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Sara was silent; she was shaken by the words and by the countenance of
her adopted father.

"And how perfectly different it might be!" continued he, with warmth;
"how beautiful, how full of blessing might not your life and your
talents be! Sara! I have loved you, and love you still, like my own
daughter--will you not listen to me as to a father? Answer me--have you
had to give up anything in this house, which, with any show of reason,
you might demand? and have we spared any possible care for your
education or your accomplishments?"

"No," replied Sara, sighing; "all have been kind, very kind to me."

"Well, then," exclaimed the Judge, with increasing warmth and
cordiality, "depend upon your mother and me, that you will have no cause
of complaint. I am not without property and connexions. I will spare no
means of cultivating your talents, and then if your turn for art is a
true one, when it has been cultivated to its utmost it shall not be
concealed from a world which can enjoy and reward it. But remain under
our protection, and do not cast yourself, inexperienced as you are, on a
world which will only lead you more astray. Do not, in order to win an
ideal liberty, give your hand to a man inferior to you in
accomplishments; to a man whom you do not love, and whom, morally
speaking, you cannot esteem. Descend into your own heart, and see its
error while there is yet time to retrieve it, before you are crushed by
your own folly. Do not fly from affectionate, careful friends--do not
fly from the paternal roof in blind impatience of disagreeables, to
remove which depends perhaps only on yourself! Sara, my child! I have
not taken you under my roof in order to let you become the victim of
ruin and misfortune! Pause, Sara, and reflect, I pray you, I conjure
you! make not yourself wretched! When I took you from the death-bed of
your father, I threw my arms around _you_ to shield you from the winds
of autumn--I clasp them once again around you, in order to shield you
from far more dangerous winds--Sara, my child, fly not from this house!"

Sara trembled; she was violently agitated, and leaned her head with
indescribable emotion against her adopted father, who clasped her
tenderly to his bosom.

It is not difficult to say whether they were good or bad angels who
triumphed in Sara, as she, after a moment of violent inward struggle,
pushed from her the paternal friend, and said, with averted countenance,
"It is in vain; my determination is taken. I shall become the wife of
Schwartz, and go where my fate leads me!"

The Judge started up, stamped on the floor, and pale with anger,
exclaimed, with flashing eyes, "Obdurate one! since neither love nor
prayers have power over you, you must listen to another mode of speech!
I have the right of a guardian over you, and I forbid this unholy
marriage! I forbid you to leave my house! You hear me, and you shall
obey!"

Sara stood up as pale as death, and with an insolent expression riveted
her large eyes upon him, whilst he, too, fixed his upon her with all the
force of his peculiar earnestness and decision. It seemed as if each
would look the other through--as if each in this contest would measure
his strength against the other.

Suddenly her arms were flung wildly round his neck, a burning kiss was
pressed upon his lips, and the next moment she was out of the room.

Elise sate in her boudoir. She still wept bitter tears. It was twilight,
and her knees were suddenly embraced, and her hands and her dress were
covered with kisses and with tears. When she put forth her hands to
raise the one who embraced her, she had vanished. "Sara, Sara! where are
you?" exclaimed she, full of anxiety.

Petrea came down from her chamber; she met some one, who embraced her,
pressed her lips to her forehead, and whispered, "Forget me!"

"Sara, Sara! where are you going?" exclaimed she, terrified, and running
after her to the house door.

"Where is Sara?" inquired the Judge, violently, above in the chambers of
his daughters. "Where is Sara?" inquired he, below in the library.

"Ah!" exclaimed Petrea, who now rushed in weeping, "she is this moment
gone out--out into the street; she almost ran. She forbade me to follow
her. Ah, she certainly never will come back again!"

"The devil!" said the Judge, hastening from the room, and taking up his
hat, went out. Far off in the street he saw a female figure, which, with
only a handkerchief thrown over her head and shoulders, was hastening
onward, and who, spite of the twilight, he recognised to be Sara. He
hastened after her; she looked round, saw him, and fled. Certain now
that he was not mistaken, he followed, and was almost near enough to
take hold of her, when she suddenly turned aside, and rushed into a
house--it was that of Schwartz. He followed with the quickness of
lightning; followed her up the steps, and was just laying his hand on
her, when she vanished through a door. The next moment he too opened it,
and saw her--in the arms of Schwartz!

The two stood together embracing, and evidently prepared to defy him. He
stood for some moments silent before them, regarding them with an
indescribable look of wrath, contempt, and sorrow. He looked upon the
pale breathless Sara, and covered his eyes with his hand; the next
moment, however, he seemed to collect himself, and with all the calm and
respect-commanding dignity of a parent, he grasped her hand, and said,
"You now follow me home. On Sunday the banns shall be proclaimed."

Sara followed. She took his arm, and with a drooping head, and without a
word, accompanied him home.

All there was disquiet and sorrow. But, notwithstanding the general
discontent with Sara and her marriage, there was not one of the family
who did not busy themselves earnestly in her outfit. Louise, who blamed
her more than all the rest, gave herself most trouble about it.

Sara behaved as if she never observed how everybody was working for her,
and passed her time either over her harp, or solitary in her own room.
Any intercourse with the members of the family seemed to have become
painful to her, whilst Petrea's tenderness and tears were received with
indifference--nay, even with sternness.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] All mothers speak thus--but not all, nay, not many with the same
right as Elise.

CHAPTER XIII.

DEPARTURE.

Sara's joyless marriage was over; and the hour was come in which she was
to leave that home and family which had so affectionately received her,
and which now with solicitude and the tenderest care provided for her
wants in her new position.

In the hour of separation, the crust of ice which had hitherto
surrounded her being broke, she sank, weeping violently, at the feet of
her foster-parents.

The Judge was deeply affected. "You have had your own will, Sara," said
he, in a firm but mournful voice, "may you be happy! Some few warnings I
have given you, do not forget them; they are the last! If you should be
deceived in the hopes which now animate you--if you should be
unfortunate--unfortunate, or criminal, then remember--then remember,
Sara, that here you have father and mother, and sisters, who will
receive you with open arms; then remember that you have here family and
home!"

He ceased: drew her a little aside, took her hand, and pressed a
bank-note in it. "Take this," said he, tenderly, "as a little help in
the hour of need. No, you must not refuse it from your foster-father.
Take it for his love's sake, you will some time need it!"

It was with difficulty that the Judge had so far preserved his calmness;
he now pressed her violently to his breast; kissed her brow and lips,
whilst his tears flowed abundantly. The mother and sisters too
surrounded her weeping. At that moment the door opened, and Schwartz
entered.

"The carriage waits," said he, with a dark glance on the mournful group.
Sara tore herself from the arms which would have held her fast, and
rushed out of the room.

A few seconds more, and the travelling carriage rolled away.

"She is lost!" exclaimed the Judge to his wife with bitter pain. "I feel
it in myself that she is lost! Her death would have been less painful to
me than this marriage."

For many days he continued silent and melancholy.

CHAPTER XIV.

LITTLE SCENES.

The past episode had gone through the house like a whirlwind. When it
was over, the heaven cleared itself anew, and they were able to confess
that a more joyful tranquillity had diffused itself over all. There was
no one who did not think of Sara with sympathy, who did not weep
sometimes at her violent separation from the family; but there was no
one, with the exception of the Judge and Petrea, who did not feel her
absence to be a secret relief; for one unquiet temper, and one full of
pretension, can disturb a whole household, and make the most exquisite
natural gifts of no account.

The Judge missed a daughter from the beloved circle; missed that
beautiful, richly-endowed girl, and could not think of her future
prospects without bitter anxiety. Petrea wept the object of her youthful
admiration and homage, but consoled herself with the romantic plans she
formed for seeing her again, in all of which she gave to herself the
province of guardian angel, either as the queen of a desert island, or
as a warrior bleeding for her, or as a disguised person who unloosed
her bonds in the depths of a dungeon in order to put them on herself: in
short, in all possible ways in the world except the possible one.

Sara wrote soon after her separation from her friends; she spoke of the
past with gratitude, and of the future with hope. The letter exhibited a
certain decision and calmness; a certain seriousness, which diffused
through the family a satisfactory ease of mind with regard to her future
fate. Elise was ever inclined to hope for the best, and young people are
always optimists: the Judge said nothing which might disturb the peace
of his family, whilst Louise alone shook her head and sighed.

After the many disturbing circumstances which had lately occurred in the
family, all seemed now to long after repose, and the ability to enjoy a
quieter domestic life. Occupations of all kinds--those simple but
cheerful daughters of well-regulated life, went on cheerfully and
comfortably under the eye of Louise. There was no want in the house of
joyful hours, sunshine of every kind, and entertainment full of
interest. The newspapers which the Judge took in, and which kept the
family _au courant_ of the questions of the day, furnished materials for
much development of mind, for much conversation and much thought,
especially among the young people. The father had great pleasure in
hearing thus their interchange of opinion, although he himself seldom
mingled in their discussions, with the exception of now and then a
guiding word.

"I fancy all is going on quite right," said he, joyfully, to his wife
one day. "The children live gaily at home, and are preparing themselves
for life. Indeed, if they only once open their eyes and ears, they will
find subjects enough on which to use them; and will be astonished at all
that life will present them with. It is well when home furnishes
nourishment for mind as well as heart and body. I rejoice too,
extremely, over our new house. Every land, every climate, has its own
advantages as well as its own difficulties, and the economy of life must
be skilfully adjusted if it is to be maintained with honour and
advantage. Our country, which compels us to live so much in the house,
seems thereby to admonish us to a more concentrated, and at the same
time more quiet and domestic life, on which account we need, above all
things, comfortable houses, which are able to advance and advantage
soul as well as body. Thank God! I fancy ours is pretty good for that
purpose, and in time may yet be better; the children too look happy;
Gabriele grows now every day, and Louise has grown over all our heads!"

The young people were very much occupied with plans for the future. Eva
and Leonore built all their castles in the air together. A great
intimacy had grown up between these two sisters since they were alone
during the absence of the others at Axelholm. One might say, that ever
since that evening, when they sate together eating grapes and reading a
novel, the seed of friendship which had long been sprouting in their
hearts, shot forth thence its young leaves. Their castles in the air
were no common castles of romance; they had for their foundation the
prosaic but beautiful thought of gaining for themselves an independent
livelihood in the future--for the parents had early taught their
daughters to direct their minds to this object--and hence beautiful
establishments were founded, partly for friendship and partly for
humanity: for young girls are always great philanthropists.

Jacobi also had many schemes for the future of himself and his wife, and
Louise many schemes how to realise them. In the mean time there were
many processes about kisses. Louise wished to establish a law that not
more than three a day should be allowed, against which Jacobi protested
both by word and deed, on which occasions Gabriele always ran away
hastily and indignantly.

Petrea read English with Louise, arranged little festivities for her and
the family; wept every evening over Sara, and beat her brains every
morning over "the Creation of the World," whilst the good parents
watched ever observantly over them all.

No one, however, enjoyed the present circumstances of the family so much
as Henrik. After he had succeeded in inducing his sisters to use more
lively exercise and exhilaration, he devoted himself more exclusively to
his favourite studies, history and philosophy. Often he took his book
and wandered with it whole days in the country, but every evening at
seven he punctually joined the family circle, and was there the merriest
of the merry.

"We live now right happily," said he one evening in confidential
discourse with his mother; "and I, for my part, never enjoyed life so
much. I feel now that my studies will really mend, and that something
can be made of me. And when I have studied for a whole day, and that not
fruitlessly either, and then come of an evening to you and my sisters,
and see all here so friendly, so bright and cheerful, life seems so
agreeable! I feel myself so happy, and almost wish it might always
remain as it is now."

"Ah, yes!" answered the mother, "if we could always keep you with us, my
Henrik! But I know that won't do; you must soon leave us again; and
then, when you have finished your studies, you must have your own
house."

"And then, mother, you shall come to me!" This had been years before,
and still was Henrik's favourite theme, and the mother listened
willingly to it.

Several poems which Henrik wrote about this time seemed to indicate the
most decided poetical talent, and gave his mother and sisters the
greatest delight, whilst they excited, at the same time, great attention
among the friends of the family. The Judge alone looked on gloomily.

"You will spoil him," exclaimed he one evening to his wife and
daughters, "if you make him fancy that he is something extraordinary,
before he is in anything out of the common way. I confess that his
poetising is very much against my wish. When one is a man, one should
have something much more important to do than to sigh, and sing about
this and that future life. If he were likely to be a Thorild,[15] or any
other of our greatest poets----but I see no signs of that! and this
poetasterism, this literary idleness, which perpetually either lifts
young people above the clouds, or places them under the earth, so that
for pure cloud and dust they are unable to see the good noble gifts of
actual life--I would the devil had it! The direction which Henrik is now
taking grieves me seriously. I had rejoiced myself so in the thought of
his being a first-rate miner; in his being instrumental in turning to
good account our mines, our woods and streams, those noblest foundations
of Sweden's wealth, and to which it was worth while devoting a good
head; and now, instead of that, he hangs his on one side; sits with a
pen in his hand, and rhymes 'face' and 'grace,' 'heart' and 'smart!' It
is quite contrary to my feelings! I wish Stjernhoek would come here soon.
Now there's a fellow! he will turn out something first-rate! I wish he
were coming soon; perhaps he might influence Henrik, and induce him to
give up this verse-making, which, perhaps, at bottom, is only vanity."

Elise and the daughters were silent. For a considerable time now, Elise
had accustomed herself to silence when her husband grumbled. But
often--whenever it was necessary--she would return to the subject of his
discontent at a time when he was calm, and then, talk it over with him;
and this line of tactics succeeded admirably. She made use of them on
the present occasion.

"Ernst," said she to him in the evening, "it grieves me that you are so
displeased with Henrik's poetical bent. Ah! it has delighted me so much,
precisely because I fancied that it is real, and that in this case it
may be as useful as any other can be. Still I never will encourage
anything in him which is opposed to your wishes."

"My dear Elise," returned he mildly, "manage this affair according to
your own convictions and conscience. It is very probable that you are
right, and that I am wrong. All that I beseech of you is, that you watch
over yourself, in order that affection to your first-born may not
mislead you to mistake for excellence that which is only mediocre, and
his little attempts for masterpieces. Henrik may be, if he can, a
distinguished poet and literary man; but he must not as yet imagine
himself anything; above all things, he must not suppose it possible to
be a distinguished man in any profession without preparing himself by
serious labour, and without first of all becoming a thinking being. If
he were this, I promise you that I should rejoice over my son, let him
be what profession he would--a worker in thought or a worker in
mountains. And for this very reason one must be careful not to value too
highly these poetical blossoms. If vanity remains in him he never will
covet serious renown in anything."

"You are right, Ernst," said his wife, with all the cordiality of inward
conviction.

* * * * *

Henrik also longed earnestly for Stjernhoek's arrival. He wished to show
him his work; he longed to measure his new historical and philosophical
knowledge against that of his friend; he longed, in one word, to be
esteemed by him; for Henrik's gentle and affectionate nature had always
felt itself powerfully attracted by the energetic and, as one may say,
metallic nature of the other, and ever since the years of their boyhood
had the esteem and friendship of Stjernhoek been the goal of Henrik's
endeavours, and of his warm, although till now unattainable, wishes.
Stjernhoek had hitherto always behaved towards Henrik with a certain
friendly indifference, never as a companion and friend.

Stjernhoek came. He was received by the whole family with the greatest
cordiality, but by no one with a warmer heart than Henrik.

There was even externally the greatest dissimilarity between these two
young men. Henrik was remarkable for extraordinary, almost feminine
beauty; his figure was noble but slender, and his glance glowing though
somewhat dreamy. Stjernhoek, some years Henrik's senior, had become early
a man. All with him was muscular, firm, and powerful; his countenance
was intelligent without being handsome, and a star as it were gleamed in
his clear, decided eye; such a star as is often prophetic of fate, and
over whose path fortunate stars keep watch.

Some days after Stjernhoek's arrival Henrik became greatly changed. He
had become quiet, and there was an air of depression on his countenance.
Stjernhoek now, as he had always done, did not appear unfriendly to
Henrik, but still paid but little attention to him. He occupied himself
very busily, partly with trying chemical experiments with Jacobi and the
ladies, and partly in the evening, and even into the night, in making
astronomical observations with his excellent telescope. One of the
beaming stars to which the observations of the young astronomer were
industriously directed was called afterwards in the family Stjernhoek's
star. All gathered themselves around the interesting and well-informed
young man. The Judge took the greatest delight in his conversation, and
asserted before his family more than once his pleasure in him, and the
hopes which the nation itself might have of him. The young student of
Mining was a favourite with the Judge also because, besides his
extraordinary knowledge, he behaved always with the greatest respect
towards older and more experienced persons.

"See, Henrik," said his father to him one day, after a conversation with
Stjernhoek, "what _I_ call poetry, real poetry; it is this--to tame the
rivers, and to compel their wild falls to produce wealth and comfort,
whilst woods are felled on their banks and corn-fields cultivated; human
dwellings spring up, and cheerful activity and joyful voices enliven the
country. Look! that may be called a beautiful creation!"

Henrik was silent.

"But," said Gabriele, with all her natural refinement, "to be happy in
these homes, they must be able to read a pleasant book or to sing a
beautiful song, else their lives, spite of all their waterfalls, would
be very dry!"

The Judge smiled, kissed his little daughter, and tears of delight
filled his eyes.

Henrik, in the mean time, had gone into another room and seated himself
at a window. His mother followed him.

"How do you feel, my Henrik?" said she affectionately, gently taking
away the hand which shaded his eyes. His hand was concealing his tears.
"My good, good youth!" exclaimed she, her eyes also overflowing with
tears, and throwing her arms around him. "Now see!" began she
consolingly, "you should not distress yourself when your father speaks
in a somewhat one-sided manner. You know perfectly well how infinitely
good and just he is, and that if he be only once convinced of the
genuineness of your poetic talent, he will be quite contented. He is
only now afraid of your stopping short in mediocrity. He would be
pleased and delighted if you obtained honour in your own peculiar way."

"Ah!" said Henrik, "if I only knew whether or not I had a peculiar
way--a peculiar vocation. But since Stjernhoek has been here, and I have
talked with him, everything, both externally and internally, seems
altered. I don't any longer understand myself. Stjernhoek has shown me
how very little I know of that which I supposed myself to know a great
deal, and what bungling my work is! I see it now perfectly, and it
distresses me. How strong-minded and powerful Stjernhoek is! I wish I
were able to resemble him! But it is impossible, I feel myself such a
mere nothing beside him! And yet, when I am alone, either with my books,
or out in the free air with the trees, the rocks, the waters, the winds
around me, and with heaven above, thoughts arise in me, feelings take
possession of me, nameless sweet feelings, and then expressions and
words speak in me which affect me deeply, and give me inexpressible
delight; then all that is great and good in humanity is so present with
me; then I have a foretaste of harmony in everything, of God in
everything; and it seems to me as if words thronged themselves to my
lips to sing forth the gloriousness of that which I perceive. In such
moments I feel something great within me, and I fancy that my songs
would find an echo in every heart. Yes, it is thus that I feel
sometimes; but when I see Stjernhoek all is vanished, and I feel so
little, so poor, I am compelled to believe that I am a dreamer and a
fool!"

"My good youth," said the mother, "you mistake yourself. Your gifts and
Stjernhoek's are so dissimilar: but if you employ your talents with
sincerity and earnestness, they will in their turn bring forth fruit. I
confess to you, Henrik, that it was, and still is, one of my most lively
wishes that one of my children might become distinguished in the fields
of literature. Literature has furnished to me my most beautiful
enjoyments; and in my younger years I myself was not without my ambition
in this way. I see in you my own powers more richly blossoming. I myself
bloom forth in them, my Henrik, and in my hopes of you. Ah! might I live
to the day in which I saw you honoured by your native land; in which I
saw your father proud of his son, and I myself able to gladden my heart
with the fruit of your genius, your work--oh, then I would gladly die!"

Enthusiastic fire flamed in Henrik's looks and on his cheeks, as whilst,
embracing his mother, he said, "No, you shall live, mother, to be
honoured on account of your son. He promises that you shall have joy in
him!"

The sunbeam which just then streamed into the room fell upon Henrik's
beautiful hair, which shone like gold. The mother saw it--saw silently a
prophesying in it, and a sun-bright smile diffused itself over her
countenance.

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