Part 8

The style of his warning was not commendable, but it scarcely deserved the treatment it received. The young woman blushed deeply, and without a word turned her back upon Wulf. Dr. Uhlhart had seen the proceeding. Perhaps he divined the cause. He enjoyed interpreting things falsely. It was now only a short time before all sorts of unseemly and regardless things were repeated, which Herr Ericksen had perpetrated. Many believed too readily these buzzing rumors in the air, as confirmations that low birth and low inclinations went hand-in-hand. It is marvelous how like a serpent creeps a wicked, calumniating word from place to place; one can not catch it, but the poisonous breath it spreads around an unfortunate person is evident. And Wulf soon perceived this venom, without knowing whence it came. Always earnest, he devoted himself to his studies. True, the ideal of his professional calling was removed far from him. So demoralizing had life been to him on account of his experiences with the want of integrity and human love, that his ambition to become a celebrated physician, in order to relieve suffering by his skill, had been dispelled. The ideas which formerly animated him were now repulsive, and stood like good spirits lamenting in the distance. Besides this, a formidable enemy approached Wulf. It was materialism. He could not reconcile the intuition which science gave him with the fundamental principles of Christianity as he had learned them at home. He gave to materialism, which raises its head high to the student of medicine, a sacred, prominent place, second to Christianity. If he had only possessed the true spirit of the latter, it would have comforted and calmed him; but it was only a vague, empty shadow. God, Christianity, immortality, gradually became to Wulf vain, hollow words. While he still battled for them against the advancing enemy, and only desired to know the truth, he was continually entangled by them. Science had not informed the young, vigorous student how to interpret those deep watchwords in the controversy.

Olga Von Steinfels sat in her room. She had now been two years from boarding-school and into society. As an uncontaminated lady she had returned to her father's home. Childhood had been outgrown. Why had she pursued so many hundred studies? Why had she continued French and English so long, if not to show their utility in society? And yet a good genius had folded its pinions around Olga, in order that the allurements of pleasure and the fascination of wealth might not harm the susceptible maiden. This good genius had been a love for Wulf.

He had been the first to pay her marked attention in the days of his glory; but she had been pressed back by the circle of her associates, on account of a natural timidity, and they had praised and monopolized the one whose manly beauty and agreeable friendliness had been so pleasant to her. How she envied them! Soon she had builded airy, fanciful castles, in which Wulf the king, and herself the queen, were enthroned. True, he had given her little encouragement for these fantasies, but Olga never knew how much she really owed to the fisherman's son. He was the star upon which she gazed, and the miserable baubles she had formerly admired faded away utterly. She was, for the most part, like many girls of her age, from youth accustomed to think herself the center of the universe; to adore externals more than to discern true merit; to enjoy herself with the happy, and to shed a tear with the sorrowing; to pass her days as best she might, and look upon the childish frivolities of life as its highest aims.

To-day Sibylla has called upon Olga. They are not intimate friends, but the fair hostess is not wholly able to conceal from her guest her hopes and happiness. Sibylla is too polite to question her very closely; but she has, herself, thought Wulf had shown recently much solicitation for Olga, and Dr. Uhlhart had also intimated the same to her. Suddenly, however, she has become so cool and restrained that little Olga is wholly frightened. When Sibylla had returned home she said to herself: "What is it to me? He can do as he pleases; but if he really loves this superficial girl, he is not the man I have believed him to be. And as for Olga--well, when one feels deeply it is difficult to express a sentiment. But what does it matter to me?"

Sometime after, Dr. Uhlhart called upon Sibylla. He talked of various things, and finally mentioned Wulf. Being careful to defend him, he at the same time related so many wicked and disagreeable stories about him that one so bright as Sibylla could not fail to be impressed. And the doctor knew her well enough to discern just what displeased her. He described how Wulf had suddenly evinced a great interest in the lower classes; how he loafed in beer-saloons in order to acquaint himself with the working-men who especially pleased him. He regretted Wulf had so little consideration, and that he went so far as to ridicule those with whom he had formerly associated. In this way he dropped the poison in Sibylla's ear. She was silent. At length she silenced him with: "And why, pray, do you tell me all this? It interests me very little to hear of people's failings." The doctor bit his lips. But why did his glance pierce Sibylla so keenly? Had he made a good stroke, or had he made a fool of himself? He feared the latter; but a point had been gained, perhaps, and he knew it was necessary to take many tricks to win a game.

Lady Von Steinfels sat holding a letter in her hand. It had come by post, without seal or signature. The writer declared his desire to call her attention to the fact that Wulf Ericksen was paying court to her daughter, and not in vain. He had observed this himself, as well as heard it spoken of in many places. He therefore felt under obligation to inform the mother by direct communication. At first Lady Von Steinfels threw the letter indignantly aside, feeling that an anonymous letter was unworthy of notice; but after some conversation with her daughter, she discovered that her unknown correspondent knew more about her family affairs than she did; for Olga stood before her, and, with hot tears, protested she loved Wulf, and that any opposition from her mother would render her unspeakably miserable.

"Child, child!" said Lady Von Steinfels, soothingly, "you are too young to know the meaning of love. Only believe me when I assure you that what we imagine to be love at first, soon passes off, and is nothing but a dream or fleeting fancy. In a little while you will laugh over this, and look upon it as a folly."

Olga turned scornfully away. She had not been educated on a mother's heart, and she had scarcely been out of boarding-school before her young soul had been filled with love's dreams. Her mother was no friend in whom she might confide. Olga had never been taught to trust her, and how could she expect this inexperienced, intoxicated girl to please her or to obey her with a willing heart?

But the mother's heart was bitter. An inner voice warningly asked: "Why have you given over your only child to strangers? Was not your home large enough for both?" "Alas! there was no room there. Social duties, a husband's position, left no time to look after my daughter. I did what thousands of others have done--gave her the advantages of the best boarding-school and the most expensive teachers. Now I want to be her friend. O, why should I be treated so?" she mourned.

Olga continued steadfast in her love and trust. But how long? When she found that Wulf no longer gave her any attention, when she heard nothing but evil reports of his behavior, she confessed that her mother was right. It was the young soul's first disappointment, and she was bitter and hard in her conclusions. Olga asked: What is the use of living? Why dress and go out into company where everybody deceives and lies? What should she do there? Lie and deceive also? A torturing pang shot through her inmost soul during these days, when she was forced to accept the position as the best wisdom. Well is it for us that the future is hidden!

What Dr. Uhlhart had repeated was not wholly untrue. Wulf had really desired to become acquainted with the so-called "common people;" he wished to discover whether they possessed, under perhaps a rude exterior, a better kernel than those among higher classes. Perhaps he did not take the best method to secure his aim, especially since Uhlhart, who had proffered his services as companion, was no good guide.

Wulf had a horror for this man, and yet he could not shake off his influence--an influence that Uhlhart exerted over many with demoniacal power. Wulf found as little of what he sought among the working-class as he had in aristocratic circles, and it was very agreeable to him when one of his instructors strongly advised him to spend his third year in some other place. He desired to go away from Sibylla, as his affection for her continued to increase, and he had no reason to believe it was reciprocated. What she had approved so openly upon that eventful evening concerned the subject, not the person. She was among a circle of acquaintances who gave her perfect liberty of action. She had openly enough during the latter months shown Wulf that she asked nothing from him, as she only vindicated him on account of the opposition against him. Wulf was too honorable to ask her a direct question; for he had no home to offer and as yet no prospect of one. Still, for a time longer, life played itself away, until now it was Summer, and people were enjoying themselves at the various watering-places. If one met an acquaintance on the streets of Berlin it was a source of as great surprise as if he had met him on the bay at Naples.

Then Wulf packed up his traps, and started off likewise. This time not homeward; he had no desire to go there, and all communication with his relatives had been confined to an occasional letter. He would first wander through Thuringia, then go to Jena. When he went to take leave of Lady Von Herbig, he found she had gone; Uhlhart had given him a later day for her departure. But it was well enough so, as it made his own leaving easier.

Wulf had learned many things in Berlin. His knowledge, his intuition were richer, and his understanding had been formed. He had also unlearned much. He had not become actually wicked, for his manly heart revolted against dishonesty; but many of his noble aspirations had been wrested from him with icy grasp. He longed for the good things of earth; but he was not happy, for his soul was not satisfied. So he went to Jena. "I behold a youth whose true inner self excites my love, but I fear he is only too apt to swim with the current of time. He has given his rudder into the hands of one who will prove unfaithful, and his frail boat will not be able to stem the tide, but will obey the guidance of its destroyer."

Uhlhart accompanied Wulf, whom he called his friend, to the railroad station. When he had disappeared from view, he rubbed his hands gleefully and said: "Now, with regard to Fraulein Sibylla it shall be 'out of sight, out of mind,' and I shall take care she will learn what a vulgar peasant has attracted her attention."

XII.

"God is in the orient, God is in the Occident; In the northern, southern lands, Rests the peace of his own hands." --GOETHE.

Let us return again to our acquaintances by the sea-shore. The sea rolls on in eternal change as before, the days following one another in its ebb and flow; and a day will come which to one of the dwellers there, shall be the last.

Captain Nielsen, the old traveler, stands this morning in his usual place. He has grown older, and he gazes with increasing solicitude upon Ingeborg, his sweet daughter, the solitary jewel that remains to him. His wife and three lovely children, years agone, wandered pale and wan, with hectic flush upon their faces, until one after another had passed away and been carried to the silent church-yard. That was long ago, and little Ingeborg knew nothing about them except what her old nurse, Johanna, had told her. The happy child did not miss them; but she often spoke of them, and believed they were in heaven. Once, during a violent storm, she had been looked for and found on the beach, unwilling to return home. "O, let me go! When it lightens, the heavens open, and I will look in to see my mother and sisters!" Thus she seemed to live with the dead whom she had never known. She was her father's darling, but was left much alone.

After every hemorrhage she declined perceptibly. "She will yield to it," her father thought; but as the days and years passed, the small, wan face, the hectic flush, the brilliant eye, all reminded him of those who had gone before. Must the father part with his last child?

He had hoped for Wulf's return with skill acquired at the great Berlin colleges, to heal his daughter. But Wulf tarried long, and this year did not return home at all. Then the captain went to Hamburg to consult an eminent physician there. "I ought to see your daughter," said the doctor; "but from what you have told me I think she should be taken to a milder climate. Could you not find it convenient to pass the Winter at Cairo?"

Why not? Captain Nielsen had abundant financial means and was accustomed to travel. It was entirely feasible. Indeed it had seemed strange to remain so long in this quiet haven, away from the bustling world. So he immediately began to make his arrangements at Hamburg for the journey, and a few days later returned home.

He has just made his plans known to Ingeborg. She scarcely realizes them at first. Once she might have been eager to go; but now her head droops. "O father, is it really necessary? We have no friends there; but that is no matter."

"Don't be foolish, darling. An old seaman like me doesn't need friends to acquaint him with strange places. You have spoiled me here, and I ought to go East again."

Then Ingeborg began to realize what she should lose. "I can not live without the sea, or Mother Esther. They will both miss me so much."

"Ah, what is that to your health?"

Ingeborg was silent. What made the journey most undesirable to her she would reveal to no one. In fact, she scarcely desired to be well again. Heaven, with its blessedness, seemed as near and certain to her as the Christ-gift tree from an open door to the children in an adjoining room. And now she was even filled with regret that she must wait still longer. She rested her head upon her hands, and all the glories of the New Jerusalem passed through her mind. Here the sky was gray, full of sin and clouds; there all was brightness and purity and beauty, and her young heart went out in longings for that home of rest and peace. Then another picture presented itself to the weary child. Here was her old father, by whom she loved to be, and must remain. No, no! she would henceforth fix her eyes upon the earth. Continually beholding the beaming splendor of eternity made the present, with its duties, grow obscure and worthless.

"Father, when shall we start?" she asked, with soft voice.

"Every thing is ready, my dear child, and we shall start in a fortnight. Johanna will care for the house in our absence, and we must begin to consider what to take with us and what to leave behind."

As her father seemed unusually wearied, Ingeborg brought him a pillow, and said, lovingly:

"Won't you take a little sleep, dear father? You have not been accustomed to travel, and arrived home so late last night."

"Well, darling, I don't usually sleep in the mornings; but I will indulge myself to-day for I am very tired. But I shall sleep regularly when we get to Egypt, God willing."

Ingeborg was passing lightly from the room when she heard her name called:

"Dear, you have not read to me for several evenings, and I can't go to sleep so well without it. I missed it so much in Hamburg. Read me something."

Ingeborg opened her Bible, and read from the twenty-first chapter of Revelation the following words:

"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth are passed away; and the sea is no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, made ready as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of the throne saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he shall dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God; and he shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and death shall be no more; neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain, any more: the first things are passed away. And he that sitteth on the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he saith, Write: for these words are faithful and true."

"Thank you, thank you, my child. Now go; I am so tired," murmured the father.

Some minutes later Ingeborg looked into the room, and her father was asleep. Then she went over to Mother Esther's to tell her about the journey. The old mother shook her head.

"My child, it doesn't seem right to me. I think we ought to stay where the Lord places us. Your father is old and feeble, and you are young and weak. What if any thing should happen to either of you?"

Ingeborg was also fearful, but she replied:

"You must not talk so to me. God will go with us. It is all decided and can not be changed."

Then Mother Esther silenced her doubts, and gave the young girl all kinds of advice. Ah! she had never left this spot; what did she know of this hot Egypt? But Ingeborg listened, and promised to be very careful of herself and her father. As she passed out of the house and saw the sea sparkling, it seemed as though she should never be able to part with this old friend.

But the child was already separated from her oldest friend. When Ingeborg returned and entered her father's room, he was still sleeping; but his head had fallen, and she went to adjust the pillow. Her hand trembled, for the face she touched was icy cold. Looking more closely, she was seized with a spasm of terror.

"Johanna! Johanna!" she cried.

The old nurse came quickly, and uttered a loud shriek. Captain Nielsen was dead! He had taken that long journey whence none ever return. After Ingeborg had recovered from the pain of the first shock, she felt strange and solemn. There before her lay, lifeless, he who only a few hours previously had talked cheerfully about his future plans, and who had the strongest love and tenderest care for his only child. Stiff, motionless, cold--O, how cold! But Ingeborg looked less upon the shell--she would gladly have seen where the soul tarried. Once only, when a child, she had been present at the death of a person, and had imagined heaven's door would open in the separation of soul and body, and she might be permitted to catch a glimpse therein. But the great secret had passed over her, on the threshold of which she stood so ready. She looked at her own transparent hands, and said joyfully: "I shall soon follow." How softly her father must have slept away! He had passed through the eternal gates, his last thoughts upon the New Jerusalem, only to awaken to find himself there!

Poor little Ingeborg! and you are still here. He desired to travel with you, why did he not take you with him?

Ingeborg folded her hands: "Dear Lord, what shall I do here? Behold, I am alone; come thou and help me!"

Ah! poor, weary child! Thy father's life-work is ended; therefore he can rest; but yours is not yet finished.

Every body was astonished to hear of Captain Nielsen's sudden death. But no idle talk was indulged over his body. The lowly dwellers by the sea were earnest, and they looked upon the frail child with a sympathy far-reaching and sincere. "Our life hangs upon a thread, but God holds the thread," said Mother Esther.

Ingeborg bowed. Her life's thread lay in the same hand, who knew what was best for her, and she could lovingly say: "Thy will be done."

"I would gladly go in this way," continued Mother Esther; "no lingering illness. How is it with you, my brother?" she said, turning to the body; but the lips remained closed, and she added softly: "I shall soon know."

Time passed. Ingeborg watched the sea dreamily, and saw the waves come and go. Whither did they go? Rolled they to eternity? Why did they not take the sick child with them, when she longed to be landed at the port of Eternal Life? Ingeborg did not go to Egypt. What should she do there?

Old Johanna took faithful care of her, and every thing went along smoothly in the little house. Yes; it was very quiet and lonely in the world. Wulf had been absent three years, and Ingeborg had not seen him for two years. Arnold Von Kahring had given her tidings of how Wulf passed his time--pleasing, displeasing, singing, and dancing. He had also intimated that Wulf was frequently criticised for his behavior. This he had not done intentionally; but the way and manner sank deeply into Ingeborg's heart.

"If Wulf does wrong, it is the wicked people at Berlin who are to blame. He is not bad--no, never, I am sure," she would reply.

One night Old Peter knocked at Ingeborg's door, and said: "Come quickly, Frau Ericksen is dying."

While the young girl had begged for the privilege of being with Mother Esther when such an event occurred, when the summons came her blood ceased to circulate and her limbs trembled.

But it was not death that had approached the old mother's home. A stroke of paralysis had occurred during the night; her peculiar breathing had awakened Karen, and now all stood around her, anxious and powerless.

At last the doctor arrived. He declared that there was no immediate danger, but was unable to tell when the stroke might return. It was possible she might lie in this condition for many years. Her entire right side was paralyzed, rigid as marble. With foot and arm helpless, mouth drawn, and partial vision only, she could scarcely utter inarticulate sounds. But her mind was clear and she was perfectly conscious of all that was happening around her. When the physician said she might linger for years, a shadow fell across her wrinkled face, and her eyes filled with tears. How different from what she had prayed and hoped! It is a terrible affliction when a woman of her active nature is obliged to lie passive and helpless.

Karen undertook to nurse her mother with great fidelity. But the demands of the business and the house must receive attention. Therefore it happened that Ingeborg sat for hours long by the bedside. She was happy that finally she could be useful to some one. Karen was enabled to work without, as the mother was in excellent hands.

Poor Karen! Her sky was not always bright. Martin had been absent three years, and nothing had been heard of him. Even though he were a poor writer, he might have found an opportunity to send one letter. Besides, his father was rather proud, and no doubt would prefer his son to marry a richer girl, although Karen, with her amiable disposition and chest-linen, was on no account to be despised. But now a sick mother was no agreeable addition to the dowry; but he felt sure Karen would fulfill her duty right and left until death. What could be done? If Martin were only here!

Meanwhile Frau Ericksen and Ingeborg had a lonely, quiet time. True, one only heard the latter's soft, low voice in response to Mother-Esther's glances of expression which were so perfectly understood. Both enjoyed the sacred grove of the Psalms, and, like fresh waters, these old songs rustled through the shade. Beyond it they saw with clear vision the heavenly city, when Ingeborg repeated: