"Uncle, I know you very well. I can trust to you," coaxed Gertrude.

"You will speak to Frank, won't you?"

"Oh, well, yes, yes, only don't blush so. Now you see you have spoiled my dessert with all your talking. When does her serene highness come home?"

"I don't know," replied the young girl.

"To be sure, these coffee-parties are never to be counted upon. So you two lovers only see each other on state occasions, like Romeo and Juliet, or when you have company yourselves?"

Gertrude nodded silently.

"Is it possible!" cried the little gentleman as he rose to go--"as if the time of an engagement were not the happiest in the world.

Afterwards it is all pure prose, my child. And they are spoiling this time for you now--well, you just wait. I must go now to my card-party.

I will look in on your mother this evening. Good bye; my love to him when you write."

"Good-bye, uncle. Don't forget that I shall trust to your selfishness."

When the old gentleman had closed the door behind him, she sat down to her desk, look out a letter and began to read it. It was his last letter; it had come this morning and it contained some verses.

How she delighted in these verses in her loneliness! Nothing in the world could separate them! She would indemnify him a thousandfold by her love for all he had to endure now. She tried by a thousand sweet, loving words to make him forget the scorn which her friends scarcely tried to conceal for his boldness and presumption. His manly pride must suffer so greatly under it. More than once the blood had mounted quickly to his forehead, and more than once had he taken leave earlier than he need, as if he could not keep silent and for the sake of peace took refuge in flight.

"I wish I had you in Niendorf now, Gertrude," he had said at the last farewell. "I cannot bear it very patiently to be looked through as if I were only air, by your mother."

And she had nestled closer to him, trembling with agitation.

"Mamma does not mean anything by it, Frank," replied her lips, though her heart knew better. And then he had pressed her pa.s.sionately to him as he said,

"If I did not love you so much, Gertrude!"

"But it will soon be spring, Frank."

And to-day the verses had come with a bouquet of violets.

She started as she heard Jenny's voice, and immediately after her sister came in, angry and excited.

"I must come to you for a little rest, Gertrude," she said. "Linden is not here? Thank goodness! I can't stand it at home any longer, the baby is so fretful and screams and cries enough to deafen one. The doctor says he must be put to bed, so I have tucked him into his crib. There is always something to upset and fret one."

Gertrude started. Well at any rate he was in good hands with Caroline, she thought.

"Are you going to the masked ball--you and Linden?" asked the young wife.

"No," replied Gertrude, putting away her letter.

"Why not?"

"Why should we go? I do not like to dance, as you know, Jenny."

"Has Uncle Henry been here?"

"Yes. Is the baby really ill?"

"Oh, nonsense! a little feverish, that is all. We are going to the Dressels this evening. Arthur has sent to Berlin for pictures of costumes, for our quadrille. But you don't care for that. You will bury yourself by and by entirely in Niendorf. The Landrath said to Arthur the other day, 'Your sister-in-law will not be in her proper position; she ought to have married a man in such a position that she would be a leader in society.' You would have been an ornament to any salon and now you are going to the Niendorf cow-stalls."

"And _how_ glad I am!" said Gertrude, her eyes shining.

"Mrs. Fredericks, ma'am," called the pretty maid just then, "won't you please come down? The baby is so hot and restless."

Jenny nodded, looked hastily at a half-finished piece of embroidery and left the room. When Gertrude followed after a short time she was told that the baby was doing very well and that Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks were dressing for the evening. And so she went upstairs again to her lonely room.

CHAPTER VIII.

A week later the iron-gray horses were bringing the close carriage back from the church-yard at a sharp trot. On the back seat sat Arthur Fredericks with Uncle Henry beside him; opposite was Linden. They wore c.r.a.pe around their hats and a band of c.r.a.pe on the left arm.

The winter had come back once more in full force before taking its final departure. It was snowing, and the great flakes settled down on a little new-made grave within the iron railings of the Baumhagen family burial-place. Jenny's golden-haired darling was dead!

No one in the carriage spoke a word, and when the three gentlemen got out each went his own way after a silent handshake: Uncle Henry to take a gla.s.s of cognac, Arthur to his desolate young wife, while Linden went up to Gertrude. He did not find her in the drawing-room; probably she was with her sister. Presently he heard a slight rustling. He strode across the soft carpet and stood in the open door-way of the room with the bay-window.

"Gertrude!" he cried, in dismay, "for Heaven's sake, what is the matter?"

She was kneeling before her little sofa, her head hidden in her arms, her whole frame, convulsed with long, tearless sobs.

"Gertrude!"

He put his arms round her and tried to raise her, when she lifted up her head and stood up.

"Tell me what has happened, Gertrude," he urged; "is it grief for the loss of the little one? I entreat you to be calm--you will make yourself ill."

She had not shed any tears, she only looked deathly pale and her hands, which rested in his, were cold as ice.

"Come," he said, "tell me what it is?"

And he drew her towards him.

She clung to him as she had never done before.

"It will be all right again," she whispered, "now I am with you."

"Were you afraid? Has anything happened to you?" he inquired, tenderly.

She nodded.

"Yes," she said, hastily, "a little while ago I chanced to hear a few words mamma was saying to Aunt Pauline--they came up from Jenny's--I suppose they did not think I was here--I don't know. Mamma was still crying very much about the baby and--then she said Jenny must go away--she must have a change--this apathy was so dangerous. You know she has not spoken a word for three days--and--I must accompany her on a long journey--so I--" She stopped and bit her quivering lips.

"So you might forget me if possible?" he inquired, gravely.