"No, you cannot know," she assented. "It was only the shock--I ought to have told you long ago, only it is so frightfully hard for me to speak of it. You ought to know about it too, but--tell me who told you about it?"
"But when I assure you, my child, that I cannot remember."
"Frank," said his young wife, in a low, hesitating tone, "out there--in 'Waldruhe,' my poor father died--"
"My little wife!" he said, comfortingly.
"It was there--he--he killed himself." Her voice was scarcely audible.
He bent down over her, greatly shocked. "My poor child, I did not know that, or I would not have spoken of it."
"And I found him, Frank. He built 'Waldruhe' when I was but a child, and he used to go and stay there for weeks together. It is so hard to talk of it--he was not happy, Frank. Ah, we will not dwell on it. Mamma did not understand him, and it was the day after Christmas and I knew they had had a dispute; that is not the right word for it either, for papa never contradicted her, and he bore so patiently all her crying and complaining. After awhile I heard the carriage drive away. It was in the morning--and I had such a strange feeling of anxiety and dread and after dinner I put on my hat and cloak and ran out of the Bergedorf gate along the high road, on and on till I came to 'Waldruhe.' I was surprised to see that the blinds were shut in his room, but I saw the fresh wheel-tracks in front of the house. The gardener's wife, who lives in a little cottage on the place, said he was upstairs. He was upstairs--yes--but he was dead!"
"He was up stairs--yes--but he was dead."
She stood close beside him, encircled by his arm, as she told her story. He could feel how she trembled and how cold her hands were.