"Good morning, Uncle Henry," said Gertrude, who was sitting at her
work-table in the bow-window. She rose as she spoke and went to meet
the stout little gentleman as he entered.
"Well, it is lucky that one of you at least is at home," he replied,
rubbing his glasses with his red handkerchief, after giving Gertrude's
hand a hearty shake. "I wonder if one of the women-kind except you
could possibly stay at home for a day. Mrs. Jenny is making calls, Mrs.
Ottilie is gone to a coffee party--it is easy to see that a strong hand
to hold the reins is wanting here."
Gertrude smiled.
"Uncle, don't scold, but come and sit down," she said. "You come just
in time for me; I had just written a little note to you to ask you to
come and see me. I need your advice."
"Oh! but not immediately, child, not immediately! I have just had my
dinner," he explained, "and nothing can be more dangerous than hard
thinking just after a meal. Ta, ta! There, this is comfortable; now
tell me something pleasant, child--about your lover; for instance, how
many kisses did he give you yesterday? Honestly now, Gertrude."
He had stretched himself out comfortably in an arm-chair, and his young
niece pushed a footstool under his feet and put an afghan over his
knees.
"None at all, uncle," she said, gravely; "people do not ask about such
things either, you know. Besides I see Frank very seldom," she
hesitated. "Mamma goes out so much, and I cannot receive him when she
is not at home. And, uncle, it is about that that I wanted to speak to
you. Mamma,"--she hesitated again,--"mamma makes me so anxious by all
manner of remarks about Linden's circumstances. You know, uncle--"
"And you think she knows all about them?" said the old gentleman. "Oh,
of course, ta, ta!"
"Yes, uncle. You see the day before yesterday mamma went out to dine
with Jenny, and when she came back she called me into her room, and as
soon as I got there I saw that something had happened. Just fancy,
uncle, she had been in Niendorf to see, as mamma expressed it, the
place where her daughter was going to bury herself. It would be
horrible, she declared, to take a young wife to this peasant house; it
was not fit for any one to live in; she had felt as if she were in some
third-rate farm-house. Linden was sitting in a room--she could touch
the ceiling with her hand it was so low, and it was all so poor and
common. In short, I could not go there, and if I would not give up my
whim of being Mr. Linden's wife, she would have to build a house for me
first, for he--he--well, he certainly would not be able to do it, and
it would be much more convenient too, to have a snug nest made for him
by his mother-in-law. Jenny, who was present at this scene, agreed with
her in everything. Oh, uncle, I am so sorry for him, and it is all on
my account."
"Did your mother speak to him about building?" asked Uncle Henry.
She drew her hand across her forehead.
"I don't know--I went away without answering. If I had made any reply,
it would have been of no use--we battle with unequal weapons, or rather
I cannot use my weapons, for she is still my mother."
Her uncle's eyes gazed at her with unmistakable compassion--she was so
pale and she had a weary look about her mouth.
"You poor child! I see they do not make your engagement time exactly a
Paradise to you," he thought; but he only cleared his throat and said
nothing.
"And what can I do about it?" he asked, after a pause.
"I am going to tell you that now," said Gertrude. "You see I have to
torment you. I am not on such terms with Arthur that he could advise me
in this. I want to ask you, uncle, to speak to Frank--I must know how
great his pecuniary difficulties are, and--"
"Nonsense, child," interrupted the old gentleman, evidently
unpleasantly surprised,--"Why should you drag me in? Pecuniary
difficulties! What can you do about it? For the present you have
nothing to do with it--and you will find out about it soon enough."
"You mean because we are not yet man and wife?" she asked.
"Of course!" he nodded.
"O, it is quite the same thing, uncle," she cried, eagerly. "From the
moment of our betrothal, I have considered myself as belonging to him
entirely, and everything of mine as his. Then why, since I can already
dispose of a part of my property as I please, should I not help him out
of what may perhaps be a very unpleasant situation?"
"But, my dear child--"
"Let me have my say out, uncle. You know I have ten thousand dollars
that came from my grandmother, about which no one has anything to say
but myself, and you shall pay over these ten thousand dollars to
Linden. I suppose he will have to build--he may need all sorts of
things then, and he will be fretted and worried--do this for me, uncle;
you see _I_ cannot talk to him about such things."
"Indeed, I will not, Miss Gertrude."
"Why?"
"Because he would take it, finally--or he would be angry. Thanks, ever
so much."
"But I want him to take it."
He was silent.
"When are you going to be married, child?" he inquired at length.
A rosy flush passed over Gertrude's face--"Mamma has not said anything
about it yet. Frank wants it to be in April, and--I do not want to
increase his difficulties by my reception."
"Very well, very well, he can wait as long as that," said the old
gentleman.
She looked disappointed, but she said nothing.
"I don't want to go against your wishes, little one," he continued,
perceiving her sorrowful looks. "I only want to do what is right in
matters of business. Now you see if you are bent on following out this
plan you will throw away a fine sum of money--in order to make your
nest a right comfortable one. _Amantes_, _amentes_--that is to say in
plain English, lovers are mad--and when you wake up to what you have
done all your fat is in the fire."
Gertrude said nothing, but she wore a pained expression about her
mouth. _He_ too spoke so. How often lately had she heard the same
thing? Even her pleasure in the single present Linden had made her had
been spoiled by similar insulting remarks.
"Oh, don't look so miserable about it, little one," yawned the old
gentleman; "what have I said? We men are all egotists with one another
I assure you. Why then will you confirm your lover in his egotism and
let the roasted larks fly into his mouth beforehand? Keep a tight rein
over him, Gertrude, that is the only sensible thing to do; you must not
let him be anything more than the Prince Consort--keep the reins of
government in your own little fists; confound it, I believe you can
rule too!"
"Uncle," said the young girl, softly going up to him, "Uncle, you are a
hypocrite, you say things that you don't believe yourself. You are all
egotists? And I don't know any one in the world who has less claim to
the title than you."
"Really, child," he declared, laughing, "I am an egotist of the purest
water."
"Indeed? Who gives as much as you to the poor of the city? Who supports
the whole family of the poor teacher, with rent, clothes, food and
drink? _Who_ now, uncle?"
"All selfishness, pure selfishness!" he cried.
"Prove it, uncle, prove it logically."
"Nothing easier. You know the story of how I got a cramp in my leg and
dragged myself into the nearest house on the Steinstrasse, and sank
down on the first chair I could find. I was just going to dinner; had
invited Gustave Seyfried and Augustus Seemann to dine with me--well,
you know they have lived in Paris and London. So there I sat in that
little low room. The people were at dinner and a dish of thin potato
soup stood on the table, that would have been hardly enough for the man
alone. Seven children--seven children, mind you, Gertrude,--stood
round, and the mother was dealing out their portions. She began with
the youngest; the oldest, a lad of fourteen, got the last of the dish.
There was not much in it, and I shall never forget the look of those
sunken hungry eyes as they rested on that empty bowl. It made me feel
so queer all at once. I asked casually, what the man's business was?
Teacher of language at twelve cents an hour! He could not get a
permanent position on account of his ill health. Good God, Gertrude!
Four hours a day would give him fifty cents and he had seven children!
"Well, do you know, that day we had oysters before the soup, and they
were rather dear just then, so I reckoned up that each one of those
smooth little delicacies cost as much as an hour's lesson, in which the
poor man talked his poor, weak throat hoarse. They wouldn't go down my
throat in spite of their slipperiness. I couldn't swallow more than
half a dozen and that was disagreeable. At every course it was the same
story, and when Louis uncorked the champagne, every pop seemed to go
straight to my stomach. I never ate a more uncomfortable dinner--it
disagreed with me besides, and I had to take some soda water. 'Confound
it!' I said, 'this thing can't go on,' and--you know, child, that a
good dinner is the purest pleasure in the world for men of my sort. So
there was nothing for me, if I wanted to enjoy my oysters again, but to
comfort myself with the thought that the seven hungry mouths were also
busy about their dinner. So I sent John to the teacher's wife to ask
her how much money she needed a month to feed all seven, with herself
and her husband into the bargain, so they would have enough. And, good
gracious, it wasn't such an enormous sum, and so I pay her a certain
sum every month and I can enjoy my dinner again at the hotel. Now,
prove if you can that that isn't pure selfishness."
"Oh, of course, uncle," said the young girl, with brightening eyes,
"but I like that sort of selfishness."
"It is all one, Gertrude; I am sending Hannah into retirement now out
of selfishness; she is getting so stout that she can't get through the
door any more with the coffee tray. And I ask you if I am to keep
another servant to open the double doors for her, just for the sake of
the old asthmatic woman? That would be fine! So I said to her this
morning, 'Hannah, you can go at Easter, and I will continue your wages
as a pension.' She was delighted, because she can go to her daughter,
now."
"Uncle, I know you very well. I can trust to you," coaxed Gertrude.
"You will speak to Frank, won't you?"
"Oh, well, yes, yes, only don't blush so. Now you see you have spoiled
my dessert with all your talking. When does her serene highness come
home?"
"I don't know," replied the young girl.
"To be sure, these coffee-parties are never to be counted upon. So you
two lovers only see each other on state occasions, like Romeo and
Juliet, or when you have company yourselves?"
Gertrude nodded silently.
"Is it possible!" cried the little gentleman as he rose to go--"as if
the time of an engagement were not the happiest in the world.
Afterwards it is all pure prose, my child. And they are spoiling this
time for you now--well, you just wait. I must go now to my card-party.
I will look in on your mother this evening. Good bye; my love to him
when you write."
"Good-bye, uncle. Don't forget that I shall trust to your selfishness."
When the old gentleman had closed the door behind him, she sat down to
her desk, look out a letter and began to read it. It was his last
letter; it had come this morning and it contained some verses.
How she delighted in these verses in her loneliness! Nothing in the
world could separate them! She would indemnify him a thousandfold by
her love for all he had to endure now. She tried by a thousand sweet,
loving words to make him forget the scorn which her friends scarcely
tried to conceal for his boldness and presumption. His manly pride must
suffer so greatly under it. More than once the blood had mounted
quickly to his forehead, and more than once had he taken leave earlier
than he need, as if he could not keep silent and for the sake of peace
took refuge in flight.
"I wish I had you in Niendorf now, Gertrude," he had said at the last
farewell. "I cannot bear it very patiently to be looked through as if I
were only air, by your mother."
And she had nestled closer to him, trembling with agitation.
"Mamma does not mean anything by it, Frank," replied her lips, though
her heart knew better. And then he had pressed her passionately to him
as he said,
"If I did not love you so much, Gertrude!"
"But it will soon be spring, Frank."
And to-day the verses had come with a bouquet of violets.
She started as she heard Jenny's voice, and immediately after her
sister came in, angry and excited.
"I must come to you for a little rest, Gertrude," she said. "Linden is
not here? Thank goodness! I can't stand it at home any longer, the baby
is so fretful and screams and cries enough to deafen one. The doctor
says he must be put to bed, so I have tucked him into his crib. There
is always something to upset and fret one."
Gertrude started. Well at any rate he was in good hands with Caroline,
she thought.
"Are you going to the masked ball--you and Linden?" asked the young
wife.
"No," replied Gertrude, putting away her letter.
"Why not?"
"Why should we go? I do not like to dance, as you know, Jenny."
"Has Uncle Henry been here?"
"Yes. Is the baby really ill?"
"Oh, nonsense! a little feverish, that is all. We are going to the
Dressels this evening. Arthur has sent to Berlin for pictures of
costumes, for our quadrille. But you don't care for that. You will bury
yourself by and by entirely in Niendorf. The Landrath said to Arthur
the other day, 'Your sister-in-law will not be in her proper position;
she ought to have married a man in such a position that she would be a
leader in society.' You would have been an ornament to any salon and
now you are going to the Niendorf cow-stalls."
"And _how_ glad I am!" said Gertrude, her eyes shining.
"Mrs. Fredericks, ma'am," called the pretty maid just then, "won't you
please come down? The baby is so hot and restless."
Jenny nodded, looked hastily at a half-finished piece of embroidery and
left the room. When Gertrude followed after a short time she was told
that the baby was doing very well and that Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks were
dressing for the evening. And so she went upstairs again to her lonely
room.