"Better to have a quiet grief than a hurrying delight;
Better the twilight of the dawn than the noonday burning light.
Better a death when work is done than earth's most favored birth;
Better a child in God's great house than the king of all the
earth."--GEORGE MACDONALD.
It is more desolate than ever on the beach now, for Wulf is away at a
gymnasium preparing for his final examination. That unfortunate sail
had resulted seriously to Ingeborg.
The spirit indeed was strong, but the flesh was not able to keep pace
with it. A few hours after that occurrence Ingeborg was prostrated
by hemorrhage. It had not returned as her father feared, but the
young girl was very much enfeebled and convalesced slowly. When
Captain Nielsen anxiously consulted the physician as to the
probability of her entire recovery, the latter shook his head
dubiously. Ingeborg looked so wan and pale; but a pleasant smile
lighted up her face and a spiritual beauty rested upon it, which
nothing could deprive of its influence.
Every body treated her as though she were a princess; even the rough
fishermen's voices softened when they addressed Ingeborg. She had
closely allied herself to "mother Esther;" as she loved best to call
Frau Ericksen. There could scarcely have been a greater contrast
than between these two women--the one nearing life's end, the other
just entering upon it; the one practical, matter-of-fact, clear,
decisive, the other thoughtful, dreamy, feeble, seeing no danger in
the future; the one active, industrious, talking through deeds, the
other folding her slender hands and musing silently over the play of
the billows. But the two had one trait in common. Both talked
little; and yet words were not wanting between them. Ingeborg had
discovered that "mother Esther" was in possession of a priceless
treasure. Since her illness the peace of God had rested upon
Ingeborg with an infinite calm, and she knew that whatever happened
to her would be for the best. And while her father had instilled the
germ of piety into his child's soul, "mother Esther" had been the
agency to awaken it to life.
Another woman's presence had also exerted a strong influence upon
Ingeborg's character. The Kahrings had returned again to the beach
this season, and their elder daughter had become visible. In former
years no one had been at liberty to approach her in the tent where
she reclined. Now when she was occasionally seen, it was apparent
why the family had sought this secluded spot. The white bandage
which partially covered Theodora Von Kahring's face did not wholly
conceal the deep, red scar upon one of her cheeks.
Ingeborg had not become very intimate with the Kahrings. In fact,
she was not especially attracted toward any of them; but when she met
Theodora with her noble, sincere, lady-like presence, she seemed to
the simple maiden like a higher being--one she might model after, not
only in mere imitation, but one whom she could emulate wholly.
The first meeting between the two had been in a poor fisherman's hut,
where a sick child lay. Ingeborg was seated by the little one's bed
when Theodora's tall figure entered the low room. One glance assured
her that the child was dying, and to Ingeborg the hour passed in that
chamber of death was a sacred one never to be forgotten.
With womanly instinct Theodora did all that was necessary. Her eyes
seemed to take in at a glance every thing, which her heart at the
same time did not fail to appease. Her calmness, her gentleness, her
kindness, were to Ingeborg traits worthy of adoration, and in the
confusion and excitement of those around her she looked up to
Theodora as though she were a divinity. Perhaps, too, unconsciously,
she felt that here was a nature in harmony with her own, a true
womanly heart which was its complement. Theodora and Ingeborg became
friends. Under such an influence the child Ingeborg matured to young
womanhood. She would also sit on the beach and listen for hours to
the singing and sighing of the waves. How simple and yet how
fascinating were their melodies to her!
She did not care much for Arnold, although he was always attracted to
the delicate girl, whose secret influence over him he could not
explain, and really did not attempt. Ingeborg was not beautiful.
Heavy black tresses encircled a small, plain face; but her deep blue
eyes had the brightness of stars--no, the mystery of an abyss wherein
the whole heavens seemed reflected. There are eyes into which one
may gaze and forget all earthly woe! But they are rare. Ingeborg,
the counterpart of the young ensign is the only person whom this
clever man of the world does not know how to approach without a
feeling of constraint.
Listen to one of his attempts:
"Ingeborg, how can you bear to sit here by the water so long?"
"I like it."
"But all alone, not a living soul near; you must be awfully lonely."
Ingeborg looks up in astonishment:
"The water is not lonely. See how it stirs, and listen how joyful
now, and then how sad it sounds! I could not endure a garden or a
tree so long; but here there is constant motion and life."
"You think so," replied Arnold cynically, "because you have never
known any thing better. You believe there is nothing so beautiful,
because you have seen nothing else."
Ingeborg opens her great eyes wider than ever, and merely looks at
him; at length she says softly: "The sky is even more beautiful."
The conversation ceases for a while. Arnold could have been ready
enough with his astronomical knowledge, and have talked fluently
about the fixed stars and the planets; but he fears to go beyond the
capacity of his fair listener.
Suddenly he ventures:
"Have you never had any desire to see what lies on the other side of
the water?"
Ingeborg assented.
"O, I should like so much to see the high mountains and the great
cities! I should like so much to enter the grand churches, whose
windows are painted pictures, and whose spires reach heaven-high, and
look like great, white lilies!"
"You should?" pursued Arnold. "And shall you not, then?"
"I can not travel now; I am too tired."
"Then you intend to remain here, never seeing new and beautiful
things?"
"No; I shall not always remain here," replied Ingeborg confidently.
"I shall travel, and see the splendid things my father has seen."
"Child! when shall you go, and where?"
"When, I do not know; but where, I do know--in heaven."
Arnold gave a half-embarrassed, half-assenting laugh, and
remonstrated.
"But who knows whether there is a heaven? Who assures you that you
will go there? Who says it is beautiful and worth thinking about so
much? No one has seen it yet. How is it up there? For you talk as
though you had already visited it."
Ingeborg's eyes waxed still larger. Gazing earnestly at the
skeptical speaker, she folded her little hands, and repeated in
solemn tones: "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered
into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for those
that love him."
Taken by surprise at the young girl's manner, Arnold was silent. At
length he continued:
"But, Ingeborg, you talk as though God were a real person, whom one
could love."
His sweet companion making no response, he quickly added:
"Do you think Wulf believes as you do?"
Ingeborg nodded her head confidently.
"Well, all I have to say is, that I am surprised he has never
mentioned the subject to me. For my part, I believe very
differently."
Ingeborg was still silent. Indeed, she had scarcely heard the last
remark, and in the entire conversation this one expression only had
impressed her: "Do you think that Wulf believes as you do?"
Arnold feels terribly uncomfortable; for Ingeborg's words always
appeal to his better nature. But now he tries to shake off their
disturbing influence, in order that his own wishes may not be
hindered. "Yet this little pious one is interesting, here in this
horrible loneliness," he said to himself.
But is not the baron's son lonely, even at Berlin? He is now
twenty-two; but he has frittered away the past few years so fast as
to be already blast. He has drunken from the intoxicating cup of
pleasure, flirtation, and wine, and he is surfeited without having
fully drained it. Every pleasure with which he is familiar appears
insipid. He is an old-young man, whose deepest heart-emotions are
silenced by ridicule or indolence wherever they venture to assert
themselves; and yet he frequently joins the captain's simple
daughter, who thinks it very ridiculous that he should complain to
her, and continually express his disgust of the society in which he
mingles; that he should tell her how every body wears a mask in order
to deceive, and no one has the courage to appear true and honest.
Her replies puzzle--no, they exasperate him. This foolish child
thinks he should be sincere and noble. How is this possible? Then
she says he ought to work; she is grieved because she accomplishes so
little, and regards it a pleasure to be employed. Arnold loses his
temper with her sweet, opinionated complacency; and then he remembers
how silly he is to talk to her upon such subjects so far beyond her
reach, and he calms himself with: "She knows nothing about life's
difficulties; how can she be expected to solve them?" And yet an
inward monitor softly whispers that the wisest can give him no better
counsel than this: "Be true to yourself; give up pleasures which are
really none; WORK."
Autumn has come again, and Wulf has returned. He has passed the
final examination, made a short visit to his uncle's, and will now
prepare to go to the university. Like a new student, he was so
overflowing with hope and happiness in these days that his uncle felt
impelled to call out after him: "Lad, lad; don't throw down the trees
in your chase!" To his mother he seemed too proud; and yet what
mother does not secretly rejoice in her child's happiness, even if
she does repeat warningly:
"Wulf, Wulf! Our Heavenly Father takes care that the trees don't
grow to heaven."
"They will, though!" he replies cheerily.
Wulf is thoroughly changed. He embraces his mother and sister with a
new love, although the former has her own misgivings over the thought
that a man's own will is his heaven.
He will not remain at home with her; she knows this now. He longs to
be away, and is far from being contented here. He is also very
little interested in Ingeborg; but he is dear to her, and she
imagines he is more regardful of her comfort than any one else; but
he lives in the future, and this delicate girl plays no _rôle_ in his
hopes and dreams.
The evening before his departure, Frau Ericksen drew her son aside to
consult him with regard to their personal interests. She had divided
what she owned between her two children. Karen should have the
little cottage, and Wulf the money, which, if used economically,
would be sufficient for his years at the university.
"You know," she continued, "Martin and Karen love each other. I have
no objection to Martin. He is a deserving young man; but his father
thinks our little house too small, and yet he is better satisfied
than if Karen were entirely portionless. Therefore Martin is to go
away for a couple of years to see the world, and when he returns the
wedding will take place. Meanwhile, if I should be called away, and
this should never take place, remember Karen has only you. She looks
small, but she is a brave girl."
Wulf pressed his mother's hand to emphasize his entire satisfaction
in all her arrangements. Then he bade good-bye to the neighbors, and
to Captain Nielsen and his daughter. The old sea captain had
lamented that Wulf had not become a ship-master, and that he had
decided to study a profession before going abroad; but now he was
reconciled for him to study medicine.
"Come back soon a celebrated doctor, and cure my daughter," was his
parting injunction.
"Yes, Ingeborg, I will come back and make you well," replied Wulf,
heartily.
The young girl smiled assentingly. She believed Wulf capable of
doing every thing.
The separation was a greater trial to Frau Ericksen than she had
anticipated. Heretofore, her son had not been far away; now he was
going a great distance. After all, he is her heart's darling, and
her home is desolate without him. She has, however, not burdened him
with admonitions. She realizes how different every thing will be in
the new world which he is about to enter. Of what avail would her
exhortations be? But on the day before, she had knelt beside her son
and earnestly petitioned: "Forsake not thy God and Savior. So act
that you shall never be ashamed in his presence."
And now he is gone for long years. Shall mother and son ever be
reunited? And how?
The old routine of daily life is renewed. Karen attends to the
household duties, while Ingeborg may be seen slipping into "mother
Esther's" own little room. She has in this way seen Wulf once more
unobserved by him, and now she turns to his mother.
Frau Ericksen has not yet recovered her usual elasticity. She is
laying away some of her son's belongings, and she lingers over them
longer, perhaps, than necessary. Just as Ingeborg approaches she is
holding up an old waistcoat, and hot tears are falling upon it. Life
for her will always lie in the past with regard to her son. When he
returns, he will no longer be a sailor-boy. She goes out to hide her
tears from Ingeborg.
But to Wulf the coach travels all too slowly. Ah! if he were only at
the end. On the railroad he will be carried so swiftly.
Travel on! I may not see
Whither this journey's end shall be.