Part 15

"My dear madame," said Uhlhart, "your kind hand has provided something for every one but me. Please follow the example of Him who maketh the rain to fall on the unjust and just alike. Have you not something for me?"

For an instant Sibylla was silent. Her heart throbbed wildly.

"Yes, I have something for you--something very wonderful," she replied.

She seated herself at the piano and ran her fingers over the keys.

"You have often expressed a desire to hear me sing. Heretofore I have not found myself in condition to gratify you; but to-day, on account of the festival, I shall sing."

She softened the tones somewhat, and gave that grand aria with frightful, terrible force and expression:

"He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh; the Lord shall have them in derision.... Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel."

As the words were repeated again and again, it was no longer Sibylla flinging them in her power upon the unbidden guest, but a prophetic voice. Even to herself the true meaning of the aria entered her soul as never before, and it was like the defense to her of an Omnipotent One who ruled and triumphed over all godlessness.

Uhlhart understood Sibylla perfectly. For a moment he shrank from the power whose aid she invoked, and upon which she relied; but only for a moment. "There is no God," he said to himself; "even this God is only a clever man." He had sunken from step to step. There had been a time when he waged an unsuccessful battle between pleasure and duty; but the claims of life and the commands of Christ had never entered the threshold of his selfish heart, and he threw them aside, and endeavored to harmonize, at all hazards, his own desires with what might be regarded as duty, and-he desired no inward monitor to suggest any thing else. Religion is something primordial, and when its innermost germ is wickedly and wantonly eliminated by a person, it sometimes reappears faintly, as the dead body may be momentarily quickened by chemical processes.

From this time, Uhlhart renewed the battle more energetically than ever before. These new allies on Sibylla's side animated him to still greater triumphs. Soon after the festival he left Larkow; but Herr Bolton became daily more distrustful. He had burdened his estate with mortgages in order to obtain cash to purchase stocks which promised extraordinary gain. After these stocks had held a dizzy height for a time, they suddenly fell. He hastened, full of terror, to Berlin, to consult Uhlhart, who advised him to sell in order to escape further loss. Bolton hoped for a rise, but they fell persistently day after day. He consoled himself that as he did not actually need their conversion into money, he would allow them to lie even for years, until better times came.

His lawsuit followed, and was lost, including an expensive fine as well as the costs. What should he do? He had nothing to dispose of but the depreciated stocks, yet he must be glad if he realized half the investment. Even this was uncertain. Distracted in heart, ruined in fortune, he returned to Larkow.

Uhlhart himself was alarmed. It had come so suddenly. He had not desired this. To hold Bolton in his hand, to rule him, to make a profitable business out of him in the course of time, to annoy Sibylla continually, was his aim. But now--what could he do against pestilence and crop-failure? Could he be blamed if the fire he had enkindled in this weak Bolton, instead of climbing up lightly, broke out suddenly in clear flames? He had, indeed, induced him to speculate, but never so rashly and precipitously. He had advised him to give up some of his acquisitions in order to increase his fortune, but he had not contemplated the whole sacrifice of his farm business. Cunning man! did you not know that when a feeble spirit destroys old fetters without gaining some mastery, it is only brought to ruin?

Uhlhart, however, showed himself as a friend. He came to comfort Bolton, and endeavor to make him forget his misfortunes--the easiest and best way, in his opinion, in a bottle of wine. There was nothing else to do but keep him in a room under its influence. How would Sibylla feel when she should see her husband enter her room intoxicated, with Uhlhart in his rear, in cutting sarcasm repeating: "My dear madame, be lenient with your husband!"

This was repeated, two, three, four times, until at length she listened to his coming with dread, exhausting every means to lead him from this dangerous way. How the minutes of such waiting resolved themselves into hours, the hours into eternity!

How much Sibylla would have liked to show Uhlhart the door, but he remained a fixture by her husband's authority.

It was now the latter days of the period for deer-hunting, and great vigilance was required from the foresters to prevent acts of violence. Night after night their faithful servant lay on the watch to keep injury from his district. Sibylla stopped one evening at his cottage just as his wife was giving him her farewell kiss and parting injunction. She said:

"Are you not anxious for your husband?"

"O no; it is his business," replied the young woman.

"But just now he is in constant peril," argued Sibylla.

"What can I do? I can only pray for him."!

"Pray for him!" The words struck Sibylla forcibly. Had she done this, as yet, for her husband? She desired, she longed for a helping hand. But difficult as it is for a tender plant to pierce the hard, dry earth, in order to reach the light, even more difficult is it for the obdurate heart to pray for the first time.

Necessity teaches supplication. Sibylla now learned to pray, even to cry, out of her dire need.

She yearned for Church privileges; not for a pile of beautiful architecture, but for a house of God, where she might hear God's Word.

Farther and farther drifted poor Bolton; deeper and deeper he sank, while Uhlhart drank even more heavily.

They went together to undertake some new business ventures at Berlin. Sibylla was filled with forebodings; for when the protecting wand of his home was absent, her husband became hopelessly lost. She felt she must go to him, and remain there. She was his wife; marriage is sworn fidelity. She hurried to Berlin.

There she lived in a tavern. O, what a life! She recalled her girlish assertions that when she should be married she should never be burdened with household cares, but would board at a hotel, because one is so free there. "O God, thou hast punished me for these silly expressions!" she cried. What would she not have given now for the comforts of a home? Here every barrier which restrained her husband vanished. In the morning it was business on the 'Change; then followed dinner, supper, wine-drinking, and card-playing. What a life!

"May God end this! I can do no more," murmured Sibylla.

And he made an end of it, very different from what she had thought. One morning her husband was too ill to rise; a nervous fever had taken possession of him. The physician came, and pronounced him unable to be removed.

Herr Bolton was now alone with his wife. Friends disappeared, but his misery remained. Sibylla attended him with daily renewed fidelity. We shall not follow the disease in its course. On the ninth day the crisis was reached, and on the tenth Larkow no longer had a master. He had recognized no one; his mind wandered continually upon stocks and bonds, and his last words were, "Eighty-eight and a half."

There are some people whose future life is indeed a mystery to us. What is lost by the discontinuance of such uselessness on earth, or what place they shall occupy in another world, is unknown. Sibylla returned with her husband's body, and he was buried at Larkow.

The weary period of suffering had matured her. The Sibylla who, fifteen months previously, had entered here as a wife in mourning garments, was very different from the one now standing by the open grave in somber garments. After a short time she permitted a competent notary to take an inventory of all the papers. Creditors came forward. There remained at Larkow nothing to sell. The most favorable result which the careful notary endeavored to bring about, the net proceeds, barely covered the debts; in any case there was absolutely nothing left for Sibylla. She had entered this house poor, and poor she must depart. But she had learned something there. It was not with hanging head she left Larkow. Although a violent storm had raged and shaken her, it had not stricken the young woman, and better principles only stood the firmer, and struck their roots the deeper.

XXV.

"What shall I do? Who will solve the question? What can I do? Who will give me a trial? What must I do? Can I do any thing uncomplainingly?--So much work for a shroud!"--PFATEN.

"How was that?" said Sibylla to herself one Summer evening, as she entered the great city of Berlin with her trunks and luggage. "Did not the professor in his address assert that before three years there would be twenty-four thousand women entering Berlin asking for work? Well, in this year there will be one additional."

She had rented a small apartment, and entered a new segment of life. Sibylla had no relatives, and her husband only step-sisters, who lived in distant countries. Her attorney had kindly suggested a place as companion to an old lady, but she had declined it. She felt that she must be alone and independent, in order to throw off any disagreeable impression which might arise in the exertion of self-maintenance. If the rosy morning which she inwardly hoped for were to be followed by a clear day, it must find her untrammeled.

She was now twenty-two years old; but it seemed as though she had been ten years from Berlin, she felt so aged and self-reliant. Sibylla not only wished to work, but her slender purse absolutely enjoined it. Of all her old acquaintances she would look for none. The only one for whom she longed--Theodora--was in a foreign land, and she had not heard from her in a long time. Sibylla had corresponded with no one during her period of suffering. She could only have done so at the cost of revealing the acts of her husband, and she was too proud for that. She also avoided the old circle for fear of meeting Uhlhart. Perhaps she was safe in this regard, for the unforeseen end of his cruel play had even frightened him. Still from both, the seclusion in which she lived concealed Sibylla in the great city.

She applied for work to a large upholstery establishment, where carpets and tapestries were manufactured, and was able to put to practical use the art of drawing, in which she was proficient. Instead of being obliged to sew, she designed patterns; and as this work paid better than any other, she gained a living by exercising great industry and economy. She had never dreamed, when she drew these designs in other days, that these Greek arabesques would in the future provide her bread and butter; and when the first embarrassment of the position was passed she took pleasure in it. But an active spirit like Sibylla's could not be satisfied always with such a life and employment. Her heart-promptings asserted that she must do something more.

A glance at the wholly useless life which she, as a girl, had led, and which now appeared in a very different light, naturally produced a reaction. She had learned to love and fear God in her trials and affliction. She had seen his strong hand in calamities, and still felt under its pressure. She desired to do good. Had she wasted opportunities in the past, now she would seek reparation in work. Had she exalted ethics and art above heavenly things, now she would consign them to a very small part of the earth, seeing that neither truth nor goodness depended upon them, although they were made the means of temporal deliverance; and as they had once been the motto for joy and satisfaction, so now her device should be: Sacrifice and denial.

Poor Sibylla!

The company with which she was engaged employed three thousand women and girls. As the work was distributed at certain hours, she must needs come in contact with the employees. At first this was not agreeable, but she endured it as a part of the imposed self-sacrifice. One day a pale young girl sat beside her, counting her wages. "O," she said, sadly, "only ten silver groschen for a pair of such fine shoes!" and with a sigh her eyes filled with tears. "Work as hard as I may, I can not finish them in two days."

"If you don't like the work," said a superintendent, "I know plenty of women who will be glad to take it."

"Must I make twelve pairs of such shoes?" asked the girl. "Can not you pay me something more?"

"We have fixed prices," was the cold reply.

Sibylla had listened sympathetically. She followed the pale work-woman, talked kindly to her, questioned her as to her earnings, and heard the following: She was the daughter of a humble officer who, at his death, had left behind a sick wife, a younger sister, and herself, utterly penniless. The former had only been taught to make fine underwear for ladies by hand; but sewing-machines came into use--she was too poor to buy one--and was obliged to give up competition with it. She herself had learned cutting of garments, and had been able to earn enough to supply their table and fifteen groschen a day. The other sister remained at home, as their mother's physical condition did not permit her to be left alone. "What shall we do," she said, "when I earn so little? And yet I am glad even to have regular work."

"How have you managed to live upon such small earnings?" asked Sibylla, in astonishment.

"Until now we had a number of valuable articles we could sell; but I have begun to carry our linen and the things we do not actually need to the pawnbroker's. This can not last long." And the poor girl wept.

Sibylla was deeply moved. Heretofore she had only regarded as poor, ragged, miserable-looking people; but here was one beside her in respectable attire. Why must there be want while she, Sibylla, had spent her money on so many foolish, useless things? When the color of a ribbon no longer pleased her, although worn but once, it had been thrown aside, and she had wasted sums of money, more than enough to have sustained this family for a week, upon expensive perfumery, highly scented soaps, and other accessories of the toilet-table. Ah! how she lamented her selfishness now!

She parted from the poor girl with friendly words, and I can well imagine there was that evening more happiness in that dwelling than its walls had echoed for many months. The postman brought a letter containing money, and as the sick woman opened it with trembling fingers a five dollar gold-piece fell from its folds, with a note containing these words: "An old debt."

Sibylla desired to make amends for former failures. She assisted now whom and where she could, even more than she was really able. She deprived herself in order to give to the poor, and there came an hour when she could calmly enjoy an appeased longing for some new, interesting book, for good music, for her cherished museum, having denied herself the pleasure because she regretted the time squandered which she had bestowed upon them.

Sibylla's doing was beautiful; yes, beautiful as a marble statue, which in a favorable light seems to live. We look at it as though the splendid form must move and the warm blood pulsate through it; but it remains cold and immovable, and with gruesome horror we turn away, rejoicing that beings are near us, less beautiful outwardly, it may be, but in whom loving hearts throb.

One day passed as the other; one month as its forerunner; out of the months there came a year.

But Sibylla was not happy, not contented in her doings. She was painfully impressed that she did not do these things gladly; that every step was a continual self-denial. Yet even this was atonement for her trifling early life; and perhaps in this way she might also make amends for the blame she attached to herself against her dead husband. It had gradually become clear to her that, having promised love and fidelity at the altar, she should have given them; but from the first she had gone her own way, unmindful of the happiness and salvation of the man who was her wedded husband. What she had done later did not eradicate the first error. And, besides, there was one other recollection which gave her bitter pangs--what she had done to Wulf. She had known her influence over him: how had she exercised it? To the susceptible youth who had sought the truth, she had scornfully and derisively asked, "What is truth?" and then answered: "Joy is truth; happiness is truth; all things else are gloomy specters, who must not venture to approach youth. Pluck roses while they bloom!" And Wulf had eagerly listened to wisdom from such pure lips. But she had often asked herself: "Would he have sunken so deeply, would he have cast overboard his best treasure, his faith, if I had not pointed out to him the way?" Such reflections burned her as fire. All her good works could not now extinguish the brand she had kindled in Wulf's heart. She had committed an unpardonable wrong; and who might know how far this influence had been extended beyond him, and how many others been hurled to destruction?

"It is the curse of bad deeds, They ever bring forth bad weeds."

If she could only see Wulf, could tell him how false all that she had believed to be pure gold had proved; if she could only give him her testimony that she recognized the value and truth of Christianity even though she had not been made happy thereby! But why were happiness and the truth eternally divorced? Whosoever seeketh after happiness will fall into an abyss, as the rider; whosoever seeketh after truth will languish in a desert; and Sibylla's brain grew weary over the mystery. She concluded with: "Rather work; then go out among others unhappier than I. Seeing another's misery enables us better to endure our own." Her poor and her sick became her consolation; but she cared for them; not from love, but rather to escape the thoughts in her own bosom when she felt desolate and lonely.

XXVI.

"Blindfolded and alone I stand, With unknown thresholds on each hand; The darkness deepens as I grope, Afraid to fear, afraid to hope; Yet this one thing I learn to know Each day more surely, as I go, That doors are opened, ways are made, Burdens are lifted or are laid By some great law unseen, and still, Unfathomed purpose to fulfill, 'Not as I will.'" --HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

More quickly than by rail or the telegraph's electric flash, but upon the wings of fancy, we leave Berlin. Piercing hill and valley, over city and river, and passing through the heart of a mountain, we are in the midst of a scene so overwhelmingly beautiful that no one may conceive it without seeing it for himself. We are in Switzerland, old Switzerland--on Lake Lucerne.

It is the most sacred water in the country, not only encompassed by heaven-high mountains, but encircled with histories and legends as with an eternal wreath. Here is the ground and faith of the old Swiss memories; here lie Altdorf, Schweitz, Uri, Rütli, Brunnen, Küssnacht--but the spot needs not the past; the present has tongues enough to allure us hither. Has "the eye of Switzerland" also bewitched the people in yonder little village, that they have now resided there for several years? Even Winter has not driven these strangers away, as the cold season ventures but timidly to enter this sheltered spot, and the cottage where they dwell has felt little of its severity.

It is a Swiss _châlet_, like most of those in the neighborhood, with sloping roof, green lattice, inviting gable-rooms, and a pretty garden, whose border frames the wonderfully clear, beautiful water. Just now it lies in the sunshine, surrounded with wild vines and cultivated roses. As the door is open we shall enter.

In the first room are two ladies, busy with needle-work. The elder, of majestic mien, presents an appearance of having seen much of life and suffering; but she is attractive, and her expression is kindly, as she says to the young woman sitting near:

"Eugenie, will you not see to dinner? It will soon be one o'clock, and Theodora will be here presently."

"Yes, dear mamma; but do not sew so diligently yourself any longer."

The mother smiled, and continued to sew on the wedding trousseau of her daughter. How could work be too assiduous under such circumstances?

Above, in one of the gable rooms, it is very lively now; some of the children looking out of the windows are preparing to leave, saying "good-bye" to a tall young woman in mourning, whose face is partially covered. One can not but perceive that the warmest bond of love exists between teacher and pupils.

Just now the former enters the mother's apartment, and is received with outstretched arms and solicitous inquiry:

"Are you tired, Theodora?"

An affectionate kiss and the reply follow: "No, dear mother; I seem to grow fresher during these hours;" and her large, clear eyes attest the honesty of her words.

Soon the three sat down to their simple repast, without the attendance of any servants. Times have greatly changed with the Kahrings, but for the better.

When the family had recovered from the heavy blow of affliction and adversity, Arnold and his bride went to Paris. Lady Von Kahring took up her residence here at Lake Lucerne, rather than at Geneva, because she would be less likely to meet former acquaintances in this retired place. It is true she might have accepted the offer of her daughter-in-law, who had acted nobly and generously, and requested to bear the expense of a modest home for them, as she was especially attached to Theodora; but the latter refused to consent to such an arrangement. She said she considered it dishonorable for three women, who were capable of self-maintenance, to be dependent upon others. She would herself undertake their support, if they were willing to assist. So Arnold's wife had been satisfied to render a little assistance, which was gratefully accepted.

As there happened to be a number of children belonging to aristocratic Austrian families who resided in the vicinity during the mild Winter, Theodora succeeded in obtaining them as pupils, and was able to provide for the family.

But there was still greater success for Theodora. After the frail staff of the world had broken, upon which Lady Von Kahring and Eugenie had leaned, and that startling occurrence had opened an approaching abyss, their hearts became more susceptible to Theodora's influence, and the latter was just as cheerful under misfortune as she had been in prosperity. While she carried the smallest care, her soul embraced the highest; and when she laid the money earned into the mother's hand, she shared with her better gifts than eyes could perceive.

In the elevating, quiet content of this home, Eugenie had obtained, unsought, what in vain she had longed for at Berlin. A prominent manufacturer had met Eugenie and paid his addresses, so that the little cottage was now the scene of a very secure, if not a very intoxicating, happiness.

To-day Theodora entered and drew a letter from her pocket.

"We are going to have a visitor, dear mother. What do you say to that?"

A light blush crossed the mother's face as she replied:

"Only no one from Berlin."

"Why not?" asked Theodora, heartily

"Circumstances can never degrade us; that we can only do ourselves; and then, dear mother, Sibylla Bolton is more unhappy than we are."

"Sibylla, the beautiful Sibylla!" exclaimed Eugenie; "where has she lived since her husband's death?"