CHAPTER IX.
The wedding-day came, not as such joyful days usually come. It was as still as death in the house, which was still plunged in the deepest mourning.
The large suite of rooms had been opened and warmed, and over Gertrude's door hung a garland of sober evergreen. The day before the door-bell had had no rest, and one costly present after another had been handed in. All the magnificence of massive silver, majolica, Persian rugs and other costly things had been spread out on a long table in the bow-window room. A gardener's assistant was still moving softly about in the salon, decorating the improvised altar with orange trees. The fine perfume of pastilles lingered in the air and the flame from the open fire was reflected in the glass drops of the chandelier and the smooth marqueterie of the floor. Outside, the weather was treacherously mild. It was the first of March.
Mrs. Baumhagen had been crying and groaning all the morning, and between the arrangements for the wedding, she had been giving orders respecting her own journey. The huge trunks stood ready packed in the hall. The next day but one they would start for Heidelberg to see a celebrated doctor.
As for Gertrude's trousseau, her mother had not concerned herself about it--she would attend to it herself. Gertrude's taste was very extraordinary, at the best; if she liked blue Gertrude would be sure to pronounce for red, it had always been so. Ah, this day was a dreadful one to her, and it was only the end of weeks of torture. Since the funeral of the baby, when her daughter had made such a scene, they had been colder than ever to each other. Gertrude's eyes could look so large, so wistful, as if they were always asking, "Why do you disturb my happiness?"
She should be glad when they had fairly started on their journey.
At this time the ladies were all dressing; the wedding was to take place at five o'clock. The faithful Sophie was helping Gertrude to-day--she would not permit any one to take her place.
Gertrude had put on her wedding-dress, and Sophie was kneeling before her, buttoning the white satin boots.
"Ah, Miss Gertrude," sighed the old woman, "it will be so lonely in the house now. Little Walter dead and you away!"
"But I shall be so happy, Sophie." The soft girlish hand stroked the withered old face which looked up at her so sadly.
"God grant it! God grant it!" murmured the old woman as she rose. "Now comes the veil and the wreath, but I am too clumsy for that, Miss Gertrude--but, ah, here is Mrs. Fredericks."
Jenny entered through the young girl's sitting-room. She wore a dress of deep black transparent crêpe, and a white camellia rested on the soft light braids. She was deathly pale and her eyes were red with weeping.
"I will help you, Gertrude," she said, languidly, beginning to fasten the veil on her sister's brown hair. "Do you remember how you put on my wreath, Gertrude? Ah, if one could only know at such a time what dreadful grief was coming!"
"Jenny," entreated Gertrude, "don't give yourself up to your grief so. When I came down when Walter died, and Arthur was holding you so tenderly in his arms I thought what great comfort you had in each other. That is after all the greatest happiness, when two people can stand by each other, in sorrow and trial."
"Oh," said Jenny, her lip curling disdainfully; "I assure you Arthur is half-comforted already. He can talk of other things, he can eat and drink and go to business, he can even play euchre. Wonderful happiness it is indeed!"
"Ah, Jenny, you cannot expect him to feel the grief that a mother does, he--"
"Oh, you will find it out too," interrupted the young wife. "Men are all selfish."
Gertrude rose suddenly from her chair. She was silent, but her eyes rested reproachfully on her sister as if to say, "Is that the blessing you give me to take with me?"
But her lips said only, "Not all, I know better."
Jenny stood in some embarrassment. "I must go down to Arthur now or he will never be ready at the right time, and then it will be time for me to come up to receive the guests."
The train of her dress swept over the carpet like a dark shadow as she went.
Gertrude sat down for a while in the deep window. The white silk fell in shimmering folds about her beautiful figure, and the grave young face looked out from the misty veil as from a cloud. She folded her hands and looked at her father's picture. "I will take you with me to-night, papa." And her thoughts flew off to the quiet country-house. She did not know it yet. Only once, when she had driven through the village on a picnic, had she seen a sharp-gabled roof and gray walls rising up among the trees. Who would have thought that this would one day be her home!
She felt as if it were heartless in her not to feel the departure from her father's house more. And from her mother? Ah, her mother! Papa had loved her, very much at one time. Should she go away without one tear, without one kind motherly word? Gertrude forgot everything in this blissful moment; she remembered only the good, the time when she was a happy child and her mother used to kiss her tenderly. She would not go without a reconciliation.
She rose, gathered up the long train of her wedding-dress and went across the dusky hall to her mother's chamber. She knocked softly and opened the door.
Mrs. Baumhagen was standing before the tall mirror in a black moiré antique, with black feathers and lace in her still brown hair. Gertrude could see her face in the glass; it was covered thick with powder, which she was just rubbing into her skin with a hare's foot.
Mrs. Baumhagen looked round and gazed at her daughter. She made a lovely bride, far more imposing than Jenny--and all for that Linden! She said nothing, she only sighed heavily and turned back to the glass.
"Mamma," began Gertrude, "I wanted to ask you something."
"In a moment."
Gertrude waited quietly till the last touch of the powder-puff had been laid on the temples, then Mrs. Baumhagen took the long black gloves, seated herself on a lounge at the foot of her large red-curtained bed, and began to put them on.
"What do you want, Gertrude?"
"Mamma, what do I want? I wanted to say good-bye to you." She sat down beside her mother and took her hand.
Mrs. Baumhagen nodded to her. "Yes, we sha'nt see each other for some time."
"Mamma, are you still angry with me?" asked the girl, hesitatingly, her eyes filling with tears.
"Forgive me, now," she entreated. "I have been vehement and perverse sometimes, but--"
"Oh, no matter--don't bring it up now," said her mother. "I only hope most heartily that you may be happy, and may never repent your obstinacy and perversity."
"Never!" cried Gertrude with perfect conviction.
Mrs. Baumhagen continued to button her gloves. The room was stifling with the heavy odors of lavender water and patchouly, and her heavy silk rustled as she exerted herself to button the somewhat refractory gloves. She made no reply.
"May I ask one more favor, mamma?"
"Certainly."
The girl involuntarily folded her hands in her lap.
"Mamma, show a little kindness to Linden--do try to like him a little--make to-day really a day of honor to him. Oh, mamma," she continued after a pause, "if he is offended to-day it will pierce my heart like a knife--dear mamma--"
The big tears trembled on her lashes.
Once more she asked, "Will you, mamma?"
Mrs. Baumhagen was just ready. She stretched out both her little hands, looked at them inside and out, and said without looking up:
"Kind?--of course--like him? One cannot force one's self to do that, my child. I hardly know him."
"For my sake," Gertrude would have said, but she bethought herself. The days of her childhood had passed, and since then--?
Mrs. Baumhagen rose.
"It is almost five," she remarked. "Go back to your room. Linden will be here in a moment."
She kissed Gertrude on the forehead, then quickly on the lips.
"Go, my child,--you know I don't like to be upset--God grant you all happiness." Gertrude went back to her room, chilled to the heart. A tall figure stepped hastily out of the window recess, and a strong arm was around her.
"It is you!" she said, drawing a long breath, while a rosy flush overspread her face.
The little wedding-party were assembled in the salon, the mother, Arthur, Jenny, Aunt Pauline and Uncle Henry. Two young cousins in white tulle made the only points of light amid the gloomy black.
"For Heaven's sake don't wear such long faces!" cried Uncle Henry, who looked as if the wedding had upset him as much as the funeral. "It is dismal enough as it is:--"
The door opened and the old clergyman entered. Uncle Henry went to meet him, greeted him loudly, and then disappeared with unusual haste to bring in the bride and bridegroom.
The afternoon sunshine flooded the rich salon, overpowering the light of the candles in the chandelier and the candelabra, and its rays rested on the young couple before the altar.
The voice of the clergyman, sounded mild and clear. They had met for the first time in the house of God, he said; evidently the Lord had brought them together, and what the Lord had joined together no man should put asunder. He spoke of love which beareth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Gertrude had chosen the text herself.
Then they exchanged rings. They knelt for the blessing, and they rose husband and wife.
Then they went up to their mother. Like Gertrude, Frank Linden saw all things in a different light in this hour. He held out his hand, and though he could find no words, he meant to promise by this hand-shake to guard the life just entrusted to him, as the very apple of his eye, his whole life long.
But Mrs. Baumhagen kissed the young wife daintily on the forehead, laid her fingers as daintily for one moment in his extended hand, and then turned to the clergyman who approached with his congratulations.
The young couple looked at each other, and as he looked into her anxious eyes he pressed her arm closer with his, and she grew calm and almost cheerful.
Uncle Henry had arranged the wedding-dinner, as was to be expected.
The curtains were drawn in the dining-room, which had a northern aspect, the lamps were lighted, and all the family silver shone and sparkled on the table. The old gentler man understood his business. He had had sleepless nights over it lately, it is true, but the menu was exquisite. The only pity was that he and Aunt Pauline and Arthur were the only ones who were capable of appreciating it, according to his ideas. The chilling mood still rested on the company, even through Uncle Henry's toasts, not even yielding to the champagne. The old egotist was almost in despair.
When the company adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee, Gertrude went to her room. A quarter of an hour later she came into the hall in her travelling dress. Her husband stood there waiting for her.
From the drawing-room they could hear the murmur of the company--here all was quiet.
She looked round her once more and nodded to the old clock in the corner.
"Good-bye, Sophie," she said, as she went down the staircase on his arm, and the old woman bent over the bannisters in a sudden burst of tears--"Say good-bye to all of them."
Brilliantly lighted windows shone out upon them in Niendorf when Frank lifted her out of the carriage, and led her up the steps. The sky was cloudy, and the fresh spring air was wonderfully soft and odorous.
"Come in!" he cried, opening the brown old house-door.
"Oh, what roses!" she cried with delight.
The balustrade of the staircase, the doorways, the chains from which the lamps swung were all lavishly adorned with roses, and by the dim light they glowed against the green background as if they were real blossoms.
Kind Aunt Rosa!
Hand in hand they mounted the staircase and walked down the corridor. It was only plastered, but it was quite covered with odorous evergreen. "This is our sitting-room, Gertrude, till yours is ready."
She stood on the threshold and looked in with eager eyes. It looked exceedingly cosy and home-like, this low room, pleasantly lighted by the lamp; and a beautiful hunting hound sprang up, whining with joy at sight of his master, whom he had not seen for the whole day. She entered, still holding his hand, in a sort of trembling happiness.
"Oh, what a beautiful dog! And there is your writing-table, and that is the book-case, and what a dear old face that is in the gold frame. Is it your mother, Frank? Yes, I thought she must look like that. And what a pretty tea-table set for two! Oh, dearest!" And the proud spoiled child of luxury lay weeping on his breast.
"The proud spoiled child of luxury lay weeping in his arms.
"Here--it shall remain as it is, Frank--here it is warm and bright; no bitter word can ever be spoken here."
"Don't think of it any more," he whispered, comfortingly. "We have left all evil behind us. We are owners here, and we will have nothing but peace and love in our household."
"Yes," she said, smiling through her tears, "you are right. What have we to do with the outer world?"
They were standing together in front of his writing-table. A majolica vase stood on it filled with spring flowers.
"What an exquisite scent of violets!" she whispered, drawing in a long breath, and freeing herself from his arms.
A card lay among the flowers. Both hands were extended for it at once.
Heartiest congratulations on your marriage, from
C. Wolff, Agent.
"How did you happen to know him? Why should he send that?" asked her eyes.
But he threw the card carelessly on the table and kissed her on the forehead.