Part 11

"Best beloved one, wanting thee, What were all the world to me, With its sunshine, love, and flowers; With its brightest, happiest hours? Best beloved one, wanting thee, What were all the world to me?

Sunshine mocks me with its play; Love lives out but half his day; Brightest hours are fraught with gloom; Flowers waste their sweet perfume. Best beloved one, wanting thee, What were all the world to me?

Life were one long, weary moan, Yielding nothing to atone For a hopeless night of fear, Dark, and desolate, and drear. Best beloved one, wanting thee, What were all the world to me?

Life is life alone with thee; Love is love eternally. Press me closely to thy heart-- Life nor death can bid us part. Best beloved one, having thee; Love is all the world to me." --CORNELIA McFADDEN.

Deep silence reigned in Lady Von Herbig's residence, for she was very ill. Heavy draperies were suspended from the windows; the bell was muffled, and no visitors were received save Herr Bolton, who stood faithfully at the side of the inmates. But this calm only reigned externally. In the hearts of both sick one and daughter the billows rolled high. The attendant physician's face was grave; he shook his head, and called several times during the day. Sibylla would not have been Sibylla if these indications had not been intelligible to her. Lady Von Herbig continually exclaimed that she would never rise from this sick-bed; but upon this Sibylla reckoned little. So long as she could remember, her mother had prophesied her death, not only every year, but every month. This time, however, it was serious. Sibylla had herself asked the doctor whether her mother's death was imminent, and he had replied: "So long as there is breath, there may be hope; meanwhile----" and a significant gesture closed the conversation. Then Sibylla perfectly understood the situation. Those are bitter hours when a daughter stands by the bedside of a dying mother with whom she has not been kindly; but still more bitter will it be if conscience speaks loudly of neglected duty, of love withheld, and will not be silenced. Sibylla's nature was so different from her mother's that she had always found herself in opposition to her. If Sibylla had been weak she would have conformed to her mother's opinions and ways; but she was quite the contrary. How often, therefore, they had met in collision! O, what would Sibylla now give to have blotted out all those scenes! How she was stung by the recollection of her mother's helplessness, who, in spite of all her eccentricities, at the foundation lived only to prove her love for her child! And now Sibylla would reach out both hands to keep this mother, if she could; for when she was gone she should stand more solitary and alone than many others. Besides, the thought of death caused a shudder. She had always kept aloof from such scenes, had wished to close her ears and never hear the dreadful words, death, grave, dissolution. Why was death inevitable in this world? O, what horrible feelings must possess one leaving this beautiful, sunny life for a gloomy valley leading to a dark grave! She could not understand God, and had called upon him to answer: Why dost thou send life in order to destroy it? Why impart love to the heart in order to make it suffer the bitterness of separation? Why only sanctify in order to put to death? Heretofore her life had glided so peacefully; the first whirlpool she had encountered, but happily passed through, had been Dr. Uhlhart's declaration. She had never sung the "Erl-king" since that eventful evening, and now a fearful cataract appeared before her life's way. Would it destroy the rudderless boat?

"No excitement," was the physician's peremptory commands for Lady Von Herbig. Ah! the poor woman herself was so frightfully excited. The thought of leaving her spoiled darling alone, without friends or money, was so horrible to her. Then, too, she reproached herself with: "Why have I reared her so that she must now be dependent upon others?" And her weakness pictured the condition darker than it really was. She now desired to do right; she now wished to provide for her child; and had not Herr Bolton, the wealthy merchant, intertwined himself about her? Would her child not be as safe with him as in Abraham's bosom? And was he not now acting the part of a faithful son toward her? O, if she could only lend her vision to Sibylla, at least this time she would see it to be for the best, and with one act make amends for all her earlier omissions. Therefore in this clear hour she begged her daughter to become Herr Bolton's wife. She begged, she importuned, she entreated in the most tender expressions; but her daughter seemed to prefer walking barefooted to riding in an elegant equipage. But Sibylla could not maintain her opposition long against her mother's miserable, wan, pleading face. She answered evasively--the doctor had demanded freedom from all excitement--then the sick one became more urgent. "I can not die in peace," she cried; "O, will you not make my departure easy?"

Sibylla suffered far greater pangs than her mother. She endeavored to change the conversation, and withdrew from the room. In vain! As a shipwrecked manner turns his longing gaze upon the land that appears like a star of hope to save him from a watery grave, so Lady Von Herbig clung to the hope of her daughter's marriage to Herr Bolton. Sibylla heard the roar of the cataract which threatened to ingulf her; but she stood firmly, and clung to the single branch that grew on its edge.

Should she go to Theodora for advice? O no! Her deepest secret, that she had not even revealed to herself, much less carried to her lips--only the one who knew that could advise her.

The mother grew worse, and Sibylla became exhausted on account of the care, which she would permit no one to share. Leaving the sick-room to obtain some rest, her thoughts whirled like glowing foot-prints through her brain; for sleep and peace were fled. Another day her mother was able to persuade Sibylla more than usual, and she uttered the binding "yes," and helplessly permitted the happy bridegroom to place an engagement ring, which was in readiness, upon her finger.

_Farewell, thou golden sun!_

It was a relief to Sibylla that Herr Bolton found it necessary to leave the city on the following morning to attend to some urgent business; but he assured Lady Von Herbig that he should return in three days, with which arrangement she felt satisfied. She now seemed to improve. Joy apparently caused oblivion of pain; but it was only a joyous misery to Sibylla to know she had done a loving act for her mother's sake, the great cost of which she would soon forget; and she did forget it, as well as the betrothed, and when the time came for his return she shrank back in horror.

On the day of Herr Bolton's arrival Lady Von Herbig was alone with her daughter.

"Raise me up a little," she said; "I have something to say to you."

Sibylla obeyed; then knelt by the bed, and clasped the small, white hand of the sick one in hers.

"You are my dear, good child," she began; "you have given me nothing but pleasure. I feel that my end is near. Will you fulfill your dying mother's request?"

Sibylla bowed her head. What more could she do than had already been done in the giving of herself away? To her every thing else was now of little consequence.

"See," she continued; "I have only a few days to live. I feel death at my heart. When I die where shall you go? We have no relatives. To your guardian, who has always treated us hardly and contemptibly? No; the wife's best place is in the house of her husband. Decide, my child, to become the wedded wife of thy Edward. To see thee crowned with the myrtle-wreath has always been my fondest wish; fulfill it to me."

Sibylla shrank inwardly. The roar of the cataract deafened her ear and soul. She felt that she had fallen irrevocably into its depths; then only a moment and all would be over--the sooner the better.

_Farewell, thou beaming sun!_

"Will you, my angel?"

"Yes."

"O, what joy you have given me! Now my eyes can close in peace!"

"When shall it be?"

"To-morrow, for no time must be lost. The good Edward--O, what a husband you will get!--has every thing ready. Even the bridal garments are prepared for you!"

"One stipulation, dear mamma," begged Sibylla.

"Every thing, every thing! O, he will carry you in his arms. Roses and violets----"

"Let no strangers be present," interrupted Sibylla.

At twelve o'clock the next day an altar was erected near the bedside of the hourly failing sick one. Beautiful flowers covered and adorned it. The dying mother, somewhat fantastically attired, sat up with folded hands. Before the altar knelt a marble image, with living, but to-day weary and troubled eyes. A white satin garment enfolded her slender figure, and had the myrtle-wreath not crowned her head with its token of Spring, one would have seen what appeared to be a maiden of snow. Tearless the bride knelt there; kindly the bridegroom looked down upon her; the clergyman joined their hands. "Until death part you," he said--then all was over. Lady Von Herbig, under great excitement, embraced her children with hot tears and kisses. "You have sweetened my dying hour," she exclaimed to one and the other. Then followed extreme exhaustion, and the physician directed all to leave the room.

"It will not be long," he said; "she has concentrated all her strength, body and mind, in this hour. She will soon pass away."

The next morning Herr Bolton and his wife stood by the inanimate form of their mother. "Now you belong wholly to me," said the young husband.

Sibylla could not weep.

"_Farewell, thou golden sun!_"

XVII.

"They were children of two kings, Who loved each other dearly; They could not be united, For the deep sea rolled between." --GERMAN.

Wulf's landlady entered his room. "Here's a letter, and here's a paper for you."

Wulf seized the letter. Why? It was his own letter which he had posted two weeks previously to his uncle. Upon the outside was stamped: "Person addressed dead; opened by official authority and returned to writer."

"Dead! my good uncle dead! and I was not there to close his eyes! Alone, all alone! The old man dead! he who has done so much for me! Dead, now when I need him so much!"

Deeply moved, Wulf pressed his head between his hands, while hot tears streamed from his eyes. But suddenly the tears ceased, and his eyes became motionless and staring. Their glance had mechanically rested upon a name in the paper lying before him. In one column stood two notices. The first read:

"United in the holy bonds of matrimony, EDWARD BOLTON, leather merchant of Larkow, and SIBYLLA VON HERBIG."

The second read:

"Departed this life, at three o'clock A.M., Lady Von Herbig, widow of Colonel M. Von Herbig. This announcement is made in deep sorrow, to her friends and acquaintances by her children,

"EDWARD BOLTON, "SIBYLLA BOLTON, _née_ Von Herbig."

Three death notices!

XVIII.

"There's a love that lives a season, And one that lives for aye; There's a love that knows no treason, And one that will betray; There's a love that is deceiving, One that's worth the heart's believing, And with each comes joy or grieving To every one some day.

Which my lot shall be accorded, No more I have to guess; Fate its fiat has recorded What love I shall possess. In thy heart's the love that seals it, Every day more clear reveals it, And my heart exulting feels it, True love my life shall bless."

The Winter was more severe this season than usual. The sea was frozen over, and the ice had remained for a long time as firm as it was now. The people crossed it to and fro in wagons to the little neighboring islands. Lovely, quiet, and inclosed lay the little village in which our friends dwelt. Life flowed on with the utmost uniformity. When the day greeted the departing night, it said, "Mother Esther lies prostrate in her bed as usual;" and when evening returned again, the day only added, "And Ingeborg sits by her side the same as ever."

Christmas dawned. The day was short, and it grew dark very early. There were few festival preparations to be seen in the dwellings with which we are familiar.

Ingeborg was sitting quietly in her own room. In former years her father had been with her; to-day she was alone. An intense longing for her heavenly home came over the sick child. Just then the chiming of bells through the air called to vespers in the neighboring church. Ingeborg expected to sing in the angels' chorus, in which the assembled host announce, with great joy, good tidings to all people. She went out with faithful Johanna. Everywhere bright lights streamed over the white snow, all leading to the same place. O, how beautiful it was to see the single beams uniting in their journey to the sanctuary! Not one little cottage that did not send forth its worshipers. From Mother Esther's home stepped the slender Karen. Where was Wulf to-day? His light was absent; it did not beam God-ward. Flickered it like a Will-o'-the-wisp over the moors?

In the church there was a sacred silence. The lull organ peeled forth, and the chorus of children sang. Ingeborg folded her hands. "Next year I shall rejoice with the choir above," she murmured. They sang the message of joy; but she forgot to unite with them. It was only the familiar child's-song, but Ingeborg thought it had never sounded so beautiful before. At the conclusion, "Glory to God," all eyes were suddenly directed to the gallery; a deep, manly voice had burst forth, which was strange and yet familiar. Karen, too, looked up. O, what a glance! There stood Martin as first singer, at his old post--Martin, who had been absent, now, for three years! Their eyes met. Karen dropped hers upon the hymn-book; but the words danced before her, and she could sing no more.

Ingeborg's face beamed with pleasure, but a deep pang passed through her heart.

Martin's first visit had been to the church. Mother Esther did not know of his return, and she hastened to carry the news. How the poor paralyzed one tried to express her joy! But only inarticulate sounds came from her lips. Then the two happy ones entered the room, radiant as a Christmas-tree. After the first greeting, Martin drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Ingeborg.

"As I passed the post-office," he explained, "a messenger ran after me, and asked me to deliver this to you."

Ingeborg glanced at the superscription. It was from Berlin, from Theodora Von Kahring. She opened and read it. Why was her face paler than usual? Why did she press her thin lips so firmly as if to suppress a cry of anguish from within?

When Martin and Karen learned the letter was not from Wulf they had no further interest in it, and both went off together to visit Martin's parents. Frau Ericksen and Ingeborg were then left alone, and the latter read aloud the communication. It was expressed with that clear serenity which Theodora alone represented, and yet its contents were alarming.

Theodora had written to Ingeborg, as she knew his mother to be bedridden, that "a regard for Wulf," whom she "heartily loved," had prompted her to send the letter. Wulf was ill, bodily and mentally, and she deemed it very necessary that one of his own, preferably his uncle, should hasten to Berlin at once, either to care for him there, or, what would be better, take him home for a while. She intimated that it was rumored how gambling and drink had occupied much of his time; but she imputed this to the influence of a young man who enticed him to such places, and from whom he must be wholly separated. She also related how Wulf had faithfully attended for a long time a poor family, and expressed the belief that he would soon be restored to the better way. But something must be done immediately. She had learned of his illness and of his desire to see her; but upon calling, his landlady had denied access to his room, saying that Wulf had changed his mind. It was her opinion that he had contracted gambling debts, and was in the power of his inflexible creditors.

When the reading was finished, both women were silent. Ingeborg looked inquiringly upon the paralytic, but she indicated nothing.

"Who shall go to Berlin? Ah! if his good uncle had only been spared!" said Ingeborg, after a pause. "Wulf must be in great need, or Theodora never would have written so."

Frau Ericksen made a sign, from which her companion understood that she had no suggestion to offer.

"Karen cannot travel; she would never be able to find the way there. Martin does not know Wulf, and it would be a pity to separate the two after his long absence. Mother, send me; let me go."

The old woman shook her head, looked out of the window, and then at Ingeborg's fragile form.

"O, you mean that I can not? I am stronger than you think; you do not know how much I can endure. Some one must go. Let me."

Mother Esther lay silent for awhile; then she drew the young girl to her side, and laid her hands upon her head.

"I will talk to Martin," said Ingeborg, "and he can direct me. When I reach Berlin I shall have Theodora's help."

While Ingeborg was making preparations for the journey the Kahrings at Berlin were arranging for Arnold's wedding, which was to take place in three days; and on this account many were unable to celebrate Christmas; for tailors, caterers, and florists were all employed for the occasion. Every body was talking about the elegant apartments, the superb mirrored walls, the magnificent tapestries, the bride's princely dower. Every body praised the happy pair. "Yes, yes," said the upholsterer, who had skillfully draped the damask curtains, and was now observing the effect with unconcealed satisfaction; "yes, yes: if such as we only had even a little bit of all this splendor! But one sits all day with the happiness of her children's legs in her lap, and another runs all his life without being able to lay hold of an outside coat lapel." It was, therefore, not in the rosiest mood that he entered his little cellar home, and observed with discontented eyes his own poor, dilapidated curtains. But his wife had supper ready, and was so happy to have her husband at home in the evenings. The children sprang around the father, and had so many new discoveries to show in their little puppet-man and nut-cracker, that he soon forgot his useless ill-humor, and related to his delighted wife all the gorgeous appointments of the new house. She sat and listened with open mouth, and finally said: "O, if I could only see it!"

They who were soon to call this elegance their own had lived, meanwhile, in heaviness and gloom. Every thing forced upon a person, as from the beginning this affair had been, is calculated to be an infliction. Arnold felt so toward his bride. She did not know how to win his affection, and he overlooked her good qualities and observed only her faults. But she really loved him after her fashion. She desired his respect and commendation, but he only gave her the most perfunctory attention. Then she began to mistrust him--even to follow him with icy glances. Arnold was aware of this, but made no change in his manner.

If this was the condition of affairs during the six weeks' betrothal, what would it be in the marriage unto death? Arnold revolved this in his mind, and became indescribably wretched. On account of this condition his naturally indolent nature was aroused; he felt continually the ignominy of having sold himself for money, and in the depths of his really good-natured heart he pitied his betrothed in her mistaken life's happiness. And yet what was her happiness? She craved a distinguished title. Then he would give it to her. That she had any deeper sentiment for him he never dreamed.

Very often he had been impelled to make an open confession to her, to give back her promise, and shake off the yoke that lay so heavily upon him. But his parents--the dark despair of their future, the great pain of his mother, the reproachful face of his sister, who, by this step would have promising happiness secured to her--all this stood before him.

As the wedding-day drew near he felt proportionately miserable. This was the curse of the incompleteness which had accompanied him all his life; namely, that he had never been able to reach a right conclusion; never had the strength to will as he desired, still less to carry out his resolutions.

XIX.

"Every day is a fresh beginning; Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain, And, spite of old sorrow and older sinning, And puzzles forecasted, and possible pain, Take heart with the day, and begin again." --SUSAN COOLIDGE.

It is the eve of Arnold's wedding. He had much to do, hear, and say, and was obliged to play the happy bridegroom. At the same time his thoughts were constantly with Sibylla, who, with her husband, had long since left Berlin, and whom he had not seen again. Why did he crave a better fate than hers?

The evening passed amid flowers, poems, presents, and drinking of the best wines. Dr. Uhlhart seasoned with his jests the epicurean feast. He missed Wulf, and had missed him from the play resorts for some weeks. But he had searched for him, and rejoiced to find the youth no longer actually ill, but wholly demoralized and miserable. Wulf loved Sibylla, and this was ground enough for Uhlhart's hatred; besides, she loved him in return, and that was ground enough for him to meditate revenge. O, this wily doctor penetrated their hearts more deeply than they themselves did!

After the family had gone to Banker Kouzky's to the preliminary wedding entertainment, Theodora escaped to her little room in order to obtain the rest she needed so much. Her unsightly disfigurements excused her from participation in large assemblies, and she had the exclusive immunity to remain only for the ceremony at the morrow's wedding. She had brought no light, that she might be entirely alone with her thoughts. She remembered Arnold with sisterly love, wondering whether he would be really happy in his new relation. She feared he would suffer in many ways. And Wulf? For him it was only a question. Either he would be thoroughly reformed or wholly lost.

While her thoughts were thus engaged a lady was announced, who, upon going to meet her, proved to be Ingeborg. Theodora had not expected the young girl, as she was not aware of the death of Wulf's uncle. Few words, however, were necessary to place all the circumstances before her, and only a brief reflection upon them to enable Theodora to recognize that Ingeborg's coming was not only the sole thing to be done, but also the best.