and then went to the bow-window and looked
through the glass to watch Sophie as she crossed the square. Her white
apron fluttered now under the street-lamp near the old apple-woman, and
then under the swinging lamp before the hotel. If the old man would
only drive as fast as his horses could carry him! Every minute of
waiting seemed too long to her now.
Then the white apron appeared again under the hotel lamp, but there was
somebody before it. Gertrude pressed her hands suddenly against her
beating heart. "Frank!" she gasped, and her limbs almost refused to
support her as she tried to make a few steps; He had waited for the
answer himself!
"There he is, there he is, my bridegroom!" escaped from the quivering
lips. The whole sacred signification of that blessed word overpowered
her. Then Sophie opened the door softly and he crossed the threshold of
the dainty maiden's boudoir, and shut the door as softly behind him.
The faithful old servant could only see how her proud young mistress
nestled into his arms and mutely received his kisses--"Oh, what a
wonderful thing this love is!" she said, smiling to herself.
Then she turned towards the drawing-room, but when she reached the door
she turned away with a shake of her head. They would all be rushing in
and she would not shorten these blessed minutes for Gertrude. It would
be time enough to go to "madam" in a quarter of an hour. And she busied
herself in the corridor in order to be at hand at the right moment, in
case they should both forget all about the mother in the multiplicity
of things they had to say.
It was midnight before Linden finally drove home. The jovial uncle had
gotten up a little celebration of the betrothal on the spur of the
moment, and made a long speech himself. Then Mrs. Jenny had been very
gay and had laughed and jested with her brother-in-law _in spe_. But
Mrs. Baumhagen, after a private interview of half an hour with the
young man, remained silent and grave, and played out her role of
anxious mother to the end. She scarcely touched her lips to the glass
of champagne when the company drank to the health of the young
betrothed.
Frank Linden, however, had not taken offence at her coldness. She knew
him so slightly, and he had come like a hungry wolf to rob her of her
one little lamb.
It must be dreadful to give up a daughter, he thought, and especially
such a daughter as Gertrude. He was touched to the heart; he thought of
his own old mother, he thought how gloomy the future had looked to him
only a few weeks ago and how sunny it was now; and all these sunny rays
shone out from a pair of blue eyes in a sweet, pale, girlish face. He
did not know himself how he had happened to speak to her so quickly of
his love. He saw again that brilliantly lighted crimson room of
yesterday, and the dim twilight in the bow-window room; there she stood
in the wonderful light, a mingled moonlight and candle-light. The
Christmas tree was lighted in the next room and the voices and laughter
of the company floated to his ears. She had turned as he approached her
and he had seen tears on her cheeks. But she laughed as she perceived
his dismay.
"Ah, it is because Christmas always reminds me of papa. He has been
dead seven years yesterday."
One word had led to another and at length they had found their hands
clasped together.
"I would gladly have held this little hand fast that time in the
church. Would you have been angry, Gertrude?" and she had shaken her
head and looked up at him, smiling through her tears, trusting and
sweet, this proud young creature--his bride, soon to be his wife!
He started up out of his dream. The carriage stopped at the steps and
the house rose dark above him--only behind Aunt Rosa's windows was a
light still shining. He went up the steps as if in a dream and entered
the garden hall. He looked round as if he had entered the room for the
first time, so strange it looked, so changed, so bare and cold. And he
thought of the time when someone would be waiting for him here. He
could not imagine such happiness.
The door opened softly behind him and as he turned he saw Aunt Rosa
appearing like a ghost.
"I have been waiting for you, my dear nephew," she cried out in her
shrill voice; "I have found that letter at last, thank Heaven! It is
upstairs in your room, and it has taken a weight off my mind, I assure
you, Frank." She nodded kindly at him from under her enormous cap. "You
are late getting home. I am tired and am going to bed now. Goodnight,
good-night!"
And she moved lightly like a ghost to the door.
"Auntie!" cried a voice behind her so loud and gay that she turned
round in amazement. But then he was beside her and had clasped her in
both arms, and before she knew what was happening to her, the shy old
maiden lady felt a resounding kiss on her cheek.
"What on earth, Frank Linden--have you gone out of your mind?"
"O, auntie, I can't keep it to myself, I shall choke if I do. So don't
be cross. If I had my old mother here, I should kiss the old lady to
death for pure bliss. You must congratulate me. Gertrude Baumhagen will
be my wife."
Aunt Rosa's half-shocked, half-vexed countenance grew rigid. "Is it
possible," she whispered, in amazement, "she will marry into our old
house? And the family have consented?"
"A Baumhagen--yes! And she will marry into this old house and the
family have consented. Aunt Rosa."
"God's blessing on you! God's richest blessing!" she whispered, but she
shook her head and looked at him incredulously. "I shan't sleep a bit
to-night," she continued. "I am glad, I rejoice with all my heart, but
you might have told me to-morrow. It is done now. Good night, Frank. I
am glad indeed; this old house needs a mistress. God grant that she may
be a good one." And she pressed his hand as she left him.
He too went to his room. The lamp was burning on the round table and a
letter lay beneath it. Ah, true! the long-lost letter! He took it up
abstractedly--it was in Wolff's handwriting. He put it down again; what
could he want? Some business of course. Should he spoil this happy
hour with unpleasant, perhaps care-bringing news? No, let the letter
wait--till--but he had already taken it up and broken the seal.
[Illustration: "But he had already taken it up and broken the seal."]
It was a long letter and as he read, he bit his lips hard. "Pitiful
scoundrel!" he said at length, aloud, "it is well this letter did not
reach me sooner, or things would not have happened as they have." And
as if shrinking with disgust from the very touch of the paper, he flung
it into the nearest drawer of his writing-table.
"Vile wretches, who make the most sacred things a matter of traffic!"
He sat for a long time lost in thought, and a deep furrow marked itself
out between his brows. Then he wrote a long letter to his friend, the
judge, and gradually his face cleared again--he was telling him about
Gertrude.