XVIII.

"There's a love that lives a season, And one that lives for aye; There's a love that knows no treason, And one that will betray; There's a love that is deceiving, One that's worth the heart's believing, And with each comes joy or grieving To every one some day.

Which my lot shall be accorded, No more I have to guess; Fate its fiat has recorded What love I shall possess. In thy heart's the love that seals it, Every day more clear reveals it, And my heart exulting feels it, True love my life shall bless."

The Winter was more severe this season than usual. The sea was frozen over, and the ice had remained for a long time as firm as it was now. The people crossed it to and fro in wagons to the little neighboring islands. Lovely, quiet, and inclosed lay the little village in which our friends dwelt. Life flowed on with the utmost uniformity. When the day greeted the departing night, it said, "Mother Esther lies prostrate in her bed as usual;" and when evening returned again, the day only added, "And Ingeborg sits by her side the same as ever."

Christmas dawned. The day was short, and it grew dark very early. There were few festival preparations to be seen in the dwellings with which we are familiar.

Ingeborg was sitting quietly in her own room. In former years her father had been with her; to-day she was alone. An intense longing for her heavenly home came over the sick child. Just then the chiming of bells through the air called to vespers in the neighboring church. Ingeborg expected to sing in the angels' chorus, in which the assembled host announce, with great joy, good tidings to all people. She went out with faithful Johanna. Everywhere bright lights streamed over the white snow, all leading to the same place. O, how beautiful it was to see the single beams uniting in their journey to the sanctuary! Not one little cottage that did not send forth its worshipers. From Mother Esther's home stepped the slender Karen. Where was Wulf to-day? His light was absent; it did not beam God-ward. Flickered it like a Will-o'-the-wisp over the moors?

In the church there was a sacred silence. The lull organ peeled forth, and the chorus of children sang. Ingeborg folded her hands. "Next year I shall rejoice with the choir above," she murmured. They sang the message of joy; but she forgot to unite with them. It was only the familiar child's-song, but Ingeborg thought it had never sounded so beautiful before. At the conclusion, "Glory to God," all eyes were suddenly directed to the gallery; a deep, manly voice had burst forth, which was strange and yet familiar. Karen, too, looked up. O, what a glance! There stood Martin as first singer, at his old post--Martin, who had been absent, now, for three years! Their eyes met. Karen dropped hers upon the hymn-book; but the words danced before her, and she could sing no more.

Ingeborg's face beamed with pleasure, but a deep pang passed through her heart.

Martin's first visit had been to the church. Mother Esther did not know of his return, and she hastened to carry the news. How the poor paralyzed one tried to express her joy! But only inarticulate sounds came from her lips. Then the two happy ones entered the room, radiant as a Christmas-tree. After the first greeting, Martin drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Ingeborg.

"As I passed the post-office," he explained, "a messenger ran after me, and asked me to deliver this to you."

Ingeborg glanced at the superscription. It was from Berlin, from Theodora Von Kahring. She opened and read it. Why was her face paler than usual? Why did she press her thin lips so firmly as if to suppress a cry of anguish from within?

When Martin and Karen learned the letter was not from Wulf they had no further interest in it, and both went off together to visit Martin's parents. Frau Ericksen and Ingeborg were then left alone, and the latter read aloud the communication. It was expressed with that clear serenity which Theodora alone represented, and yet its contents were alarming.

Theodora had written to Ingeborg, as she knew his mother to be bedridden, that "a regard for Wulf," whom she "heartily loved," had prompted her to send the letter. Wulf was ill, bodily and mentally, and she deemed it very necessary that one of his own, preferably his uncle, should hasten to Berlin at once, either to care for him there, or, what would be better, take him home for a while. She intimated that it was rumored how gambling and drink had occupied much of his time; but she imputed this to the influence of a young man who enticed him to such places, and from whom he must be wholly separated. She also related how Wulf had faithfully attended for a long time a poor family, and expressed the belief that he would soon be restored to the better way. But something must be done immediately. She had learned of his illness and of his desire to see her; but upon calling, his landlady had denied access to his room, saying that Wulf had changed his mind. It was her opinion that he had contracted gambling debts, and was in the power of his inflexible creditors.

When the reading was finished, both women were silent. Ingeborg looked inquiringly upon the paralytic, but she indicated nothing.

"Who shall go to Berlin? Ah! if his good uncle had only been spared!" said Ingeborg, after a pause. "Wulf must be in great need, or Theodora never would have written so."

Frau Ericksen made a sign, from which her companion understood that she had no suggestion to offer.

"Karen cannot travel; she would never be able to find the way there. Martin does not know Wulf, and it would be a pity to separate the two after his long absence. Mother, send me; let me go."

The old woman shook her head, looked out of the window, and then at Ingeborg's fragile form.

"O, you mean that I can not? I am stronger than you think; you do not know how much I can endure. Some one must go. Let me."

Mother Esther lay silent for awhile; then she drew the young girl to her side, and laid her hands upon her head.

"I will talk to Martin," said Ingeborg, "and he can direct me. When I reach Berlin I shall have Theodora's help."

While Ingeborg was making preparations for the journey the Kahrings at Berlin were arranging for Arnold's wedding, which was to take place in three days; and on this account many were unable to celebrate Christmas; for tailors, caterers, and florists were all employed for the occasion. Every body was talking about the elegant apartments, the superb mirrored walls, the magnificent tapestries, the bride's princely dower. Every body praised the happy pair. "Yes, yes," said the upholsterer, who had skillfully draped the damask curtains, and was now observing the effect with unconcealed satisfaction; "yes, yes: if such as we only had even a little bit of all this splendor! But one sits all day with the happiness of her children's legs in her lap, and another runs all his life without being able to lay hold of an outside coat lapel." It was, therefore, not in the rosiest mood that he entered his little cellar home, and observed with discontented eyes his own poor, dilapidated curtains. But his wife had supper ready, and was so happy to have her husband at home in the evenings. The children sprang around the father, and had so many new discoveries to show in their little puppet-man and nut-cracker, that he soon forgot his useless ill-humor, and related to his delighted wife all the gorgeous appointments of the new house. She sat and listened with open mouth, and finally said: "O, if I could only see it!"

They who were soon to call this elegance their own had lived, meanwhile, in heaviness and gloom. Every thing forced upon a person, as from the beginning this affair had been, is calculated to be an infliction. Arnold felt so toward his bride. She did not know how to win his affection, and he overlooked her good qualities and observed only her faults. But she really loved him after her fashion. She desired his respect and commendation, but he only gave her the most perfunctory attention. Then she began to mistrust him--even to follow him with icy glances. Arnold was aware of this, but made no change in his manner.

If this was the condition of affairs during the six weeks' betrothal, what would it be in the marriage unto death? Arnold revolved this in his mind, and became indescribably wretched. On account of this condition his naturally indolent nature was aroused; he felt continually the ignominy of having sold himself for money, and in the depths of his really good-natured heart he pitied his betrothed in her mistaken life's happiness. And yet what was her happiness? She craved a distinguished title. Then he would give it to her. That she had any deeper sentiment for him he never dreamed.

Very often he had been impelled to make an open confession to her, to give back her promise, and shake off the yoke that lay so heavily upon him. But his parents--the dark despair of their future, the great pain of his mother, the reproachful face of his sister, who, by this step would have promising happiness secured to her--all this stood before him.

As the wedding-day drew near he felt proportionately miserable. This was the curse of the incompleteness which had accompanied him all his life; namely, that he had never been able to reach a right conclusion; never had the strength to will as he desired, still less to carry out his resolutions.