Gertrude's Marriage Part 34

"I will forgive him," said the young wife aloud. But her face was pale and rigid.

"Forgive, with _those_ eyes?" asked Aunt Rosa. "And for what? For believing him less than an acknowledged--well, he is dead, G.o.d forgive him--than a man who was a perfect stranger to you? No, my little woman, take heart and go up to your Frank and--"

"_I_ go to _him_?" she cried in cutting tones,--"_I_?" The bunch of keys fell clanging on the floor; with trembling hands she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the dress she had worn the day before, and took the purse out of the pocket,--the purse which contained that fatal sc.r.a.p of paper. For awhile she held the piece of paper in her hand, then she gave it to the old lady.

"I will not seem to you so childishly perverse," she said.

Aunt Rosa put on her gla.s.ses and read it. She started, and then a smile spread over her face. In great confusion she looked into Gertrude's face.

"Addie," she said, "you can bear witness that I have always been a most orderly person my whole life long."

"Yes, auntie, the most envious person must allow you that virtue."

"And yet last Christmas it happened to me to mislay a letter. It was to Linden from Wolff; for four whole days we searched for it. Let me see, that was the twenty-second of December--the letter was lost, and on the twenty-sixth, I happened to lift up my window-cushion and there was the thing. No one could have been gladder than I. I stayed up till late at night--Linden had gone to a party at the Baumhagens--and when at last he came home I gave him the letter and he put it carelessly in his pocket and said, 'Aunt Rosa, you shall hear it first, I have just been getting engaged.' And in the joy of his heart he took me in his arms as if I were still only eighteen. You see, and that"--she struck the bit of paper with her right hand--"that is a sc.r.a.p of the letter, my little woman, and the date coincides exactly."

Gertrude was already by her side. "Is that true?" escaped from her trembling lips.

The old lady nodded. "Perfectly true," she declared. "Ask Dora. She searched for the letter with me, and thereby got a great knock on the head when she was trying to move the wardrobe."

But Gertrude declined this. She stood for awhile in silence, her head bent down, her color changing rapidly from red to white, then she moved towards the door and in another moment she had disappeared.

Lightly she mounted the stairs, and the old worn boards seemed to understand why the little feet stepped so carefully and did not as usual, crack and snap.

It was still as death in the whole house; the corridor was still dusky and the old pictures on the wall looked sleepily down on the young wife. The tall clock kept on its solemn tick-tack, tick-tack. It sounded so strangely in Gertrude's ears, as she stood hesitating before the brown door and grasped the k.n.o.b.

Tick-tack, tick-tack! How the time flies! One should not hesitate a moment when one has a fault to repair--every minute is so much taken from him--quick, quick!

Softly she opened the door and slipped in. She had drawn her dress close about her, so the train should not rustle. Two large eyes gazed anxiously out of the pale face round the room, which was glowing in the morning sunshine. Now her heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, now it throbbed wildly: there in the large chair--he had not gone to bed, but sleep had overtaken him. There he sat, his wounded arm rested on the arm of the chair, the other supported his head. He wore still the soiled, singed coat he had on the day before, and ah, he looked so pale, so changed!

The dog, which lay at his feet, lifted up his head and wagged his tail.

Then she went towards him. "Make way for me," she murmured, "_I_ must take that place!"

And she knelt down before her husband, and taking the shrinking injured hand put it to her lips.

"Gertrude, what are you doing?"

"Forgive me, Frank, forgive me?" she whispered, weeping, resisting his endeavors to raise her.

"No, Frank, no, let me stay here, it should be so--"

"Forgive you? There is no question of that. Thank G.o.d you are here again!"

But before she got up she tore a bit of paper into shreds, then she ran to the window and opened her hand and they danced away in the air like snowflakes. And when she turned back again she looked into his grave eyes.

"What was that?" he asked, drawing her towards him.

She threw her arms round his neck and hid her streaming eyes on his breast. They stood thus together at the open window, in the clear rays of the morning sun. The twittering swallows flew past them over the tops of the trees up into the blue sky.

"Back again! Back again!" was the burden of their song.

Gradually the house woke up. The little brunette laid the table in the garden-hall.

"Two cups, two plates, and a bunch of roses in the middle--for the last time," said she, "then she can do it for herself again."

Then she stood thinking for a moment.

"He doesn't in the least realize how fortunate he is to get such a yielding, lamb-like wife as I am," she murmured. "To be sure, I _could_ not possibly fancy that he married me for my money."

She laughed a clear ringing laugh.

"I shall have a nice little trousseau if Aunt Rosa gets it."

And she opened the garden door and ran out into the green shrubbery.

The world was so beautiful, the sun so golden and Adelaide was so fond of the little judge.

She was engaged, secretly engaged, for the good fellow would not come before his friend in all his bridegroom's bliss, when his happiness was so utterly shattered. So they had plighted their troth secretly--after the bowl of _mai-trank_ on that last day. Aunt Rosa was no check upon them, for she slept placidly in the corner of the sofa, and Frank--Heaven alone knew when he had gone.

But now--she looked at her pretty little hands; yes, there were ink-stains on them; she had sent off the news at once to Frankfort: "Great fire, great anxiety, great reconciliation."

She found herself suddenly before a stout little man in a gray summer overcoat and a white straw hat.

"Oh, ta, ta! little one, don't run over me!"

He was very cross, this good Uncle Henry.

"Pretty state of affairs! A man comes from Hamburg, travelling all night, and hardly is he out of the train when some one comes: 'Mr.

Baumhagen, did you know there had been a great fire in Niendorf?' Tired as a dog as I was, I must needs get into a carriage and drive out here--a man can't sleep after such a piece of news as that. For mercy's sake, you are smiling as if it was Christmas eve!"

"All the crops are burnt," announced Adelaide in as joyful a tone as if she had said, "We have won a great prize."

"The poor fellow has ill-luck," muttered Uncle Henry. "Has some one gone over to--" He would not speak her name--"to--well, to 'Waldruhe?'

Or has the announcement of the joyful news been left for me again?"

"No one has been there," replied Adelaide, mischievously.

Uncle Henry looked at her more sharply.

"Well, what's up then, you witch? Something has happened."

"I am engaged," burst out the happy little bride. Thank Heaven, that she could tell it at last.

"You unhappy child!" cried Uncle Henry, by way of congratulation. But she ran laughing away into the house.

"Breakfast is ready!" she cried from the terrace. "Coffee, tea, ham and eggs."

The old gentleman, who was going out to view the wreck, turned sharply round and followed her.