"Before every one stands a picture of what he ought to be; so long as
he fails to resemble it, his peace will not be perfect."--A. VOLLMAR.
It is time for us to look after Wulf, of whom we have entirely lost
sight. We find him at Berlin again, where he is pursuing his studies
with renewed zeal. His medical course is almost ended. As he looks
upon the familiar dwellings there, his heart sings no song; they are
no longer to him full of the mystery of magical beauty as when he
first entered the city, but appear rather as "whited sepulchers, full
of dead men's bones." And yet a spirit of love and forbearance,
which manifests itself in good-will toward every body, has taken
possession of him, he scarcely knows why.
It had been Ingeborg's wish that Wulf should make a journey through
Switzerland in order to recruit his strength before renewing his
studies, and that he should visit Theodora, with whom she had been in
constant communication. That had happened, and the beneficial
results to his health were realized. Wulf had also endeavored to
become familiar with Ingeborg's parting gift; but he had read it with
the understanding only, and instead of accepting the central fact,
and harmonizing the whole from that basis, he dissected the sacred
book in detached fragments, and was astonished to find it was not
consistent. He wished to talk to Theodora concerning this: but she
did not seem to enjoy the discussion of theological quibbles, and
yielded to him, as it had been her experience that in their
controversies Wulf was only strengthened in his convictions.
"You diverge now from the old faith in which you were reared, wholly
on account of your hypercritical views," she said to him upon one
occasion; "but no matter: the time will come when self-evident
testimony will reinstate it."
For this time, therefore, she waited. It is true Wulf did not then
perceive Theodora's influence upon him, and it was only clear in
after years how much he owed to this intercourse with her. Just at
present he only struggled after what was good and right, to recognize
strictly moral convictions, and to live henceforth in the performance
of duty, placing great reliance and hope in acts of self-denial. He
desired only to become a useful factor in the world, and to carry out
the work Ingeborg had delegated to him.
Sibylla had now been married nine months--and just so much of his
life this act had taken away; for Wulf belonged to the few who love
but once, and love forever. He made no vows of celibacy, for he was
so firmly decided on that point as to give it no consideration. But
he would live to make others happy, although he could have no
happiness himself. But
"The rose exhales no more the same,
Since----!"
He often raked up petrified blossoms of a past which the world no
longer gave him, just as men learn of the earth's earlier periods by
excavating from its interior stony palm-trees. His few acquaintances
of former years he never sought. It would have been useless; a
whirlwind had scattered them all over the world.
When his studies were ended he passed a fine examination; then
undertook a long journey, not only to see foreign lands, but to meet
distinguished physicians, and study in the various hospitals. He
could not have done any thing better. He learned to know many
persons, for whom he could cherish profound respect, and gained
advantages not only in his profession, but to his inner self. By
intercourse with strong personalities, and association with their
work, Wulf learned prompt decision in circumstances and action. His
professional knowledge was adjusted without destroying the free
development of his own individuality. He attained a self-possession
and reliance which gave his will greater freedom for a wider
formation of manly maturity.
"Ericksen is lucky," said his fellow-students, when they heard of his
travels, his life abroad, and the commendations of this or that
eminent medical scientist.
"I am luckier than I deserve to be," said Wulf to himself; but his
eyes did not betray the thought, nor his purpose become less earnest.
In this way two years had passed, and he desired to return to Berlin
and establish himself in his profession. On his return journey he
stopped at a celebrated watering-place on the Rhine. It was a mild
Autumn evening. The beauty of the place attracted him, and he
decided to spend several days there. He found pleasant lodgings near
the water, and sauntered out to enjoy the air and scene. Later in
the evening he dined at the chief hotel, where a great ball was in
progress. Wulf gave a glance into the stifling room, where misery
and physical ails were being danced away and forgotten, and then
passed into an adjoining apartment. He escaped from Scylla, only to
fall into Charybdis; for here card-playing held sway. It was no
pleasant sight to see people so absorbed as to appear dead to all
surroundings, neither speaking nor thinking--only living in "tricks
and trumps." What magic power lay hidden in these red and black
cards to fascinate so terribly? The same which attracts others to
drink. The player would thus intoxicate himself in order to forget
all the reality and truth of life. He would banish _ennui_, trouble,
care, grief, qualms of conscience, satiation, in the transient and
stifling dominion of gambling.
Wulf was about to turn away when he caught a glimpse of a face that
seemed even more absorbed and lifeless than the others, but one which
made an especial impression upon him. He looked more closely. Yes,
there was no doubt: Herr Von Lenkseuring was the player.
The first pause impelled Wulf to tap his shoulder and say: "Good
evening."
Herr Von Lenkseuring sprang up, looked confusedly at Wulf, as though
the latter had come from another world, and a second look were
necessary to convince him of the presence of flesh and blood.
"Wulf Ericksen!" and with these words Herr Von Lenkseuring collected
himself. "Ah! very glad to see you--only I have not a moment's time.
_Pique_ is _á tout_."
"I shall not disturb you," said Wulf. "Only one question: is your
wife here?"
"Ah, ah! she is at the ball. Will you not go to her? Please; she
will be glad to see you;" and turning away, "Yes, yes, Baron, I will
finish playing;" and he added to Wulf, "A player never can find an
end."
Wulf withdrew. He looked again in the ball-room, but despaired to
find among these excited dancers, these fashionably attired
butterflies, the innocent face of Olga Von Steinfels.
This kind of pursuit after happiness was no enticement for him; but
had he not once been upon the same road? He thought of the lovely
being that had once stood before him so earnestly, and with whom one
hard word had torn the veil from his heart. "Can you conceive a
player or drinker who is not cowardly?" "No; for otherwise he would
drink and play no longer." She was right. Wulf detested such
cowardice now.
It was after midnight when he was awakened by a knock on his door.
"Doctor, there is a very sick child in the room below. The regular
physician is not to be found. Will you please come down?" entreated
the speaker.
Wulf found a lovely ten-months-old baby suffering with a severe
attack of croup. He quickly applied the necessary remedies to avert
suffocation in the already convulsed child. The nurse obeyed his
instructions amid trembling and tears. After a short time the
immediate danger was passed, and both felt relieved.
"Where are the parents of this child?" asked Wulf.
"At the ball," replied the woman.
"At the ball? And why did you not call them at once?"
"O, the little dear was hoarse all day, but master thought there was
nothing to fear. I must not run and call them for nothing. When the
attack came I did not think it would be so bad, and as I heard a
doctor arrived yesterday----"
"It was fortunate you called me," interrupted Wulf, "or else the
child would have died. But run and call the parents quickly; we are
not safe a moment."
"O, O! I thought he was all right again. The poor little child!
But I am all alone; every body is asleep. Whom shall I send?"
"Go yourself quickly. I will remain here."
The positive, decisive manner of the physician left no room for
controversy. In a short time the child's parents entered. Wulf
arose, and stood before Herr Von Lenkseuring and his wife.
"Your child lies at death's door while you dance and gamble," said
Wulf, earnestly.
What a night that was!
The little life hung in the balance, as death hovered over the sweet
child's cradle. The little hands were wildly flung in the air, and
the little face distorted in agony. By its side knelt the mother in
her elegant ball-dress, her pale face concealed as yet by rouge.
Wulf held the baby in his arms, using every means to procure relief.
At length the little head was leaning exhausted on his shoulder, and
sleep came.
Olga wanted to take him.
"Sh!" whispered Wulf; "no changing."
"But you are not accustomed to such nursing."
"I shall hold him so until morning. I think now we shall have a
little quiet. Take some rest, my dear madame."
"Is the danger passed?"
Wulf shrugged his shoulders.
"Apparently--yes."
Olga slipped lightly to the nearest easy-chair. Her husband had been
asleep on the couch for some time. Wulf sat motionless, listening to
the little one's breathing.
Conflicting thoughts stirred the mother's heart. When the first
outburst of anxiety over her child's life had been somewhat allayed,
picture after picture passed over her soul. Shame, burning shame,
that she had neglected her dearest duty, and that one had witnessed
it whose respect she desired. Then her desolate life by the side of
her husband, who, satisfied when he had reached his aim, had never
been a guide to her, but when she resolved to do better had always
discouraged her because it was not convenient for his wife to have
other regulations than his, which were so excessively devoted to
pleasure. What a difference between the two men! About the same
age--one with a pale, worn face; the other with earnest expression
and a strong physique, on which a feeble wife might have reposed so
well.
Springing up and reaching out both hands to Wulf, she exclaimed:
"Help me! help me!"
He turned slightly, but could not give his hand, as he still held the
little one in his arms. But his sympathy went out to her, even if
his mind did not grasp her whole meaning.
"I can not," he said, earnestly; "God alone can do it."
"What have you spoken?" said the monitor within, softly. "God alone
is able to help? Who is God? What is God?" When he calmly
reflected, the answer came: "Weak women and children have need to
believe on a living God; they must have something upon which their
tumultuous emotions may rest. They must believe, but men demand
knowledge."
After the night of dread, morning at length dawned, and Wulf declared
the little one beyond danger. Olga scarcely permitted it to be out
of her arms. This illness brought her duty as a mother nearer, and
the fear of losing her beautiful child made it dearer than before.
The father begged Wulf to remain several days with them.
"I think it will do my husband and all of us good if you will
remain," entreated Olga, with emotion.
Wulf remained, and discovered that this was a pleasanter married life
than he had supposed. The young husband was not really bad; in fact,
he would rather do right than wrong. But his will was weak, and
consequently passion, indiscretion, and the force of habit constantly
obtained the victory.
"If my husband only had a true friend!" lamented Olga. "Since you
have been here he is so different."
"You must be his friend," replied Wulf.
"I? O, how can I? Besides, he is never at home."
"Make your home so pleasant that he will desire to be there.
Strengthen his vacillating purposes," advised Wulf.
"That is, indeed, a difficult task," sighed Olga. "Who will
strengthen me, then?"
"Your better self and your child. You dare not think chiefly of
yourself. When you see your husband in a burning house, rescue him
yourself," added Wulf, earnestly.
They had many similar conversations. On one occasion Olga innocently
related the circumstances of Herr Bolton's death. Wulf sprang to his
feet in speechless astonishment.
"Did you not know that he had been dead nearly two years?" asked
Olga, in surprise.
"Nearly two years? Just the time I have been traveling abroad."
Then Olga imparted what she knew of Sibylla, of the unhappy end of
her marriage, and the _rôle_ which Uhlhart had played.
Wulf gnashed his teeth. "The infamous wretch! He also wished to
ruin me, and came very near to accomplishing it. But where is Frau
Bolton now?"
Olga blushed. "I am ashamed of myself. I visited her at Larkow
shortly before my wedding, and learned there what I have told you;
but since that time I know nothing more about her. I have heard she
is governess in an Austrian family."
"In her need she stood alone, then," said Wulf, reproachfully; "and
you did not trouble yourself about her?"
Olga wept. "O, I have been a wretched wife, mother, and friend. How
could I behave so? If Dr. Uhlhart had only troubled himself as
little about Sibylla as I have."
"Uhlhart? How so?"
And, like an open book, Olga gave Wulf information which threw light
on all of Uhlhart's deceitful ways; how he sought by letters and
conversation to injure and belie him, in order to drive him from
Berlin, and when this was not accomplished, to ruin him.
"But what had he against me?" asked Wulf.
"He wanted to drive you away from Sibylla."
"Yes, that was evident; but why did he desire that? I was no
hindrance to him."
Olga opened her eyes ingenuously. "O, this fellow was more clever
than all of us, and could read our hearts better than we ourselves.
He knew that you alone were dangerous to Sibylla; he saw that Sibylla
loved you."
"Me?" interjected Wulf.
"Uhlhart loved Sibylla with a consuming passion," continued Olga;
"and for that reason saw more deeply than Sibylla herself; but she
feared him as her greatest enemy. O, wherever he may be I know he
will never give up the wild chase after her."
A sudden pang thrilled Wulf, and would not permit him to remain
longer at this place. He would go to Berlin, institute inquiries,
write to Theodora.
The Lenkseurings parted with him reluctantly, and had good reasons
therefor. If the husband's life had undergone no transformation, a
stone had been thrown into the stagnant water--a stone, the widening
circles of whose influence reached, perhaps, to the very shores of
eternity.