CHAPTER VII.
"Good morning, Uncle Henry," said Gertrude, who was sitting at her work-table in the bow-window. She rose as she spoke and went to meet the stout little gentleman as he entered.
"Well, it is lucky that one of you at least is at home," he replied, rubbing his glasses with his red handkerchief, after giving Gertrude's hand a hearty shake. "I wonder if one of the women-kind except you could possibly stay at home for a day. Mrs. Jenny is making calls, Mrs. Ottilie is gone to a coffee party--it is easy to see that a strong hand to hold the reins is wanting here."
Gertrude smiled.
"Uncle, don't scold, but come and sit down," she said. "You come just in time for me; I had just written a little note to you to ask you to come and see me. I need your advice."
"Oh! but not immediately, child, not immediately! I have just had my dinner," he explained, "and nothing can be more dangerous than hard thinking just after a meal. Ta, ta! There, this is comfortable; now tell me something pleasant, child--about your lover; for instance, how many kisses did he give you yesterday? Honestly now, Gertrude."
He had stretched himself out comfortably in an arm-chair, and his young niece pushed a footstool under his feet and put an afghan over his knees.
"None at all, uncle," she said, gravely; "people do not ask about such things either, you know. Besides I see Frank very seldom," she hesitated. "Mamma goes out so much, and I cannot receive him when she is not at home. And, uncle, it is about that that I wanted to speak to you. Mamma,"--she hesitated again,--"mamma makes me so anxious by all manner of remarks about Linden's circumstances. You know, uncle--"
"And you think she knows all about them?" said the old gentleman. "Oh, of course, ta, ta!"
"Yes, uncle. You see the day before yesterday mamma went out to dine with Jenny, and when she came back she called me into her room, and as soon as I got there I saw that something had happened. Just fancy, uncle, she had been in Niendorf to see, as mamma expressed it, the place where her daughter was going to bury herself. It would be horrible, she declared, to take a young wife to this peasant house; it was not fit for any one to live in; she had felt as if she were in some third-rate farm-house. Linden was sitting in a room--she could touch the ceiling with her hand it was so low, and it was all so poor and common. In short, I could not go there, and if I would not give up my whim of being Mr. Linden's wife, she would have to build a house for me first, for he--he--well, he certainly would not be able to do it, and it would be much more convenient too, to have a snug nest made for him by his mother-in-law. Jenny, who was present at this scene, agreed with her in everything. Oh, uncle, I am so sorry for him, and it is all on my account."
"Did your mother speak to him about building?" asked Uncle Henry.
She drew her hand across her forehead.
"I don't know--I went away without answering. If I had made any reply, it would have been of no use--we battle with unequal weapons, or rather I cannot use my weapons, for she is still my mother."
Her uncle's eyes gazed at her with unmistakable compassion--she was so pale and she had a weary look about her mouth.
"You poor child! I see they do not make your engagement time exactly a Paradise to you," he thought; but he only cleared his throat and said nothing.
"And what can I do about it?" he asked, after a pause.
"I am going to tell you that now," said Gertrude. "You see I have to torment you. I am not on such terms with Arthur that he could advise me in this. I want to ask you, uncle, to speak to Frank--I must know how great his pecuniary difficulties are, and--"
"Nonsense, child," interrupted the old gentleman, evidently unpleasantly surprised,--"Why should you drag me in? Pecuniary difficulties! What can you do about it? For the present you have nothing to do with it--and you will find out about it soon enough."
"You mean because we are not yet man and wife?" she asked.
"Of course!" he nodded.
"O, it is quite the same thing, uncle," she cried, eagerly. "From the moment of our betrothal, I have considered myself as belonging to him entirely, and everything of mine as his. Then why, since I can already dispose of a part of my property as I please, should I not help him out of what may perhaps be a very unpleasant situation?"
"But, my dear child--"
"Let me have my say out, uncle. You know I have ten thousand dollars that came from my grandmother, about which no one has anything to say but myself, and you shall pay over these ten thousand dollars to Linden. I suppose he will have to build--he may need all sorts of things then, and he will be fretted and worried--do this for me, uncle; you see I cannot talk to him about such things."
"Indeed, I will not, Miss Gertrude."
"Why?"
"Because he would take it, finally--or he would be angry. Thanks, ever so much."
"But I want him to take it."
He was silent.
"When are you going to be married, child?" he inquired at length.
A rosy flush passed over Gertrude's face--"Mamma has not said anything about it yet. Frank wants it to be in April, and--I do not want to increase his difficulties by my reception."
"Very well, very well, he can wait as long as that," said the old gentleman.
She looked disappointed, but she said nothing.
"I don't want to go against your wishes, little one," he continued, perceiving her sorrowful looks. "I only want to do what is right in matters of business. Now you see if you are bent on following out this plan you will throw away a fine sum of money--in order to make your nest a right comfortable one. Amantes, amentes--that is to say in plain English, lovers are mad--and when you wake up to what you have done all your fat is in the fire."
Gertrude said nothing, but she wore a pained expression about her mouth. He too spoke so. How often lately had she heard the same thing? Even her pleasure in the single present Linden had made her had been spoiled by similar insulting remarks.
"Oh, don't look so miserable about it, little one," yawned the old gentleman; "what have I said? We men are all egotists with one another I assure you. Why then will you confirm your lover in his egotism and let the roasted larks fly into his mouth beforehand? Keep a tight rein over him, Gertrude, that is the only sensible thing to do; you must not let him be anything more than the Prince Consort--keep the reins of government in your own little fists; confound it, I believe you can rule too!"
"Uncle," said the young girl, softly going up to him, "Uncle, you are a hypocrite, you say things that you don't believe yourself. You are all egotists? And I don't know any one in the world who has less claim to the title than you."
"Really, child," he declared, laughing, "I am an egotist of the purest water."
"Indeed? Who gives as much as you to the poor of the city? Who supports the whole family of the poor teacher, with rent, clothes, food and drink? Who now, uncle?"
"All selfishness, pure selfishness!" he cried.
"Prove it, uncle, prove it logically."
"Nothing easier. You know the story of how I got a cramp in my leg and dragged myself into the nearest house on the Steinstrasse, and sank down on the first chair I could find. I was just going to dinner; had invited Gustave Seyfried and Augustus Seemann to dine with me--well, you know they have lived in Paris and London. So there I sat in that little low room. The people were at dinner and a dish of thin potato soup stood on the table, that would have been hardly enough for the man alone. Seven children--seven children, mind you, Gertrude,--stood round, and the mother was dealing out their portions. She began with the youngest; the oldest, a lad of fourteen, got the last of the dish. There was not much in it, and I shall never forget the look of those sunken hungry eyes as they rested on that empty bowl. It made me feel so queer all at once. I asked casually, what the man's business was? Teacher of language at twelve cents an hour! He could not get a permanent position on account of his ill health. Good God, Gertrude! Four hours a day would give him fifty cents and he had seven children!
"Well, do you know, that day we had oysters before the soup, and they were rather dear just then, so I reckoned up that each one of those smooth little delicacies cost as much as an hour's lesson, in which the poor man talked his poor, weak throat hoarse. They wouldn't go down my throat in spite of their slipperiness. I couldn't swallow more than half a dozen and that was disagreeable. At every course it was the same story, and when Louis uncorked the champagne, every pop seemed to go straight to my stomach. I never ate a more uncomfortable dinner--it disagreed with me besides, and I had to take some soda water. 'Confound it!' I said, 'this thing can't go on,' and--you know, child, that a good dinner is the purest pleasure in the world for men of my sort. So there was nothing for me, if I wanted to enjoy my oysters again, but to comfort myself with the thought that the seven hungry mouths were also busy about their dinner. So I sent John to the teacher's wife to ask her how much money she needed a month to feed all seven, with herself and her husband into the bargain, so they would have enough. And, good gracious, it wasn't such an enormous sum, and so I pay her a certain sum every month and I can enjoy my dinner again at the hotel. Now, prove if you can that that isn't pure selfishness."
"Oh, of course, uncle," said the young girl, with brightening eyes, "but I like that sort of selfishness."
"It is all one, Gertrude; I am sending Hannah into retirement now out of selfishness; she is getting so stout that she can't get through the door any more with the coffee tray. And I ask you if I am to keep another servant to open the double doors for her, just for the sake of the old asthmatic woman? That would be fine! So I said to her this morning, 'Hannah, you can go at Easter, and I will continue your wages as a pension.' She was delighted, because she can go to her daughter, now."
"Uncle, I know you very well. I can trust to you," coaxed Gertrude. "You will speak to Frank, won't you?"
"Oh, well, yes, yes, only don't blush so. Now you see you have spoiled my dessert with all your talking. When does her serene highness come home?"
"I don't know," replied the young girl.
"To be sure, these coffee-parties are never to be counted upon. So you two lovers only see each other on state occasions, like Romeo and Juliet, or when you have company yourselves?"
Gertrude nodded silently.
"Is it possible!" cried the little gentleman as he rose to go--"as if the time of an engagement were not the happiest in the world. Afterwards it is all pure prose, my child. And they are spoiling this time for you now--well, you just wait. I must go now to my card-party. I will look in on your mother this evening. Good bye; my love to him when you write."
"Good-bye, uncle. Don't forget that I shall trust to your selfishness."
When the old gentleman had closed the door behind him, she sat down to her desk, look out a letter and began to read it. It was his last letter; it had come this morning and it contained some verses.
How she delighted in these verses in her loneliness! Nothing in the world could separate them! She would indemnify him a thousandfold by her love for all he had to endure now. She tried by a thousand sweet, loving words to make him forget the scorn which her friends scarcely tried to conceal for his boldness and presumption. His manly pride must suffer so greatly under it. More than once the blood had mounted quickly to his forehead, and more than once had he taken leave earlier than he need, as if he could not keep silent and for the sake of peace took refuge in flight.
"I wish I had you in Niendorf now, Gertrude," he had said at the last farewell. "I cannot bear it very patiently to be looked through as if I were only air, by your mother."
And she had nestled closer to him, trembling with agitation.
"Mamma does not mean anything by it, Frank," replied her lips, though her heart knew better. And then he had pressed her passionately to him as he said,
"If I did not love you so much, Gertrude!"
"But it will soon be spring, Frank."
And to-day the verses had come with a bouquet of violets.
She started as she heard Jenny's voice, and immediately after her sister came in, angry and excited.
"I must come to you for a little rest, Gertrude," she said. "Linden is not here? Thank goodness! I can't stand it at home any longer, the baby is so fretful and screams and cries enough to deafen one. The doctor says he must be put to bed, so I have tucked him into his crib. There is always something to upset and fret one."
Gertrude started. Well at any rate he was in good hands with Caroline, she thought.
"Are you going to the masked ball--you and Linden?" asked the young wife.
"No," replied Gertrude, putting away her letter.
"Why not?"
"Why should we go? I do not like to dance, as you know, Jenny."
"Has Uncle Henry been here?"
"Yes. Is the baby really ill?"
"Oh, nonsense! a little feverish, that is all. We are going to the Dressels this evening. Arthur has sent to Berlin for pictures of costumes, for our quadrille. But you don't care for that. You will bury yourself by and by entirely in Niendorf. The Landrath said to Arthur the other day, 'Your sister-in-law will not be in her proper position; she ought to have married a man in such a position that she would be a leader in society.' You would have been an ornament to any salon and now you are going to the Niendorf cow-stalls."
"And how glad I am!" said Gertrude, her eyes shining.
"Mrs. Fredericks, ma'am," called the pretty maid just then, "won't you please come down? The baby is so hot and restless."
Jenny nodded, looked hastily at a half-finished piece of embroidery and left the room. When Gertrude followed after a short time she was told that the baby was doing very well and that Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks were dressing for the evening. And so she went upstairs again to her lonely room.