Gertrude's Marriage Part 18

"Spare me, Richard, I beg of you," laughed the young host, half angrily.

"Isn't it true?" asked the judge. "Only think of your celebrated poem on the gypsy girl. I was there when you saw the brown maiden on the Romerberg, and in the evening it was already written down in your note-book that she wandered through the streets with winged feet, with straying hair, and shy black eyes in which a longing for the moorland lay and for the wind which through the reed-gra.s.s sweeps--and so on.

Ha, ha! And she really came from the Jew's quarter and went begging from house to house for old rags."

They all three laughed, Gertrude the most heartily; then she became suddenly grave.

"You are a malicious fellow," declared Frank, rising to light a candle.

"It is late, Richard, and we are early risers here."

As the friends bade each other good-night at the door of the guest-chamber, the judge said,

"Well, Frank, I congratulate you. You have won a prize--such a dear, sensible little woman!

"As for the _other_--my dear fellow, what did I tell you about that man? Well, good-night! That Uncle Henry is a good old soul, too,--now take yourself off."

Gertrude was standing by the open window in her room, looking out into the night. The lamplight from the next room shone in faintly. Dark clouds were gathering, far away over the mountains there were flashes of lightning and in the garden a chorus of nightingales was singing.

"Gertrude," said a voice behind her.

"Frank," she replied, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"Hush! Listen! It is so lovely tonight."

They stood thus for awhile in silence. This afternoon's conversation was still lingering in Linden's mind. Uncle Henry could not understand why he should not cut his timber from his own woods. But the Niendorf woods had been greatly thinned out and no new plantations made.

"Tell me, Gertrude," he began, suddenly, "where is your villa 'Waldruhe?'"

His young wife started as if a snake had stung her. "Our--my villa?"

she gasped, "how did you know--who told you about the villa?"

He was silent. "I cannot remember who," he said after a pause, "but some one must have told me that there is a little wood belonging to it.

But, Gertrude, what is the matter?" he inquired. "You are trembling!"

"Ah, Frank, who told you about _that_?" she reiterated, "and _what_?"

Her voice had so sad a ring in it that he perceived at once that he had hurt her.

"Gertrude, have I hurt you? I beg your pardon a thousand times; I was only thinking of cheaper timber which I might have cut there this winter."

"Timber? There? It is only a park. Ah, Frank--"

"But what is it pray?" he asked with a little impatience. "I cannot possibly know--"

"No, you cannot know," she a.s.sented. "It was only the shock--I ought to have told you long ago, only it is so frightfully hard for me to speak of it. You ought to know about it too, but--tell me who told you about it?"

"But when I a.s.sure you, my child, that I cannot remember."

"Frank," said his young wife, in a low, hesitating tone, "out there--in 'Waldruhe,' my poor father died--"

"My little wife!" he said, comfortingly.

"It was there--he--he killed himself." Her voice was scarcely audible.

He bent down over her, greatly shocked. "My poor child, I did not know that, or I would not have spoken of it."

"And I found him, Frank. He built 'Waldruhe' when I was but a child, and he used to go and stay there for weeks together. It is so hard to talk of it--he was not happy, Frank. Ah, we will not dwell on it. Mamma did not understand him, and it was the day after Christmas and I knew they had had a dispute; that is not the right word for it either, for papa never contradicted her, and he bore so patiently all her crying and complaining. After awhile I heard the carriage drive away. It was in the morning--and I had such a strange feeling of anxiety and dread and after dinner I put on my hat and cloak and ran out of the Bergedorf gate along the high road, on and on till I came to 'Waldruhe.' I was surprised to see that the blinds were shut in his room, but I saw the fresh wheel-tracks in front of the house. The gardener's wife, who lives in a little cottage on the place, said he was upstairs. He _was_ upstairs--yes--but he was dead!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "He _was_ up stairs--yes--but he was dead."]

She stood close beside him, encircled by his arm, as she told her story. He could feel how she trembled and how cold her hands were.

"Don't speak of it any more, my darling," he entreated, "you will make yourself ill."

"Yes, I was ill, Frank, for a whole year," she said. "It was a fearful time; I could not forgive my mother. From that moment the gulf arose which parts us to-day, and nothing can bridge it over. I was so horribly lonely, Frank, before I found you. But the villa?--Yes, it belongs to me; papa destined it for me when he built it. I have had some very pleasant days with him there, but now the very thought of it is dreadful to me. It is empty and deserted. I have never been there since. It is so horrible to find a person whom one has so honored and loved--to find him so--"

"Forgive me, Gertrude," he said, gently.

"You could not know, Frank. No one knows it but ourselves." And as if to turn his thoughts to something else she continued hurriedly, "Thank you so much, love, for that lovely poem, 'Thou art unspeakably beloved.'"

And she stroked his hand and pressed it to her lips.

"My poor little Gertrude!"

They stood thus together for awhile wrapped about with the sweet atmosphere of spring.

"A thunder-shower is coming up," he said at length; and she freed herself from his arms and left the room. Frank could hear her going softly about the corridor here and there, shutting the doors and windows, and jingling her keys. She was looking to see if everything was in order for the night.

He put his hand to his forehead and tried to recall who had spoken to him of the villa. He pa.s.sed on into his lighted room as if he could think better there. After awhile the young wife came back, with her key-basket on her arm. The sweet face was lifted up to him.

"Frank," said she, "what did the agent want of you to-day?"

He stared at her as if a flash of lightning had struck him.

"That is it! that is it!" And he struck his forehead as if something he had been seeking for in vain had suddenly occurred to him.

"What did he want? Oh, nothing, Gertrude, nothing of any consequence."

She looked at him in surprise, but she said nothing. It was not her way to ask a second time when she got no answer. It really was of no consequence.

CHAPTER XII.

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.