Part 12

After the young traveler had been rested and refreshed, and first of all learned of Wulf's physical improvement, both women conversed earnestly together. Theodora was well acquainted with life in the great world, its temptations and dangers, and now in her retirement she also followed with deep interest the development of persons and situations in her own immediate connection. With her clear judgment, her helpful inclinations, and large influence, which, although somewhat concealed, was none the less marked, Theodora had learned of Wulf's fall as well as of Uhlhart's treachery. But her lips remained closed on this subject. Meanwhile she imparted to Ingeborg her apprehensions that Wulf had been led to contract debts, and might be the prey of usurers, who carried on a nefarious business in large cities, and who brought many young men to destruction. She also interested herself in the life and misery of many at Berlin. Ingeborg was scarcely imaginative enough to conceive it all, accustomed as she had always been to the simplest ways, but she listened in amazement. "O," she thought, "if such horrible things take place in these lovely dwellings, I would be far from them!" But comfortingly Theodora's words also reassured her, as she talked of the golden Spring of Christian love, which, though often unattractive outwardly, and even invisible, still permeated this great city, offering its rescuing draught to old and young, rich and poor, as well as to the sorrowing, the lonely, and the forsaken. With this Ingeborg's heart beat responsively; for she could recognize God's great hand here also, building up this glorious kingdom, to further which they who would help must give up the crown for this life.

"Wulf will do well here yet," she said softly.

"I think so, too," replied Theodora; "but he will not receive this glorious call until he has been baptized in the sea of great sorrows."

They both decided that Ingeborg should wait until the wedding was over, then visit Wulf and ask him, now in the holidays, to go to his sick mother's home to recruit his health. As to his debts, Theodora begged that Ingeborg should exert all her influence to induce Wulf to leave his affairs in the hands of a reliable man, whose name she mentioned.

"Do you know," she continued, "whether they have money enough at home to meet all these obligations?"

"O, much, plenty!" replied Ingeborg.

The next morning the Kahrings were astonished to greet Ingeborg as their guest. "She has business in Berlin," explained Theodora; and as they were accustomed to question none of her assertions, and as the approaching wedding occupied all thoughts, there was no curiosity excited.

Ingeborg felt out of place in the midst of all this excitement. The whole atmosphere lay as a mountain on her soul. When Arnold approached Ingeborg, she seemed to be a reminding spirit of the better part of his life; but he exerted a gloomy impression upon her. How could he be so joyless and dissatisfied? Intuitively, Ingeborg felt that this marriage had not been made in heaven, and she became more and more timid in this great aristocratic house, and wished she might go home this day instead of on the morrow.

She went earlier than the others to the church, in order to see all without being observed. After the ceremony she would return with Theodora. Every thing conspired to render her solemn. What a great church! She had never seen one so splendid. Garlands of flowers were festooned, carpets laid, lights flashed, and the house was filled with spectators and wedding guests. At length the bridal pair entered. Ingeborg could understand how this cold, stately lady inspired no love. How dignified Arnold appeared--so different from his usual manner! And yet her eyes wandered until Wulf came. Dr. Uhlhart was with him. That was his evil spirit. But was this pale, dejected young man before her eyes the same strong, vigorous Wulf, who had rescued her from death? She could not look away from him. Had the people here made him so white and ill? He must leave; he must breathe pure air again. How fortunate that she had come! She would go even sooner than she had decided.

The ceremony being over, the wedding procession passed out of the church. Wulf was one of the last to leave. He did not look up; his thoughts drew his eyes downward. A frightful reaction was taking place within him: in the instant, whether he should begin a new life, become a new man--every thing hinged upon that--in order to gain the noble prize, or in an instant lose this prize forever.

He followed the crowd mechanically, when suddenly his hand was seized, and an entreating voice said: "Wulf, stay here. Let the others go; come with me!"

He was so ill, he was scarcely surprised to see Ingeborg before him. But he remained beside her, feeling as though he belonged to her. His home, his childhood, his sick mother, reached out to him, through her, a hand, and he grasped it.

The carriages were gone, and the spectators had dispersed. But there was one carriage remaining without, containing Theodora looking for Ingeborg.

At a glance she observed what had occurred, and, without losing her self-control, she calmly invited both to enter. They soon arrived in her quiet room. Here Theodora withdrew to superintend preparations for their entertainment. Wulf sat beside Ingeborg, having no apparent control of his will, indifferent to every thing. He scarcely inquired for his mother or for Karen, nor how Ingeborg came. The latter summoned all her strength, for she realized she must now be Wulf's stay. How gladly would she have accepted his guidance in every thing, but he remained in perfect apathy. She could scarcely have borne it, had not the hope of better things peered like a star through the present clouds.

She told him of Martin's return on Christmas, and of his rich father's joy, and his desire to give some outward expression as a token of his gratitude. Wulf listened quietly. Christmas? That had already passed, and Sibylla lost to him! Where had the succeeding few days flown? Ingeborg became exhausted. All her thoughts centered in the desire to have him at home. "Wulf," she entreated, "we will go away from here." He bowed his head abstractedly. "Shall I go to help pack your trunk?" she asked.

"Pack?" This question seemed to recover his senses. "Ingeborg, I can not go. I must stay."

"No, indeed! why can not you go?"

Wulf hid his face in his hands, and cried:

"Go away; I am a miserable creature. Go back alone. I must remain here."

"What retains you?" continued Ingeborg.

"My debts."

"Debts?" reiterated Ingeborg, cheerfully.

"Yes; I have debts, many debts; at my boarding house, to Dr. Uhlhart, to Jews--and no money to pay them."!

Ingeborg sprang up.

"O, I have so much money, so much!" and drawing from her pocket a packet of bills, she exclaimed: "There, Wulf; take it, take it; it is all yours!" while half weeping and half laughing she laid the money in his hands.

Now, for the first time in her life, she rejoiced in the possession of money and in her thoughtfulness to bring all she had at home with her.

Wulf remonstrated against receiving it; to accept it seemed more dishonorable than any thing else; but Ingeborg begged and insisted. Just then Theodora entered. How well she understood the method of restoring tranquillity out of agitation without intruding, and without wounding Wulf's sensibilities! The objections had soon been dispelled, and she was freely discussing with him the best thing to do. She undertook to pay Uhlhart after Wulf's departure. She accompanied him to his boarding-house in the evening to arrange matters there; she settled the Jew's account, who was astonished, and not too well pleased to have his money returned so soon; and when they came back, after arranging all these difficult affairs, they found Ingeborg quite rested and restored. Wulf, too, was much changed. This burden of debt had lain upon his soul like lead, and he trusted himself to Theodora's guidance as if he had been a child and she his mother, without realizing the dependence. She also began to exert an irresistible influence over him. Did he, too, feel that she stood upon that eminence which judges human nature humanely? and that she could forgive all, because she understood all?

While Ingeborg forgave all because she loved, Theodora, in spite of her real earnestness, seemed to have nothing to forgive, and verified that beautiful sentiment: "All must ardently recognize, as well as believe, that man himself has nothing to forgive."

"You will come to the train early to-morrow morning, at eight o'clock?" said Ingeborg as Wulf parted from them.

Wulf promised. "Yes, at eight o'clock I will be there."

But until that time, ten hours will elapse and there may much happen meanwhile.

Wulf went home to his boarding-house. The Kahrings had not yet returned from the wedding, but Theodora and Ingeborg did not wait for them. The former lay awake a long while thinking of her family. A strange sorrow withheld its blow far from her. Ingeborg was weary, but her heart was happy and her lips murmured softly: "God's angels keep my beloved from trouble, harm, or danger for evermore!"

XX.

"Life's a tortured, booming gurge, Winds of passion strike and urge, And transmute to broken surge Foam-crests of ambition.

Death, men say, is like a sea, That ingulfs mortality, Treacherous, dreadful, blindingly, Full of storm and terror." --M. FIELD.

Let us now return to the wedding festival. It was celebrated in the Hotel R----. The beautiful, spacious drawing-room had been adorned with exquisite plants and flowers, which concealed the walls, while fountains here and there rustled their melodies during the pauses of the music. Around the table, on which hundreds of wax tapers glowed in rich silver candelabra, while the rarest viands and choicest wines in the world vied with one another, sat a large company, partly of the nobility, partly of those representing the aristocracy of money--outward show concealing inward emptiness, as false hair the bald heads.

In the center sat enthroned the young bridal couple; Arnold more attentive and amiable than usual; his bride cold and stately as ever. It seemed as though the greater part of life had been spent before a mirror, in order to regulate every movement of her body, every expression of her face, after the strictest model of propriety. Had she as well, one was tempted to ask, educated and molded her heart with even a tithe of this care and consistency?

An old proverb says: "Out of one wedding two usually come." This would appear probable to-day, from all indications. Herr Von Lenkseuring had for the past six weeks been devotedly attentive to the chosen one of his heart, and Eugenie Von Kahring looked upon her suitor with no unfriendly eyes.

A trick of fate, perhaps also some human intervention, had decreed to have them both neighbors at table. That was a favorable opportunity. The young man softly whispered to his fair companion many little phrases which made her blush for joy.

Lady Von Kahring looked benignly on the pair. When Eugenie should have married this rich young man, and Arnold had just performed a deed which had produced rejoicing, then were not the wishes of her heart as well as the necessities of her house satisfied? Still she was in anxious suspense; the fortune of her step-daughter lay in a well-formed contract in her father's hands, and the embarrassments of her husband had reached their utmost limit; indeed he could scarcely wave them off until this very day, when a large sum of money was due, and must be in his hands. Surely Banker Kouzky could not deny him the favor of a loan. His honor was their honor; his daughter now bore the name of their son.

"To the one we love," said Banker Kouzky, laughingly, to his new relative Eugenie, as he leaned over the table toward her. "I think we not only have a newly wedded pair at table, but a betrothed one," he added, jestingly, to Lady Von Kahring, and in tones so loud that the neighbors of the baroness all smiled and looked at Herr Von Lenkseuring and Eugenie. The former seemed ready to receive congratulations then and there; but Eugenie begged him to speak to papa and mamma first, and not to make any announcement here. The scene passed, but not until the news had traveled the circuit of the table. But the air was stifling; all were oppressed, and, by universal consent, the table was deserted, and all withdrew to the adjoining salon. Here dance-music quickened the blood in the veins of the young people, while the older guests sought the smaller rooms or cozy corners in groups, as they found it congenial. Every one was perfectly free and unrestrained.

But what have the two old gentlemen, Baron Von Kahring and Banker Kouzky, to say so softly and earnestly to each other in yonder window-niche?--the baron growing more and more persuasive, the banker more and more cold and reserved. On the baron's forehead stand great drops of perspiration, while the banker's countenance remains as unmoved as that of a speculator when one would seek to read therein the rise or fall of stocks on the 'change. At length he remarks, icily:

"Herr Baron, do not mistake; my daughter and my money are two very different things. The one I have given; make no expectation on that account of the other."

The baron talked so earnestly it seemed as though one could hear his vehement words. It was in vain. At length he became silent and exhausted. The banker turned away smiling. Near by a game of cards was being arranged, and he said, suavely: "Shall we join this party?"

At this juncture an old general approached the two, with a wine-glass and bottle in hand:

"Baron, this is to the welfare of your house, on which has been grafted to-day a new branch."

"Long may it live!" replied the baron, accepting the glass and draining it; but his eyes were sunken and his countenance ashy.

The banker added his thanks, touched his glass to both, and laughed cordially.

The next morning Wulf was up betimes to prepare for his departure. He hoped nothing from this home-going; but he embraced it, as his only method of escape, with gratitude.

His landlady rushed into the room, pale with terror:

"Herr Ericksen! Herr Ericksen! Do you know what has happened?"

"What has happened?" inquired Wulf.

"Baron Von Kahring has committed suicide. He shot himself last night."

Wulf grasped the table. Every thing whirled in the room.

"Arnold?" he cried.

"No, the old baron. It was almost three o'clock when he returned from the wedding. An hour later his servants heard a fearful report, and hastening to his side, found him dead. So the milkman has just told me."

Away with apathy and weakness! Wulf hurried to the Kahrings. How changed every thing was! Despite the early hour, crowds of people were running hither and thither in great excitement. No servant announced him, and he passed unhindered to the baron's chamber. What a sight! Arnold and Banker Kouzky were there alone.

Poor Arnold! Slaughtered in vain. Wulf hastened toward him to embrace him, but he was repulsed. The old banker, standing coldly near, shook his head. He thought: "Could he not have taken a simple powder if he were determined upon this? That would have made no fuss and trouble like this. A physician's certificate for apoplexy might have been secured, and I should not have grudged the money for that; but----" and with an air of disgust he gazed upon the lifeless form.

The young baroness entered, and drew her husband to an adjoining room. Her heart was cold; education and custom had formed a crust of ice over it; but as this violent deed had interrupted the course of every-day life, so it also penetrated this hard coating, and the warm spring of love that exists in most women's hearts gushed forth freely. She had always been restricted and restrained by a sense of propriety, and it was well now that she could act. If we could have wished a loving hand to rest upon the old baroness, Eugenie, and Theodora, they had no reason henceforth to complain of any want of care and sympathy from Arnold's wife. Like a warm current this love fell upon her husband, and, in spite of all other thoughts, it burned his soul like fire. Had he deserved it? She, to whom he had behaved as though he had only married her for money? She, who now bore a stained name, and who must, with all her short-sightedness, realize the motives of those around her? But true love is a rose which blooms in the midst of thorns; in the springing clover fields it seldom thrives.

The first sad days over, the stunning effects were gradually relaxed; visits of condolence and letters of sympathy came from all sides. Herr Von Lenkseuring wrote that as he stood at such a distance from the respected Kahring family, he dared not intrude; but ventured to send this token of sympathy in such an extraordinarily sad calamity, etc. Lady Von Kahring received the communication in good faith, but Eugenie wept hot, bitter tears. In the very last book he had given her stood the words: "Faithful even in misfortune."

Soon after this occurrence wagons came to carry trunk after trunk to the railway-station. The young baron, with his wife, his mother, and sister, set out upon a long journey through Austria. Through the young baroness's influence her father was persuaded to accept the responsibility of settling the estate. They are now off to the far south, where we shall leave them to begin a new life; leave them for the present in the hope that, having experienced the emptiness of this world's happiness, they will strive for the higher and better way.

The once elegant apartments of the Kahring mansion stand deserted and lorn, awaiting another division of life to be enacted therein.

XXI

"Such let my life be here: Not marked by noise but by success alone, Not known by bustle, but by useful deeds; Quiet and gentle, clear and fair as light, Yet full of its all-penetrating power, Its silent but resistless influence; Wasting no needless sound, yet ever working, Hour after hour, upon a needy world." --H. BONAR.

The last day of the year had come. But such a struggle and event as it brought with it none of the preceding three hundred and sixty-four had witnessed. The dunes looked around in surprise, rubbing with one hand the snow from their eyes, and thinking Summer had returned again. They could not imagine why there was such a concourse of people moving to and fro. What had occurred in this quiet spot of the world that it had been transformed into such a place of excitement?

Nothing had happened as yet; but on the morrow Martin's father had decided to give a festival in honor of his son's return, such as had never been witnessed on sea or land. All the people round about should participate in it; great and small should rejoice with him. There was no public house large enough to accommodate every body; but this did not trouble Herr Niederog's mind. Did not the sea spread itself out to unseen width, and arch her bosom with ice as firm as a ship's deck? Did it not sparkle and beam in dazzling whiteness? On the ice, then, they would go; play, eat, drink, skate, sled--all partake of the joy which the father entertained.

Great preparations were begun. Herr Niederog hastened them as much as possible; for while the ice now stood firm and hard as marble, the banks here and there began to give signs that probably in several days water would flow between the main-land and the ice-plain.

To-day all was safe and beautiful. The finest weather greeted the festival, to which every body was invited. O, how the children anticipated, with longing eyes, the preparations of the refreshments yonder, in a gayly decorated tent! For once noon-time came too late; but a half hour after, no one was seen in the houses; old and young were out. Those who could not play and skate looked merrily on, and not a single person remained behind save the solitary invalid of the village, Frau Ericksen. Karen would have gladly remained with her; but, being Martin's betrothed, she was one of the chief personages of the festival. At length she, too, was gone, and the paralytic one lay in a position which enabled her to look out on the sea, and at least share with her eyes in the general enjoyment. Had Ingeborg been here, she would have remained at the bedside, as such pleasures were indifferent to her; but she was at Berlin, having written a few lines to Mother Esther, after her arrival, to the effect that she had reached there safely; had seen Wulf; he was no longer ill, and should soon return with her. Further Mother Esther knew nothing.

Quietly she lay there, thinking, recalling the occurrences of her life. With what pleasure she would have witnessed her happy daughter on the arm of the joyful bridegroom! Then her thoughts reverted to Berlin. Her beloved son was there, and she could not help him. How gladly she would have hastened to him, embraced and rescued him! But alas! she was lying here, helpless. Through the clear air came shouts of laughter, and Mother Esther looked out upon the gay picture in the distance. But it was too far away to recognize any one. Much easier could she read the beautiful inscription on the wall, which, as a child, had been deciphered with so much difficulty, and which had silently witnessed all the joy and sorrow of her life. It had stood there as long as the house, and would accompany Karen, also, through her new life, helping her to bear the good and evil days which might recur to her in this little abode:

"In storm and tempests high, Great God, protect my life! And from my little home, Keep distant rage and strife. Let angels hover near; Then shall we never fear!"

Several hours passed in this way. Early evening came, and moonlight fell upon the pretty picture of merry-makers. Suddenly, as Frau Ericksen looked out over the sea, she perceived a little white cloud rising near the horizon. It gave her unspeakable anxiety, as she understood so well weather signals. In about an hour there would be a frightful storm, which would disturb the water, cause the ice to be flooded and all would be lost. "O God!" she thought, "is there not one among them wise enough to interpret that little peculiar cloud, that will soon become monstrous, and bring destruction in its path?" No; all are happy, living only in the present enjoyment. How well she knew this class of people! Quiet, thoughtful, difficult to arouse to mirth, but doing every thing heartily and thoroughly--work or play. No one would dream of danger, and suddenly it will come upon them all!

Mother Esther's solicitude gave vent in a loud cry, which was followed by successive ones. Alas! her shrieks did not reach beyond the little room. They were all in vain; no head turned away from the strand; there was no cessation of pleasure, and the cloud grew larger and larger.

There is no time to lose; many lives hang on thy efforts, thou poor, lame woman!