Mrs. Baumhagen had conquered her aversion to "Waldruhe" and had come to
see her youngest daughter. Something must be done--at any rate she
could not any longer endure the sympathetic inquiries for the health of
the young Mrs. Linden. Something _must_ be done.
Gertrude was sitting at the window reading in her cool dusky room, at
least she held a book in her hand; at her feet lay Linden's dog. She
started in dismay as she heard footsteps in the corridor and for one
moment a deep flush spread over her face.
"Ah, mamma," she said, wearily, as Mrs. Baumhagen rustled in in a light
gray toilet, her hat lavishly adorned with violets as being appropriate
to half-mourning, the round face more deeply flushed than usual with
the heat of the spring sun and her excitement.
"This can't go on any longer, child," she began, kissing her daughter
tenderly on the forehead. "How you look, and how cold it is here! Jenny
sent her love; she went to Paris this morning to meet Arthur. Why
didn't you go too, as I proposed?"
"I did not feel well enough," replied Gertrude.
"You look pale, and it is no wonder. I never could bear such want of
consideration, either."
Gertrude sat down again in her old place.
"Has Uncle Henry been here?" inquired Mrs. Baumhagen.
"He was here yesterday."
"Well, then, you know that Linden has forbidden him any interference
with Wolff?"
"Yes, mamma."
"And that this Mr. Wolff has been at the point of death for three days?
His death would be the best thing that could happen, for of course
everything would come to an end then. I don't know whether the people
in the city have any idea of the true state of the case, but they
suspect something and they overwhelm me with inquiries about you."
Gertrude nodded slightly, she knew all that already from her uncle.
"And hasn't he been here? Did he not ask your pardon, has he not tried
to get you back?" asked Mrs. Baumhagen, breathlessly.
"No," was the half-choked reply.
"Poor child!"
The mother pressed her cambric handkerchief to her eyes.
"It is brutal, really brutal! Thank God that your eyes have been opened
so soon. But you cannot stay here the whole time before the
separation?"
Gertrude started and looked at her mother with wide eyes. She herself
had thought of nothing but a separation. But when she heard the
dreadful word spoken, it fell on her like a thunderbolt.
"Yes," she said at length, wringing her hands nervously, "where should
I stay?"
"And for pity's sake, what do you do here from morning till night?"
"I read and go to walk, and--" I grieve, she would have added, but she
was silent. What did her mother know of grief!
"My poor child!"
Mrs. Baumhagen was really crying now. This atmosphere weighed on her
nerves. There was something oppressive in the air, and they really had
a dreadful time before them. What if he should not consent to a
separation? Why had God given the child such an unbending will which
had brought her into this misery! If she had only followed her mother's
advice. Mrs. Baumhagen had taken an aversion to the man from the first
moment.
"I think I must go home, my headache--" she stammered, unscrewing her
bottle of smelling salts.
"If you want anything, Gertrude, write or send to me. Do you want a
piano or books? I have Daudet's latest novel. Ah, child, there are many
trials in life and especially in married life. You haven't experienced
the worst of it yet."
"Thank you, mamma."
The young wife followed the mother down the corridor and down the
stairs to the hall door. Mrs. Baumhagen said good-bye with a cheerful
smile--the coachman need not know everything.
"I hope you will soon be better, Gertrude," she said, loudly. "Be
persevering in your water-cure."
Gertrude, left alone, went on into the garden. At the end of the wall
where the path curved was a little summer-house, with a roof of bark
shaped like a mushroom. Here she stopped and looked out into the
country which lay before her in all the glow and fragrance of the
evening light. Behind the wooded hills of the Thurmberg stood the dear,
cosy little house. She walked in spirit through all its rooms, but she
forced her thoughts past one door, the room with the old mahogany
furniture into which she had gone first on her wedding eve. And she
leaned more firmly against the wall and gazed out at the setting sun
which stood in the sky like a fiery red ball, till the tears streamed
from her eyes, and her heart ached with mortification and humiliation.
Why did that day always come back to her so, and that evening, the
first in that room? The evening when she had slipped from his arms,
down to his very feet, hiding her face in his hands, overwhelmed with
her deep gratitude. Must he not have smiled to himself at the foolish,
passionate, blindly credulous woman? And angry tears fell from her eyes
down over her pale cheeks, her hands trembled, and her pride grew
stronger every minute.
She turned and went back to the house, the dog still following, and
when she reached her room she sat down on the ground like a child and
put her arms round her brown companion's neck. She could weep now, she
could cry aloud and no one would hear. Johanna had gone to Niendorf to
get some books and all sorts of necessary things.
When Johanna came back at length, Gertrude sat in the corner of the
sofa as quiet as ever. The lamp was lighted and she was reading.
Johanna brought out a timid "Good evening!" which was acknowledged by a
silent nod. She laid a few rosebuds down beside the book. "The first
from the Niendorf garden, ma'am."
And when no answer came, she went on talking as she took the clothes
out of the basket and packed them away in the wardrobe.
"Dora is gone, Mrs. Linden. She could not get on with Miss Adelaide,
and the master packed her off. He is so angry. Mr. Baumhagen, who has
just been there, complained bitterly of the dinner to-day. I was in the
kitchen when he came in and said he had never eaten such miserable peas
in his life and the ham was cut the wrong way. Then Miss Adelaide cried
and complained, and declared she did it all only out of good-nature.
And the judge tried to comfort her and said it was a pity to spoil her
beautiful eyes.--The judge sent his compliments too, and said he would
come to say good-bye to you, ma'am. He is going away in a few days. Mr.
Baumhagen sent greetings too, and Miss Rosa and little Miss Adelaide--"
"Pray get the tea, Johanna," said the young lady, interrupting the
stream of words.
"The milk was sour, too, ma'am, and it is so cool too. Ah, you ought to
see the milk-cellar! Everything is going to ruin--it would really be
better if you would only agree that Miss Adelaide should come here and
let me go to the master."
"You will stay here," replied Gertrude, bending her eyes on her book.
"The master looks so pale," proceeded the chattering woman. "Mr.
Baumhagen was telling him in the garden-hall today that Wolff is dying,
and he struck his hand on the table till all the dishes rattled and
said, 'Everything goes against me in this matter!'"
Gertrude looked up. The color came back into her pale cheek, and she
drew a long breath.
"Dying?" she asked.
"Yes. I heard Mr. Baumhagen trying to soothe him--saying it was all for
the best and he hoped everything might be comfortably settled now."
"What was my uncle doing there?" inquired Gertrude.
Johanna was embarrassed.
"I don't know, Mrs. Linden, but if I am not mistaken, he was trying to
persuade Mr. Linden to--that--ah, ma'am!"--Johanna came and stood
before the table which she had set so daintily.
"What is between you and Mr. Linden I don't know, and it is none of my
business to ask. But you see, ma'am, I have had a husband too, that I
loved dearly--and life is so short, and I think we shouldn't make even
one hour of it bitter, ma'am; the dead never come back again. But if I
could know that my Fritz was still in the world and was sitting over
there behind the hills, not so very far away from me--good Lord, how I
would run to him even if he was ever so cross with me! I would fall on
his neck and say, 'Fritz, you may scold me and beat me, it is all one
to me so long as I have you!'"
And the young widow forgot the respect due to her mistress and threw a
corner of her apron over her eyes and began to cry bitterly.
"Don't cry, Johanna," said Gertrude. "You don't understand--I too would
rather it were so than that--" She stopped, overpowered by a feeling of
choking anguish.
Johanna shook her head.
"'Taint right," she said, as she went out.
And Gertrude left the table and seated herself at the window, laying
her forehead against the cool pane. Are not some words as powerful as
if God himself had spoken them?
When some time after, Johanna entered the room again, she found it
empty, and the table untouched. And as she began to remove the simple
dishes, Gertrude entered and put a key down on the table. She had been
in her father's room and the pale face with its frame of brown hair,
looked as if turned to stone.
"If visitors come to-morrow, or at any time, I cannot receive them,"
she said, "unless it be my Uncle Henry."
And she took up her book again and began to read.
The house had long been quiet, when she put down the book for a moment
and gazed into space.
"No!" she murmured, "no!"