"Live and let live, Gertrude!" he cried. "It is out of pure egotism that I made such a commotion about it. You need not thank me, I was only joking. You see, I can stand anything but a scene and a woman's tears, and your mother understands that sort of thing to a T. That always upsets me you know. 'Don't make a fuss, Ottilie,' I said. 'Why shouldn't the little one marry that handsome young fellow? You Baumhagen girls are lucky enough to be able to take a man simply because you like him.' Ta, ta! Here comes the bride!" he called out, letting Gertrude pass before him into the lighted room.
She walked with a light step and a grave face up to her mother, who was reclining in the corner of the sofa as if she were entirely worn out by the important discussion. By her side sat the thin aunt in a black silk dress, her blond cap reposing on her brown false front, in full consciousness of her dignity. Jenny sat near her while Arthur was standing by the stove. The ladies had been drinking coffee, the gentlemen wine. The violet velvet curtains were drawn and everything looked cosy and comfortable.
"I thank you, mamma," said Gertrude.
Mrs. Baumhagen nodded slightly and touched her daughter's lips with hers. "May you never repent this step," she said, faintly; "it is not without great anxiety that I give my consent, and I have yielded only in consequence of my knowledge of your unbending--yes, I must say it now--passionate character--and for the sake of peace."
A bitter smile played about Gertrude's mouth.
"I thank you, mamma," she repeated.
"My dear Gertrude," began her aunt, solemnly, "take from me too--"
"Oh, come," interposed Uncle Henry, very ungallantly, "do have compassion, in the first place on me, but next on that languishing youth in Niendorf, and send him his answer. It has happened before now that dreadful consequences have followed such suspense; I could tell you some blood-curdling stories about it, I assure you. Come, we will write out a telegram," he continued, drawing a notebook from his pocket and tearing out a leaf, while he borrowed a pencil from his dear nephew Arthur.
"Well, what shall it be, Gertrude?" he inquired, when he was ready to write. "'Come to my arms!' or 'Thine forever!' or 'Speak to my mother,' or--ha! ha! I have it--'My mother will see you; come to-morrow and get her consent. Gertrude Baumhagen.' 'And get her consent,'" he spelt out as he wrote.
"Thanks, uncle," said the young girl; "I would rather write it myself in my room; his coachman is waiting at the hotel opposite."