CHAPTER IX.
The wedding-day came, not as such joyful days usually come. It was as still as death in the house, which was still plunged in the deepest mourning.
The large suite of rooms had been opened and warmed, and over Gertrude's door hung a garland of sober evergreen. The day before the door-bell had had no rest, and one costly present after another had been handed in. All the magnificence of massive silver, majolica, Persian rugs and other costly things had been spread out on a long table in the bow-window room. A gardener's assistant was still moving softly about in the salon, decorating the improvised altar with orange trees. The fine perfume of pastilles lingered in the air and the flame from the open fire was reflected in the glass drops of the chandelier and the smooth marqueterie of the floor. Outside, the weather was treacherously mild. It was the first of March.
Mrs. Baumhagen had been crying and groaning all the morning, and between the arrangements for the wedding, she had been giving orders respecting her own journey. The huge trunks stood ready packed in the hall. The next day but one they would start for Heidelberg to see a celebrated doctor.
As for Gertrude's trousseau, her mother had not concerned herself about it--she would attend to it herself. Gertrude's taste was very extraordinary, at the best; if she liked blue Gertrude would be sure to pronounce for red, it had always been so. Ah, this day was a dreadful one to her, and it was only the end of weeks of torture. Since the funeral of the baby, when her daughter had made such a scene, they had been colder than ever to each other. Gertrude's eyes could look so large, so wistful, as if they were always asking, "Why do you disturb my happiness?"
She should be glad when they had fairly started on their journey.
At this time the ladies were all dressing; the wedding was to take place at five o'clock. The faithful Sophie was helping Gertrude to-day--she would not permit any one to take her place.
Gertrude had put on her wedding-dress, and Sophie was kneeling before her, buttoning the white satin boots.
"Ah, Miss Gertrude," sighed the old woman, "it will be so lonely in the house now. Little Walter dead and you away!"
"But I shall be so happy, Sophie." The soft girlish hand stroked the withered old face which looked up at her so sadly.