"Yes, if I had loved him much, Hertha, then I would have excused myself more; but I only loved him sufficiently to be easily -weak; if I had only had somebody or something to strengthen me! It was levity, curiosity, youthful impulses which made me unfortunate; it was the want of something better to fix my feelings, my thoughts upon. My heart was full, my life so poor, my brain and my future so empty; I wished to experience the feelings of life, if only for a moment;-Ah, I little thought that I should have afterwards to drink its dregs during the whole remainder of my days! And if you had not sustained me, I could not have borne it!" "You must bear it, Amalia," said Hertha, with sorrowful earnestness, "you are a mother: you must live and work for your child's sake; and you will do it, I know, and I love you for it!" "Yes, Hertha ! For this child have I worked and starved, and starved and worked; and my only consolation is that I stand before God and man such as I am; that I have concealed nothing, evaded nothing, either responsibility or penalty. Yes," she continued, rising and directing a fixed gaze on her sleeping child, “I will be a mother, I will live and work, so that no want and no neglect may be the lot of my child; but I feel myself weaker of late, and—if I should die!" "Then is your child mine!" said Hertha, seizing Amalia's hand; "and so long as I live and can work, it shall want for nothing of that, be certain, Amalia; and if the world casts stones at you, I will defend you, and say that you were a good mother; that you were worthy of esteem, because you had the courage to bear the scorn and contempt of society by keeping your child with you and living for it, like a true mother; and I have not words to tell you how I despise those who depreciate and condemn you. I honour you for it, Amalia; and if I were free and could “I know, I know; and don't say any more. I cannot tell you how it consoles, how it strengthens me, that you approve of my conduct in this respect. It will give me new courage to live and suffer and to resist temptations; for oh, this solitude and want of occupation are terrible! Hertha, do not forsake me!" "Never!" replied Hertha, and pressed Amalia's hand as she added, "I will come again very soon; but I must go now. I hear aunt coughing, and my father expects me. But, Amalia, expect me soon again!" Hertha found Aunt Nella, who was waiting in the passage, in a very excited state. "You will compromise both yourself and me," said she, angrily, “what will people think, what will people believe, from such visits, at this time of night? It will bring me into a thousand difficulties. Besides, it has kept us so long, and the Director will be so very cross! And Heaven knows what new accusations my enemies may advance against me when the cause comes to be heard! Oh! oh!" Thus talked and sighed the poor lady the whole way. Hertha answered not a word, and by her expression no one would have suspected that she heard a single syllable, and the truth is, that the talk about the enigmatical lawsuit brought about by one or more mysterious enemiesall gentlemen-and the incessant danger in which Aunt Nella stood, by reason of its protracted hearing, had so often sounded in Hertha's ears, that she was accustomed to listen to it, as one listens to the dissonance of a barrel-organ for ever playing the same piece, with a certain submissive suffering, in expectation of its some time ceasing. It was an evening towards the end of March, and the heavens shone bright with stars above the grey ice-clad earth. Hertha's glance was raised with a gloomy expression to this brilliant heaven, and then it fell upon the frozen ground on which she was walking with a weary, heavy step. She seemed to be drawing a comparison between the two, and to be thinking with the poet Henrik Wergeland: Stars! if ye could only see Ye could not shine forth so brightly! Her steps and Aunt Nella's tongue stopped at the same moment. They had now reached THE OLD HOUSE. READER, has it not sometimes happened to thee, as thou wert wandering in our towns, to cast thine eyes upon a house from which they were involuntarily repelled with an unpleasant impression, unless they became riveted upon it with that kind of interest which is produced by dark mysteries? The house may be well-built, with its two or three storeys, and yet have a certain dark and ruinous appearance. It is flecked and blotched with grey, and a sickly yellow-green, wherever the plaster has fallen off, or is damp-stricken. No flowering plants are to be seen in the windows, from all of which seems to look forth a something dark and brooding. The tiles of the roof are also dark, some broken and decayed, others moss-grown. The steps look as if nobody gave themselves the trouble to sweep them or keep them clean. Whichever way you turn your eyes, they are met by some ill-conditioned feature. There is a something dead, a something divested of beauty and of life about the place. You may be certain that many silent sighs are breathed forth daily in such a house; many bitter unseen tears are shed, and tortured hearts beat, beat as though they would burst the dark, imprisoning walls, in vain! The old house stands there, like a dark mystery closing its walls around the burning strife and agony of the living soul from one ten years' end to another, hiding them from the eye of the world. The profound drama of human life goes on within it; the child is born, brought up, developed, loves, yearns, longs, suffers, and withers away. The old house speaks not a word about it. It silently conceals the mysteries of family-life from the cradle to the coffin, with all its unspeakable bitterness, its corroding rust, which eats into the heart as the old song says, and the world around has no idea of it. It merely has an idea that "wormwood grows in that house." At times, however, these internal corroding dis-. organisations, these secret agonies, the measure of which has been heaped up to over-flowing, burst forth, and then something terrible occurs. Husband is murdered by wife, or wife by husband, or child by the parent, or an incendiary fire takes place which destroys the old house, and spreads desolation far around; and these reveal, now and then, the dark mysteries of the old house to the world. Tattling tongues are thrust forth from every window; the walls talk for the first, and perhaps for the last time. There is then an end of the old house; that which remains is a ruin. Sometimes the house still remains, but shunned of all who would choose for themselves a dwelling. For such houses are said to be haunted. Some uneasy ghost walks there. But long before it arrives at that stage, the old house stands from one ten years' end to another, silent and dark, as a moss-grown graveyard, whilst living hearts slowly bleed to death within it. There are many such houses in the world, though not many with such good cause as the old house before which we are now standing. In the lobby, Aunt Nella made a hesitating pause, and said: "If-perhaps-if I might escape going up to my brother-in-law !-I am quite sure that we have stopped over our time, and he will certainly be so angry!—If you would say "I shall say that you were tired, and obliged to rest!" said Hertha. "Go to my sisters, aunt dear, and give my love to them. I will give a kind greeting to papa from aunt!" And with these words Hertha sprung up-stairs. "Well, if you think you can manage it so; then-but where is she?-Well, well, if she ever is plagued with a lawsuit, as I am, she will not be so nimble-footed!" And sighing and twiddling the strings of her reticule, Aunt Nella trotted across the court to another part of the house. Hertha was very soon obliged to moderate her pace, because there was no light on the stairs, and it was very dark. On the second flight of stairs she was met by a youth carrying a candle, and who advanced towards her with agitated haste. "Hertha-cousin-what a long time you have been!" and the light of the small candle, which was stuck crookedly into an old brass candlestick, fell upon the figure of a tall, but not strong youth, the mass of whose dark hair had a disordered appearance, whilst his eyes, deep-seated under a broad but low forehead, glanced forth with an unsteady, uncertain gaze. There was something gloomy and bewildered in the whole appearance of the youth, and his voice was rough, as if breaking, although he seemed to be about twenty years of age. "Have I been so very long, dear Rudolph ?" said Hertha, kindly and calmly. "What o'clock is it?" "Certainly twenty minutes past eight. Uncle sits with his watch in his hand-" "Give me the candle, Rudolph; you drop the tallow |