Part 3

The old baron, who never talked much, arose at this juncture to open a window; but the storm prevented him. "What beastly weather we have here!" he muttered. "Rain every day--a wretched way of living."

He was right, Wulf thought. It was also a pitiful way of living, and he wondered how he had endured it so long.

After taking leave of this delightful circle, Wulf did not go directly home. His blood was violently stirred; he felt that he must walk and face the wind for a while. In his meanderings he approached the little church-yard. There was his father's grave. Beside the tombstone his mother had placed a similar one, with her name carved upon it, leaving room for the date of her death. She expected to pass away and leave no other record. But should he bury himself, figuratively, in this secluded spot at the early age of nineteen? He turned away with a shudder, and there determined to embrace the profession which had been his ideal since childhood, and to inform his mother of this decision on the following day; for she would surely be asleep when he returned at this late hour.

But the mother had not slept. Many anxious thoughts had been interwoven with her wool at the spindle, and although her lips had remained silent, her heart had not been calm.

It was just as true as ever that she would have preferred to see Wulf succeed his father in business; but she was neither so narrow as to resist a legitimate struggle, nor so weak as to wish to keep Wulf wholly to herself. It was only against the breach of an old custom she contended. For an only son to act contrary to long established usage was to her preposterous and unintelligible. On this account she had removed him from school, in order to make him a sailor. She had nurtured this error a long time; and who knows whether she ever would have discerned it if his serious illness had not intervened? But she had deferred the time for action until Autumn, then further postponed it from time to time; and it was simply this that robbed good Frau Ericksen of her sleep.

Meanwhile Wulf had changed. It seemed to his mother that it was not only a desire for learning which animated him, but an ambition to become famous; a longing for external things, which, to her mind, were not worth the trouble; a continual ideality, a looking upon people of fine manners through gold spectacles, accepting them as noble and good and beautiful in the abstract. Yes; this she was sure was the cause of his discontent; and that he looked down upon his mother and sister burned her heart as a natural consequence. And, then, must he go so unarmed into the world--into a great city of which she knew nothing except by hearsay, but which at best seemed to her a very Babel? Should he win or lose most there? Finally she said: "Yes; he will gain wisdom even through harm. Now I can not and will not restrain him any longer. He shall see for himself that '_all is not gold that glitters_.' But my boy is good," she added consolingly; "and if he goes away, he will come back to me again."

IV.

"Better to have a quiet grief than a hurrying delight; Better the twilight of the dawn than the noonday burning light. Better a death when work is done than earth's most favored birth; Better a child in God's great house than the king of all the earth."--GEORGE MACDONALD.

It is more desolate than ever on the beach now, for Wulf is away at a gymnasium preparing for his final examination. That unfortunate sail had resulted seriously to Ingeborg.

The spirit indeed was strong, but the flesh was not able to keep pace with it. A few hours after that occurrence Ingeborg was prostrated by hemorrhage. It had not returned as her father feared, but the young girl was very much enfeebled and convalesced slowly. When Captain Nielsen anxiously consulted the physician as to the probability of her entire recovery, the latter shook his head dubiously. Ingeborg looked so wan and pale; but a pleasant smile lighted up her face and a spiritual beauty rested upon it, which nothing could deprive of its influence.

Every body treated her as though she were a princess; even the rough fishermen's voices softened when they addressed Ingeborg. She had closely allied herself to "mother Esther;" as she loved best to call Frau Ericksen. There could scarcely have been a greater contrast than between these two women--the one nearing life's end, the other just entering upon it; the one practical, matter-of-fact, clear, decisive, the other thoughtful, dreamy, feeble, seeing no danger in the future; the one active, industrious, talking through deeds, the other folding her slender hands and musing silently over the play of the billows. But the two had one trait in common. Both talked little; and yet words were not wanting between them. Ingeborg had discovered that "mother Esther" was in possession of a priceless treasure. Since her illness the peace of God had rested upon Ingeborg with an infinite calm, and she knew that whatever happened to her would be for the best. And while her father had instilled the germ of piety into his child's soul, "mother Esther" had been the agency to awaken it to life.

Another woman's presence had also exerted a strong influence upon Ingeborg's character. The Kahrings had returned again to the beach this season, and their elder daughter had become visible. In former years no one had been at liberty to approach her in the tent where she reclined. Now when she was occasionally seen, it was apparent why the family had sought this secluded spot. The white bandage which partially covered Theodora Von Kahring's face did not wholly conceal the deep, red scar upon one of her cheeks.

Ingeborg had not become very intimate with the Kahrings. In fact, she was not especially attracted toward any of them; but when she met Theodora with her noble, sincere, lady-like presence, she seemed to the simple maiden like a higher being--one she might model after, not only in mere imitation, but one whom she could emulate wholly.

The first meeting between the two had been in a poor fisherman's hut, where a sick child lay. Ingeborg was seated by the little one's bed when Theodora's tall figure entered the low room. One glance assured her that the child was dying, and to Ingeborg the hour passed in that chamber of death was a sacred one never to be forgotten.

With womanly instinct Theodora did all that was necessary. Her eyes seemed to take in at a glance every thing, which her heart at the same time did not fail to appease. Her calmness, her gentleness, her kindness, were to Ingeborg traits worthy of adoration, and in the confusion and excitement of those around her she looked up to Theodora as though she were a divinity. Perhaps, too, unconsciously, she felt that here was a nature in harmony with her own, a true womanly heart which was its complement. Theodora and Ingeborg became friends. Under such an influence the child Ingeborg matured to young womanhood. She would also sit on the beach and listen for hours to the singing and sighing of the waves. How simple and yet how fascinating were their melodies to her!

She did not care much for Arnold, although he was always attracted to the delicate girl, whose secret influence over him he could not explain, and really did not attempt. Ingeborg was not beautiful. Heavy black tresses encircled a small, plain face; but her deep blue eyes had the brightness of stars--no, the mystery of an abyss wherein the whole heavens seemed reflected. There are eyes into which one may gaze and forget all earthly woe! But they are rare. Ingeborg, the counterpart of the young ensign is the only person whom this clever man of the world does not know how to approach without a feeling of constraint.

Listen to one of his attempts:

"Ingeborg, how can you bear to sit here by the water so long?"

"I like it."

"But all alone, not a living soul near; you must be awfully lonely."

Ingeborg looks up in astonishment:

"The water is not lonely. See how it stirs, and listen how joyful now, and then how sad it sounds! I could not endure a garden or a tree so long; but here there is constant motion and life."

"You think so," replied Arnold cynically, "because you have never known any thing better. You believe there is nothing so beautiful, because you have seen nothing else."

Ingeborg opens her great eyes wider than ever, and merely looks at him; at length she says softly: "The sky is even more beautiful."

The conversation ceases for a while. Arnold could have been ready enough with his astronomical knowledge, and have talked fluently about the fixed stars and the planets; but he fears to go beyond the capacity of his fair listener.

Suddenly he ventures:

"Have you never had any desire to see what lies on the other side of the water?"

Ingeborg assented.

"O, I should like so much to see the high mountains and the great cities! I should like so much to enter the grand churches, whose windows are painted pictures, and whose spires reach heaven-high, and look like great, white lilies!"

"You should?" pursued Arnold. "And shall you not, then?"

"I can not travel now; I am too tired."

"Then you intend to remain here, never seeing new and beautiful things?"

"No; I shall not always remain here," replied Ingeborg confidently. "I shall travel, and see the splendid things my father has seen."

"Child! when shall you go, and where?"

"When, I do not know; but where, I do know--in heaven."

Arnold gave a half-embarrassed, half-assenting laugh, and remonstrated.

"But who knows whether there is a heaven? Who assures you that you will go there? Who says it is beautiful and worth thinking about so much? No one has seen it yet. How is it up there? For you talk as though you had already visited it."

Ingeborg's eyes waxed still larger. Gazing earnestly at the skeptical speaker, she folded her little hands, and repeated in solemn tones: "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for those that love him."

Taken by surprise at the young girl's manner, Arnold was silent. At length he continued:

"But, Ingeborg, you talk as though God were a real person, whom one could love."

His sweet companion making no response, he quickly added:

"Do you think Wulf believes as you do?"

Ingeborg nodded her head confidently.

"Well, all I have to say is, that I am surprised he has never mentioned the subject to me. For my part, I believe very differently."

Ingeborg was still silent. Indeed, she had scarcely heard the last remark, and in the entire conversation this one expression only had impressed her: "Do you think that Wulf believes as you do?"

Arnold feels terribly uncomfortable; for Ingeborg's words always appeal to his better nature. But now he tries to shake off their disturbing influence, in order that his own wishes may not be hindered. "Yet this little pious one is interesting, here in this horrible loneliness," he said to himself.

But is not the baron's son lonely, even at Berlin? He is now twenty-two; but he has frittered away the past few years so fast as to be already blast. He has drunken from the intoxicating cup of pleasure, flirtation, and wine, and he is surfeited without having fully drained it. Every pleasure with which he is familiar appears insipid. He is an old-young man, whose deepest heart-emotions are silenced by ridicule or indolence wherever they venture to assert themselves; and yet he frequently joins the captain's simple daughter, who thinks it very ridiculous that he should complain to her, and continually express his disgust of the society in which he mingles; that he should tell her how every body wears a mask in order to deceive, and no one has the courage to appear true and honest. Her replies puzzle--no, they exasperate him. This foolish child thinks he should be sincere and noble. How is this possible? Then she says he ought to work; she is grieved because she accomplishes so little, and regards it a pleasure to be employed. Arnold loses his temper with her sweet, opinionated complacency; and then he remembers how silly he is to talk to her upon such subjects so far beyond her reach, and he calms himself with: "She knows nothing about life's difficulties; how can she be expected to solve them?" And yet an inward monitor softly whispers that the wisest can give him no better counsel than this: "Be true to yourself; give up pleasures which are really none; WORK."

Autumn has come again, and Wulf has returned. He has passed the final examination, made a short visit to his uncle's, and will now prepare to go to the university. Like a new student, he was so overflowing with hope and happiness in these days that his uncle felt impelled to call out after him: "Lad, lad; don't throw down the trees in your chase!" To his mother he seemed too proud; and yet what mother does not secretly rejoice in her child's happiness, even if she does repeat warningly:

"Wulf, Wulf! Our Heavenly Father takes care that the trees don't grow to heaven."

"They will, though!" he replies cheerily.

Wulf is thoroughly changed. He embraces his mother and sister with a new love, although the former has her own misgivings over the thought that a man's own will is his heaven.

He will not remain at home with her; she knows this now. He longs to be away, and is far from being contented here. He is also very little interested in Ingeborg; but he is dear to her, and she imagines he is more regardful of her comfort than any one else; but he lives in the future, and this delicate girl plays no _rôle_ in his hopes and dreams.

The evening before his departure, Frau Ericksen drew her son aside to consult him with regard to their personal interests. She had divided what she owned between her two children. Karen should have the little cottage, and Wulf the money, which, if used economically, would be sufficient for his years at the university.

"You know," she continued, "Martin and Karen love each other. I have no objection to Martin. He is a deserving young man; but his father thinks our little house too small, and yet he is better satisfied than if Karen were entirely portionless. Therefore Martin is to go away for a couple of years to see the world, and when he returns the wedding will take place. Meanwhile, if I should be called away, and this should never take place, remember Karen has only you. She looks small, but she is a brave girl."

Wulf pressed his mother's hand to emphasize his entire satisfaction in all her arrangements. Then he bade good-bye to the neighbors, and to Captain Nielsen and his daughter. The old sea captain had lamented that Wulf had not become a ship-master, and that he had decided to study a profession before going abroad; but now he was reconciled for him to study medicine.

"Come back soon a celebrated doctor, and cure my daughter," was his parting injunction.

"Yes, Ingeborg, I will come back and make you well," replied Wulf, heartily.

The young girl smiled assentingly. She believed Wulf capable of doing every thing.

The separation was a greater trial to Frau Ericksen than she had anticipated. Heretofore, her son had not been far away; now he was going a great distance. After all, he is her heart's darling, and her home is desolate without him. She has, however, not burdened him with admonitions. She realizes how different every thing will be in the new world which he is about to enter. Of what avail would her exhortations be? But on the day before, she had knelt beside her son and earnestly petitioned: "Forsake not thy God and Savior. So act that you shall never be ashamed in his presence."

And now he is gone for long years. Shall mother and son ever be reunited? And how?

The old routine of daily life is renewed. Karen attends to the household duties, while Ingeborg may be seen slipping into "mother Esther's" own little room. She has in this way seen Wulf once more unobserved by him, and now she turns to his mother.

Frau Ericksen has not yet recovered her usual elasticity. She is laying away some of her son's belongings, and she lingers over them longer, perhaps, than necessary. Just as Ingeborg approaches she is holding up an old waistcoat, and hot tears are falling upon it. Life for her will always lie in the past with regard to her son. When he returns, he will no longer be a sailor-boy. She goes out to hide her tears from Ingeborg.

But to Wulf the coach travels all too slowly. Ah! if he were only at the end. On the railroad he will be carried so swiftly.

Travel on! I may not see Whither this journey's end shall be.

V.

"I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other."--SHAKESPEARE.

When Wulf was a little child he had once seen, on an arch, a representation of the king's entry into Berlin. There stood the throngs of people--a multitude crowded together. At that time this thought had entered the sprightly boy's mind: How many things one might find among so many people, and that if he were only at Berlin there would be no end of pocket-knives, lead-pencils, and other desirable objects lying in the streets. To his youthful imagination that great city was always crowded full of people, just as it appeared in the picture. Naturally this idea had become somewhat changed with the passing years; but to-day, when he entered the metropolis, there was still a certain irrepressible feeling that he should find a great deal in it.

He was standing by a window of the room which Arnold had secured for him, looking down upon a beautiful, wide thoroughfare. Many people passed to and fro--not quite so many, however, as the arch had represented. The room was high, so different from the one at home, and even very different from the one he had recently occupied at the gymnasium. Wulf carried his head aloft, for now he was a medical student. A goal had been reached. He stood at the gate of his city of happiness.

There is surely something wrong with a youth who does not struggle after high aims, which he believes will eventually lead to great results. Wulf did not desire to become an ordinary physician. He wished to study in order that he might fathom the depths of every disease. He was possessed with the thought which presents itself to every strong, healthy nature; namely, that disease was an unnatural foreign element. He would therefore give it neither place nor authority, and when the intruder, with its distorted visage, invaded his neighborhood, he would bravely wage war against it for life or death. In imagination he saw himself a conqueror of death, to whose grim influence only the aged and life-weary should be a prey. He saw happy faces everywhere, which he had been the first to create; and with such visions before him his heart beat higher.

But one can not fly to the top of a mountain. No; step after step must be taken; and O, how long and tiresome often is the way! Yet at present he sat at the feet of the professors, and among the students there was none more diligent than he. During the past years the world, with its temptations, had stepped into the background, and his naturally youthful, buoyant character was again in the ascendency. With eager, inquiring mind, and burning, zealous soul, he listened now to all suggestions from within. There had been periods when ideas did not harmonize consistently; but now much that had been obscure presented itself perfectly clearly. Added to this was the new academic life. Although Wulf was acquainted with none of the students, and formed no intimacies, the multitude of impressions with which the gay, bustling city abounded overwhelmed him at every step. All this occupied his mind so intently during the first days and weeks, that he went around like one in a dream, out of which he only awakened in the evenings, when the heart asserted its claims, and sang to him a song without words, of friends and home.

Three weeks were thus passed, and Wulf had not yet visited the Kahrings.

Why?

He did not know why himself. There was a knock at his door, and Arnold entered.

Wulf was very glad to see a familiar face. He had hoped to find Arnold at the railroad station, with directions for the stranger; but no one was there, and he was obliged to give a cab-man the number of the house where his friend had rented a room for him. Surely there he should find the young ensign, but neither on the street nor in his apartment had a friendly face been glimpsed; a fact which conflicted with his ideas of true hospitality.

And now Arnold entered, as pleasant and unconcerned as possible. No apology, not the slightest intimation of any discourtesy on his part. This chafed Wulf, and he was somewhat reserved.

"Well, how are you?" exclaimed Arnold, immediately stepping to the window, and, without waiting for a reply, adding: "Wonderful view here; day and night always something going on! This is one of the streets where a person can thoroughly exist. Now, how are you?"

"Thank you, very well," replied Wulf, rather frigidly. "At first so many strange sights and scenes made me a trifle homesick. I have not made a single acquaintance, and the thought has occurred to me that if I were to plunge into the water over there and be seen no more forever, not a single human being would miss me or trouble himself about it."

"Well, you paid your rent in advance, and I guess your landlord would enter an energetic protest against such a violent disappearance; but the fact of no one troubling himself about his neighbor is city-like, and may be said, by the way, of the best people here."

After a pause Arnold continued: "But you have seen something meanwhile the--Kroll, museum, Lachse's saloon, the recent parade. Isn't it all superb, magnificent?"

Wulf replied that thus far he had been wholly occupied in his class preparations, buying textbooks, etc.

"But, man, how can you vegetate like that in Berlin?" pursued Arnold; and chatting glibly about things in general, he concluded by inviting the stranger to visit him at home. When he took leave, there was in his hand-shaking such a cold, heartless participation, that Wulf felt it keenly, and went to his studies somewhat wounded and dejected. And yet a few days later we find him at the door of the Kahrings' elegant mansion. His breath is short, his heart beats loudly over the excitement and dread of the first call; but a certain pleasure thrills him as he is conducted through splendid apartments, and presented to the gracious lady of the house. The spacious, beautiful rooms, the elegant appointments, the stately servants, who, apparently, know far better than he how to deport themselves--and now Lady Von Kahring enters in silk and satin, looking more majestic amid these surroundings than even she did in the cottage by the sea, but just as kindly, just as friendly and affable as she had been there. She referred to her pleasure at learning of Wulf's studies, and expressed the hope of seeing him very often during the Winter. These were the only personal allusions she made; after which the conversation drifted along to various commonplace remarks, among them a polite inquiry for Herr Ericksen, his uncle--and she withdrew without presenting her husband or children to the bewildered young student.

Unsophisticated one! how can you expect in a formal call to get a glimpse of the home-circle, or even to see all the members of the family?

And yet this was really what Wulf had desired. He longed for some place where he might feel at home.