Gertrude's Marriage Part 27

The rosy little brunette was just setting the table. She had put on a white ap.r.o.n over her dark dress, the bib fastened smoothly across her full bust. She was just depositing with her round arm half-uncovered by the elbow-sleeve, a plate of cold meat by the judge's place, placing the bottle of beer beside it. And as she did so she laughed at the weary little man so that all her white teeth were displayed.

And this must he bear too, to make his comfort complete! Let them eat who would! Soon he was sitting upstairs in the corner of the sofa in his own room; outside the darkness of a spring night came down, and a girl's voice was singing as if in emulation of the nightingales; that must be the little brunette, Adelaide. At last he heard it sounding up from the depths of the garden.

He did not stir until the judge stood before him.

"Now, I should really like to know, Frank--are you bewitched or am I? What is the matter? Where is madame? The little black thing downstairs, who seems to have fallen out of the clouds, says she is 'gone.'--Gone? What does it mean?"

"Gone!" repeated Frank Linden. It sounded so strange that his friend started.

"Something has happened, Frank,--that old woman, the mother-in-law, has done it. Oh, these women!"

"No, no, it is that affair with Wolff."

The judge gave vent to a long whistle, then he sat down beside Linden and clapped him on the shoulder.

"We'll manage _him_, Frank," he said, comfortingly, "and _she_ will come back, she _must_ come back; you will not even need to ask her. But it was the most foolish thing she could do to run away."

And he began to describe a case that had come up in Frankfort a short time before on the ground of wilful desertion.

Linden sprang up.

"Spare me your law cases," he said roughly. "Do you suppose I would bring her back by force?"

"And what if she will not come of herself, Frank?"

"She will come," he replied, shortly.

"And that scoundrel Wolff?"

Frank Linden gave his friend a cigar and took one himself, though he did not light it, and as he sat down again he said:

"You can ask that? Have I been in the habit of putting up with imposition, Richard?"

"No, but on what does the man found his claim?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "I told you before, that he declared when I turned him out, that he would know how to secure his rights. He is ill now, however," he added.

"Oh, that is fatal!" lamented the judge. He was silent, for just then the full, deep girl's voice came up from the garden:

"Du hast mir viel gegeben, Du schenktest mir dein Herz, Du nahmst mir Alles wieder, Und liessest mir den Schmerz."

"It must be very hard, Frank," murmured his friend after a few moments of deep silence. "Very hard--I mean, to go the right way to work with a woman. How will you act? With sternness, or with gentleness? Will you write her a harsh letter, or will you send her some verses? In such an evening as this, I think I could almost write poetry myself. I say, Frank, light the lamp and let us read the paper."

"Richard," said the young man as he rose, "if you will give me your advice in regard to this affair of Wolff's, I shall be grateful to you, but leave my wife out of the question altogether; that is my affair alone."

CHAPTER XVII.

Mrs. Baumhagen had conquered her aversion to "Waldruhe" and had come to see her youngest daughter. Something must be done--at any rate she could not any longer endure the sympathetic inquiries for the health of the young Mrs. Linden. Something _must_ be done.

Gertrude was sitting at the window reading in her cool dusky room, at least she held a book in her hand; at her feet lay Linden's dog. She started in dismay as she heard footsteps in the corridor and for one moment a deep flush spread over her face.

"Ah, mamma," she said, wearily, as Mrs. Baumhagen rustled in in a light gray toilet, her hat lavishly adorned with violets as being appropriate to half-mourning, the round face more deeply flushed than usual with the heat of the spring sun and her excitement.

"This can't go on any longer, child," she began, kissing her daughter tenderly on the forehead. "How you look, and how cold it is here! Jenny sent her love; she went to Paris this morning to meet Arthur. Why didn't you go too, as I proposed?"

"I did not feel well enough," replied Gertrude.

"You look pale, and it is no wonder. I never could bear such want of consideration, either."

Gertrude sat down again in her old place.

"Has Uncle Henry been here?" inquired Mrs. Baumhagen.

"He was here yesterday."

"Well, then, you know that Linden has forbidden him any interference with Wolff?"

"Yes, mamma."

"And that this Mr. Wolff has been at the point of death for three days?

His death would be the best thing that could happen, for of course everything would come to an end then. I don't know whether the people in the city have any idea of the true state of the case, but they suspect something and they overwhelm me with inquiries about you."

Gertrude nodded slightly, she knew all that already from her uncle.

"And hasn't he been here? Did he not ask your pardon, has he not tried to get you back?" asked Mrs. Baumhagen, breathlessly.

"No," was the half-choked reply.

"Poor child!"

The mother pressed her cambric handkerchief to her eyes.

"It is brutal, really brutal! Thank G.o.d that your eyes have been opened so soon. But you cannot stay here the whole time before the separation?"

Gertrude started and looked at her mother with wide eyes. She herself had thought of nothing but a separation. But when she heard the dreadful word spoken, it fell on her like a thunderbolt.

"Yes," she said at length, wringing her hands nervously, "where should I stay?"

"And for pity's sake, what do you do here from morning till night?"

"I read and go to walk, and--" I grieve, she would have added, but she was silent. What did her mother know of grief!

"My poor child!"