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.