"I have a headache, Johanna, don't disturb me now," she said, faintly.
When she reached her own room she bolted first the door behind her and then that which opened into his room. And then she read the note.
"The barometer has risen and the judge insists on going up the Brocken, I go with him to Ille. I have something to do there and I shall not be very late home--Thine, FRANK."
"Don't be angry, Mrs. Linden. I belong to that class 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 passed. Once or twice she passed 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!