"Blindfolded and alone I stand,
With unknown thresholds on each hand;
The darkness deepens as I grope,
Afraid to fear, afraid to hope;
Yet this one thing I learn to know
Each day more surely, as I go,
That doors are opened, ways are made,
Burdens are lifted or are laid
By some great law unseen, and still,
Unfathomed purpose to fulfill,
'Not as I will.'"
--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
More quickly than by rail or the telegraph's electric flash, but upon
the wings of fancy, we leave Berlin. Piercing hill and valley, over
city and river, and passing through the heart of a mountain, we are
in the midst of a scene so overwhelmingly beautiful that no one may
conceive it without seeing it for himself. We are in Switzerland,
old Switzerland--on Lake Lucerne.
It is the most sacred water in the country, not only encompassed by
heaven-high mountains, but encircled with histories and legends as
with an eternal wreath. Here is the ground and faith of the old
Swiss memories; here lie Altdorf, Schweitz, Uri, Rütli, Brunnen,
Küssnacht--but the spot needs not the past; the present has tongues
enough to allure us hither. Has "the eye of Switzerland" also
bewitched the people in yonder little village, that they have now
resided there for several years? Even Winter has not driven these
strangers away, as the cold season ventures but timidly to enter this
sheltered spot, and the cottage where they dwell has felt little of
its severity.
It is a Swiss _châlet_, like most of those in the neighborhood, with
sloping roof, green lattice, inviting gable-rooms, and a pretty
garden, whose border frames the wonderfully clear, beautiful water.
Just now it lies in the sunshine, surrounded with wild vines and
cultivated roses. As the door is open we shall enter.
In the first room are two ladies, busy with needle-work. The elder,
of majestic mien, presents an appearance of having seen much of life
and suffering; but she is attractive, and her expression is kindly,
as she says to the young woman sitting near:
"Eugenie, will you not see to dinner? It will soon be one o'clock,
and Theodora will be here presently."
"Yes, dear mamma; but do not sew so diligently yourself any longer."
The mother smiled, and continued to sew on the wedding trousseau of
her daughter. How could work be too assiduous under such
circumstances?
Above, in one of the gable rooms, it is very lively now; some of the
children looking out of the windows are preparing to leave, saying
"good-bye" to a tall young woman in mourning, whose face is partially
covered. One can not but perceive that the warmest bond of love
exists between teacher and pupils.
Just now the former enters the mother's apartment, and is received
with outstretched arms and solicitous inquiry:
"Are you tired, Theodora?"
An affectionate kiss and the reply follow: "No, dear mother; I seem
to grow fresher during these hours;" and her large, clear eyes attest
the honesty of her words.
Soon the three sat down to their simple repast, without the
attendance of any servants. Times have greatly changed with the
Kahrings, but for the better.
When the family had recovered from the heavy blow of affliction and
adversity, Arnold and his bride went to Paris. Lady Von Kahring took
up her residence here at Lake Lucerne, rather than at Geneva, because
she would be less likely to meet former acquaintances in this retired
place. It is true she might have accepted the offer of her
daughter-in-law, who had acted nobly and generously, and requested to
bear the expense of a modest home for them, as she was especially
attached to Theodora; but the latter refused to consent to such an
arrangement. She said she considered it dishonorable for three
women, who were capable of self-maintenance, to be dependent upon
others. She would herself undertake their support, if they were
willing to assist. So Arnold's wife had been satisfied to render a
little assistance, which was gratefully accepted.
As there happened to be a number of children belonging to
aristocratic Austrian families who resided in the vicinity during the
mild Winter, Theodora succeeded in obtaining them as pupils, and was
able to provide for the family.
But there was still greater success for Theodora. After the frail
staff of the world had broken, upon which Lady Von Kahring and
Eugenie had leaned, and that startling occurrence had opened an
approaching abyss, their hearts became more susceptible to Theodora's
influence, and the latter was just as cheerful under misfortune as
she had been in prosperity. While she carried the smallest care, her
soul embraced the highest; and when she laid the money earned into
the mother's hand, she shared with her better gifts than eyes could
perceive.
In the elevating, quiet content of this home, Eugenie had obtained,
unsought, what in vain she had longed for at Berlin. A prominent
manufacturer had met Eugenie and paid his addresses, so that the
little cottage was now the scene of a very secure, if not a very
intoxicating, happiness.
To-day Theodora entered and drew a letter from her pocket.
"We are going to have a visitor, dear mother. What do you say to
that?"
A light blush crossed the mother's face as she replied:
"Only no one from Berlin."
"Why not?" asked Theodora, heartily
"Circumstances can never degrade us; that we can only do ourselves;
and then, dear mother, Sibylla Bolton is more unhappy than we are."
"Sibylla, the beautiful Sibylla!" exclaimed Eugenie; "where has she
lived since her husband's death?"
"At Berlin. She finally obtained my address, and has written to me.
She appears to be unhappy and lonely. I begged her to visit us, and
to-day received her promise, with your per mission. May I send her
that?"
Lady Von Kahring was heartily willing; Eugenie even more so, and
Theodora rejoiced to be able to have her sick friend under their
hospitable roof.
Sibylla had longed to go to Theodora in order to consult her in
regard to her future. She felt she must do something substantial to
obtain an outward and inward lasting security. She was bewildered
and weary, and longed to repose confidence in her stronger friend.
That Theodora lived in the beautiful Swiss country which she had
never seen, was now a minor consideration. She was not one who
believes nature can cure a sick soul. And yet to-day, when she
approached the canton of Basle, and leaving at Lucerne the dusty
railway-coach, entered the boat which lightly cut through the green
walls of the lake, when Sibylla looked up and found herself in the
midst of a picture so wonderfully beautiful, so charmingly still,
while awaiting evening slowly unfolded its pinions, there came over
her a calm and peace which she had not experienced for many months.
She no longer thought; it was a relief to banish anxious care for the
moment and permit the entrancing scene to penetrate her as a perfume.
She could do nothing but gaze and yield to the inspiration. Around
the lake reared heaven-high mountains, as wonderful and fascinating
as the water itself. Here was Pilatus, that bare, indented, misty
king; yonder the broad, rocky walls of the Rigi. Suddenly the boat
stopped, and Sibylla found herself in Theodora's embrace. How long
it had been since a friendly arm had encircled her, since she had
been pressed to a warm, loving heart!
A beautiful life now began for the poor young woman. She saw first
with astonishment the blessing of a regular calling and systematic
action. The Kahrings impressed her differently, and seemed more
worthy of regard than in the days of their prosperity. She also
learned really to know and appreciate Theodora. Sibylla felt that
this good woman understood all her feelings, and she began to realize
that the ground of her discontent lay in herself.
The two friends had long and earnest communions in their solitary
wanderings amid these splendid Alpine scenes, or journeying over
these beautiful green waters. What had long slumbered in Sibylla's
soul, and exercised itself unknown, finally became clothed in the
certainty that henceforth not only the precepts of Christianity
should be the rule of conduct in life, but the master of this
teaching, Jesus Christ himself, was the Savior and Redeemer who had
loosed the bonds of her soul, and given her a joyful liberty. With
this knowledge her heart grew calm, and she knew forgiveness had not
only been granted for her own sins of omission, but also for those
committed against her mother, her husband, and Wulf.
There is a beautiful custom in Switzerland. All the churches stand
open to give shelter and peace to those that seek it. Sibylla spent
many hours in the little sanctuary of the village, and only God's
angels looked upon the quiet corner where she knelt and prayed.
Theodora indulged her, refrained from hindering, and only attempted
to clear away her doubts. She therefore waited until Sibylla asked
advice for the future. The young woman desired to be useful, to live
no longer for self; not so much to escape self as formerly, but to
establish the relations on better grounds. She wished to associate
herself with Theodora in her work elsewhere. This hope was
presented, on account of Eugenie's prospective marriage, when the
mother should live with her, and Theodora would relinquish her
claims. She had been urged to accept a home with them; "but," she
said to Sibylla, after a long conversation, "I shall not remain here.
My own do not need me; the children can find another teacher any day.
I have penetrated too deeply into the misery of the masses, into its
temporal and spiritual wretchedness, which seems to be increasing at
Berlin. I am free; no one needs me. I am well, and have had
experience with the poor. It would be a grievous sin if I did not
dedicate my life and service where work will never be wanting to me."
"I have nothing but two hands, a desire to work, and a heart which
yearns to help you in this labor of love," responded Sibylla,
beseechingly.
"We shall work together if God will, at least for a time," was
Theodora's reply.
"No--always!" exclaimed Sibylla, fervently.
"Time will show," said her companion.
Did she dream that a character like Sibylla's could not continually
give, but needed a support, and could go through life wishing but
little? Theodora did not belong to that class of women who, when
their own youth has faded, knew of nothing better than match-making
among others, deeming it good work if every Hero had found a Leander.
She thought higher, and left those things to God, believing he was
better able to regulate them without her aid.
When Sibylla traveled homeward she kept in view the Alps until she
could only see the horizon. They had been the mountains where she
had found help. No friendly face greeted her at Berlin; even her
room looked strange. The solitude was burdensome; but she pressed
her hand to her heart, looked up and said: "I am not alone; for thou,
O God, art always with me!"