CHAPTER II.

RECONCILIATION.

The door opened again, and Trude entered, followed by a tall, thin gentleman. His cheeks were hollow, and his light hair and brown beard had turned gray, and yet it seemed to Marie that he was younger and stronger than when she had last seen him, two years before, on that fearful day of vengeance. His countenance now wore a different, a firmer and more energetic expression, and the eyes that had formerly been so dim, now shone with unusual lustre, and were fastened on Marie with an expression of tender sympathy.

He hurried forward, grasped the two pale, attenuated hands which Marie had extended toward him, hid his countenance in them and wept aloud.

For a time all was silent. Trude had noiselessly withdrawn to the furthest corner of the room, where she stood, half-concealed by the bed-curtains, endeavoring to suppress her sobs, that her darling might not hear them.

"Marie, my friend, my benefactress," said Ebenstreit, after a long pause, "I have come to thank you. I came here from New Orleans, with no other intention and no other wish than the one that is now being gratified: to kneel before you, holding your hands in mine, and to say: I thank you, my benefactress! You have made a new being of me; you have driven out the demons, and prepared the altar for good spirits. I thank you, Marie, for through you I have recovered happiness, peace, and self-esteem! Marie, when we last saw each other, I was a sordid being, whose soul was hardened with egotism and vanity. You were right in saying there was nothing but cold calculation, and the miserable pride of wealth, in the place where the warm human heart should beat. You stepped before me like the avenging angel with the flaming sword. In your sublime, your divine anger, you thrust the sword so deep into my breast, that it opened like the box of Pandora, permitting the evil spirits and wicked thoughts to escape, and leaving, in the depths of the heart that had been purified by pain, nothing but hope and love. When I left you at that time and rushed out into the street, I was blinded and maddened. I determined to end an existence I conceived to be worthless and disgraced. But the hand of a friend held me back, the voice of a friend consoled me; and then, when I was again capable of thought, I found that these words were engraven in my heart and soul, in characters of living flame: 'Marie shall learn to esteem me, I will make of myself a new man, and then Marie will not despise me.' These words have gone before me on the rough path, and through the darkness of my life, like a pillar of flame. It was my sun and my star. I looked up to it as the mariner looks at his guiding compass when tossed about on the wide ocean. This pillar of flame has at last led me back to the avenging angel, whom I now entreat to become an angel of reconciliation. I entreat you, Marie, forgive me for the evil I have done you, forgive me for the unhappiness I have caused you, and let me try to atone for the past!"

Marie had at first listened to him with astonishment, and then her features had gradually assumed an expression of deep emotion. Her purple lips had been tightly compressed, and the tears which had gathered in her large eyes were slowly gliding down over the cheeks on which the ominous roses were once more burning brightly. Now, when Ebenstreit entreated her to forgive him, when she saw kneeling in the dust before her the man whose image had stood before her conscience for the past two years as an eternal reproach, and as a threatening accusation, a cry of pain escaped her heaving breast. She arose from her arm-chair, and stretched out her hands toward heaven.

"Too much, too much, O God!" she cried, in loud and trembling tones. "Instead of passing judgment on the sinner, you show mercy! All pride and arrogance have vanished from my soul, and I bow myself humbly before Thee and before this man, whom I have wronged and insulted!"

And before Ebenstreit--who had arisen when he saw Marie rise from her chair in such great agitation--could prevent it, Marie had fallen on her knees before him, and raised her folded hands, imploringly.

"Ebenstreit, forgive me, I entreat you! I have wronged and insulted you, have lived at your side in hatred and anger, instead of striving to be a blessing to you--instead of endeavoring to seek out with you the path of goodness and justice from which we had both wandered so far. But look at me, Ebenstreit! behold what these years of remorse have made of me--behold her who was once the proud tyrant who presumed to command, but has now become a poor penitent who humbly begs forgiveness. Speak, say that you forgive me! No, do not attempt to raise me up! Let me remain on my knees until you take pity on me in your magnanimity--until you have uttered the words for which my soul thirsts."

"Well, then, Marie," sobbed Ebenstreit, his countenance flooded with tears, "I will do your will. Marie, I forgive you with my whole soul--forgive you for all my sufferings and tears, and tell you that out of these sufferings consolations, and out of these tears hopes, have blossomed. God bless, protect, and reward you, my benefactress, my friend!"

With folded hands, and in breathless suspense, she listened to his words, and a joyous smile gradually illumined her countenance.

"I thank you, my friend; I thank you," she murmured, in low tones; and lightly and airily, as though borne up by her inward exaltation, she arose and stood before Ebenstreit, a radiant smile on her lips.

"Do not weep, my friend," she said, "all sorrow and sadness are past, and lie behind us. Let us rejoice in the good fortune that brings us together once more for a short time, after our long separation and estrangement. You shall narrate the history of your life during this period, and tell me where and how you have lived and struggled."

"No," he said, tenderly, "let me first hear your history."

"My friend," she replied, smiling, as she slowly seated herself in the arm-chair, "look at this table, look at these poor flowers made out of cloth, wire, and water-colors. These lilies and violets are without lustre and fragrance. Such has been my life. Life had no roses for me; but I made roses for others, and I lived because one heavenly flower blossomed in my life--I lived because this one flower still shed its fragrance in my heart. This is the hope of seeing my beloved once more!

"Do not ask me to tell you more; you will soon see and learn all; and I know you will rejoice in my happiness when my hope becomes beautiful, blissful reality!"

"I will, indeed," said Ebenstreit, tenderly, "for your happiness has been my constant prayer since our separation; and not until I see you united to the noble man from whom I so cruelly and heartlessly separated you--not until then will I have atoned for my crime, and I conceive of the possibility of a peaceful and happy future for myself."

She extended her hand and smiled. But this smile was so touching, so full of sadness, that it moved Ebenstreit more profoundly than lamentations or despairing wails could have done.

"Tell me of your life," said Marie, in a soft voice. "Seat yourself at my side, and tell me where you have been and how you have lived."

He seated himself as she had directed. Old Trude came forward from the background, and listened eagerly to Ebenstreit's words.

"I cannot illustrate my history as you did yours when you pointed to these flowers," he said, smiling. "In order to do this I should have to show you forests felled by the axe, fields made fruitful, rivers dammed up, and huts and barns erected after hard toil. When I rushed from your presence, in mad desperation, I met the banker Splittgerber on the sidewalk. He had been standing at the door, awaiting me. I endeavored to tear myself from his grasp, but he held me firmly. I cried out that I wanted peace, the peace of the grave, but he only held me the more firmly, drew me away with irresistible force, raised me like a child, and placed me in his carriage, which then drove rapidly to the densest part of the zoological garden. I was wild with rage, and endeavored to jump out of the carriage. But on the side on which I sat, the carriage door was not provided with a handle, and I found it impossible to open it. I endeavored to pass Splittgerber and get out at the other door, and cried: 'Let me out! No one shall compel me to live! I will die, I must die!' But the old man held me with an iron grasp, and pressed me down on my seat again. A loud and terrible voice resounded in my ear, like the trumpet of the day of judgment, and to this hour I have not been able to convince myself that it was no other than the voice of good old Splittgerber. This terrible voice uttered these words: 'You have no right to die, for you have not yet lived. First go and learn to live, in order to deserve death!' I was, however, completely overcome by these fearful words, and sank back in a state of insensibility."

"'You have no right to die, for you have not yet lived,'" repeated Marie, in a low voice. "Have I then lived, and is it for this reason that--" she shuddered and interrupted herself: "Go on, my friend--what happened further?"

"Of what further occurred I have no knowledge. I have a vague remembrance that I was like a departed soul, and flew about from place to place through the universe, seeking a home and an asylum everywhere, and finding none. I sojourned in hell for a long time, and suffered all the tortures of the damned. I lay stretched on the rack like Prometheus, a vulture feeding on my vitals, and cried out vainly for mercy. When my wandering soul again returned to earth and to its miserable tenement--when I awakened to consciousness, they told me that I had been ill and delirious for a long time. Good old Splittgerber had nursed me like a father, and, when I recovered, made me the most brilliant offers. Among many other similar propositions, I was to become his partner, and establish a branch house in New York. I rejected all; I could hear nothing but the trumpet-tones of that voice, crying: 'You have no right to die, for you have not yet lived. Go and learn to live, in order to deserve to die!' I wished to deserve to die; that was my only thought, and no one should help me in achieving this end. I wished to accomplish this alone, entirely unaided! After having converted the paltry remnants of my property into money, I suddenly took my departure without telling any one where I was going. I was wearied of the Old World, and turned my steps toward the New. I longed to be doing and struggling. I bought a piece of land in America, large enough to make a little duchy in Germany. I hired several laborers, immigrants in whose countenances sullen despair was depicted, and with them I began my work; and a vast, gigantic work it was. A morass and a dense forest were to be converted into fruitful fields. What the Titans of mythology could perhaps not have accomplished, was achieved by poor mortals to whom despair gave courage, and defiance of misfortune superhuman strength. We worked hard, Marie, but our labors were blessed; we had the satisfaction of knowing that they were not in vain, and of seeing them productive of good results. The forest and morass I then bought have now been converted into a splendid farm, on which contented laborers live in cleanly cottages, rejoicing in the rewards of diligence. In the midst of this settlement lies my own house, a simple log-house, but yet a sufficiently comfortable dwelling for a laborer like myself. Over the door stands the following inscription: 'Learn to work, that you may enjoy life,' and on the wall of my humble parlor hangs a board on which is written: 'Money is temptation, work is salvation. True riches are, a good heart and the joyousness resulting from labor.'"

"You are a good, a noble man," whispered Marie, regarding him earnestly. "I thank you for having come, I rejoice in your return."

"I have not returned to remain," said Ebenstreit, pressing her hand to his lips. "I only returned to see you, Marie, and to render an account to Heaven, through the avenging angel, whose flaming sword drove me from my sins. You see, Marie, there is something of my former accursed sordidness in me still; I dare to speak of accounts even to God and to you, as if the soul's burden of debt could ever be cancelled! No, while I live I will be your debtor.--And your debtor, too, Trude," said he, turning, with a smile, to the old woman, who was regarding him wonderingly.

"I'm sure I don't know how that can be," said she, thoughtfully; "you have received nothing from me but abuse; that however you certainly still owe me. If you propose to return this now, and call me a short-sighted fool, and an abominable person, as I have so often called you, you will be perfectly justifiable in doing so. I must say that you have the right, and I am glad that I am compelled to say so. You have become a good man, Mr. Ebenstreit, and the good Lord himself will rejoice over you, for it is written in the Bible: 'When the unjust man returns to God there is more joy over him in heaven than over a hundred just men.' Therefore, my dear Mr. Ebenstreit, pay me back for all my abuse, and then give me your hand and say: 'Trude, we now owe each other nothing more, and after all you may be a very good old woman, whose heart is in the right place, and--her mouth too!'"

Ebenstreit extended his hand, with a kindly smile. "Let us shake hands; the abuse you shall, however, not have. I am your debtor in a higher and better sense; your brave and resolute countenance was often before me, and at times, when a task seemed almost impossible, I seemed to hear a voice at my side, saying: 'Work, work on! Ransom your soul with the sweat that pours from your brow, you soul-seller, for otherwise old Trude will give you no peace, either on earth or in heaven! Work, work on! Earn your bread by the sweat of your brow, otherwise you can never enter the kingdom of heaven, you soul-seller!' You will remember that this was the only title you accorded me in former days?"

"Well, Mr. Ebenstreit, I had others for you, to be sure," said the old woman, blushing, "but that was the main title on account of the five hundred dollars that--"

"Be still!" interrupted Marie, as she slowly arose, and leaned forward in a listening attitude. "Did you hear nothing, Trude?"

"No, my darling. What could I have heard?"

"A carriage stopped before the door, and my heart suddenly ceased to beat, as if expecting a great joy or a great sorrow. I seemed to hear steps in the passage. Yes, I recognize this step--it is his; he--be still! do you hear nothing?"

They all listened for a moment in breathless suspense. "Yes, I seem to hear some one walking in the outer hall," murmured the old woman. "Let me go and see whether--"

"Some one is knocking," cried Marie. "Trude, some one is--"

"Be composed, my darling, be composed," said Trude, in soothing tones; "if you excite yourself so much, it will be injurious. Some one knocks again, and--"

"Trude, be merciful!" cried Marie. "Go and open the door. Do not let me wait; I believe I have but a little while longer to live, and I cannot wait! Go!"

Trude had hurried to the door, and opened it. She started, waved her hand, closed the door again, and turned to Marie, who stood erect, in breathless suspense.

"Marie," said she, vainly endeavoring to speak with composure, "there certainly is some one at the door, who desires to speak with me, but it is no stranger; perhaps he wishes to order some flowers. I will go and ask him."

She was about to open the door again, but Marie ran forward and held her back. "You are deceiving me, Trude. You well know who it is, and I know too. My heart tells me it is he! Philip! my Philip! Come to me, Philip!"

"Marie!" cried a loud, manly voice from the outside. The door was hastily thrown open; and he rushed in, with extended arms. "Marie! where are you, Marie!"

She uttered a loud, piercing cry of joy, and flew to her lover's heart. "My Philip! My beloved! God bless you for having come!"

"My Marie, my darling!" murmured he, passionately. "God bless you for having called me!"