XX.

"Life's a tortured, booming gurge, Winds of passion strike and urge, And transmute to broken surge Foam-crests of ambition.

Death, men say, is like a sea, That ingulfs mortality, Treacherous, dreadful, blindingly, Full of storm and terror." --M. FIELD.

Let us now return to the wedding festival. It was celebrated in the Hotel R----. The beautiful, spacious drawing-room had been adorned with exquisite plants and flowers, which concealed the walls, while fountains here and there rustled their melodies during the pauses of the music. Around the table, on which hundreds of wax tapers glowed in rich silver candelabra, while the rarest viands and choicest wines in the world vied with one another, sat a large company, partly of the nobility, partly of those representing the aristocracy of money--outward show concealing inward emptiness, as false hair the bald heads.

In the center sat enthroned the young bridal couple; Arnold more attentive and amiable than usual; his bride cold and stately as ever. It seemed as though the greater part of life had been spent before a mirror, in order to regulate every movement of her body, every expression of her face, after the strictest model of propriety. Had she as well, one was tempted to ask, educated and molded her heart with even a tithe of this care and consistency?

An old proverb says: "Out of one wedding two usually come." This would appear probable to-day, from all indications. Herr Von Lenkseuring had for the past six weeks been devotedly attentive to the chosen one of his heart, and Eugenie Von Kahring looked upon her suitor with no unfriendly eyes.

A trick of fate, perhaps also some human intervention, had decreed to have them both neighbors at table. That was a favorable opportunity. The young man softly whispered to his fair companion many little phrases which made her blush for joy.

Lady Von Kahring looked benignly on the pair. When Eugenie should have married this rich young man, and Arnold had just performed a deed which had produced rejoicing, then were not the wishes of her heart as well as the necessities of her house satisfied? Still she was in anxious suspense; the fortune of her step-daughter lay in a well-formed contract in her father's hands, and the embarrassments of her husband had reached their utmost limit; indeed he could scarcely wave them off until this very day, when a large sum of money was due, and must be in his hands. Surely Banker Kouzky could not deny him the favor of a loan. His honor was their honor; his daughter now bore the name of their son.

"To the one we love," said Banker Kouzky, laughingly, to his new relative Eugenie, as he leaned over the table toward her. "I think we not only have a newly wedded pair at table, but a betrothed one," he added, jestingly, to Lady Von Kahring, and in tones so loud that the neighbors of the baroness all smiled and looked at Herr Von Lenkseuring and Eugenie. The former seemed ready to receive congratulations then and there; but Eugenie begged him to speak to papa and mamma first, and not to make any announcement here. The scene passed, but not until the news had traveled the circuit of the table. But the air was stifling; all were oppressed, and, by universal consent, the table was deserted, and all withdrew to the adjoining salon. Here dance-music quickened the blood in the veins of the young people, while the older guests sought the smaller rooms or cozy corners in groups, as they found it congenial. Every one was perfectly free and unrestrained.

But what have the two old gentlemen, Baron Von Kahring and Banker Kouzky, to say so softly and earnestly to each other in yonder window-niche?--the baron growing more and more persuasive, the banker more and more cold and reserved. On the baron's forehead stand great drops of perspiration, while the banker's countenance remains as unmoved as that of a speculator when one would seek to read therein the rise or fall of stocks on the 'change. At length he remarks, icily:

"Herr Baron, do not mistake; my daughter and my money are two very different things. The one I have given; make no expectation on that account of the other."

The baron talked so earnestly it seemed as though one could hear his vehement words. It was in vain. At length he became silent and exhausted. The banker turned away smiling. Near by a game of cards was being arranged, and he said, suavely: "Shall we join this party?"

At this juncture an old general approached the two, with a wine-glass and bottle in hand:

"Baron, this is to the welfare of your house, on which has been grafted to-day a new branch."

"Long may it live!" replied the baron, accepting the glass and draining it; but his eyes were sunken and his countenance ashy.

The banker added his thanks, touched his glass to both, and laughed cordially.

The next morning Wulf was up betimes to prepare for his departure. He hoped nothing from this home-going; but he embraced it, as his only method of escape, with gratitude.

His landlady rushed into the room, pale with terror:

"Herr Ericksen! Herr Ericksen! Do you know what has happened?"

"What has happened?" inquired Wulf.

"Baron Von Kahring has committed suicide. He shot himself last night."

Wulf grasped the table. Every thing whirled in the room.

"Arnold?" he cried.

"No, the old baron. It was almost three o'clock when he returned from the wedding. An hour later his servants heard a fearful report, and hastening to his side, found him dead. So the milkman has just told me."

Away with apathy and weakness! Wulf hurried to the Kahrings. How changed every thing was! Despite the early hour, crowds of people were running hither and thither in great excitement. No servant announced him, and he passed unhindered to the baron's chamber. What a sight! Arnold and Banker Kouzky were there alone.

Poor Arnold! Slaughtered in vain. Wulf hastened toward him to embrace him, but he was repulsed. The old banker, standing coldly near, shook his head. He thought: "Could he not have taken a simple powder if he were determined upon this? That would have made no fuss and trouble like this. A physician's certificate for apoplexy might have been secured, and I should not have grudged the money for that; but----" and with an air of disgust he gazed upon the lifeless form.

The young baroness entered, and drew her husband to an adjoining room. Her heart was cold; education and custom had formed a crust of ice over it; but as this violent deed had interrupted the course of every-day life, so it also penetrated this hard coating, and the warm spring of love that exists in most women's hearts gushed forth freely. She had always been restricted and restrained by a sense of propriety, and it was well now that she could act. If we could have wished a loving hand to rest upon the old baroness, Eugenie, and Theodora, they had no reason henceforth to complain of any want of care and sympathy from Arnold's wife. Like a warm current this love fell upon her husband, and, in spite of all other thoughts, it burned his soul like fire. Had he deserved it? She, to whom he had behaved as though he had only married her for money? She, who now bore a stained name, and who must, with all her short-sightedness, realize the motives of those around her? But true love is a rose which blooms in the midst of thorns; in the springing clover fields it seldom thrives.

The first sad days over, the stunning effects were gradually relaxed; visits of condolence and letters of sympathy came from all sides. Herr Von Lenkseuring wrote that as he stood at such a distance from the respected Kahring family, he dared not intrude; but ventured to send this token of sympathy in such an extraordinarily sad calamity, etc. Lady Von Kahring received the communication in good faith, but Eugenie wept hot, bitter tears. In the very last book he had given her stood the words: "Faithful even in misfortune."

Soon after this occurrence wagons came to carry trunk after trunk to the railway-station. The young baron, with his wife, his mother, and sister, set out upon a long journey through Austria. Through the young baroness's influence her father was persuaded to accept the responsibility of settling the estate. They are now off to the far south, where we shall leave them to begin a new life; leave them for the present in the hope that, having experienced the emptiness of this world's happiness, they will strive for the higher and better way.

The once elegant apartments of the Kahring mansion stand deserted and lorn, awaiting another division of life to be enacted therein.

XXI

"Such let my life be here: Not marked by noise but by success alone, Not known by bustle, but by useful deeds; Quiet and gentle, clear and fair as light, Yet full of its all-penetrating power, Its silent but resistless influence; Wasting no needless sound, yet ever working, Hour after hour, upon a needy world." --H. BONAR.

The last day of the year had come. But such a struggle and event as it brought with it none of the preceding three hundred and sixty-four had witnessed. The dunes looked around in surprise, rubbing with one hand the snow from their eyes, and thinking Summer had returned again. They could not imagine why there was such a concourse of people moving to and fro. What had occurred in this quiet spot of the world that it had been transformed into such a place of excitement?

Nothing had happened as yet; but on the morrow Martin's father had decided to give a festival in honor of his son's return, such as had never been witnessed on sea or land. All the people round about should participate in it; great and small should rejoice with him. There was no public house large enough to accommodate every body; but this did not trouble Herr Niederog's mind. Did not the sea spread itself out to unseen width, and arch her bosom with ice as firm as a ship's deck? Did it not sparkle and beam in dazzling whiteness? On the ice, then, they would go; play, eat, drink, skate, sled--all partake of the joy which the father entertained.

Great preparations were begun. Herr Niederog hastened them as much as possible; for while the ice now stood firm and hard as marble, the banks here and there began to give signs that probably in several days water would flow between the main-land and the ice-plain.

To-day all was safe and beautiful. The finest weather greeted the festival, to which every body was invited. O, how the children anticipated, with longing eyes, the preparations of the refreshments yonder, in a gayly decorated tent! For once noon-time came too late; but a half hour after, no one was seen in the houses; old and young were out. Those who could not play and skate looked merrily on, and not a single person remained behind save the solitary invalid of the village, Frau Ericksen. Karen would have gladly remained with her; but, being Martin's betrothed, she was one of the chief personages of the festival. At length she, too, was gone, and the paralytic one lay in a position which enabled her to look out on the sea, and at least share with her eyes in the general enjoyment. Had Ingeborg been here, she would have remained at the bedside, as such pleasures were indifferent to her; but she was at Berlin, having written a few lines to Mother Esther, after her arrival, to the effect that she had reached there safely; had seen Wulf; he was no longer ill, and should soon return with her. Further Mother Esther knew nothing.

Quietly she lay there, thinking, recalling the occurrences of her life. With what pleasure she would have witnessed her happy daughter on the arm of the joyful bridegroom! Then her thoughts reverted to Berlin. Her beloved son was there, and she could not help him. How gladly she would have hastened to him, embraced and rescued him! But alas! she was lying here, helpless. Through the clear air came shouts of laughter, and Mother Esther looked out upon the gay picture in the distance. But it was too far away to recognize any one. Much easier could she read the beautiful inscription on the wall, which, as a child, had been deciphered with so much difficulty, and which had silently witnessed all the joy and sorrow of her life. It had stood there as long as the house, and would accompany Karen, also, through her new life, helping her to bear the good and evil days which might recur to her in this little abode:

"In storm and tempests high, Great God, protect my life! And from my little home, Keep distant rage and strife. Let angels hover near; Then shall we never fear!"

Several hours passed in this way. Early evening came, and moonlight fell upon the pretty picture of merry-makers. Suddenly, as Frau Ericksen looked out over the sea, she perceived a little white cloud rising near the horizon. It gave her unspeakable anxiety, as she understood so well weather signals. In about an hour there would be a frightful storm, which would disturb the water, cause the ice to be flooded and all would be lost. "O God!" she thought, "is there not one among them wise enough to interpret that little peculiar cloud, that will soon become monstrous, and bring destruction in its path?" No; all are happy, living only in the present enjoyment. How well she knew this class of people! Quiet, thoughtful, difficult to arouse to mirth, but doing every thing heartily and thoroughly--work or play. No one would dream of danger, and suddenly it will come upon them all!

Mother Esther's solicitude gave vent in a loud cry, which was followed by successive ones. Alas! her shrieks did not reach beyond the little room. They were all in vain; no head turned away from the strand; there was no cessation of pleasure, and the cloud grew larger and larger.

There is no time to lose; many lives hang on thy efforts, thou poor, lame woman!

She looked once more out of the window. The moonlight threw its pale beams over all, and only showed to her more plainly the gathering blackness. Now life hangs on a moment to attract these merry unfortunates. Then, a fearful conclusion: the power of the will controls the body. Frau Ericksen, who, but a few moments before had been unable to stir, crept out of bed, crawled to the stove on hands and knees. God be thanked, there is still some fire there! Seizing a brand she threw it upon her bed, and in a moment it was wrapped in flames. Now she must reach a place of safety herself. With superhuman effort she gained the door, and then, a few feet from her home, she saw the red flames leap from the window and seize the straw upon the roof. Only partially clothed, she knelt in the snow, her whole spiritual strength concentrated in her eyes. She gazed intently hither and thither. Yes, yes! now they see the clear fire-light, and in wild haste all rush to the land. Then the wind sprang up and accelerated the destruction of the widow's dwelling, and still more the approach of the villagers, who now recognized their double peril. The sky had grown dark; the ice cracked and snapped; the wind is become a storm, flapping the flaming tongues like whips, but in the wild escaping all are there; and as the last foot presses the strand the ice breaks, and the furious waters rush and roar as if in rage that their victims have escaped. All are saved, every one.

Martin and Karen outran the others. They were the first to discover the motionless form of their mother, prostrate on the ground. Nothing could be saved from the house. The situation was grasped by all, and one feeling animated every heart. At the same time, from another direction, with flying feet, came Wulf and Ingeborg. They had seen the light of the fire, and had hastened thither as rapidly as the approaching storm. They do not ask what has happened. The condition of Mother Esther permits no time for questions.

"Take her immediately to my house," says Ingeborg.

"No, to mine," "to mine," is heard on all sides.

"I have plenty of room, and it is not far," says Ingeborg, firmly.

Every one offers to carry tenderly the old mother; every hand would render some immediate service; every eye would see her; every lip would bless her.

Now she lies feeble and pale in Ingeborg's comfortable bed and warm room. All signs of lethargy have flown from Wulf, and as yet he does not grasp the situation, as his professional skill is wholly claimed. But there is nothing to hope. A second paralytic stroke has affected the whole body; a third will not be long delayed, and it will end her life.

But Mother Esther is not unconscious. She looks up and recognizes Wulf, Karen, Ingeborg, and Martin. Through the open door many enter. She knows them all, and receives their grateful thanks for their life and her love. Many eyes are wet with tears; many hard palms press the stiffened hands of the old mother. She looks up so inquiringly, that, comprehending her expression, they tell her all are returned safely, and that she has rescued them. Tears of joy fill her eyes as she seeks to read the faces of Karen and Martin. She had destroyed their home, and now her daughter is portionless. They embrace her assuringly, while Herr Niederog advances and says:

"Make no apology, Mother Esther; we owe our lives to you, and I will establish Karen as a princess."

"I will also contribute my share." exclaims an old seaman; "but for you I should be in a watery grave."

"The poor girl has lost mother and home for us," added another. "A shame to any who will not do what he can."

At length the room is cleared. Wulf requests rest and quiet for his mother, he alone remaining at her side until she fell asleep, when he went out to learn the particulars of the affair.

Without words, without ostentation, a simple old woman had done a heroic deed, which was crowned with success. With her own life she had purchased many, and yet there lay upon her face an expression which seemed to ask forgiveness for having destroyed her child's home. Wulf heard the story of the day. And yet this faithful mother he had overlooked and neglected; had given her anxious care instead of joy, and had imagined himself to be better than she! Youthful confidence in unbridled strength on the one side, selfish compliance to every allurement and impression on the other side, had engendered the bitter disappointment in a struggle that had not been able to discriminate between the real and the unreal. Made recreant to his faith, disappointed in his love, he had witnessed the downfall of every thing that had at first seemed beautiful and only worthy of attainment. The usual currents in which he moved had shown their inner falsity and ended in a precipice. Finally he was weary of the chase. He had recognized his want of decision--he who had desired so much and attained so little; but his strength to resist was broken. Knowledge and theory, words, and even experience, could not help him--only deeds and life. Here was a deed; it thrilled him. God be thanked, it created dissension within him. And now his heart was a purgatory in which good and evil struggled for the mastery. What would he not give, now, to have his mother again? He needed her more than ever. "Mother, leave me not," he cried. "Alas! that I followed the false thirst which enticed me from this peaceful calling here! What do I bring as a compensation?"

Mother Esther slept long. Even the raging of a furious storm without did not disturb her. When the angel Gabriel shall sound the trump at the day of judgment she will awake out of her sleep and hear the voice which called "Lazarus, come forth," say to her: "Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."

Her funeral was like that of a princess and a heroine. As in the few days previous all had gone forth to the merry-making, so now no one remained behind from this festival of sorrow.

Wulf stood by the open grave, and looked into the narrow place which should henceforth be his mother's resting-place. What equipment had he, with all his thinking and striving for eternal life? She had never aspired to do great things, and yet she had accomplished the noblest. He, whose ambition would lead him to bless the whole world with startling effect, would he be mourned as a benefactor like this one? Wulf was deeply moved, and these days of heaviness continued their work as they led him to contemplate the months and years of his early life. The corn was laid in the earth.

"Karen, Wulf," said Ingeborg, several days later, "your mother was also my mother; we are brother and sisters. This house belongs to me. It is large and empty. For my sake remain here."

"We will thankfully accept your kind and generous offer, at least for a time," they both replied.

So the three remained together, and faithful Johanna occupied a mother's place among them.

It was decided that Karen and Martin should be married here, and the wedding should be a quiet one; for no grass as yet sprang from Mother Esther's grave. But all the rich love and sympathy which the bride received from the villagers on her wedding-day, was it not typical of the more beautiful flowers springing and growing from that suggestive spot?