Gertrude's Marriage Part 25

"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 gra.s.s-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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 ap.r.o.n 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 compa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.s 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," a.s.sented 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.