Gertrude's Marriage Part 33

No, never--or he must--

On--on--only to see--only to see from a distance, whether he lived and was well!

"Life hangs on the merest thread," Johanna's words sounded in her ears.

"G.o.d in Heaven, have mercy, do not punish me _so_!"

At the garden-gate she stopped. What should she do here? Her amba.s.sador had come here only to-day and had offered him money for her freedom.

Ah, freedom!

Of what use is it when the heart is still held fast in chains and bands? And she ran in under the dark trees of the garden, round the little pond, on the surface of which a faint rosy shimmer of the dying fire still played, and she sank exhausted on a garden-chair under the chestnuts; just in front of her, only across the gravel walk was the house and a dim light shone out of the garden-hall.

Upstairs, the bright light was gone from his windows; shouts and voices of men still came up from the court, carriages were being pulled about, horses taken out, all mingled with the sharp hissing sound of the hose.

Gertrude shivered; a great weakness had come over her, her temples throbbed, the smell of the fire nearly took her breath away.

Here she sat motionless, gazing at the steps which led to the garden-hall. Her eyes sought out step after step and at last lingered in the door. "Up there! In there!" she thought, her heart beating wildly, but pride and shame held her fast as with iron chains.

It gradually grew quieter in the court, then steps approached, firm, elastic steps. Gertrude quickly seized the dog by the collar. "Down, Diana!" she cried, hoa.r.s.e with terror, and then a figure pa.s.sed the bright light of the window, and brushing close by her went into the house.

Frank! He was alive--thank G.o.d! But he was hurt, he kept his arm pressed so closely to his side. Ah, but he was alive! and now, now she could go again quietly and unperceived as she had come. There were plenty of hands in there to bind up his wounds, to--

She shivered again as if in fever.

"Come," she said to the whining dog, and she got up and turned away towards the darker paths, but the dog pressed eagerly toward the house, and almost as if she knew not what she was doing she suffered herself to be dragged forward by him.

At length she reached the steps and in another moment she was mounting them. Only one look inside, only to see if he really was suffering, if he really was alive! And holding the impatient animal still more firmly she pa.s.sed noiselessly across the stone terrace; then she leaned against the door-post and peeped through the gla.s.s, trembling with emotion, timorous as a thief, full of longing as a child on Christmas Eve.

The room looked just as usual, the carpets, the pictures, all just as she had left it; within were people hurrying busily to and fro, and by the table near the lamp he was sitting, his face, pale and drawn with pain, turned full towards the door. And beside him, bending over him, and binding up his arm with all the charming grace of an anxious and tender wife, was the agile little creature in a black dress and white ap.r.o.n, her bunch of keys stuck in her girdle. How skilfully she laid on the bandage! With what supple, tapering fingers she fastened it! How nearly her dark hair touched his face!

And this must be done by other hands than these that she was wringing so here outside!

A joyful bark sounded beside her, and the dog broke away from her trembling fingers with a sudden spring and bounded against the door so that it shook. She started to flee in terror, but her strength failed her; the ground seemed to sway under her feet, half-unconscious she could still hear the door hastily torn open, and then she lost consciousness altogether.

CHAPTER XXI.

Gertrude awoke, just as the day began to dawn, from a deep dreamless sleep. She was not ill, and she knew perfectly well what had happened to her the evening before. She was lying on the sofa in Aunt Rosa's room; above her smiled down the ancestress with the powdered hair, and the whole wonderful rose-wreathed room was in the full glow of the morning sunshine.

At the foot of the bed on a low footstool sat a young girl in a black dress and a white ap.r.o.n; the dark head had fallen against the arm of the sofa--Adelaide was sound asleep.

The young wife got up softly. Her drenched clothing had been taken off the night before and her own dressing-gown put on; there was still a large part of her wardrobe in Niendorf; she even found, her dainty slippers standing before the sofa, which she was accustomed to put on when she got up. She was very quick and very careful not to wake the young girl. But as she softly opened the door, the sleeper sprang up, and a pair of wondering dark eyes gazed up at Gertrude.

"Where are you going?" asked the clear voice.

Gertrude stopped, undecided.

"Mr. Linden went to bed so very late," continued Adelaide Strom; "he sat here beside you till about an hour ago. You will not wake him? It is not four o'clock yet."

A pair of firm little hands drew the young wife away from the door towards the sofa, and in contradiction to the childish words a pair of grave eyes looked at her, saying plainly, "Do what you will--I shall not let you go."

Gertrude sat down again on the improvised bed and bit her lips till they bled, but the young girl busied herself at a side-table, and presently a fragrant odor of coffee filled the room.

"Here," she said, offering the young wife a cup of the hot beverage, "take it, it will do you good. I made some coffee for Mr. Linden too, in the night: only drink it quietly, it is _his_ cup and no one else has ever touched it."

And as Gertrude made no reply and only held the cup in her trembling hand without drinking, Adelaide continued without taking any notice--"Ah, yesterday was a dreadful day. The frightful storm and that dreadful thunderbolt, and the great barn was in flames in a moment, and before any help came the other was burning, and it was with the greatest difficulty the animals were saved. If Mr. Linden had not been so calm and had so much presence of mind, it would have been frightful.

But he went into the horses' stable just as if the flames were not darting in after him, and he put the harness on the horses and they followed him out through the flames like lambs, though no one could get them out before. And only think, when the uproar was the greatest, and the fire was sending showers of sparks into the air, as if they were rockets, something began to howl and cry so loud from the very top of the barn, and we found it was Lora, the great St. Bernard dog, who had puppies up there.

"And how that poor dumb creature did cry out for help! I could hear from my window that no one would go up after her,--'Being a dog,' they all said. And all at once I saw a ladder, and one--two--three--a figure disappeared up there in the flames. What do you think, Mr. Linden brought them all down, the old dog and her young ones--all of them."

The little girl's eyes sparkled with tears.

"But he has a mark of it on his arm to be sure," she added, "and it was only a dog after all. What was it in comparison with a man's life?--Aunt Rosa was so angry with him and said, when he came down here pale and suffering with the pain, he might have lost his life. Then he said that such a stupid thing as his life wasn't worth a straw! And just as he had said it, Diana began to scratch so furiously at the door, and he rushed out at such a rate that I thought the lightning must have struck again, and as I ran out behind him, he had you already in his well arm, and declared that he knew you would come."

Gertrude got up at this point, and walked to the door. But here she met another obstacle. This was Aunt Rosa, who was just coming out of her bedroom in the most astonishing morning array and the most enormous white nightcap that a lady ever wore. She nodded to Gertrude, and laid her small withered hand on her shoulder.

"The dear G.o.d always opens a way for the hard heart to soften," said the ancient dame, "Yes, in hour of need, the heart has wings on which it is lifted above all the petty foolishness of pride and perversity.

It was just before the closing of the door, too, my dear child, for yesterday afternoon, after a certain man had had an interview with him, I folded my hands and prayed to G.o.d to give him strength to bear the blow--I was afraid he would never get over it."

Adelaide Strom now went softly out of the door and the old woman remained standing before the young wife, and the tall form seemed almost to shrink beneath her thin transparent hand. But neither spoke.

The eastern sky grew redder, and then the first rays of the sun played on Gertrude's brown hair.

Suddenly she covered her face with her hands. "My happiness is over, I can never be anything more to him!" she gasped.

"Say rather 'I _will_ never be anything more to him!'"

"Ah, and even if I would!" she cried, "I am so wretched!"

"He who will not do a thing willingly and gladly would do better to leave it undone, and he who cares not to pray, should not fold his hands." And Aunt Rosa turned away to the window, sat down in her easy chair and took up her prayer-book. She left Gertrude to herself and read her morning chapter half aloud.

The words struck the ear of the struggling girl with a wonderful force.

"Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not charity--" sounded through the room.

"Charity suffereth long and is kind; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things."

Had she no charity then, no true love? Ah, faith--love--how should they remain when one has been so cruelly deceived! And her house came back to her mind, that sad, lonely house on the edge of the wood, and her life in the last few weeks, so frightfully bare and desolate.

And--"charity beareth all things--" it said.

"Amen!" said Aunt Rosa, aloud. And Adelaide came in, and the young wife suddenly felt her hands drawn down and through her tears she saw Adelaide, smilingly unlocking the bunch of keys from her own belt and holding it out to her.

"I kept things in order as well as I knew how," she said, "it is not in the most perfect order I know, but you must not scold me."

She felt the keys put into her nerveless hand--had she not been bowed down into the dust?

"Charity suffereth long and is kind; charity vaunteth not itself," said something in her heart.