And below a postscript from the guest:
"Don"t be angry, Mrs. Linden. I belong to that cla.s.s of persons who cannot see a mountain without feeling an irresistible desire to ascend it. I take the Brocken first, so when the weather clears again I can bear the sight of it from my window with equanimity. I will send your Frank home again soon, safe and sound."
Thank Heaven, he would not be back so very soon--but what was to be done now? She sat motionless before her work-table, gazing out into the garden without seeing anything there. Hour after hour pa.s.sed. Once or twice she pa.s.sed her hand across her eyes--they were dry and hot, and about the mouth was graven a deep line of scorn and contempt. Towards evening there was a knock at the door. She did not turn her head.
"Mrs. Linden!" called the servant. No answer and the steps died away outside.
Gertrude Linden got up then and went to her writing-desk. Calmly she opened the pretty blotting-book, drew up a chair, grasped a pen and seated herself to write. She had thought of it long enough; without hesitation the words flowed from her pen:
"I will beg Uncle Henry to explain everything to you as gently as possible. I cannot speak of it myself--it is the most painful disappointment of my whole life. I only ask you at present to confirm my own declaration that I must live in retirement for some time on account of my health. It will not take long to decide upon something.
GERTRUDE."
She sealed the note and put it on the writing table in her husband"s room. She put the packet of poems beside it and the note-book also.
What should she do with it? The poem was nothing to her--it was only an old habit of his to write verses; the judge had let that out yesterday.
He had only made use of it in this case as a useful means for making the deception complete. A man who writes tender verses while at the same time he is privately acquainting himself with the amount of the lady"s fortune through an agent--that was a tragi-comedy indeed, that would make a good plot for a farce--and _she_ was to be the heroine!
She kept the fragment of that dreadful letter. Then she wrote a note to her mother and one to Uncle Henry, then took out her watch and looked for a time-table.
Whither? The Berlin express which connected them with all the outer world was already gone. Then she must wait until tomorrow--and then?
Somewhere she must go--she must be alone! Only not with mamma and Jenny, somewhere far away from here.
She suddenly sprang up with startled eyes, she heard a voice, his voice.
"Has my wife come back?"
Then a merry whistle, a few bars from "Boccaccio" and hasty steps in the corridor. Now his hand was on the door-k.n.o.b. It was locked.
"Gertrude!" he called.
She was standing in the middle of the room, her lips pressed together, her eyes stretched wide open, but she did not stir.
He supposed she was not there and went quietly into his own room. She heard him open the door of the bedroom.
"Gertrude!" he called again.
Back into his own room; he spoke to the dog, whistled a few bars of his opera-air again, moved about here and there and then stopped--now he was tearing a paper--now he was reading her note.
"Gertrude, Gertrude, I know you are in your room. Open the door!"
His voice sounded calm and kind, but she stood still as a statue.
"Please open the door!" now sounded authoritatively.
"No," she answered loudly.
"You are laboring under some horrible mistake! Some one has been telling you something--let me speak to you, child!"
She came a step nearer.
"I cannot," she said.
"I must entreat you to open the door. Even a criminal is heard before he is condemned."
"No," she declared, and went to the window, where she remained.
"Confound your--obstinacy," sounded in her ears.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "There was a crash and a splitting of wood and the door was burst open."]
Then a crash, a splitting of wood--the door was burst open and Frank Linden stood on the threshold.
"Now I demand an explanation," he said angrily, the swollen veins standing out on his white forehead, which formed a strange contrast to his brown face.
She did not turn towards him.
"Uncle Henry will tell you what there is to tell," she replied, coldly.
He strode up to her and laid his hand on her shoulder, but she drew back, and the blue eyes, usually so soft, looked at him so coldly and strangely that he started back, deeply shocked.
"I have deceived you, Gertrude? you, Gertrude?" he asked, "what have I done? What is my crime?"
"Nothing--"
"That is no answer, Gertrude."
"Oh, it is only such a trifle--I cannot talk to you about it."
"Very well! Then I will go to Uncle Henry at once."
She made no answer.
"And you wish to go away? To leave me alone?" he inquired again.
She hesitated a moment.
"Yes, yes," she then said, hastily, "away from here."
"Why do you keep up this farce, Gertrude."
"Farce?" She laughed shortly.
"Gertrude, you hurt me."
"Not more than you have hurt me."