The first rays of the morning sun were resting like reddish gold on the
tips of the forest trees which crowded close up to the white villa-like
house. Magnificent oaks, like giant sentinels, stood on the lawn before
the massive wall. A narrow, little-used path wound in between them,
such as are to be found in places not intended to be walked upon. The
great trees gave out little shade as yet, the oak-tree is late in
getting its leaves; those that had already appeared looked young and
shrivelled against the knotted branches, and formed a delightful
contrast to the dark green of the evergreens on the other side of the
garden wall, mingled with the tender misty foliage of the birches.
"Waldruhe" lay as if dreaming in this early stillness. The green
jalousies were all closed, like sleepy eyelids; on the roof a row of
bright-feathered pigeons were sunning themselves. The lawn before the
house was like a wilderness, the grass-grown paths scarcely
distinguishable, which led from the great iron gate to the veranda
steps. From a side-building a little smoke rose up to the blue sky, and
a cat sat crouched on the wooden bench beside the hall-door. There was
no sound except the joyful trills of the larks as they soared out of
sight in the blue sky.
[Illustration: "She leaned with her ungloved hands against the misty
bars of the gate."]
From under the oaks a slender woman's figure drew near. She walked
slowly, and her eyes glanced now to the left over the green wheat
fields to the open country, and now rested on the trees beside her. She
must have come a long way, for the delicate face looked worn and weary,
dark shadows were under her eyes, and the bottom of her dress was damp
as were also the small shoes which peeped out under the gray woollen
robe. She went straight up to the iron gate, clasped the rusty bars
with her ungloved hands and looked at the house somewhat in the
attitude of an curious child, but her eyes were too grave for that.
Beside her stood a brown dog wagging his tail, raising inquiringly his
shrewd eyes to her face, but she took no heed of the animal that had
followed her so faithfully. Her thoughts took only one direction.
She had never been here since that day when she had run hither in
desperate fear, to arrive--only too late. Everything was the same now
as then--just as lonely and deserted. She pulled the bell, how hard it
pulled! Ah, no hand had touched it since!
It is true Sophie came here conscientiously every spring and every
autumn to beat the furniture and air the rooms, but no one else. Mrs.
Baumhagen had from the first declared this idyllic whim of her
husband's an absurdity, and Jenny always called the country house "Whim
Hall." She had been here once but would never come again, "one would
die of ennui among those stupid trees."
At length the bell gave out a faint tinkle. Thereupon arose a fierce
barking in the side-building and a woman of some fifty years in a
wadded petticoat and a red-flannel bed-gown came out of the house. She
stared at the young lady in amazement, then she clapped her hands
together and ran back into the house with her slippers flapping at each
step, returning presently with a bunch of keys.
"Merciful powers!" cried she as she opened the door, "I can't believe
my own eyes--Mrs. Linden! Have you been taking a morning walk, ma'am?
I've always wondered if you wouldn't come here some day with your
husband--and now here you are--and that is a pleasure to be sure!" And
she ran before, opening the doors.
"It is all in order, Mrs. Linden--my man always insists upon
that--'Just you see,' he says, 'some day some of the ladies will be
popping in on you.'" And the square little body ran on again to open a
door. "It is all as it used to be--there is your bed and there are the
books, only the evergreens and the beeches have grown taller."
The young wife nodded.
"Bring me a little hot milk," she said, shivering, "as soon as you can,
Mrs. Rode."
"This very minute!" And the old woman hurried away. Gertrude could hear
the clatter of her slippers on the stairs and the shutting of the hall
door. At last she was alone.
A cool green twilight reigned in the room from the branches of the
beeches which pressed close up to the pane. It was not so dark here
that last summer she had spent in "Waldruhe." Otherwise--the woman was
right--everything was as it had been then, the mirror in its pear-wood
frame still displayed the Centaurs drawing their bows in the yellow
and black ground of the upper part; above the small old-fashioned
writing-table still hung the engraving, "Paul and Virginia" under the
palm trees; the green curtains of the great canopied bed were not in
the least faded, the sofa was as uncomfortable as ever, and the table
stood before it with the same plush cover. She had passed so many
pleasant hours here, in the sweet spring evenings at the open window,
and on stormy autumn evenings when the clouds were flying in the sky,
the storm came down from the mountains and beat against the lonely house.
The rain pattered against the panes, and the woods began to rustle with
a melancholy sound. Then the curtains were drawn, the fire burned
brightly in the fireplace, and opposite in the cosy sitting-room her
father sat at a game of cards. She was the hostess here in "Waldruhe,"
and she felt so proud of going into the kitchen with her white apron on
and of going down into the cellar, and then at dinner all the old
gentlemen complimented her on the success of her venison pie. The dear
old friends--there was only Uncle Henry left now.
There on that bed they had laid the fainting girl when they had found
her by her father's death-bed.
The young wife shivered suddenly. "He died of his unhappy marriage,"
she had once heard Uncle Henry say--in a low tone, but she had
understood him nevertheless.
Mamma did not love him, she had loved another man, and she had told him
so once, when they were quarreling about some trifle.
"I should have been happier with the other one--I liked him at any
rate, but--he was poor."
Gertrude understood it all now; she had her father's character, she was
proud, too. Oh, those gloomy years when she was growing to understand
what sunshine was wanting in the house!
"If it were not for the children," he had said once, angrily, "I would
have put an end to it long ago."
O what a torture it is when two people are bound together by the law of
God and man who would yet gladly put a whole world between them!
Unworthy? Immoral?
Had not her father done well when he went voluntarily? But ah, how hard
was the going when one loves! How then? Love and esteem belong
together--ah, it was imagination, all imagination!
She grew suddenly a shade paler; she thought how her father had loved
her and she thought of the little cradle in the attic at home. Thank
God, it was only a dream, a wish, a nothing, and yet--Oh, this
sickening dread!
She went towards the bed, she was so tired; she nestled her head in the
pillow, drew up the coverlid and closed her eyes. And then she seemed
to be always seeing and hearing the words that she had written to-day
to leave on his writing-table. And she murmured, "Have compassion on
me, let me go! Do not follow me, leave me the only place that belongs
to me!"
The housekeeper brought some hot milk and she drank it. She would go to
sleep, she said, but she could not sleep. She was always listening; she
thought she heard horses' hoofs and carriage wheels. Ah, not that, not
that!
Hour after hour passed and still she lay motionless; she had no longer
the strength to move. Why can one not die when one will?
The noon-day bell was ringing in the village when a carriage drove up
and soon after steps came up the stairs.
Thank God, it was not he!
Uncle Henry put his troubled face in at the door.
"Really," he said, "you are here then! But why, child, why?"
She had risen hastily and now stood before the little old gentleman.
"You bring me an answer, uncle?"
"Yes, to be sure. But I would rather far do something else. How happens
it that your precious set should choose me for your amiable messenger?"
He threw himself down on the sofa with such force that it fairly
groaned under his weight.
"Have you any cognac here?" he inquired, "I am quite upset."
She shook her head without speaking and only gazed at him with gloomy
eyes.
"No, I suppose not," grumbled Uncle Henry. "Well then, he says if it
amuses you to stay here you are quite welcome to do so."
She started perceptibly,
"Oh, ta, ta! That is the upshot of it--about that," he continued,
wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Linden did not say much," he went on, "he was in a silent rage over
your flight--however, he kept himself well in hand. He would not keep
you, he said, nor would he drag you back to his house by force. He will
send Johanna to wait on you, and hopes to be able to fulfil any other
desire of yours. He will arrange everything--and it is to be hoped you
will soon see your error. And," wound up Uncle Henry, "now that we have
got so far, I should be glad to learn from you what is to happen, when
you, with your well known obstinacy, do not feel inclined to own
yourself wrong?"
She was silent.
"As for the rest, Frank utterly denies having had any connection with
Wolff. And, I should like to know, Gertrude--you were always a
reasonable woman--why have you taken it into your head to believe that
old ass who was always known as a scoundrel, rather than your husband?"
Gertrude quickly put her hand in her pocket and grasped the
letter--there was her proof. She made a motion to give it to him--but
no, she could not do it, she could not bring out the small hand that
had closed tightly over the fatal paper.
"You ought both of you to give way a little, I think," said Uncle Henry
after awhile. "You are married now, and--_au fond_--what if he did
inquire about your fortune?"
Her frowning glance stopped him.
"Now-a-days it is not such a wonderful thing if a man--" he stammered
on.
"It is not that, it is not that, uncle! Stop, I beg of you!" cried
Gertrude.
"Oh yes, I understand, women are more sensitive in such matters, and
justly too," assented Uncle Henry. "Well, I fear the name of Baumhagen
will be the talk of the town again for the next six months. Goodbye,
Gertrude. I can't exactly say I have enjoyed my visit. Don't be too
lonely."
At the door he turned back again.
"You know it will come before the courts. Frank refuses to recognize
the claims of the fellow Wolff."
She shook her head.
"He will not refuse," she answered, calmly, "but I wish you would take
the matter in hand, uncle, and pay Wolff for his trouble."
Her eyes filled suddenly with angry tears.
"Oh, ta, ta! Why should I meddle with the matter?"
The old gentleman was deeply moved.
"I ask it of you, uncle, before it becomes the talk of the town."
A sob choked her words.
"Ah, do you think, my child, it is not already whispered about?
Hm!--Well I will do it, but entirely from selfish motives, you know. Do
you think it isn't disagreeable to me, too? Oh, ta, ta! What big drops
those were! But will you promise me then to let well enough alone!
What? You cannot leave him!"
The tears seemed frozen in her eyes.
"No," she replied, "but we shall agree upon a separation."
"Are you mad, child?" cried the old gentleman with a crimson face.
She turned her eyes slowly away.
"He only wanted my money; let him keep it," was her murmured reply,
"_I_ was only a necessary incumbrance,--_I_!"
"Oh, that is only your sensitiveness," said her uncle soothingly.
"Do you know me so little?" she inquired, drawing herself up to her full
height. Her swollen eyes looked into his with an expression of cold
decision.
The little man hastily shut the door behind him. It was exactly as if
his dead brother were looking at him. In a most uncomfortable frame of
mind, he got into his carriage. Confound it! here he was plunged into
difficulties again by his good nature.
Gertrude remained alone. For one moment she looked after him and then
she covered her face with her hands despairingly, threw herself on the
little sofa and wept.