A week later the iron-gray horses were bringing the close carriage back
from the church-yard at a sharp trot. On the back seat sat Arthur
Fredericks with Uncle Henry beside him; opposite was Linden. They wore
crape around their hats and a band of crape on the left arm.
The winter had come back once more in full force before taking its
final departure. It was snowing, and the great flakes settled down on a
little new-made grave within the iron railings of the Baumhagen family
burial-place. Jenny's golden-haired darling was dead!
No one in the carriage spoke a word, and when the three gentlemen got
out each went his own way after a silent handshake: Uncle Henry to take
a glass of cognac, Arthur to his desolate young wife, while Linden went
up to Gertrude. He did not find her in the drawing-room; probably she
was with her sister. Presently he heard a slight rustling. He strode
across the soft carpet and stood in the open door-way of the room with
the bay-window.
"Gertrude!" he cried, in dismay, "for Heaven's sake, what is the
matter?"
She was kneeling before her little sofa, her head hidden in her arms,
her whole frame, convulsed with long, tearless sobs.
"Gertrude!"
He put his arms round her and tried to raise her, when she lifted up
her head and stood up.
"Tell me what has happened, Gertrude," he urged; "is it grief for the
loss of the little one? I entreat you to be calm--you will make
yourself ill."
She had not shed any tears, she only looked deathly pale and her hands,
which rested in his, were cold as ice.
"Come," he said, "tell me what it is?"
And he drew her towards him.
She clung to him as she had never done before.
"It will be all right again," she whispered, "now I am with you."
"Were you afraid? Has anything happened to you?" he inquired, tenderly.
She nodded.
"Yes," she said, hastily, "a little while ago I chanced to hear a few
words mamma was saying to Aunt Pauline--they came up from Jenny's--I
suppose they did not think I was here--I don't know. Mamma was still
crying very much about the baby and--then she said Jenny must go
away--she must have a change--this apathy was so dangerous. You know
she has not spoken a word for three days--and--I must accompany her on
a long journey--so I--" She stopped and bit her quivering lips.
"So you might forget me if possible?" he inquired, gravely.
He put his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes. She did not
reply, but he read the confirmation of his suspicion in her tearful
eyes.
"Are they so anxious to be rid of me? Is their dislike so strong,
Gertrude? And you?" He felt how she trembled.
"Oh!" she cried with a passion which made Linden start, "Oh, I--do
you know there are moments when something seems to take possession
of me with the power of a demon--I am swept away by the force of my
wrath--I--I do not know what I say and do--I am ashamed now--I ought to
have been calm--they cannot separate us, no--they cannot. Now mamma is
lying on the sofa in her room and Sophie has gone for the doctor. Ah,
Frank, I have borne it all so patiently all these long years--is it so
great a sin that my long suppressed feelings should have burst out at
last, that my self-control should have given way for once? I was
violent--I have always thought I was so calm--those words that I heard
seemed to sweep me away like a storm--I don't know what reproaches I
may have spoken against my mother. And to-day, just to-day, when they
have carried away the only sunbeam that was in this house for me!"
"We will go to your mother, Gertrude, and beg her to pardon us for
loving each other so much--come!"
He had said this to comfort her, and because he felt that something
must be done. His own desire would have been to take the young girl by
the hand and lead her away out of this house.
She freed herself from him and looked at him in amazement. "Ask pardon?
And for that?"
"Gertrude, don't misunderstand me." He felt almost embarrassed before
her great wondering eyes.
"I meant that we should show your mother calmly and quietly that we
cannot give each other up. Say something to her in excuse for your
vehemence. Come, I will go with you."
"No, I cannot!" she cried, "I cannot beg forgiveness when I have been
so injured in all that I hold most sacred. I cannot!" she reiterated,
going past him to the deep window.
He followed her and took her hand; a strange feeling had come over him.
Until now he had only seen in her a calm, reasonable woman. But she
misunderstood him.
"No!" she cried, "don't ask me, Frank. I will not do it, I cannot, I
never could! Not even when I was a child, though she shut me up for
hours in a dark room."
"I was not going to urge you," he said; "only give me your hand, I must
know whether this is really you, Gertrude."
She bent down and pressed a kiss on his right hand. "If _you_ were not
in the world, Frank, if I had to be here all alone!" she whispered
warmly.
"But you have all this trouble on my account," he replied, much moved.
She shook her head.
"Only do not misunderstand me," she continued, "and have patience with
my faults. You will promise me that, Frank, will you not?" she urged in
an anxious tone. "You see I am so perverse when I feel injured; I get
as hard as a stone then and everything good seems to die out of me. I
could hate those people who thrust their low ideas on me! Frank, you
don't know how I have suffered from this already."
They still stood hand in hand. The snow whirled about before the window
in the twilight of the short winter day. It was so still here inside,
so warm and cosy.
"Frank!" she whispered.
"My Gertrude!"
"You are not angry with me?"
"No, no. We will bear with each other's faults and we will try to
improve when we are all alone by our two selves."
"You have no faults," she said, proudly, in a tone of conviction,
drawing closer to him.
He was grave.
"Yes, Gertrude, I am very vehement, I sometimes have terrible fits of
passion."
"Those are not the worst men," she said, putting her arm round his
neck.
"Are you so sure of that?" he asked, smiling into the lovely face that
looked so gentle now in the twilight.
"Yes. My grandmother always said so," she replied.
"The grandmother in the old time?"
"Yes, dearest. Oh, if you had only known her! But I should like to see
your mother," she added.
"We will go to see her, darling, as soon as we are married. When will
that be?"
"Frank," she said, instead of answering, "don't let us go on a journey
at once; let me know first what it is to have a home where love, trust
and mutual understanding dwell together. Let me learn first what
_peace_ is."
"Yes, my Gertrude. Would to God I could carry you off to the old house
to-morrow."
"Gertrude!" called a shrill voice from the next room.
She started.
"Mamma!" she whispered. "Come!" They went together. Mrs. Baumhagen was
standing beside her writing-table. Sophie had just brought the lamp,
the light of which shone full on the mother's round flushed face, on
which rested an unusually decided expression.
"I am glad you are here, Linden," she said to the young man, turning
down the leaf of the writing-table and taking her seat before it.
"How much time do you require to put your house in order so that
Gertrude could live in it?"
"Not long," he replied. "Some rooms need new carpets, and trifles of
that sort--that is all."
"Very well--I shall be satisfied," she replied, coldly. "Then to-morrow
you will have the goodness to send your papers in to the clergyman and
have the banns published. In three weeks I shall leave for the South
with my eldest daughter, and before I go I wish to have this--this
affair arranged."
Linden bowed.
"I thank you, madam."
Gertrude stood silent, white to the lips, but she did not look at him.
He knew she was suffering tortures for his sake.
"Now I wish to settle some things with my daughter," continued Mrs.
Baumhagen, "with regard to her trousseau and the marriage contract."
He turned to go at once, but stopped to kiss his bride's hand and
looked at her with imploring eyes. "Be calm," he whispered.
Gertrude laid her hand on her lover's mouth.
"I will have no marriage contract," she said aloud.
"Then your fortune will be common property," was her mother's answer.
"That is what I desire," she replied. "If I can give myself, I will not
keep my money from him. That would seem to me beyond measure, foolish."
Mrs. Baumhagen shrugged her shoulders and turned away. The two were
standing close together and the bitter words died on her lips.
"Your guardian may talk to you about that," she said. "Will you be so
kind, Linden, as to find my brother-in-law? I wish to speak with him."
He kissed Gertrude on the forehead, took his hat and went. Thank
Heaven! he should soon be able to shelter her in his own house, this
proud young girl who loved him so.
He walked quickly across the square. The fresh air did him good. He
felt thoroughly indignant that any one should endeavor to separate
them, putting hundreds of miles between them. How easily might a
misunderstanding arise, how easily with such a character as hers, whom
only the appearance of pettiness would suffice to arouse to scorn,
hatred and defiance! How many couples who were deeply attached to each
other had been separated in this way before now! He dared not think
what would have become of him if it had happened so with them.
"'St!--'St,"--sounded behind him, and as he turned on the slippery
sidewalk he saw Uncle Henry coming down the hotel steps. He had
evidently been dining, and his jovial countenance displayed an
astonishing mixture of sadness and physical comfort.
"I have had my dinner, Linden," he began, putting his arm through the
young man's. "I was very much cast down by this affair of this morning.
You don't misunderstand me I hope? Eh? I am not one of those who lose
their appetites when misfortune comes. I approve of our ancestors who
had funeral feasts. I assure you, Linden, that wasn't such a bad idea
as we of to-day fancy it. Give all honor to the dead, but the living
must have their rights, and to them belong eating and drinking, which
keep soul and body together. Ta, ta! A funeral always upsets me. The
poor little fellow! I was fond of him all the same, you may be sure. I
am sure you have not dined yet. Women never eat under such
circumstances, every one knows."
"I was just going to look for you," replied Linden. "My future
mother-in-law wishes to see you. We--are going to be married in three
weeks."
The little man in the fur coat stopped, and looked at Linden as if he
did not believe his ears.
"How? What? She has changed her mind very suddenly--did Gertrude
improve the opportunity of her softened mood, or--?"
"Gertrude would never do that--no, Mrs. Baumhagen wishes to travel for
some time with her eldest daughter, and--"
"Oh, ta, ta! And Gertrude is not to go?"
"On the contrary--but she would not."
"Aha! Now it dawns upon me, something has happened. Her serene Highness
has been trying--now, I understand--travelling, new scenes, new
people--out of sight, out of mind. Ha! ha! she is a born diplomatist.
Well, I will come, only let us take the longest way; the fresh air does
me good. I am glad though, heartily glad--in three weeks it is to be
then?"
The gentlemen walked on together in silence through the snow. It was
wonderfully quiet in the streets in spite of the traffic of business.
Men and carriages seemed to sweep over the white snow. The air was
mild, with a slight touch of spring, and Frank Linden thought of his
home and of the small room next his own, which would not long remain
unoccupied.
"How do you do, my dear fellow!" said a voice beside him, and a little
man popped up in front of him, holding his hat high above his bald
head--his sharp little face beaming with friendliness. Linden bowed.
Uncle Henry carelessly touched the brim of his hat.
"How do you come to know this Wolff?" he asked, looking after the man,
who was winding his way sinuously in and out among the crowd. "He is a
fellow who would spoil my appetite if I met him before dinner."
"I am or rather was connected with him by business, through my old
uncle--he had money from him on a mortgage on Niendorf," explained
Linden.
"From that cravat-manufacturer? The old man was not very wise."
Linden did not reply. They had just turned into a quiet side-street.
"Does he still hold the mortgage?" asked Mr. Baumhagen.
"No, my friend's sister has taken it."
"Indeed! Why did you not come to _me_ about it? You could have had some
of Gertrude's money--"
Frank Linden made a gesture of refusal.
"Oh--I promised the child; she has authorized me to put a certain
capital at your disposal," explained the old gentleman.
"Thanks," replied Linden, shortly; "I will not have money matters mixed
up with my courtship."
"And the new house at Niendorf?"
"Gertrude knows that she must not expect a fairy palace. Moreover we
can live very comfortably there in the old rooms, though they are low
and small. I have a very pretty garden-hall, and as for the view from
the windows it would be hard to find another like it if you travel ever
so far."
"Oh, the child is happy enough, but how about her serene Highness?"
chimed in Mr. Baumhagen.
"I would far rather have her say, 'My child has gone to live in a
peasant's house,' than, '_We_ had to build first,'" remarked Linden,
drily.
The old gentleman laughed comfortably to himself.
"Yes, yes, that is just what she would say--and she wants to go
on a journey--it is astonishing! My dear old mother sought comfort
in occupation when my father died--that was the good old
custom--now-a-days people go on a journey. It would be better for
Jenny, poor thing, if she were to sorrow deeply here in her home. But
no, she must be dragged away so the whistle of the locomotive may drive
away her last memory of her little one's voice. Linden!" The old man
stopped and laid his hand on his shoulder. "Gertrude is not like that,
you may take my word for it. She would not go away from the little
grave out there--not now. She has her faults too, but--it is all right
with her _here_," striking his breast. "Heaven grant she may be
truly happy with you in the old nest. She has earned it by her sad
youth--through her father."
Frank nodded. He knew it all very well, just as the old egotist told it
to him.
"Well, now we must go," continued Uncle Henry; "my sister-in-law wants
to speak to me about the wedding, I suppose."
"I think it is about the marriage contract," said Frank Linden, "and
I want to beg you to urge upon Gertrude to yield to her mother's
wishes--I shall like it better."
"Hm!" said the old man, clearing his throat. "I yield, thou yieldest,
he yields, she--will _not_ yield! She is a perverse little
monkey--pardon. But it is no use mincing matters. She takes it from her
father. He was a splendid man of business, but as soon as his feelings
were concerned, away with prudence, wisdom, calculation, and what not.
Oh, ta, ta! But here we are."
Mrs. Baumhagen received them very quietly, Gertrude was not with her.
"She is in her room," she said to Linden, as he looked round for her.
"She expects you."
He found her in the deep window. There was no lamp in the room, and the
light from the fire played on the carpet, "Gertrude," he said, "how can
I thank you!" And he took her hands, which burned in his like fire.
"For what?" she asked.
"For everything, Gertrude! You were quiet with your mother?" he added,
quietly, as she was silent.
"Perfectly so," she replied; "I thought of you. But I am determined not
to have a marriage settlement."
"You foolish girl. I might be unfortunate and have bad harvests and
things of that sort--then you would suffer too."
She nodded and smiled.
"To be sure, and I would help you with all I possess. And if we have
bad harvests and nothing, nothing will succeed, and we have nothing
more in the world, then--" she stopped and looked at him with her
happy, tear-stained eyes--"then we will starve together, won't we, you
and I?"