"For everything, Gertrude! You were quiet with your mother?" he added, quietly, as she was silent.
"Perfectly so," she replied; "I thought of you. But I am determined not to have a marriage settlement."
"You foolish girl. I might be unfortunate and have bad harvests and things of that sort--then you would suffer too."
"To be sure, and I would help you with all I possess. And if we have bad harvests and nothing, nothing will succeed, and we have nothing more in the world, then--" she stopped and looked at him with her happy, tear-stained eyes--"then we will starve together, won't we, you and I?"
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 massive silver, majolica, Persian rugs and other costly things had been spread out on a long table in the bow-window room. A gardener's assistant 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 glass 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 pronounce 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?"