It had rained heavily in the night, with thunder and lightning, but
nature seemed to have no mind to-day to carry out her coquettish love
of contrasts; she did not laugh, as usual, with redoubled gayety in
blue sky and golden sunshine on forest and field: gloomily she spread a
gray curtain over the landscape, so uniformly gray that the sun could
not find the smallest cleft through which to send down a friendly
greeting, and it rained unceasingly, a perfect country rain.
Frank came back from the fields rejoicing over the weather, and
Gertrude waved her handkerchief to him out of the window as she did
every morning.
"All the flowers are ruined, Frank," she cried down to him, "what a
pity!"
He came up in high good humor. "No money could pay for this rain,
darling," he said; "I am a real farmer now, my mood varies according to
the weather."
"And mine too!" remarked his wife. "Such a gray day makes me
melancholy."
He went towards her as she sat at her writing-table turning over books
and papers.
"Just look, Frank," as she held out to him a packet daintily tied up
with blue ribbons; "these are all verses of yours, arranged according
to order. When we have our silver wedding I shall have them printed and
bound. These on cream-colored paper were written during our engagement,
and these different scraps, white and blue and gray, were written since
our marriage, when you take anything that comes, thinking I suppose
that it is good enough for _Mrs._ Gertrude."
She looked up at him with a smile. He bent down over her,
"And now I shall buy a very special kind of paper for my next verses,
Gertrude."
"Why?"
"Bright, like the little bundles the storks carry under their wings.
And I shall write on it--"
She grew crimson. "A cradle-song," she finished softly.
He nodded and put her hand to his lips. But she threw both arms round
his neck. "Then it would be sweet and home-like, Frank. Then we should
love each other better than ever--if that were possible."
"Here, little wife, I wrote this for you today in the field in the
rain." He took out his note-book from his pocket and put it in her
hand.
"I will just go and see what the judge is about, the rascal," he called
back from the door.
And she sat still and read, her face as grave and earnest as if she
were reading in the Bible.
She was startled from her reading by the snapping of a whip before the
window. She looked out quickly--there stood the Baumhagen carriage; the
coachman in his white rubber coat and the cover drawn over his hat, the
iron-gray horses black with the drenching rain. She opened the window
to see if any one got out. Johanna came out and the coachman gave her a
letter with which she ran quickly back into the house.
Gertrude was startled. An accident at home? She flew to the door.
"A letter, ma'am."
She hastily tore it open.
"Come at once--I must speak to you without delay.
"YOUR MOTHER."
Such were the oracularly brief contents of the note.
"Bring me my things, Johanna, and tell my husband."
"Frank," she cried, as he entered, hurriedly, "something must have
happened."
"Don't be alarmed," he besought her, though unable quite to conceal his
own uneasiness.
"Yes, yes. Oh, if I only knew what it was! I feel so anxious."
He took her things from the servant and put the cloak round Gertrude's
shoulders.
"I hope it has nothing to do with Arthur and Jenny. They were very
strange to each other, yesterday."
Gertrude looked at him and shook her head. "No, no, they were always
like that."
"Then I am surprised that he did not run away long ago," he said,
drily.
"Or she," retorted Gertrude tying her bonnet.
"I could not stand such everlasting complaints, Gertrude," said he,
buttoning her left glove.
"Nor I, Frank. Good-bye. You must make my excuses at dinner. God grant
it is nothing very bad."
She looked round the room once more, then went quickly up to her
work-table and thrust the note-book into her pocket.
When a few minutes later the landau passed out of the great iron gate
she put her head out of the window. He stood on the steps looking after
her. As she turned he took off his hat and waved it.
How handsome he was, how stately and how good!
She leaned back on the cushions. She felt a vague alarm--it was the
first time she had left the house without him. Strange thoughts came
over her--how dreadful it would be if she should not find him again, or
even--if she should lose him utterly. Could she go on living then?
Live--yes--but how?
It would be frightful to be a widow! Still more frightful if they were
to part--one here, the other there, hating each other, or indifferent!
Could Arthur and Jenny, really--? Oh, God in Heaven preserve us from
such woe!
She looked out of the window. The coachman was driving at a dizzy pace.
There lay the city before her in the mist. Again her thoughts wandered,
faster than the horses went. She took the note-book out of her pocket
to read the verses, but the letters danced before her eyes, and she put
it away again.
In the attic at home stood the old cradle in which her father had been
rocked, and Jenny, and she herself. The grandmother in the narrow
street had had it as part of her outfit. She would get it out for
herself if God should ever fulfil her wish. Jenny's darling had lain in
another bed, the clumsy old cradle did not seem suitable in the elegant
chamber of the young mother, but in the modest room at Niendorf, where
the vines crept about the windows and the big old stove looked so cosy
and comfortable, it would be quite in place, just between the stove and
the wardrobe in a cosy corner by itself. She smiled like a happy child.
She could not believe that her life could be so beautiful, so rich.
The carriage was now rattling through the city gate; she would be at
home in a minute now, and her heart began to beat loudly. If she only
knew what it was.
The porter opened the carriage door and she got out and ran up the
stairs to Jenny's apartment. The entrance door of her mother's
apartment stood open. No one was to be seen and she entered the hall.
How dear and familiar everything looked! Even the tall clock lifted up
its voice, and struck the quarter before two. She took off her cloak
and went to her mother's room. Here, too, the door was ajar. Just as
she was going to enter she suddenly drew back her hand.
"And I tell you, Ottilie, it will be the worst act of your life, if you
fling all this in the child's face without the slightest preparation.
Whether it is true or false why should you destroy her young happiness?
There are other ways and means."
It was Uncle Henry. He spoke in a tone of the deepest vexation.
"Shall she hear it from strangers?" cried the voice of her weeping
mother; "the whole town is ringing with it, and is she to go about as
if she were blind and deaf?"
"I am trembling all over," Gertrude now heard Jenny say; "it is
outrageous, we are made forever ridiculous. It was only last
evening that I said to Mrs. S----, 'You can't imagine what an idyllic
Arcadian happiness has its dwelling out there in Niendorf.'"
"Confound your logic! I tell you--" cried the little man angrily. But
he stopped suddenly, for there on the threshold stood Gertrude Linden.
"Are you talking of us?" she asked, her terrified eyes wandering over
the group and resting at length on her mother, who at sight of her had
sunk back weeping in her chair.
"Yes, child."
The old man hastened towards her and tried to draw her away.
"It's a thoughtless whim of your mother to send for you here; nothing
at all has happened; really, it is only some stupid gossip, a
misunderstanding perfectly absurd. Come across to the other room and I
will explain it all."
"No, no, uncle, I must know it, must know it all."
She withdrew her hand from his and went up to her mother.
"Here I am, mamma; now tell me everything, but quickly, I entreat you."
She looked down on the weeping woman with a face that was deathly pale,
standing motionless before her in her light summer costume. Only the
strings of her bonnet, which were tied on the side in a simple bow,
rose and fell quickly, and bore witness to her great agitation.
"I can't tell her," sobbed Mrs. Baumhagen, "you tell her, Jenny."
Gertrude turned to her sister at once. She cast down her eyes and wound
the black velvet ribbon of her morning-dress nervously round her
finger.
"Your husband is in a very unpleasant situation," she began in a low
tone.
"In what respect?" asked Gertrude.
"It is a disagreeable affair, but nothing to make such solemn faces
over," burst out the old gentleman, who was standing at the window.
"He had--" Jenny hesitated again, "a conversation with Wolff
yesterday."
"I know it," replied Gertrude.
"Wolff had a claim on him which your husband will not recognize and--"
"For Heaven's sake, make an end of it!" The old gentleman brought his
fist down angrily on the window-sill. "Do you want to give her the
poison drop by drop?"
He took Gertrude's hand again, and tried to find words to explain.
"You see, Gertrude, it is not so bad; it often happens, and this Wolff
may have thrust himself forward, in short--he is a sort of a walking
encyclopaedia, knows everybody hereabouts, and whenever any one wants to
know anything he is sure to be able to tell him. So your husband--well,
how shall I excuse it?--he inquired about your circumstances, do you
understand?--before he offered himself to you--_voila tout_. It happens
hundreds of times, child, and you are reasonable, Gertrude, aren't
you?"
The young wife stood motionless as a statue. Only gradually the color
came to her cheeks.
"That is a lie!" she cried, drawing a long breath. "Did you bring me
here for _that_?"
"But Wolff was here," moaned Mrs. Baumhagen, "asking for my
intervention."
"No, he came to _us_," corrected Jenny, "early this morning; he wanted
to speak to Arthur, but Arthur--" she hesitated, "last evening
Arthur--"
"You may as well say that Arthur started off suddenly on a journey in
the night," interposed Mrs. Baumhagen sharply, "I am very fortunate in
my children's marriages!"
"Well, I can't help it if he gets angry at every little thing," laughed
the young wife, quite undisturbed. "Besides we are very happy."
"A pretty kind of happiness," grumbled the old gentleman to himself, so
low that no one but Gertrude could hear it. Then he added aloud, "A
hurried journey on business, we will call it, a sudden journey on
business, preceded by a little curtain lecture."
"Oh, to be sure, a journey on business," said Mrs. Baumhagen in a tone
of pique, "to Manchester."
"What has that got to do with Gertrude's affairs?" asked Uncle Henry,
"It is enough that Arthur was not there, and the gentleman went up
another flight and spoke to your mother, my child. It is not worth
mentioning--if I had only been here sooner. It is very disagreeable
that you should have heard of it, but believe me, my child, they all do
it now-a-days."
The good-natured little man clapped her kindly on the shoulder.
Mrs. Baumhagen, however, started up like an angry lioness.
"Don't talk such nonsense! How can you smooth it over? It was nothing
but a common swindle. I hope Gertrude has enough sense of dignity to
tell Mr. Linden that--"
"Not another word!"
The young wife stood almost threatening before her in the middle of the
room.
"But for mercy's sake! It will be the most scandalous case that was
ever known," sobbed the excited lady. "He is going to sue Linden--you
will both have to appear in court."
Gertrude did not utter a syllable.
"Have the kindness to order a carriage, uncle," she entreated.
"No, you must not go away so! you look shockingly," was the anxious cry
of her mother and sister.
"Do listen to reason, Gertrude," said Jenny in a complaining tone.
"We must silence Wolff--uncle can inquire how much he asks for his
services, and--"
"And you will come to us again," sobbed her mother. "Gertrude,
Gertrude, my poor unhappy child, did I not foresee this?"
"This is too much!" growled the old gentleman. "Confound these women!
Don't let them talk you into anything, child," he cried, forcibly;
"settle it with your husband alone."
"A carriage, uncle," reiterated the young wife.
"Wait a while at least," entreated Jenny, "till mamma's lawyer--"
"Oh," groaned Uncle Henry, "if Arthur had only been here, this
confounded affair wouldn't have been left in the women's hands. I will
get you a carriage, Gertrude. Your nags are at the factory, Jenny? Very
well. Excuse me a moment."
Gertrude was standing in the window like one stunned; she had as yet no
clear understanding of the matter. "The whole city is talking about
it," she heard her mother sob. Of what then? She tried forcibly to
collect her thoughts, but in vain. Only one thing: it is not true! went
over and over in her mind.
She clenched her little hand in its leather glove. "A lie! A lie!" fell
again from her lips. But this lie had spread itself like a heavy mist
over her young happiness, bringing so much vague alarm that her breath
came thick and fast.
"Shall I go with you?" asked Jenny. The carriage was just coming across
the square.
"No, thank you. I require no third person between my husband and
myself."
Her words sounded cold and hard.
"You look so miserable," groaned her mother.
"Then the sooner I get home the better."
"At least send back a messenger at once."
"Perhaps you think he beats me too?" she inquired, ironically, turning
to go.
"Child! child!" cried Mrs. Baumhagen, stretching out her arms towards
her, "be reasonable, don't be so blind where facts speak so loudly."
But she did not turn back. Calmly she took down her mantle from the
hat-stand. Sophie gazed anxiously into the pale, still face of the
young wife, who quite forgot to say a pleasant word to the old servant.
At the carriage-door stood Uncle Henry.
"Let me go with you, Gertrude," he entreated.
She shook her head.
"It is only out of pure selfishness, Gertrude," he continued. "If I
don't know how it is going with you I shall be ill."
"No, uncle. We two require no one; we shall get on better alone."
"Don't break the staff at once, child," he said, gently,
"I do not need to do that, Uncle Henry."
He lifted his hat from his bald head. There was a reverent expression
in his eyes.
"Good-bye, Gertrude, little Gertrude. If I had had my way, you would
not have heard a word of it."
She bent her head gravely.
"It is best so, uncle."
Then she went back the way she had come.
The rain beat against the rattling panes and dashed against the leather
top of the carriage, and they went so slowly. The young wife gazed out
into the misty landscape. The splendor of the blossoms had vanished,
the white petals were swimming in the pools in the streets.
"Oh, only one sunbeam!" she thought, the weather oppressed and weighed
her down so.
Absurd! How could any one be so influenced by foolish gossip! Mamma
always looked on the dark side of everything--and even if she always
told the truth, she had been imposed upon by this story. Poor Frank!
Now there would be vexation--the first! She would tell him of it
playfully--after dinner, when they were alone together, then she would
say, "Frank, I must tell you something that will make you laugh. Just
fancy, you have a very bitter enemy, and his revenge is so absurd, he
declares"--she was smiling now herself--"Yes, that is the way it shall
be."
She was just passing the old watch tower. What was she thinking of as
she passed this place a few hours before? Oh yes--a crimson flush
spread over her countenance--of the cradle in the attic. She could see
the old cradle so plainly before her; two red roses were painted on one
end, in the middle a golden star, and beneath it stood written: "Happy
are they who are happy in their children."
She put her hand in her pocket and took out the note-book--the carriage
was crawling so slowly up the hill--she could not remember it all yet,
she must read the verses again.
It was a vision he had had of her kneeling before a cradle, singing a
cradle-song about the father bringing something home to his son from
the green wood.
She let the paper fall. She knew what song he meant--the old nursery
song that she had been singing to her godchild when he had heard her
from the window outside. He had told her about it and that in that
moment he had come quite under her spell.
She pressed the book to her lips. Ah, how far beneath her seemed envy
and spite! how powerless they seemed before the expectation of such
happiness!
Just then a piece of paper fell down, a piece of blue writing-paper.
She picked it up; it was part of a letter on the blank side of which
was written in Frank's handwriting:
"Half a hundred-weight grass-seed, mixed," with the address of a
manufactory of farming utensils.
She turned it over, looked at it carelessly, then suddenly every trace
of color left her face. She raised her eyes with a scared expression in
them, then looked down again--yes, there it was!
"----Besides the above-mentioned property Miss Gertrude Baumhagen owns
a villa near Bergedorf. A massive building, splendidly furnished, with
stables, gardener's house and a garden-lot of ten acres, partly wood,
enclosed by a massive wall.
"The property is recorded in the name of the young lady, being valued
at twenty-four thousand dollars.
"For any further details I am quite at your service,
"Very respectfully yours,
"C. Wolff, Agent.
D. 21 Dec. 1882."
Gertrude tried to read it again, but her hand trembled so violently
that the letters danced before her eyes. She had seen it, however,
distinctly enough; it would not change read it as often as she might.
With pitiless certainty the conviction forced itself upon her: it is
the truth, the horrible truth! and every word of his had been a lie.
She had been bought and sold like a piece of merchandise--she, _she_
had been caught in such a snare!
She had taken _that_ for love which had been only the commonest
mercenary speculation.
Ah, the humiliation was nothing to the dreadful feeling that stole over
her and chilled her to the heart--the pain of wounded pride and with it
the old bitter perversity. She had not felt it lately, she had been
good, happiness makes one so good--and now? and now?