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 ma.s.sive silver, majolica, Persian rugs and other costly things had been spread out on a long table in the bow-window room. A gardener's a.s.sistant 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 gla.s.s 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 p.r.o.nounce 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, b.u.t.toning 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.

"G.o.d grant it! G.o.d grant it!" murmured the old woman as she rose. "Now comes the veil and the wreath, but I am too clumsy for that, Miss Gertrude--but, ah, here is Mrs. Fredericks."

Jenny entered through the young girl's sitting-room. She wore a dress of deep black transparent crepe, and a white camellia rested on the soft light braids. She was deathly pale and her eyes were red with weeping.

"I will help you, Gertrude," she said, languidly, beginning to fasten the veil on her sister's brown hair. "Do you remember how you put on my wreath, Gertrude? Ah, if one could only know at such a time what dreadful grief was coming!"

"Jenny," entreated Gertrude, "don't give yourself up to your grief so.

When I came down when Walter died, and Arthur was holding you so tenderly in his arms I thought what great comfort you had in each other. That is after all the greatest happiness, when two people can stand by each other, in sorrow and trial."

"Oh," said Jenny, her lip curling disdainfully; "I a.s.sure you Arthur is half-comforted already. He can talk of other things, he can eat and drink and go to business, he can even play euchre. Wonderful happiness it is indeed!"

"Ah, Jenny, you cannot expect him to feel the grief that a mother does, he--"

"Oh, you will find it out too," interrupted the young wife. "Men are all selfish."

Gertrude rose suddenly from her chair. She was silent, but her eyes rested reproachfully on her sister as if to say, "Is that the blessing you give me to take with me?"

But her lips said only, "Not all, I know better."

Jenny stood in some embarra.s.sment. "I must go down to Arthur now or he will never be ready at the right time, and then it will be time for me to come up to receive the guests."

The train of her dress swept over the carpet like a dark shadow as she went.

Gertrude sat down for a while in the deep window. The white silk fell in shimmering folds about her beautiful figure, and the grave young face looked out from the misty veil as from a cloud. She folded her hands and looked at her father's picture. "I will take you with me to-night, papa." And her thoughts flew off to the quiet country-house.

She did not know it yet. Only once, when she had driven through the village on a picnic, had she seen a sharp-gabled roof and gray walls rising up among the trees. Who would have thought that this would one day be her home!

She felt as if it were heartless in her not to feel the departure from her father's house more. And from her mother? Ah, her mother! Papa had loved her, very much at one time. Should she go away without one tear, without one kind motherly word? Gertrude forgot everything in this blissful moment; she remembered only the good, the time when she was a happy child and her mother used to kiss her tenderly. She would not go without a reconciliation.

She rose, gathered up the long train of her wedding-dress and went across the dusky hall to her mother's chamber. She knocked softly and opened the door.

Mrs. Baumhagen was standing before the tall mirror in a black moire antique, with black feathers and lace in her still brown hair. Gertrude could see her face in the gla.s.s; it was covered thick with powder, which she was just rubbing into her skin with a hare's foot.

Mrs. Baumhagen looked round and gazed at her daughter. She made a lovely bride, far more imposing than Jenny--and all for that Linden!

She said nothing, she only sighed heavily and turned back to the gla.s.s.

"Mamma," began Gertrude, "I wanted to ask you something."

"In a moment."

Gertrude waited quietly till the last touch of the powder-puff had been laid on the temples, then Mrs. Baumhagen took the long black gloves, seated herself on a lounge at the foot of her large red-curtained bed, and began to put them on.

"What do you want, Gertrude?"

"Mamma, what do I want? I wanted to say good-bye to you." She sat down beside her mother and took her hand.

Mrs. Baumhagen nodded to her. "Yes, we sha'nt see each other for some time."

"Mamma, are you still angry with me?" asked the girl, hesitatingly, her eyes filling with tears.

"Forgive me, now," she entreated. "I have been vehement and perverse sometimes, but--"

"Oh, no matter--don't bring it up now," said her mother. "I only hope most heartily that you may be happy, and may never repent your obstinacy and perversity."

"Never!" cried Gertrude with perfect conviction.

Mrs. Baumhagen continued to b.u.t.ton her gloves. The room was stifling with the heavy odors of lavender water and patchouly, and her heavy silk rustled as she exerted herself to b.u.t.ton the somewhat refractory gloves. She made no reply.

"May I ask one more favor, mamma?"

"Certainly."

The girl involuntarily folded her hands in her lap.

"Mamma, show a little kindness to Linden--do try to like him a little--make to-day really a day of honor to him. Oh, mamma," she continued after a pause, "if he is offended to-day it will pierce my heart like a knife--dear mamma--"

The big tears trembled on her lashes.

Once more she asked, "Will you, mamma?"

Mrs. Baumhagen was just ready. She stretched out both her little hands, looked at them inside and out, and said without looking up:

"Kind?--of course--like him? One cannot force one's self to do that, my child. I hardly know him."

"For my sake," Gertrude would have said, but she bethought herself. The days of her childhood had pa.s.sed, and since then--?

Mrs. Baumhagen rose.

"It is almost five," she remarked. "Go back to your room. Linden will be here in a moment."

She kissed Gertrude on the forehead, then quickly on the lips.