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* * * * *

On a dark evening at the beginning of March, two persons stood in deep
but low discourse under a tree in St. Mary's churchyard.

"How childish you are, Eva!" said the one, "with your fears and your
doubts! and how pusillanimous is your love. If you would learn, lovely
angel! how true love speaks, listen to me:--

"Pourquoi fit on l'amour, si son pouvoir n'affronte,
Et la vie et la mort, et la haine et la honte!
Je ne demande, je ne veux pas savoir
Si rien a de ton coeur terni le pur miroir:
Je t'aime! tu le sais! Que l'importe tout le reste?"

"Oh Victor," answered the trembling voice of Eva, "my fault is not the
having too little love for you. Ah, I feel indeed, and I evince it by my
conduct, that my love to you is greater than my love for father and
mother and sisters, more than for all the world! And yet I know that it
is wrong! my heart raises itself against me--but I cannot resist your
power."

"On that account am I called Victor, my angel," said he; "heaven itself
has sanctioned my power. And _your_ Victor am I also, my sweet Eva; is
it not so?"

"Ah! only too much so," sighed Eva. "But now, Victor, spare my weakness;
do not desire to see me again till I go in spring in a month's time to
M----s. Do not demand----"

"Demand no such promises from Victor, Eva," said he; "he will not bind
himself so! but you--you must do what your Victor wills, else he cannot
believe that you love him. What--you will refuse to take a few steps in
order to gladden his eyes and his heart--in order to see and to hear
him--in truth you do not love him!"

"Ah, I love you, I adore you," returned Eva; "I could endure anything on
your account--even the pangs of my own conscience; but my parents, my
brother and sisters! ah, you know not what it costs me to deceive them!
they are so good, so excellent; and I! Yet sometimes the love which I
have for them contends with the love which I have for you. Do not string
the bow too tightly, Victor! And now--farewell, beloved, farewell! In a
month's time you will see me, your Eva, again, in M----s."

"Stop!" said he, "do you think you are to leave me in that way? Where is
my ring?"

"On my heart," returned she, "day and night it rests there--farewell!
ah, let me go!"

"Say once more that you love me above every thing in this world!" said
he, "that you belong only to me!"

"Only to you! farewell!" and with these words Eva tore herself away from
him, and hastened with flying feet, like one terrified, across the
churchyard. The Major followed her slowly. A dark form stepped at that
moment hastily forward, as if it had arisen from one of the graves, and
met the Major face to face. It seemed to him as if a cold wind passed
through his heart, for the form tall and silent, and at that dark hour,
and in the churchyard, had something in it ominous and spectre-like, and
as it had evidently advanced to him with design, he paused suddenly, and
asked, sharply, "Who are you?"

"Eva's father!" replied a suppressed but powerful voice, and by the
up-flaring light of a lamp which the wind drove towards them, the Major
saw the eyes of the Judge riveted upon him with a wrathful and
threatening expression. His heart sank for a moment; but in the next he
said, with all his accustomed haughty levity:

"Now there is no necessity for me to watch longer after her;" and so
saying he turned hastily aside, and vanished in the darkness.

The Judge followed his daughter without nearing her. When he came home,
such a deep and painful grief lay on his brow as had never been observed
there before.

For the first time in his life the powerful head of the Judge seemed
actually bowed.

* * * * *

At this time Stjernhoek came to the city quite unexpectedly. He had heard
of the misfortune which had befallen the Franks, as well as of the part
which Henrik acted on this occasion, and of the illness which was the
consequence of it, and he came now in order to see him before he
travelled abroad. This visit, which had occasioned Stjernhoek to diverge
as much as sixty English miles out of his way, surprised and deeply
affected Henrik, who as he entered the room met him with the most candid
expression of cordial devotion. Stjernhoek seized his outstretched hand,
and a sudden paleness overspread his manly countenance as he remarked
the change which a few weeks' illness had made in Henrik's appearance.

"It is very kind of you to come to me--my thanks for it, Stjernhoek!"
said Henrik from his heart; "otherwise," continued he, "you would
probably have seen me no more in this world; and I have wished so much
to say one word to you before we separated thus."

Both were silent for some minutes.

"What would you say to me, Henrik?" at length asked Stjernhoek, whilst an
extraordinary emotion was depicted in his countenance.

"I would thank you," returned Henrik, cordially, "thank you for your
severity towards me, and tell you how sincerely I now acknowledge it to
have been just, and wholesome for me also. I would thank you, because by
that means you have been a more real friend, and I am now perfectly
convinced how honestly and well you have acted towards me. This
impression, this remembrance of our acquaintance, is the only one which
I will take away with me when I leave this world. You have not been able
to love me, but that was my own fault. I have sorrowed over the
knowledge of that, but now I have submitted to it. In the mean time it
would be very pleasant to me to know that my faults--that my late
behaviour towards you, had not left behind it too repulsive an
impression; it would be very pleasant for me to believe that you were
able to think kindly of me when I am no more!"

A deep crimson flamed on Stjernhoek's countenance, and his eyes glistened
as he replied, "Henrik, I feel more than ever in this moment that I have
not shown justice towards you. Several later circumstances have opened
my eyes, and now--Henrik, can you give me your friendship! mine you have
for ever!"

"Oh, this is a happy moment!" said Henrik, with increasing emotion;
"through my whole life I have longed for it, and now for the first time
it is given me--now when--but God be praised even for this!"

"But why," said Stjernhoek, warmly, "why speak so positively about your
death? I will hope and believe that your condition is not so dangerous.
Let me consult a celebrated foreign physician on your case--or better
still, make the journey with me, and put yourself under the care of Dr.
K----. He is celebrated for his treatment of diseases of the heart; let
me conduct you to him; certainly you can and will recover!"

Henrik shook his head mournfully. "There lies his work," said he,
pointing to an open book in the window, "and from it I know all
concerning my own condition. Do you see, Nils Gabriel," continued he,
with a beautiful smile, as he placed his arm on the shoulder of his
friend, and pointed with his other towards heaven, gazing on him the
while with eyes which seemed larger than ever--for towards death the
eyes increase in size and brilliancy--"do you see," said he, "there
wanders your star. It ascends! for certain a bright path lies before
you; but when it beams upon your renown it will look down upon my grave!
I have no doubt whatever on this point. Some time ago this thought was
bitter to me; it is so now no more! When the knowledge depresses me that
I have accomplished so very little on earth, I will endeavour to console
myself with the conviction that you will be able to do so much more, and
that either in this world or the next I shall rejoice over your
usefulness and your happiness!"

Stjernhoek answered not a word; large tears rolled down his cheeks, and
he pressed Henrik warmly to his breast.

On Henrik's account he endeavoured to give the conversation a calmer
turn, but the heart of his poor friend swelled high, and it was now too
full of life and feeling to find rest in anything but the communication
of these.

The connexion between the two young men seemed now different to what it
had ever been before. It was Henrik who now led the conversation, and
Stjernhoek who followed him, and listened to him with attention and the
most unequivocal sympathy, whilst the young man gave such free scope to
his thoughts and presentiments as he had never ventured to do before in
the presence of the severe critic. But the truth is, there belongs to a
dweller on the borders of the kingdom of death a peculiar rank, a
peculiar dignity, and man believes that the whispering of spirits from
the mysterious land reaches the ear which bows itself to them; on this
account the wise and the strong of earth listen silently like disciples,
and piously like little children, to the precepts which are breathed
forth from dying lips.

The entrance of the Judge gave another turn to the conversation, which
Stjernhoek soon led to Henrik's last works. He directed his discourse
principally to the Judge, and spoke of them with all the ability of a
real connoisseur, and with such entire and cordial praise as surprised
Henrik as much as it cheered him.

It is a very great pleasure to hear oneself praised, and well praised
too, by a person whom one highly esteems, and particularly when, at the
same time, this person is commonly niggardly of his praise. Henrik
experienced at that moment this feeling in its highest degree; and this
pleasure was accompanied by the yet greater pleasure of seeing himself
understood, and in such a manner by Stjernhoek as made himself more clear
to himself. In this moment he seemed, now for the first time, to
comprehend in a perfectly intelligible manner his own talents, and what
he wished to do, and what he was able to do. The fountain of life
swelled forth strongly in his breast.

"You make me well again, Nils Gabriel!" exclaimed he; "you give me new
life. I will recover; recover in order again to live, in order to work
better and more confidently than I have hitherto done. As yet I have
done nothing; but now, now I could--I feel new life in me--I have never
yet felt myself so well as now! Certainly I shall now recover, or
indeed--is the best wine reserved for me till the last?"

The evening sped on agreeably, and with animation in the family circle.
The blessed angels of heaven were not more beautiful or more joyous than
Henrik. He joked with his mother and sisters, nay, even with Stjernhoek,
in the gayest manner, and was one of the liveliest who partook of the
citron-souffle which Louise served up for supper, and which she herself
had helped to prepare, and of which she was not a little proud. Yes,
indeed, she was almost ready to believe that it was this which had given
new life to Henrik, and the power of which she considered to be
wonderfully operative. But ah!----

At the very moment when Henrik jested with Louise on this very subject,
he was seized by the most violent suffering.

This suffering continued interruptedly for three days, and deprived the
sick young man of consciousness; whilst it seemed to be leading him
quickly to that bound which mercy has set to human sufferings. On the
second day after this paroxysm Henrik was seized with that desire for
change of resting-place which may be commonly regarded as the sign that
the soul is preparing for its great change of abode. The Judge himself
bore his son in his arms from room to room, and from bed to bed. No
sleep visited the eyes of his family during these terrible days; whilst
his mother, with eyes tearless and full of anguish riveted upon her son,
followed him from room to room, and from bed to bed; now hanging over
his pillow, now seated at the foot of his bed, and smiling tenderly upon
him when he appeared to know her, and articulating his name in a low and
almost inaudible voice.

On the evening of the third day the poor youth regained his
consciousness. He recognised his family again, and spoke kindly to them.
He saw that they were pale and weary, and besought them incessantly to
go to rest. The Assessor, who was present, united earnestly in this
request, and assured them that, according to all appearances, Henrik
would now enjoy an easy sleep, and that he himself would watch by him
through the night. The father and daughters retired to rest; but when
they endeavoured to persuade the mother, she only waved with her hand,
whilst a mournful smile seemed to say, "It is of no use whatever to talk
to me about it."

"I may remain with you, Henrik?" said she, beseechingly.

He smiled, took her hand, and laid it on his breast; and in the same
moment closing his eyes, a calm refreshing sleep stole over him. The
Assessor sate silently beside them, and observed them both: it was not
long, however, before he was obliged to leave them, being summoned
suddenly to some one who was dangerously ill. He left them with the
promise to return in the course of the night. Munter was called in the
city the night-physician, because there was no one like him who appeared
earnestly willing to give his help by night as by day.

The mother breathed deeply when she saw herself alone with her son. She
folded her hands, and raised her eyes to heaven with an expression which
through the whole of the foregoing days had been foreign to them. It was
no longer restless, almost murmuring anxiety; it was a mournful, yet at
the same time, deep, perfect, nay, almost loving resignation. She bent
over her son, and spoke in a low voice out of the depths of her
affectionate heart.

"Go, my sweet boy, go! I will no longer hold thee back, since it is
painful to thee! May the deliverer come! Thy mother will no longer
contend with him to retain thee! May he come as a friendly angel and
make an end of thy sufferings! I--will then be satisfied! Go then, my
first-born, my summer-child; go, and if there may never more come a
summer to the heart of thy mother--still go! that thou mayst have rest!
Did I make thy cradle sweet, my child! so would I not embitter by my
lamentations thy death-bed! Blessed be thou! Blessed be He also who gave
thee to me, and who now takes thee from me to a better home! Some time,
my son, I shall come home to thee; go thou beforehand, my child! Thou
art weary, so weary! Thy last wandering was heavy to thee; now thou wilt
rest. Come thou good deliverer, come thou beloved death, and give rest
to his heart; but easily, easily. Let him not suffer more--let him not
endure more. Never did he give care to his parents----"

At this moment Henrik opened his eyes, and fixed them calmly and full of
expression on his mother.

"Thank God!" said he, "I feel no more pain."

"Thanks and praise be given to God, my child!" said she.

Mother and son looked on each other with deep and cheerful love! they
understood each other perfectly.

"When I am no more," said he, with a faint and broken voice, "then--tell
it to Gabriele, prudently; she has such tender feelings--and she is not
strong. Do not tell it to her on a day--when it is cold and
dull--but--on a day--when the sun shines warm--when all things look
bright and kindly--then, then tell her--that I am gone away--and greet
her--and tell her from me--that it is not difficult--to die!--that there
is a sun on the other side----"

He ceased, but with a loving smile on his lips, and his eyes closed
their lids as if from very weariness.

Presently afterwards he spoke again, but in a very low voice. "Sing me
something, mother," said he, "I shall then sleep more calmly, 'They
knock! I come!'"

These words were the beginning of a song which Henrik had himself
written, and set to music some time before, during a night of suffering.

The genius of poetry seemed to have deserted him during the latter part
of his illness; this was painful to him; but his mind remained the same,
and the spirit of poetry lived still in the hymn which his mother now,
at his request, sang in a trembling voice:

They knock! I come! yet ere on the way
To the night of the grave I am pressing,
Thou Angel of Death, give me yet one lay--
One hymn of thanksgiving and blessing.

Have thanks, O Father! in heaven high,
For thy gift, all gifts exceeding;
For life! and that grieved or glad I could fly
To thee, nor find thee unheeding.

Oh thanks for life, and thanks too for death,
The bound of all trouble and sighing;
How bitter! yet sweet 't is to yield our breath
When thine is the heart of the dying!

By our path of trial thou plantest still
Thy lilies of consolation;
But the loveliest of all--to do thy will--
Be it done in resignation!

Farewell, lovely earth, on whose bosom I lay;
Farewell, all ye dear ones, mourning;
Farewell, and forgive all the faults of my day:
My heart now in death is burning!

"It is burning!" repeated Henrik in a voice of suffering. "It is
terrible! Mother! Mother!" said he, looking for her with a restless
glance.

"Your mother is here!" said she, bending over him.

"Ah! then all is right!" said he again, calmly. "Sing, my mother," added
he, again closing his eyes--"I am weary."

She sang--

We part! but in parting our steps we bend
Alone towards that glorious morrow,
Where friend no more shall part from friend,
Where none knoweth heart-ache or sorrow!

Farewell! all is dark to my failing sight,
Your loved forms from my faint gaze rending,
'T is dark, but oh!--far beyond the night
I see light o'er the darkness ascending!

"Oh! if you only knew how serene it is! It is divine!" said the dying
one, as he stretched forth his arms, and then dropped them again.

A change passed over the countenance of the young man; death had touched
his heart gently, and its pulsations ceased. At the same moment a
wonderful inspiration animated the mother; her eyes beamed brightly, and
never before had her voice had so beautiful, so clear a tone as whilst
she sang

Thou callest, O Father! with glad accord
I come!--Ye dear ones we sever!--
Now the pang is past!--now behold I the Lord--
Praise be thine, O Eternal, for ever!

Judge Frank was awoke out of his uneasy sleep by the song, whose tone
seemed to have a something supernatural in it. A few moments passed
before he could convince himself that the voice which he heard was
really that of his wife.

He hastened with indescribable anxiety to the sick room; Elise yet sang
the last verse as he entered, and casting his eyes on her countenance,
he exclaimed "My God!" and clasped his hands together.

The song ceased: a dreadful consciousness thrust itself like a sword
through the heart of the mother. She saw before her the corpse of her
son, and with a faint cry of horror she sank, as if lifeless, upon the
bed of death.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Eric Stagnelius, who was born in 1793, and died in 1823, would have
been, it is probable, had a longer life been granted to him, one of the
most distinguished poets of the age. His poems, epic, dramatic, and
lyric, fill three volumes. "Liljor i Saron"--Lilies of Sharon, is the
general title of his lyrics.

CHAPTER VIII.

ELISE TO CECILIA.

_Two months later._

"When I last wrote to you, my Cecilia, it was winter. Winter, severe icy
winter, had also gathered itself about my heart--my life's joy was
wrapped in his winding-sheet, and it seemed to me as if no more spring
could bloom, no more life could exist; and that I should never again
have the heart to write a cheerful or hopeful word. And now--now it is
spring! The lark sings again the ascension-song of the earth; the May
sun diffuses his warming beams through my chamber, and the grass becomes
already green upon the grave of my first-born, my favourite! And I----Oh
Lord! thou who smitest, thou also healest, and I will praise thee! for
every affliction which thou sendest becomes good if it be only received
with patience. And if thou concealest thyself for a season--as it
appears to our weak vision--thou revealest thyself yet soon again,
kinder and more glorious than before! For a little while and we see thee
not, and again for a little while and we see thee, and our hearts
rejoice and drink strength and enjoyment out of the cup which thou,
Almighty One! fillest eternally. Yes, every thing in life becomes good,
if that life be only spent in God!

"But in those dark wintry hours it was often gloomy and tumultuous
within me. Ah, Cecilia, I would not that he should die! He was my only
son, my first-born child. I suffered most at his birth; I sang most
beside his cradle; my heart leapt up first and highest with maternal joy
at his childish play. He was my summer child, born in the midsummer of
nature and of my life and my strength, and then--he was so full of life,
so beautiful and good! No, I would not that he should die, or that my
beautiful son should be laid in the black earth! And as the time drew
nearer and nearer, and I saw that it must be--then it was dark in me.
But the last night--Oh, it was a most wonderful night!--then it was
otherwise. Do you know, Cecilia, that I sung gaily, triumphantly, by the
death-bed of my first-born! Now I cannot comprehend it. But this
night--he had during the foregoing day suffered much, and his
sufferings had reconciled me to his death. They abated as death
approached, and he besought of me, as he had often done in the years of
his childhood, to sing him to sleep. I sang--I was able to sing. He
received pleasure from the song, which increased in power, and with a
heavenly smile, whilst heavenly pictures seemed to float before his
eyes, he said, 'Ah, it is divine!' and I sang better and ever clearer. I
saw his eyes change themselves, his breath become suspended, and I knew
that then was the moment of separation between soul and body--between me
and him! but I did not then feel it, and I sang on. It seemed to me as
if the song sustained the spirit and raised it to heaven. In that moment
I was happy; for even I, as well as he, was exalted above every earthly
pain.

"The exclamation of my name awoke me from my blessed dream, and I saw
the dead body of my son--after this I saw nothing more.

"There was a long, deep stupor. When I recovered consciousness, I felt a
heart beating against my temples. I raised my eyes and saw my husband;
my head was resting on his breast, and with the tenderest words he was
calling me back to life. My daughters stood around me weeping, and
kissing my hands and my clothes. I also wept, and then I felt better. It
was then morning, and the dawn came into my chamber. I threw my arms
around my husband's neck, and said, 'Ernst, love me! I will
endeavour----'

"I could say no more, but he understood me, thanked me warmly, and
pressed me close to his bosom.

"I did endeavour to be calm, and with God's help I succeeded. For
several hours of the day I lay still on my bed. Eva, whose voice is
remarkably sweet, read aloud to me. I arose for tea, and endeavoured to
be as usual; my husband and my daughters supported me, and all was peace
and love.

"But when the day was ended, and Ernst and I were alone in our chamber,
a fear of the night, of bed, and a sleepless pillow, seized hold of me;
I, therefore, seated myself on the sofa, and prayed Ernst to read to me,
for I longed for the consolations of the Gospel. He seated himself by me
and read; but the words, although spoken by his manly, firm voice,
passed at this time impressionless over my inward sense. I understood
nothing, and all within me was dark and vacant. All at once some one
knocked softly at the door, and Ernst, not a little astonished, said,
'Come in;' the door was opened, and Eva entered. She was very pale, and
appeared excited; but yet at the same time firm and determined. She
approached us softly, and sinking down on her knees between us, took our
hands between hers. I would have raised her, but Ernst held me back, and
said, mildly but gravely, 'Let her alone!'

"'My father, my mother!' said Eva, with tremulous voice, 'I have given
you uneasiness--pardon me! I have grieved you--I will not do it again.
Ah! I will not now lay a stone on your burden. See, how disobedient I
have been--this ring, and these letters, I have received against your
will and against my promises from Major R. I will now send them back.
See here! read what I have written to him. Our acquaintance is for ever
broken! Pardon me, that I have chosen these hours to busy you with my
affairs, but I feared my own weakness when the force of this hour shall
have passed. Oh, my parents! I feel, I know, that he is not worthy to be
your son! But I have been as it were bewitched--I have loved him beyond
measure;--ah, I love him still--nay, do not weep, mother! You shall
never again shed a tear of grief over me--you have wept already enough
on my account. Since Henrik's death every thing in me is changed. Fear
nothing more for me; I will conquer this, and will become your obedient,
your happy child. Only require not from me that I should give my hand to
another--never will I marry, never belong to another! But for you, my
parents, will I live; I will love you, and with you be happy! Here, my
father, take this, and send it back to him whom I will no more see!
And--Oh, love me! Love me!'

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