The carriage rolled quickly down the hill to Niendorf and stopped
before the house. Half-unconsciously the young wife descended and stood
in the rain on the steps of the veranda. It seemed to her as if she
were here for the first time; the small windows, the gray old walls
with the pointed roof--how ugly they were, how strange! All the flowers
in the garden beaten down by the rain--the charm that love gives fled,
only bare, sober, sad reality! and on the threshold crouched the demon
of selfishness, of cold calculation.
She passed through the garden hall and up the stairs to her room. In
the corridor Johanna met her.
"The master went away in the carriage directly after breakfast," she
announced. "He laid a note on your work-table, ma'am."
"I have a headache, Johanna, don't disturb me now," she said, faintly.
When she reached her own room she bolted first the door behind her and
then that which opened into his room. And then she read the note.
"The barometer has risen and the judge insists on going up the Brocken,
I go with him to Ille. I have something to do there and I shall not be
very late home--Thine,
FRANK."
And below a postscript from the guest:
"Don't be angry, Mrs. Linden. I belong to that class of persons who
cannot see a mountain without feeling an irresistible desire to ascend
it. I take the Brocken first, so when the weather clears again I can
bear the sight of it from my window with equanimity. I will send your
Frank home again soon, safe and sound."
Thank Heaven, he would not be back so very soon--but what was to be
done now? She sat motionless before her work-table, gazing out into the
garden without seeing anything there. Hour after hour passed. Once or
twice she passed her hand across her eyes--they were dry and hot, and
about the mouth was graven a deep line of scorn and contempt. Towards
evening there was a knock at the door. She did not turn her head.
"Mrs. Linden!" called the servant. No answer and the steps died away
outside.
Gertrude Linden got up then and went to her writing-desk. Calmly she
opened the pretty blotting-book, drew up a chair, grasped a pen and
seated herself to write. She had thought of it long enough; without
hesitation the words flowed from her pen:
"I will beg Uncle Henry to explain everything to you as gently as
possible. I cannot speak of it myself--it is the most painful
disappointment of my whole life. I only ask you at present to confirm
my own declaration that I must live in retirement for some time on
account of my health. It will not take long to decide upon something.
GERTRUDE."
She sealed the note and put it on the writing table in her husband's
room. She put the packet of poems beside it and the note-book also.
What should she do with it? The poem was nothing to her--it was only an
old habit of his to write verses; the judge had let that out yesterday.
He had only made use of it in this case as a useful means for making
the deception complete. A man who writes tender verses while at the
same time he is privately acquainting himself with the amount of the
lady's fortune through an agent--that was a tragi-comedy indeed, that
would make a good plot for a farce--and _she_ was to be the heroine!
She kept the fragment of that dreadful letter. Then she wrote a note to
her mother and one to Uncle Henry, then took out her watch and looked
for a time-table.
Whither? The Berlin express which connected them with all the outer
world was already gone. Then she must wait until tomorrow--and then?
Somewhere she must go--she must be alone! Only not with mamma and
Jenny, somewhere far away from here.
She suddenly sprang up with startled eyes, she heard a voice, his
voice.
"Has my wife come back?"
Then a merry whistle, a few bars from "Boccaccio" and hasty steps in
the corridor. Now his hand was on the door-knob. It was locked.
"Gertrude!" he called.
She was standing in the middle of the room, her lips pressed together,
her eyes stretched wide open, but she did not stir.
He supposed she was not there and went quietly into his own room. She
heard him open the door of the bedroom.
"Gertrude!" he called again.
Back into his own room; he spoke to the dog, whistled a few bars of his
opera-air again, moved about here and there and then stopped--now he
was tearing a paper--now he was reading her note.
"Gertrude, Gertrude, I know you are in your room. Open the door!"
His voice sounded calm and kind, but she stood still as a statue.
"Please open the door!" now sounded authoritatively.
"No," she answered loudly.
"You are laboring under some horrible mistake! Some one has been
telling you something--let me speak to you, child!"
She came a step nearer.
"I cannot," she said.
"I must entreat you to open the door. Even a criminal is heard before
he is condemned."
"No," she declared, and went to the window, where she remained.
"Confound your--obstinacy," sounded in her ears.
[Illustration: "There was a crash and a splitting of wood and the door
was burst open."]
Then a crash, a splitting of wood--the door was burst open and Frank
Linden stood on the threshold.
"Now I demand an explanation," he said angrily, the swollen veins
standing out on his white forehead, which formed a strange contrast to
his brown face.
She did not turn towards him.
"Uncle Henry will tell you what there is to tell," she replied, coldly.
He strode up to her and laid his hand on her shoulder, but she drew
back, and the blue eyes, usually so soft, looked at him so coldly and
strangely that he started back, deeply shocked.
"I have deceived you, Gertrude? you, Gertrude?" he asked, "what have I
done? What is my crime?"
"Nothing--"
"That is no answer, Gertrude."
"Oh, it is only such a trifle--I cannot talk to you about it."
"Very well! Then I will go to Uncle Henry at once."
She made no answer.
"And you wish to go away? To leave me alone?" he inquired again.
She hesitated a moment.
"Yes, yes," she then said, hastily, "away from here."
"Why do you keep up this farce, Gertrude."
"Farce?" She laughed shortly.
"Gertrude, you hurt me."
"Not more than you have hurt me."
"But, confound it, I ask you--how?" he cried in fierce anger.
She had drawn back a little and looked at him with dignity.
"Pray, order the carriage and go to Uncle Henry," she replied, coldly.
"Yes, by Heaven, you are right," he cried, quite beside himself, "you
are more than perverse!"
"I told you so before; it is my character."
"Gertrude," he began, "I am easily aroused, and nothing angers me so
much as passive opposition. It is our duty to have trust in one
another--tell me what troubles you; it _can_ be explained. I am
conscious of no wrong done to you."
"That is a matter of opinion," said she.
"Very well. I declare to you that I am not in the least curious--and I
give you time to reconsider."
He turned to go.
"That is certainly the most convenient thing to do in this matter," she
retorted, bitterly.
He hesitated, but he went nevertheless, closed the broken door behind
him as well as he could and began to walk up and down his room.
She pressed her forehead against the window-pane and gazed out into the
garden. It had stopped raining; the clouds were lifting in the west and
displaying gleams of the setting sun. Then the heavy masses of fog
broke away and at the same moment the landscape blazed out in brilliant
sunshine like a beautiful woman laughing through her tears.
If _she_ could only weep! They who have a capacity for tears are
favored. Weeping makes the heart light, the mood softer--but there were
no tears for her.