'You think so, perhaps, for you are accustomed to it.'
'I should like very much to see your former home,' said the other
brother, George, who had been gazing upon the child with his large
expressive eyes. 'Could you find the way to it?'
'Oh! to be sure I could,' she replied. When I go with the sheep up to
the top of the hills, I can see it far away towards the east.'
It was agreed that the following Sunday they should all three go to see
the wonderfully beautiful cottage the girl had described; and after
that excursion they became playfellows and fast friends. In process of
time, when the girl grew stronger, the mother of the boys, at their
earnest and repeated request, took her as an assistant in her household
work, and Ellen became happier and prettier every day. Johan carved
wooden shoes for her, carried water for her, and helped her at her
weaving; George whitewashed her little room, and planted flowers
outside her window: and neither of the brothers ever went to the
market-town without bringing a little gift to her.
They were all three confirmed on the same day, though the brothers were
older than Ellen; but from that day their peace was disturbed; Lars,
the son of the clerk of the church, took it into his head to make up to
Ellen, presented her with flowers and a silver ring, and, what was
worse, at a dance in the village, shortly after, he danced with her
almost the whole evening. Why was it that the gloomy looks of the
dissatisfied brothers sought not each other's sympathy? Why did not
they open their lips in mutual complaints--why not tell each other that
they had never dreamed of any one else dancing with their sister,
giving her presents, and speaking soft words to her? Was it not _they_
who had met her first, and had visited with her the cottage on the
heath? _They_, who had been so attached to her? But there had hitherto
been two to love her--why had two suddenly become one too many? And
when Ellen, her face radiant with joy, came tripping up to George,
seized his hand, and said, 'Will you not dance one little dance with
me, George?' why did Johan spring forward with a wrathful countenance,
snatch away her hand, and exclaim--'No; I am tired of staying here,
Ellen; we must go home!'
Then George threw his arm round her waist, pushed Johan away, and said,
'Go, if you like, Johan; but Ellen and I will dance.'
Suddenly the brothers turned upon each other as if they had been bitter
enemies; and they would have come to blows, had Ellen not burst into
tears, and, separating them, accompanied them home.
From that day forth they watched narrowly each other's word and look,
and seemed to be always in a state of miserable anxiety about each
other. If they were going to market, they made a point of starting at
the same time; for the one dared not leave the other a moment behind,
for fear he should have an opportunity of saying a kind word privately
to Ellen, or of obtaining a kind look from her, in which the other
could not share. If they were sitting together in their humble parlour,
they kept a sharp and jealous look-out upon every motion and every
glance of hers; and if she spoke a little longer, or with a little more
apparent interest, to one, the room seemed to be too confined for the
other, and he would rush out to breathe the free air, but yet without
feeling the oppression removed from his heart. At length, even the
little friendly attentions they used to pay to Ellen were given up, for
jealousy taught both the brothers what poison there might lie in them
for each.
Perhaps it would have been better if Ellen could have then declared
which she preferred; her heart would have led her willingly to do so;
but to make the other dear brother unhappy! Had they not both been so
kind to the poor child whom they found under the tree? Which, could she
say, had surpassed the other in affection to her? Besides, neither of
them had asked her which she liked best. No--neither of them had
ventured to do that: but both became more gloomy, both apparently more
miserable, and the love of both became more impetuous.
They were all three sitting together one evening; for the young men's
mother was now very feeble and mostly confined to bed. At length, Johan
spoke of the news he had that day heard at the clergyman's house--'that
war had broken out, and that the king had called upon all his faithful
subjects to assist him in it. For the first time for many months the
brothers looked frankly and unsuspiciously at each other, and, holding
out his hand, George said--
'Brother! shall we go to the war?'
A hearty shake of the hand was Johan's reply.
'For God's sake, do not leave me, my dear brothers!' cried Ellen.
'Would it not be enough at least for one to ...' she added, almost in a
whisper; but she stopped suddenly, for the countenance of both the
young men had darkened in a moment. In the fierce look which they
exchanged lay more than words could have expressed; and Ellen felt, as
if the idea had been conveyed to her in a flash of lightning, that they
must both go. She seized a hand of each, pressed them to her beating
heart, and told them, in a voice broken by suppressed sobs, that they
must go, that they must trust in God, and that she would pray for them
both.
That night, when she had retired to her little chamber, she wept bitter
tears, and prayed to the Almighty that he would watch over them both;
and if one _must_ fall, that he would preserve him whose life would be
of the greatest utility. But her sighs were for George, and her secret
wishes for his safety.
The brothers joined the army. The life they led there, so new to both,
seemed to call forth from their inmost souls long-dormant feelings, and
they once more became intimate, but of home they never dared to speak.
They often wished to write to that home, but something invisible seemed
always to prevent them, and neither of them would let that duty devolve
upon the other. It was almost a relief to them when they had to march
to the field of battle; the lives of both would be exposed there--God
would choose between them. And they looked earnestly one upon the
other, and wrung each other's hand. But when they met after the battle,
they did _not_ shake hands, they nodded coldly to each other; and, to a
comrade from their native village, they said--'When you write home,
tell them that our Lord has spared us.'
Again they went forth to meet the enemy; again they participated in
that fearful lottery for life or death; and amidst the tumult of the
fight, they chanced to stand side by side. At length, driven off the
field, they took refuge in a small building, but it was speedily
attacked by the enemy; they saw the bayonets glittering on the outside,
and heard the officer in command give orders to fire at it.
Immediately, Johan pressed the secret spring of a trap-door which led
to the woods, and forced himself through it. George stooped over it and
was about to follow his example, when an evil spirit entered into
Johan's heart; he thrust his brother back, drew down the trap-door, and
rushed towards the trees. Immediately he heard the sound of firing; the
smoke concealed his flight, he crept into the wood, trembling in every
limb, and fainted away upon the grass.
On recovering from his swoon, all was still around him; but he soon
fell in with some of his comrades, and rejoined his regiment. The
troops were shortly afterwards mustered, and the name of each
individual was called. How intense were his feelings when his brother's
was heard! None answered to it; and, conquering with a violent effort
his emotion, he ventured to glance towards the place that his brother
used to occupy, and where he almost dreaded to see a pale and
threatening spectre. He heard his comrades talk of him, but his heart
appeared to have become seared. He felt that he ought to write to
Ellen, and evening after evening he sat down to the task; but he always
abandoned it, for he fancied, that without any confession, she would
discern that the hand which traced the letters on the paper to her had
thrust his brother into the jaws of death. He gave up the idea of
writing, but through another sent a message of kindness from himself,
and the tidings of George's death.
When a cessation of hostilities for a time was agreed on, and Johan was
to return home, he endeavoured and hoped to be able to shake off his
deep gloom. He was to see Ellen again, but the thought of her no longer
brought gladness to his soul. It was with slow and heavy steps that he
approached the cottage in the valley; and when Ellen came out to meet
him, and hid her tearful face on his breast, it did not anger him that
she wept, for his own heart was so overcharged with misery, that it
seemed to weigh him down to the earth. At length he felt somewhat
easier; he tried to concentrate his thoughts upon Ellen, and he had
everything that could remind him of his brother removed from sight.
Yet, when in passing through the woods, he came near some large tree,
on which his brother and himself, as children, had cut their names
together, painful and dark remembrances would rush on him; and it was
still worse when his mother wept, and spoke of George--of what he was
as a little boy, and how good, and affectionate, and kind-hearted he
had always been. When in the society of the neighbouring peasants, he
was silent, and seemingly indifferent to all amusement; and when he
heard them remark 'How Johan is changed since he went to the wars!' he
felt himself compelled to leave them and fly to solitude. Ellen was
kind and gentle to him; but when, of an evening, he loitered near the
window of her little chamber, he could not help hearing how she sighed
and sobbed.
One afternoon, when he came slowly home from his work in the fields, he
began to commune with himself, and his soliloquy ended by his saying to
himself--'I _will_ be happy; for, as things are now, I might as well be
where George is.' And, thus resolving, he went straight to the window
of Ellen's room, at which she was standing, and leaning against the
outside frame, he said--
'Listen to me, Ellen! We have mourned long enough for George. I have
been fond of you ever since you were a child--will you be my wife now?'
Ellen looked down for a moment; then, raising her eyes to his, she
said--
'Ah, Johan! I saw very well how matters stood between you and George;
but I will tell you frankly, that I would have preferred to have taken
poor George for my husband, and kept you as my brother. However, since
it was God's will to remove him from this world, there is no one whom I
would rather marry than you. Are you content with this acceptance?'
'I suppose I must be,' replied Johan; but he became very pale, and he
added, in a lower and somewhat discontented tone--'There was no need
for your saying all this, Ellen; you may believe my assurance, that I
am as much attached to you as ever George could have been.'
'Yes, Johan, yes!' said Ellen; 'but it is needless to make comparisons
now; nor ought you to be angry at what I have said. You are dearest to
me after him; and, even if he stood here in your place, I should not be
happy if you were dead and gone.'
'Hush, Ellen, hush!' cried Johan, as he glanced over his shoulder with
uneasiness. 'Let us speak about our wedding-day; for my mother cannot
live long, and we could not reside together after her death unless we
were married.'
After a little more conversation, Ellen shut the window, and withdrew;
and the subject was not again alluded to the whole evening. When Johan
went to bed, the thought occurred to him--'It was very strange that I
forgot to seal our engagement with a single kiss. Am I never more to
feel that I have a right to be happy?'
He could not sleep that night--he could not help reflecting how it
would have been, if it were George who was about to marry Ellen, and he
who was lying in the grave. 'But George would then have caused my
death, and perhaps things are better as they are.' He tried to escape
from thought--he tried to sleep, and at last sleep came; but it brought
no relief, for he found himself again standing in that well-remembered
wood, and saw again before him that small house, with its dreadful
recollections. He felt himself struggling violently to keep the
trapdoor shut, till the perspiration poured down his face; and then he
awoke in his agitation, and anything was better than the horror of such
a vivid dream. 'Oh! why is it not all a dream?' he exclaimed, as he
wrung his hands in agony of spirit.
And there he stood now upon the hill, hiding his face from the
sweetness of the morning, and the cheerful rays of the sun, as if he
feared to pollute the glorious gifts which God had bestowed on
creation, and felt that they were not intended for his enjoyment.
Suddenly, he flung himself down, and buried his face amidst the early
dew that stood upon the ground, mingling with it the hot tears that
chased each other swiftly down his cheeks. At that moment, a soft hand
was gently laid upon his head, and a mild voice exclaimed--
'But, Johan! why are you lying here? What can be the matter with you?'
And when he raised his head, and Ellen saw his disturbed look, she sat
down by him, and put her arm affectionately round him.
'Do you believe that we shall be happy, Ellen?' he asked mournfully, as
he laid his head on her shoulder. 'Tell me--do you really believe that
we shall be happy?'
'Why not, dear Johan?' said Ellen, in a soothing manner. 'We are both
young--we have a sincere affection for each other--we will do all we
can for our mutual happiness through life--and when one has a good
conscience, everything goes well.'
Her last words pierced Johan to the very soul; he felt perfectly
wretched--he became as pale as death--and a confession which would have
crushed his hearer's heart trembled on his lips; but he forced it back
to the depths of his own soul, and was silent. Ellen, too, sat silent.
After a few moments she seemed to be listening to something, and
suddenly she exclaimed--
'Hark! the church bells are ringing! They are coming--I must hasten to
our poor mother.'
After she had left him, Johan remained for a time in speechless
anguish. '_When one has a good conscience_,' he repeated at length.
'Yes--it is true! But I, who have _not_ a good conscience, how shall I
become fortunate and happy? Oh! if she adored me--if she would be
everything to me--of what avail would that be to me? Do I not feel that
every endearment is a crime--every word of love an offence to _him_ in
his grave? Oh! if she knew all, she would spurn me from her, order me
out of her presence, and heap curses on my head! But soon--soon--she
will not be able to do that. We shall become man and wife--ay, man and
wife before God's holy altar ... but--will that ever be? When I walk
with her up the church aisle--when the bells are ringing, the church
adorned with green branches and flowers, and the rich tones of the
organ make the heart swell in one's breast--can _I_ be proud or happy?
Can I help looking back to see if a bloody shadow be not following me
amongst my kindred and my friends, who are the bridal guests? Oh!
horror, horror! And when the pastor pronounces that those whom God has
joined together no man shall put asunder--oh! the blood will freeze in
my veins. No--no living man--but a shadow from the tomb--a spectre--a
murdered brother's revengeful ghost--will appear. Oh! George, George!
arise from your grave, and let me change places with you!'
Drops of agony are falling from his brow, every joint seems rigid in
his closely-clasped hands, and every limb of the unhappy sinner is
trembling. But what angel from heaven is yon? He kneels by his side--he
pushes back the thick hair, and wipes off the clammy dew of mortal
anguish from his forehead. Johan looks up.
'Oh! is it a spectre from the grave, or is it he? George!--George!
No--no--no!--he smiles--it cannot be himself!'
Johan stretched out his feverish, trembling hands, and grasped his
brother's arm.
'Is it you, George? Merciful God! can it be yourself?'
'It is I--I myself!' replied George, approaching closer to his brother.
'And you are not dead?' cried Johan. 'Answer me, for God's sake! Have I
not murdered you?'
'Hush!--hush!' said George; 'you pushed me back from the trap-door,
indeed, but I fell down flat, and the guns did not injure me. The enemy
took me prisoner, however, and I have just come from captivity. Forgive
me, Johan, that I so long forgot we were brothers--so long, that you at
last learned to forget it too.'
Johan stood for a few moments as if he had been turned into stone, then
raised his eyes, and cast one long, earnest look towards heaven; but in
that look there was a world of gratitude and delight. He then threw
himself on his brother's neck and embraced him warmly.
'Go to your bride!' he cried, as he withdrew his arms, and pointed to
the cottage in the vale. 'I have not killed him!' he shouted; 'I have
not murdered my brother!--he lives! Oh! thou God of goodness, I thank
thee that thou hast saved my brother!' And he kissed the flowers, he
embraced the trees, he rolled on the grass in the wild delirium of his
joy; but he became calmer by degrees, his thoughts seemed to become
more collected, and he raised his tearful eyes to the blue heavens
above, while his lips murmured his thanks and praise for the unexpected
blessing vouchsafed to him.
Several days have passed since then; the wedding morning has come at
last; the bells ring; the church is decorated with fresh flowers and
green boughs, and the pealing organ is heard outside in the churchyard.
See, here comes the bridal party, gaily dressed, and adorned with
garlands of flowers. The bride advances between two young men, each
holding one of her hands. The one brother gives her to the other. Long
had they disputed in a friendly spirit which should be permitted to
sacrifice himself, and to yield Ellen; but one of them had a crime to
expiate; he was most anxious to make reparation for it, and he
triumphed in the fraternal struggle. See how his eyes sparkle! See with
what firm and elastic steps he advances! And, though deeply agitated as
he holds out his right hand to place the bride by his brother's side at
the altar, how earnestly he joins in prayer, and how distinctly
gratitude and peace are depicted in his countenance!
It is night in the valley; the wind is hushed, and not a leaf is
stirring; all is so still, that the gentle trickling of the water in
the little rivulet near can be heard at an unusual distance. The quiet
moonbeams shine on the windows of the cottage where George and Ellen,
the newly-married couple, are; and the roses which cluster round them
exhale their sweetest perfumes. But what wanderer is yon, who, with a
knapsack on his back and a staff in his hand, stands beneath the oak
trees on the hill? He stretches out his arms towards that lowly house
in a last adieu, for _his_ path must henceforth lead elsewhere. Why
does he now kneel on the grassy height? why does he lift his hands to
heaven in prayer? Can it be possible that he thanks God because his
beloved is his brother's bride? Can it be possible that, with a heart
unbroken by grief--that with tears, which are not of sorrow, in his
eyes, he can leave all he has ever loved, to become a pilgrim in a
foreign land? It is--for a conscience, released from the heavy burden
of guilt, supports and blesses him, and transforms every sigh into
gratitude and joy.