Gertrude's Marriage

by W. Heimburg

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 apron; 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 God 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 God 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.

"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, God 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 snatched up the dress she had worn the day before, and took the purse out of the pocket,--the purse which contained that fatal scrap 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 glasses 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 scrap 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 knob.

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 God 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.

"It is true," he remarked, "I shall be better for having something to eat, I am quite upset by the journey."

And Uncle Henry went puffing up the steps and grasped the door-knob.

Good Heavens!--did his eyes not deceive him? There sat Linden, his arm in a sling, and beside him--surely he knew that thick brown knot of hair and that slender figure which was bending, down to cut up his meat. Now she raises her head and kisses him on the forehead before she quietly resumes her own place.

"Angels and ministers of grace defend us! A man has only to take a journey--!"

Uncle Henry drops the door-knob. He has such a queer sensation--he does not like emotion--and he does not like to disturb other people. He would gladly get out of the way if he could--perhaps he may manage it yet.

But no. Gertrude herself opens the door.

"Uncle Henry," she said, pleadingly.

And he comes in and behaves exactly as if nothing had ever happened. It is the purest selfishness on his part. Scenes don't agree with him.

"I wanted just to see how you were--you seem to have had a nice little fire," he begins.

"Thank God! No lives were lost," said Linden, "and no cattle were burnt; the crops are all destroyed, it is true; but in place of that a new life has risen out of the ashes." And he held out his sound hand to Gertrude.

"Oh, ta, ta!" murmured Uncle Henry, helping himself hurriedly to ham and to butter. "I tell you, children, travelling is a great deal too hard work, and if it were not for the lobsters in Heligoland and the eel-soup in Hamburg, then--but, Gertrude, you are laughing and crying at the same time! Well, well, I am glad to be home again; there is nothing like home, after all, and with your permission, I will drink this glass of good port wine to your health and to the peace and prosperity of your household."