"Don't be angry, Mrs. Linden. I belong to that class of persons who cannot see a mountain without feeling an irresistible desire to ascend it. I take the Brocken first, so when the weather clears again I can bear the sight of it from my window with equanimity. I will send your Frank home again soon, safe and sound."
Thank Heaven, he would not be back so very soon--but what was to be done now? She sat motionless before her work-table, gazing out into the garden without seeing anything there. Hour after hour passed. Once or twice she passed her hand across her eyes--they were dry and hot, and about the mouth was graven a deep line of scorn and contempt. Towards evening there was a knock at the door. She did not turn her head.
"Mrs. Linden!" called the servant. No answer and the steps died away outside.
Gertrude Linden got up then and went to her writing-desk. Calmly she opened the pretty blotting-book, drew up a chair, grasped a pen and seated herself to write. She had thought of it long enough; without hesitation the words flowed from her pen:
"I will beg Uncle Henry to explain everything to you as gently as possible. I cannot speak of it myself--it is the most painful disappointment of my whole life. I only ask you at present to confirm my own declaration that I must live in retirement for some time on account of my health. It will not take long to decide upon something.
Gertrude."
She sealed the note and put it on the writing table in her husband's room. She put the packet of poems beside it and the note-book also. What should she do with it? The poem was nothing to her--it was only an old habit of his to write verses; the judge had let that out yesterday. He had only made use of it in this case as a useful means for making the deception complete. A man who writes tender verses while at the same time he is privately acquainting himself with the amount of the lady's fortune through an agent--that was a tragi-comedy indeed, that would make a good plot for a farce--and she was to be the heroine!
She kept the fragment of that dreadful letter. Then she wrote a note to her mother and one to Uncle Henry, then took out her watch and looked for a time-table.
Whither? The Berlin express which connected them with all the outer world was already gone. Then she must wait until tomorrow--and then? Somewhere she must go--she must be alone! Only not with mamma and Jenny, somewhere far away from here.
She suddenly sprang up with startled eyes, she heard a voice, his voice.