The coachman made a clucking sound with his tongue and drove noiselessly over the soft grass-grown road. Johanna could see that the judge moved over from the middle of the seat opposite the young lady and that she glowed suddenly like the feathers on her hat.
Johanna went back into the house with her card and letter and gave them to Gertrude.
"A letter?" inquired the young wife.
"The judge gave it to me," replied Johanna, as she left the room in which, in spite of the outside heat, the air was always damp and cold.
Gertrude slowly opened the letter. It was in his handwriting--she had expected it. Her heart beat so quickly she could scarcely breathe, and the letters danced before her eyes. It was some time before she could read it:
"Gertrude--Wolff died last evening. It is no longer possible to call him to account on earth; it is no longer possible to expose his guilt. He has gone to his grave without having cleared me from his calumny. I remain before you as a guilty person, and I can do nothing more than declare once more that we--you and I, are the victims of a scoundrel. I have never spoken with Wolff of your fortune nor called in his intervention in any way. I leave the rest to you and to your consideration. I shall never force you to return to me, neither shall I ever consent to a divorce. Come home, Gertrude, come soon and all shall be forgotten. The house is empty, and my heart is still more so--have faith in me again. Your Frank."'
She had just finished reading these words when Uncle Henry came in. The little gentleman had evidently dined well--his face shone with good-humor.
"Still here?" he cried. And as she did not reply he looked at her more closely. "Well, you are not angry again?"
But the young wife swayed suddenly and Uncle Henry sprang towards her only just in time to keep her from falling, and called anxiously for Johanna. They laid the slender figure on the sofa and bathed her temples with cold water.
"Speak to me, child!" he cried, "speak to me!" and he repeated it till she opened her eyes.