Part 19

"We reached the German army at last in a roundabout way, actually obliged to sneak forward like criminals. We halted one morning at a small village, but could not find accommodation, as the wounded lay everywhere. Conversing with some officers, they asked whether I would take with me to the next village a physician who had fallen ill that day. They added that soldiers of their company had just found him in an adjacent wood, half buried in a marsh, and so feeble as to be unable to extricate himself.

"I consented, but you may imagine my astonishment when they brought Wulf Ericksen to my wagon. He recognized me, although violently feverish.

"We reached the next town toward evening; but it was also filled with troops and stripped of provisions, so that we were forced to travel farther, and finally halted at a friendly spot on the frontier. Wulf's condition demanded our greatest care. We carried him to an inn, and hurriedly summoned a physician, who forbade further transport. Mental excitement and physical over-exertion had produced nervous fever, but he believed his strong constitution, to all appearances, would soon overcome the disease. When he learned Wulf was a physician, he begged permission to have him removed to his own dwelling, and to care for him while I should carry the tidings to you. I have brought my family here, and I have already rejoined my regiment, and shall go out as an officer. You know," continued Arnold, with a laugh, "that our officers expose themselves so rashly that King William has threatened, if they persist in it, to take measures of proceeding against them! My route passes through the place where Wulf found such hospitable welcome, and, if agreeable to you, I shall accompany you thither. And now you will have all sorts of preparations to make for the journey. I shall see you early to-morrow morning."

Arnold's wife added some kindly words; then both took their leave.

Sibylla's heart was full of joy and gratitude. As she became more tranquil she could not help thinking how wonderfully Arnold and his wife had changed. "Yes; life is, after all, the first true education for people," she reflected. "Every thing else is only preparatory. And then this war! Does it not seem to have drawn to the surface the good traits of every body? Arnold Von Kahring and enthusiasm--these were two that no one ever would have dreamed of associating; and now he glows with purpose, and can not wait for the time when he may fight for the Father land. How ready I was with my criticism against Arnold, and now he has become so different!"

Yes; life educates and refines.

To-day, Wulf lay in complete possession of his senses. The past few days were more or less dark to him. He was very weak, and the silence around seemed very beautiful. He gazed with the greatest interest on the wonderful designs that adorned the arabesque tapestry. He had done this yesterday and the day before, but was not tired of them. Every thing was so quiet and lonely. Had it not always been so? He pressed his head, and thought. Yes; now he understood. The roar of cannon and crack of guns were the last things he had heard, and now all was still. Where was he, then? He looked around. The red stripes of the carpet--O God! was that blood? Then he knew that for long days he had stood in the midst of bloodshed, and had seen nothing else. Where? When? The scales fell from his eyes. He had left the battlefield, and a whole church full of wounded had expected him. Why had he not hastened to them? Slowly and gradually the interim gleamed up and unfolded its pictures. Yes; he had been in a swamp, and he had prayed there. Prayed? What then? Unconsciously he folded his hands and said softly:

"Dear Lord, I would thee love, That I may go to heaven above."

Beside the bed, unobserved by Wulf, a beautiful woman was standing, watching the sick one with anxious eyes. She must control herself. This was the order, that his first consciousness might not be disturbed. Now she could restrain herself no longer. She drew the curtains back, and kneeling at his side took the beloved hand in hers, and fervently said: "Amen!"

"Sibylla!" cried the sick one.

"Wulf! my own Wulf!" responded the faithful wife.

Twice had her husband been restored to her! The kind old physician entered the room softly some minutes later, to learn if his patient slept, it was so still in the room; but when he saw Sibylla sitting on the bed, pressing her husband's dear head to her breast, both silent, but with eloquent eyes, he withdrew, and said to himself: "Such a reunion of joy and thanksgiving and love, between husband and wife, must be sacred to both." So do we also think, and therefore leave them alone.

XXXII.

"How far may we go on in sin? How long will God forbear? Where does hope end, and where begin The confines of despair? An answer from the skies is sent: Ye that from God depart, While it is called to-day repent, And harden not your heart." --J. A. ALEXANDER.

Wulf was not able to return to the front, and it was some time before his kind host would permit him to go home, where he and Sibylla re-entered with grateful hearts.

Only a few weeks had elapsed between his going and returning, but how changed the aspect of Germany! Where fearful determination and well-grounded anxiety had prevailed, there was now the established prospect of the fulfillment of long-cherished hopes; hopes which Germany had almost despaired of realization--a united country.

A wonderful war! Truly blessed of God through prayers and waiting! It is true the national glory which was born in those days had a dark, sad background. There was no family out of whose circle one or another of their dearest ones had not been taken. Yes; it had been purchased at great cost; but if the impression which this glory made upon our people shall remain, then truly the cost was not too great.

Conviction, that noble attribute, which had heretofore slumbered, now awakened and aroused, had also its effect upon Wulf when he was able to resume his practice. He had new pleasure in serving the poor and unknown, as well as the rich and distinguished; and he also brought new power to the work. One day he entered his wife's room with a very serious face, and said:

"Have you ever seen or heard any thing of Dr. Uhlhart?"

"No; what do you know of him?"

Sibylla trembled, for she had always dreaded a meeting between the two men, as Wulf had never been able to conceal a certain kind of chivalrous paroxysm of defense whenever his enemy was recalled.

"He is here in this house," replied Wulf.

"What is he doing here? Certainly no good," exclaimed Sibylla.

"I think there is as little to fear from him now, as there was once good ground for expecting much. He is sick."

It is singular how that one word "sick" can allay, if not wholly conquer, all rancor in a woman's heart.

"How did you ascertain it?" Sibylla inquired with interest.

"Very simply. The janitor asked me if I would call to see a gentleman on the fourth floor, in a small room. He had not seen him for several days, and then he was sick. I climbed up there and found Uhlhart."

"Did he recognize you?"

"No; he has a fever, and is very ill. I have engaged a nurse to take care of him, as removal would be out of the question. Every thing possible at present has been done. I do not understand; it looks very poor up there. I always thought he was rich."

"He was not rich, but he had an income. Still, in the extravagant life he lived, he expended much and worked very little. Besides, perhaps, he has been as unfortunate in speculations as those which ruined Herr Bolton. But I should like to know what reduced him to such a condition, and brought him here to this house."

Wulf did not know, but we may lift the curtain and see how the stone rolled to the precipice with ever-increasing velocity.

Uhlhart had really never had any youth. He had early experienced all the various forms of vice and immorality in which the present century is rife. Without the power to govern himself, his unbridled passions led him to the usual end of all early ripened youth. After Herr Bolton's death, he made a momentary halt on the steep way--the catastrophe had been so sudden and unexpected; but his awakened conscience soon slept again peacefully, through his sophistries, and to gain Sibylla once more was within reach of possibilities. He knew very well she would never be his willingly. What could overcome her? Perhaps the force of circumstances. Perhaps her proud spirit was crushed. Then, too, she did not seem to him quite so desirable, when he learned nothing had been saved from the wreck at Larkow, and she was earning her bread in a distant place. Uhlhart needed money now--much money.

But it was characteristic of his obstinacy to continue the chase. He had long detested work. His health was impaired, and it was much more comfortable to speculate with his little inheritance. But most of his ventures had been failures, and he was finally obliged to gnash his teeth and confess himself to be a beggar. What should he attempt now?

He had at times been intimately connected with a Jewish author who had rejected all religious and moral faith. This man familiarized Uhlhart with the literature of the day, and in return he furnished the Hebrew with newspaper articles in sympathy with his views. These essays were well paid for; they were as brilliant as they were poisonous. This kind of congenial authorship attracted Uhlhart. It enabled him to send through this channel into the world all the venom and gall of his nature. He wrote on the social question, men's rights, the Church, parsons, Humboldt's Kosmos, Protestantism; and every thing emanating from his pen was black--blacker than the ink with which he wrote.

Wulf took the greatest care of the unfortunate man. Uhlhart must have led a miserable life. In frightful mockery he had written this device upon the tottering table which served as a desk: "Learn to do without, O friend; defy pain and death, and no god in Olympus shall feel more free than thou."

It was not long before it became evident to Wulf that Uhlhart's recovery was beyond hope.

"Shall I go to him?" said Sibylla; "he might be relieved if I spoke a kind word to him."

"My dear, it is useless. He recognizes no one, and his language uttered in delirium I would spare you from hearing," replied Wulf, earnestly.

"Do you think he will never recover consciousness?"

Wulf looked doubtful.

"O, that would be so dreadful!" cried Sibylla. "No, no; that can not be. When I think that we played together as children--and now, if I could only help him!"

Of a want of external comforts Uhlhart had, at least, very little to complain when he became conscious. The fever left him only to give place to the weakness of death. Wulf was glad that he gave no sign of displeasure in his recognition. Then he called Sibylla, who approached the bedside.

"Dr. Uhlhart, is it any comfort to you for me to say I forgive you all, and pray that God may also forgive you?"

The dying man made no reply; but when Sibylla took his hand she believed there was a slight pressure from him.

Soon the wild struggle of death ensued. Wulf and Sibylla remained with him until the last. Beneath their prayers he passed away, and Sibylla's hand closed his eyes forever.

XXXIII.

"'Not as I will!' the sound grows sweet Each time the words my lips repeat; 'Not as I will!' the darkness feel More safe than light, when this thought steals Like whispered voice, to calm and bless All unrest and all loneliness. 'Not as I will!' because the One Who loved us first and best has gone Before us on the road, and still For us must all His love fulfill 'Not as we will!'" --H. H. JACKSON.

It is a joyous, happy picture that is unveiled to the reader now. Golden peace reigns in the country and dwells in every heart. Sibylla, the rosy house-wife, with beaming eyes, sits by the cradle of her year-old baby. She sleeps so sweetly; she lies there so lovely in her unconscious beauty, that the happy mother can not take her eyes away. Once she had wavered in the decision as to which of her two ideals was supreme, the Apollo Belvedere or the Venus de Medici. Now she has known for a long time that her little Ingeborg is far more beautiful than both pieces of sculpture put together. "How can any one be so foolish?" she thinks, and again bends over the sleeping child, whose rest has something sacred in it. Steps approached. One would never have believed Wulf could walk so lightly; but he has accustomed himself to it "for baby's sake."

"Why, Wulf! I thought you were at the concert," said Sibylla, somewhat reproachfully. "How can you miss that splendid oratorio?"

Wulf has become woefully embarrassed.

"Wulf, Wulf! I fear you did not even have the intention to go."

"Well, well; never mind," Wulf plucked up courage to reply. "I would rather hear Ingeborg's 'um, um;' it sounds more beautiful to me than all this scientific musical structure."

"O, you never had much understanding for art," lamented Sibylla, roguishly.

"But a great mind for taste and beauty," interrupted Wulf, embracing his wife warmly. "I have always been able to distinguish between the beautiful and the ugly!"

Sibylla shakes her finger, and adroitly changes the conversation. "You know we are to have a visit this evening from the Kahrings and Theodora. Are you too tired to see them?"

"No, I am not tired, although my day's work has been a serious one, with many experiences."

Wulf was silent.

Sibylla approached him with questioning eyes, and he continued:

"O Sibylla, there is so much misery in the world! If I were only a physician who could make every body well--well, above all things, spiritually."

Ingeborg now awakened. Sibylla lifted her, and placed her in her husband's arms.

"There now, Wulf, you are at home, and must not have gloomy thoughts. Ingeborg, where is papa?"

The child knew him, and reached her little arms to embrace him; and when Wulf, with one arm encircling the mother and the other holding his baby, presses them to his heart, his eyes reflect the evidence that in these four walls he is the happiest man in the world.

Just then Theodora enters. She belongs here, and feels perfectly at home with the Ericksens. She is cordially greeted. Even little Ingeborg seems to recognize her, for she claps her pretty hands so eagerly as if she would perform her little exercise.

"Now the worker will appear in her most beautiful character," exclaims Wulf, laughing. "See, Theodora; even Ingeborg can not escape your influence. As soon as she sees you she begins her '_Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man!_'"

"She does not degenerate," replies Theodora, smilingly, at the same time handing Wulf a small piece of paper.

"Six, seven, eight only," says Wulf, cheerily. "Theodora, the condition of health among the poor is now very good. To-morrow, early, I shall visit them all. But how is it with old Weber? Still no change?"

"No, only he wants to see you very much. He thinks when you visit him sunshine enters his room."

Sibylla is silent; but she thinks how wonderful it is that she and old Weber are of the same mind.

"Theodora," she says, "I am ashamed of myself whenever I see you, to think how much you do."

"Very little," replies Theodora; "but there must be a change; there is so much work in the world. I have to-day, for the first time, realized that I have never really labored with might and main--never made one real sacrifice."

"Our outward life," interposes Wulf, earnestly, "never corresponds to the demands of the inner life. Willing and doing are not completely equalized, alas!"

In the evening we are with a small circle of the Ericksens' friends in their cozy room. The table is simply spread, with every thing necessary for an inviting supper. The tea-kettle sings a welcome, and Sibylla does not permit it to do all the pleasant service. The conversation is lively and bright, while deeper interests are not forgotten. One receives in giving, and receiving one gives again. All are unanimous in the belief that the hand must help the arm; all know that personal, loving diligence alone can ripen the seed of the word, the fruit of the deed.

"You always have such underground inclinations," says Arnold Von Kahring, who has resided at Berlin during the past year, in comic provocation to Wulf. "As a boy you searched after the moles in their cellars, and now you are after the poor just the same. At that time you killed your objects of love, now you raise them to life; that is the only difference."

"Yes, Arnold," interjects Theodora, laughing, "and he also had a habit in those days of rescuing people; for example, when he pulled you out of the water."

"That is true," responded Arnold. Thereupon he relates the story of that unhappy casualty. "And it is my misfortune," he adds, jocosely, "that I must be grateful now, and he presses me into all kinds of service. It is terrible! I am, for instance, already guardian for over one hundred and sixty-four children!"

"Don't go over a bridge this evening, dear," says Arnold's wife, in playful warning; "you will break a bone!"

"I know a person," adds Sibylla, "who spent an hour with me yesterday, and said to me that I should not regret my husband's undertaking so much charitable work outside of his practice, and this very person begged to be permitted to share such service."

"That is just the worst part of it," retorts Arnold. "That kind of men," pointing to Wulf. "can make us do any thing; for one must keep in the good graces of the doctor. One may get sick himself, you know, and--"

"Then he forbids him to talk," interrupts Wulf. "But just here while the conversation turns upon it and we are all together, let me heartily thank you, Arnold, for all your faithful assistance. There are not many men who have given their heart and time so wholly to this personal labor of love."

All are earnest, and for a moment there is silence.

"When shall we all, husbands and wives," said one present, "become conscious that we have, in and through our respective callings, higher duties to fulfill? No calling is so unprepossessing and poor that it may not be illuminated with heavenly luster through love and service; no calling so great and rich that humble endeavors to do good can not intensify its glory."

"Not all men and women," replied Arnold Von Kahring; "can do equally. Many have household cares and business duties which deter them from outside work; but still they can fulfill higher interests in a measure, and reap rich blessings."

"And perhaps many," added Wulf, "who have no especial life-work, if they could be shown avenues of service, would gladly embrace them, and learn for the first time what it is to have a noble aim and true happiness."

"I must testify," said Arnold's wife, "that in my experience time and strength follow the real desire to work."

"Yes; 'where there's a will, there's a way,'" concluded Theodora, impressively.

We now take leave of our friends. They have earnest desires, and will therefore find the right way.

Theodora lives with her brother. A cheerful, sunny room is her home; and although she is not entirely alone, she has perfect liberty. She wears no deaconess's dress, and yet she is one--a true helper.

A pleasant smile illumines her face this evening. She is thinking of Sibylla, whom she loves as dearly as though she were her own child.

"She was always better than her word," she says, softly. "I know that, among all of us who spoke this evening, she will do most." Theodora is happy, for she forgets self.

Albertina Von Kahring says to her husband: "What a beautiful home the Ericksens' is! I always feel there that outward good--call it riches if you will, be they great as they may--can not alone give true happiness, and that love, joy, and peace proceed from a very different source."

"The worst of it is,"' says Arnold, "that the spirit of the house is contagious. Contagion! that is the last thing we should desire to take from a physician's house!"

His tones were in comic severity, but his wife's glance interpreted their meaning.

Upon the balcony of their dwelling Wulf and Sibylla are sitting later in the evening. His arm embraces her, and she leans her head on his breast. They are silent. But whoever looks into their eyes may read therein: "We are in the haven. Many misfortunes may yet befall us, but we are happy and nothing can wrest this happiness from us."