Mrs. Baumhagen was really crying now. This atmosphere weighed on her nerves. There was something oppressive in the air, and they really had a dreadful time before them. What if he should not consent to a separation? Why had G.o.d given the child such an unbending will which had brought her into this misery! If she had only followed her mother's advice. Mrs. Baumhagen had taken an aversion to the man from the first moment.

"I think I must go home, my headache--" she stammered, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her bottle of smelling salts.

"If you want anything, Gertrude, write or send to me. Do you want a piano or books? I have Daudet's latest novel. Ah, child, there are many trials in life and especially in married life. You haven't experienced the worst of it yet."

"Thank you, mamma."

The young wife followed the mother down the corridor and down the stairs to the hall door. Mrs. Baumhagen said good-bye with a cheerful smile--the coachman need not know everything.

"I hope you will soon be better, Gertrude," she said, loudly. "Be persevering in your water-cure."

Gertrude, left alone, went on into the garden. At the end of the wall where the path curved was a little summer-house, with a roof of bark shaped like a mushroom. Here she stopped and looked out into the country which lay before her in all the glow and fragrance of the evening light. Behind the wooded hills of the Thurmberg stood the dear, cosy little house. She walked in spirit through all its rooms, but she forced her thoughts past one door, the room with the old mahogany furniture into which she had gone first on her wedding eve. And she leaned more firmly against the wall and gazed out at the setting sun which stood in the sky like a fiery red ball, till the tears streamed from her eyes, and her heart ached with mortification and humiliation.

Why did that day always come back to her so, and that evening, the first in that room? The evening when she had slipped from his arms, down to his very feet, hiding her face in his hands, overwhelmed with her deep grat.i.tude. Must he not have smiled to himself at the foolish, pa.s.sionate, blindly credulous woman? And angry tears fell from her eyes down over her pale cheeks, her hands trembled, and her pride grew stronger every minute.

She turned and went back to the house, the dog still following, and when she reached her room she sat down on the ground like a child and put her arms round her brown companion's neck. She could weep now, she could cry aloud and no one would hear. Johanna had gone to Niendorf to get some books and all sorts of necessary things.

When Johanna came back at length, Gertrude sat in the corner of the sofa as quiet as ever. The lamp was lighted and she was reading.

Johanna brought out a timid "Good evening!" which was acknowledged by a silent nod. She laid a few rosebuds down beside the book. "The first from the Niendorf garden, ma'am."

And when no answer came, she went on talking as she took the clothes out of the basket and packed them away in the wardrobe.

"Dora is gone, Mrs. Linden. She could not get on with Miss Adelaide, and the master packed her off. He is so angry. Mr. Baumhagen, who has just been there, complained bitterly of the dinner to-day. I was in the kitchen when he came in and said he had never eaten such miserable peas in his life and the ham was cut the wrong way. Then Miss Adelaide cried and complained, and declared she did it all only out of good-nature.

And the judge tried to comfort her and said it was a pity to spoil her beautiful eyes.--The judge sent his compliments too, and said he would come to say good-bye to you, ma'am. He is going away in a few days. Mr.

Baumhagen sent greetings too, and Miss Rosa and little Miss Adelaide--"

"Pray get the tea, Johanna," said the young lady, interrupting the stream of words.

"The milk was sour, too, ma'am, and it is so cool too. Ah, you ought to see the milk-cellar! Everything is going to ruin--it would really be better if you would only agree that Miss Adelaide should come here and let me go to the master."

"You will stay here," replied Gertrude, bending her eyes on her book.

"The master looks so pale," proceeded the chattering woman. "Mr.

Baumhagen was telling him in the garden-hall today that Wolff is dying, and he struck his hand on the table till all the dishes rattled and said, 'Everything goes against me in this matter!'"

Gertrude looked up. The color came back into her pale cheek, and she drew a long breath.

"Dying?" she asked.

"Yes. I heard Mr. Baumhagen trying to soothe him--saying it was all for the best and he hoped everything might be comfortably settled now."

"What was my uncle doing there?" inquired Gertrude.

Johanna was embarra.s.sed.

"I don't know, Mrs. Linden, but if I am not mistaken, he was trying to persuade Mr. Linden to--that--ah, ma'am!"--Johanna came and stood before the table which she had set so daintily.

"What is between you and Mr. Linden I don't know, and it is none of my business to ask. But you see, ma'am, I have had a husband too, that I loved dearly--and life is so short, and I think we shouldn't make even one hour of it bitter, ma'am; the dead never come back again. But if I could know that my Fritz was still in the world and was sitting over there behind the hills, not so very far away from me--good Lord, how I would run to him even if he was ever so cross with me! I would fall on his neck and say, 'Fritz, you may scold me and beat me, it is all one to me so long as I have you!'"

And the young widow forgot the respect due to her mistress and threw a corner of her ap.r.o.n over her eyes and began to cry bitterly.

"Don't cry, Johanna," said Gertrude. "You don't understand--I too would rather it were so than that--" She stopped, overpowered by a feeling of choking anguish.

Johanna shook her head.

"'Taint right," she said, as she went out.

And Gertrude left the table and seated herself at the window, laying her forehead against the cool pane. Are not some words as powerful as if G.o.d himself had spoken them?

When some time after, Johanna entered the room again, she found it empty, and the table untouched. And as she began to remove the simple dishes, Gertrude entered and put a key down on the table. She had been in her father's room and the pale face with its frame of brown hair, looked as if turned to stone.

"If visitors come to-morrow, or at any time, I cannot receive them,"

she said, "unless it be my Uncle Henry."

And she took up her book again and began to read.

The house had long been quiet, when she put down the book for a moment and gazed into s.p.a.ce.

"No!" she murmured, "no!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

Three days later the Niendorf carriage stopped before the gate of "Waldruhe," and waited there a quarter of an hour in the blazing heat of the mid-day sun, so that the gardener's children could gaze to their heart's content on the brilliant coloring of Aunt Rosa's violet parasol and the red ostrich feathers which adorned Adelaide's summer hat, mingling effectively with the dark curly hair which hung in a fringe over the youthful forehead. This sight must have been an agreeable one to the judge also, for he did not take his eyes off his pretty _vis-a-vis_.

"Mrs. Linden regrets that she is not well enough to receive visitors,"

announced Johanna with her eyes cast down.

Two of the occupants of the carriage looked disappointed, while the judge felt in his pocket for his card-case.

"There!" He gave the servant the turned-down card.

"And here is a letter, an _important letter_--do you understand, Johanna? My compliments, and I trust she will soon recover."

"So do I," said the young girl, timidly.

Aunt Rosa, however, was silent, and when they looked at her more closely they saw she was asleep, the wrinkled old face nodding absurdly above the enormous bow under her chin.

"Burmann, drive slowly, when we get to the wood," whispered the judge, "Miss Rosa is asleep."

The coachman made a clucking sound with his tongue and drove noiselessly over the soft gra.s.s-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.