Three days later the Niendorf carriage stopped before the gate of
"Waldruhe," and waited there a quarter of an hour in the blazing heat
of the mid-day sun, so that the gardener's children could gaze to their
heart's content on the brilliant coloring of Aunt Rosa's violet parasol
and the red ostrich feathers which adorned Adelaide's summer hat,
mingling effectively with the dark curly hair which hung in a fringe
over the youthful forehead. This sight must have been an agreeable
one to the judge also, for he did not take his eyes off his pretty
_vis-a-vis_.
"Mrs. Linden regrets that she is not well enough to receive visitors,"
announced Johanna with her eyes cast down.
Two of the occupants of the carriage looked disappointed, while the
judge felt in his pocket for his card-case.
"There!" He gave the servant the turned-down card.
"And here is a letter, an _important letter_--do you understand,
Johanna? My compliments, and I trust she will soon recover."
"So do I," said the young girl, timidly.
Aunt Rosa, however, was silent, and when they looked at her more
closely they saw she was asleep, the wrinkled old face nodding absurdly
above the enormous bow under her chin.
"Burmann, drive slowly, when we get to the wood," whispered the judge,
"Miss Rosa is asleep."
The coachman made a clucking sound with his tongue and drove
noiselessly over the soft grass-grown road. Johanna could see that the
judge moved over from the middle of the seat opposite the young lady
and that she glowed suddenly like the feathers on her hat.
Johanna went back into the house with her card and letter and gave them
to Gertrude.
"A letter?" inquired the young wife.
"The judge gave it to me," replied Johanna, as she left the room in
which, in spite of the outside heat, the air was always damp and cold.
Gertrude slowly opened the letter. It was in his handwriting--she had
expected it. Her heart beat so quickly she could scarcely breathe, and
the letters danced before her eyes. It was some time before she could
read it:
"GERTRUDE--Wolff died last evening. It is no longer possible to call
him to account on earth; it is no longer possible to expose his guilt.
He has gone to his grave without having cleared me from his calumny. I
remain before you as a guilty person, and I can do nothing more than
declare once more that we--you and I, are the victims of a scoundrel. I
have never spoken with Wolff of your fortune nor called in his
intervention in any way. I leave the rest to you and to your
consideration. I shall never force you to return to me, neither shall I
ever consent to a divorce. Come home, Gertrude, come soon and all shall
be forgotten. The house is empty, and my heart is still more so--have
faith in me again. Your FRANK."'
She had just finished reading these words when Uncle Henry came in.
The little gentleman had evidently dined well--his face shone with
good-humor.
"Still here?" he cried. And as she did not reply he looked at her more
closely. "Well, you are not angry again?"
But the young wife swayed suddenly and Uncle Henry sprang towards her
only just in time to keep her from falling, and called anxiously for
Johanna. They laid the slender figure on the sofa and bathed her
temples with cold water.
"Speak to me, child!" he cried, "speak to me!" and he repeated it till
she opened her eyes.
"I cannot," she said after awhile.
"What?" asked the asthmatic old gentleman.
"Go to him I _can_not! Must I?"
"Merciful Heavens!" groaned Uncle Henry, "do be reasonable! Of course
you must unless you want him to be ruined."
"I must?" she repeated, adding as if for her own comfort, "No, I must
not! I cannot force myself to have confidence in him, I cannot pretend
what I do not feel. No, I must not!"
And she sprang up and ran through the room to the door, trembling with
excitement.
"Oh, ta, ta!" The old man ran his hands through his hair. "Then stay
here! Let your house and home go to ruin, and the husband to whom you
have pledged your faith into the bargain."
"Yes, yes," she murmured, "you are right, but I cannot!"
And she grasped the little purse in her pocket which held that fatal
letter.
It seemed as if this brought her back at once to herself. She grew
quiet, she lay back on her lounge and rested her head on the cushion.
"Pardon me, uncle--I know what I am doing."
"That is exactly what you don't know," he muttered.
"Yes, I do," was the pettish reply. "Or do you think I ought to go
there and beg him with folded hands to take me back into favor again?"
And something like scorn curved her lips.
"It would be the most sensible thing you could do," replied Uncle
Henry, rather angrily.
She bent back her head proudly.
"No!" came from her lips, "not if I were still more miserable than I
am! I can forgive him, but--fawn upon him like--like a hound--no!"
"God forgive me, but it is nothing but the purest arrogance that
animates you," cried the old man. "Who gave you the right to set
yourself so high above him? He was a poor man who could not marry
without money--is it a crime that he should have asked a question as to
this matter? It happens to every princess. You are stern and unloving
and unjust. Have you never done anything wrong?"
She had started at his first reproachful words like a frightened child,
now she sprang up and as she knelt down before him her eyes looked up
at him imploringly.
"Uncle, do you know how I loved him? Do you know how a woman can love?
I looked up to him as to the noblest being on earth, so lofty, so great
he seemed to me. I have lain at his feet, and at night I folded my
hands and thanked God that he had given me this man for my husband. I
thought he was the only one who did not look on me only as a rich girl,
and he has told me so a hundred times. Uncle, you have been always
alone, you don't know how people can love! And then to come down and
see in him only a common man, a man who does not disdain to tell a
lie--O, I would rather have died!" And she hid her face in her
trembling hands. "And there, where I have been so happy, shall I
satisfy myself with the coldest duty? I must be his wife and know that
it was not love that brought me to his side? I shall hear his tender
words and not think, 'He does not mean them?' He will say something to
me and I shall torment myself with doubts whether he really means it?
Oh, hell itself could not be more dreadful, for I loved him!"
Tears stood in the old man's eyes. He stroked Gertrude's smooth hair in
some embarrassment.
"Stand up, Gertrude," he said, gently; and after a pause he added, "The
Bible says we shall forgive."
"Yes, with all my heart," she murmured. "And if you see him tell him
so. Ah, if he had come and had said--'Forgive me'--but so--"
An idea came into Uncle Henry's head.
"Then would you give in, child?" he inquired.
"Yes," she stammered, "hard as it would be."
The old egotist knew then what he had to do. He led the weeping
Gertrude to her little sofa, asked Johanna for a glass of wine and then
drove to Niendorf. As he went he could see always before him the
beautiful tear-stained face, and could hear her sad voice. As he ran up
the steps to the garden-hall rather hastily he saw through the glass
door the little brunette Adelaide sitting at the table with the judge,
who was just uncorking a wine-bottle. Both were so deeply engaged in
gazing at each other and blushing and gazing again that they were not
conscious of the presence of the old spy outside.
"Really, this is a pretty time to be carousing in this house," thought
Uncle Baumhagen. As he entered he brought the couple back to the bald
present with a gruff "Good morning," and the judge began at once a
lament over the horrible ill-luck of this Wolff's dying six months too
soon.
"What is going on here?" asked Uncle Henry, inhaling the fragrance of
the wood-ruff.
"The parting _mai-trank_ for the judge," replied Miss Adelaide.
"Oh, ta, ta! You are going away?"
"I must," replied the little man with a regretful look at the young
girl. "Besides, my dear sir, since this dreadful wifeless time has
begun it is melancholy in Niendorf. Linden has been as overwhelmed,
since the news of the death came last evening, as if his dearest friend
had gone down into the grave with that limb of Satan. Heaven knows he
could not have been more anxious about a near relation, and his horses
have nearly run their legs off with making inquiries about the fellow's
health. I really believe he would have given the doctor of this
distinguished citizen a premium for preserving his precious life."
Uncle Henry grumbled something which sounded almost like a curse.
"Where is Linden?" he inquired.
"Upstairs!" replied Miss Adelaide. "He has been there ever since this
morning, at least we--" indicating the judge and herself--"dined alone
with auntie, then we went to 'Waldruhe' but we did not get in, and now
it is out of sheer desperation that we made a bowl of _mai-trank_. But
won't you taste a little of it, Mr. Baumhagen?"
She had filled a glass and offered it to the old gentleman with
laughing eyes.
Uncle Henry cast a half-angry, half-eager glance at the glass in the
small hand.
"Witch!" he growled, and marched out of the room as haughtily as a
Spaniard. He was in too serious a mood to enter into their "chatter."
But a clear laugh sounded behind him.
"I wish the judge would pack that little monkey in his trunk and send
her off to Frankfort or to Guinea for all I care."
He found the young master of the house at his writing-table. "Linden,"
he began, without sitting down, "the carriage is waiting down-stairs,
come with me to your little wife; if you will only beg her forgiveness,
everything will be all right again."
Frank Linden looked at him calmly.
"Do you know what I should be doing?" he asked--"I should acknowledge a
wrong of which I have never been guilty."
"Ah, nonsense! Never mind that! This is the question now, will you have
your wife back again or not?"
"Is that the condition on which my wife will return to me?"
"Why, of course. Oh, ta, ta! I am sure at least that she would come
then."
"I am sorry, but I cannot do it," replied the young man, growing a
shade paler. "It is not for me to beg pardon."
"You are an obstinate set, and that is all there is about it,"
thundered Uncle Henry. "We are glad that the scoundrel is dead, and now
here we are in just the same place as we were before."
"The scoundrel's death is a very unfortunate event for me, uncle."
"You will not?" asked the old gentleman again.
"Ask her pardon--no!"
"Then good-bye!" And Uncle Henry put on his hat and hastily left the
room and the house.
"Allow me to accompany you down," said Frank, following the little man,
who jumped into the carriage as if he were fleeing from some one.
But before the horses started he bent forward and an expression of
intense anxiety rested on his honest old face.
"See here, Frank," he whispered, "it is a foolish pride of yours.
Women have their little whims and caprices. It is true I never had a
wife--thank Heaven for that!--but I know them very well for all that.
They have such ideas, they must all be worshipped, and the little one
is particularly sharp about it. She is like her father, my good old
Lebrecht, a little romantic--I always said the child read too much. Now
do you be the wise one to give in. You have not been so hurt either,
and--besides she is a charming little woman."
"As soon as Gertrude comes back everything shall be forgotten," replied
Linden, shutting the carriage door.
"But she won't come so, my boy. Don't you know the Baumhagen obstinacy
yet?" cried Uncle Henry in despair.
He shrugged his shoulders and stepped back.
"To Waldruhe!" shouted the old man angrily to the coachman, and away he
went.
"My young gentleman is playing a dangerous game as injured innocence,"
he growled, pounding his cane on the bottom of the carriage. The nearer
he came to the villa, the redder grew his angry round face. When he
reached "Waldruhe" he did not have to go upstairs. Gertrude was in the
park. She was standing at the end of a shady alley and perceiving her
uncle she came towards him, in her simple white summer dress.
"Uncle," she gasped out, and two anxious eyes sought to read his face.
"Come," said the old man, taking her hand, "let us walk along this
path. It will do me good. I shall have a stroke if I stand still. To
make my story short, child--he will not."
"Uncle, what have you done?" cried Gertrude, a flush of mortification
covering her face. "You have been to him?"
"'Yes,' I said, 'go and ask her forgiveness and everything will come
right--women are like that!' and he--"
She pressed her hand on her heart.
"Uncle!" she cried.
"And he said: No! That would be owning a fault which he had not
committed. There, my child! I have tried once more to play the part of
peace-maker, but--now I wash my hands of it all. You must do it for
yourselves now. Anger is bad for me, as you know, and I have had enough
now to last me a month. Good-bye, Gertrude!"
"Good-bye, uncle, I thank you."
He had gone a few steps when the old egotist looked round once more.
She was leaning against the trunk of a beech-tree like one who has
received a blow. Her eyes were cast down, a strange smile played about
her mouth.
"Poor child!" he stammered out, taking his hat from his burning
forehead, and then he went back to her.
"Come now, you must keep your spirits up," he said kindly. "Over there
in Niendorf that black little monkey was making a _mai-trank_ for the
judge who is going away. What do you say, Gertrude, shall we go and
have some? Come, I will take you over quite quietly. You see we would
go so softly into the dining-room, and I am not an egotist if you are
not--one--two--three--in each others' arms--you will cry 'Frank!' he
will say 'Gertrude!' and all will be forgotten. Gertrude, my good
little Gertrude, do be reasonable. Is life so very blissful that one
dares fling away the golden days of youth and happiness? Come, come,
take my advice just this once."
He had grasped her slender wrist, but she freed herself hastily and her
face grew rigid. "No, no, that is all over!" she said in a hard
distinct tone.