sea-gulls and the fishes beneath the water; and even they did not
see it properly, for they darted back with terror as the boat filled
with water and sank. There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the
surface, and those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten. The
glass with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not sink,
for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be cast upon the
shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of no consequence. It
had served its purpose, and it had been loved, which Anne Lisbeth's
boy had not been. But in heaven no soul will be able to say, "Never
loved."
Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was
called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she remembered the
old, noble days, in which she had driven in the carriage, and had
associated with countess and baroness. Her beautiful, noble child
had been a dear angel, and possessed the kindest heart; he had loved
her so much, and she had loved him in return; they had kissed and
loved each other, and the boy had been her joy, her second life. Now
he was fourteen years of age, tall, handsome, and clever. She had
not seen him since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been
for years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither from
the town.
"I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see my
darling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my heart. Certainly
he must long to see me, too, the young count; no doubt he thinks of me
and loves me, as in those days when he would fling his angel-arms
round my neck, and lisp 'Anne Liz.' It was music to my ears. Yes, I
must make an effort to see him again." She drove across the country in
a grazier's cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot,
and thus reached the count's castle. It was as great and magnificent
as it had always been, and the garden looked the same as ever; all the
servants were strangers to her, not one of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor
of what consequence she had once been there; but she felt sure the
countess would soon let them know it, and her darling boy, too: how
she longed to see him!
Now that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was kept
waiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes slowly. But
before the great people went in to dinner, she was called in and
spoken to very graciously. She was to go in again after dinner, and
then she would see her sweet boy once more. How tall, and slender, and
thin he had grown; but the eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still
beautiful. He looked at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did
not know who she was. He turned round and was going away, but she
seized his hand and pressed it to her lips.
"Well, well," he said; and with that he walked out of the room. He
who filled her every thought! he whom she loved best, and who was
her whole earthly pride!
Anne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public road,
feeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and night, and
even now carried about in her dreams, had been cold and strange, and
had not a word or thought respecting her. A great black raven darted
down in front of her on the high road, and croaked dismally.
"Ah," said she, "what bird of ill omen art thou?" Presently she
passed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the door, and the two
women spoke to each other.
"You look well," said the woman; "you're fat and plump; you are
well off."
"Oh yes," answered Anne Lisbeth.
"The boat went down with them," continued the woman; "Hans the
skipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end of them. I
always thought the boy would be able to help me with a few dollars.
He'll never cost you anything more, Anne Lisbeth."
"So they were drowned," repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she said no
more, and the subject was dropped. She felt very low-spirited, because
her count-child had shown no inclination to speak to her who loved him
so well, and who had travelled so far to see him. The journey had cost
money too, and she had derived no great pleasure from it. Still she
said not a word of all this; she could not relieve her heart by
telling the laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not
enjoy her former position at the castle. Then the raven flew over her,
screaming again as he flew.
"The black wretch!" said Anne Lisbeth, "he will end by frightening
me today." She had brought coffee and chicory with her, for she
thought it would be a charity to the poor woman to give them to her to
boil a cup of coffee, and then she would take a cup herself.
The woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne Lisbeth
seated her in a chair and fell asleep. Then she dreamed of something
which she had never dreamed before; singularly enough she dreamed of
her own child, who had wept and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had
been knocked about in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the
depths of the sea, in a spot only known by God. She fancied she was
still sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing the
coffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting. But
suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the threshold a
beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's child, and this
apparition said to her, "The world is passing away; hold fast to me,
for you are my mother after all; you have an angel in heaven, hold
me fast;" and the child-angel stretched out his hand and seized her.
Then there was a terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces,
and the angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by
the sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the ground;
but, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her feet and dragged
her down, and it seemed as if hundreds of women were clinging to
her, and crying, "If thou art to be saved, we must be saved too.
Hold fast, hold fast." And then they all hung on her, but there were
too many; and as they clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell
down in horror, and awoke. Indeed she was on the point of falling over
in reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so startled
and alarmed that she could not remember what she had dreamed, only
that it was something very dreadful.
They drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then Anne
Lisbeth went away towards the little town where she was to meet the
carrier, who was to drive her back to her own home. But when she
came to him she found that he would not be ready to start till the
evening of the next day. Then she began to think of the expense, and
what the distance would be to walk. She remembered that the route by
the sea-shore was two miles shorter than by the high road; and as
the weather was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to
make her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might reach
home the next day.
The sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the air
from the tower of the village church, but to her it was not the bells,
but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Then they ceased, and all
around became still; not a bird could be heard, they were all at rest,
even the owl had not left her hiding place; deep silence reigned on
the margin of the wood by the sea-shore. As Anne Lisbeth walked on she
could hear her own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea
were at rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence.
There was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea. Anne
Lisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say, or
rather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for thought is
never absent from us, it only slumbers. Many thoughts that have lain
dormant are roused at the proper time, and begin to stir in the mind
and the heart, and seem even to come upon us from above. It is
written, that a good deed bears a blessing for its fruit; and it is
also written, that the wages of sin is death. Much has been said and
much written which we pass over or know nothing of. A light arises
within us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and
thus it was with Anne Lisbeth. The germ of every vice and every virtue
lies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie like little grains
of seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the touch of an evil hand, or
you turn the corner to the right or to the left, and the decision is
made. The little seed is stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours
its sap into your blood, directing your course either for good or
evil. Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting
there, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it were
slumbering; but still they are there. Anne Lisbeth walked on thus with
her senses half asleep, but the thoughts were fermenting within her.
From one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to weigh down
the heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year; much may be forgotten,
sins against heaven in word and thought, sins against our neighbor,
and against our own conscience. We are scarcely aware of their
existence; and Anne Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors. She
had committed no crime against the law of the land; she was an
honorable person, in a good position- that she knew.
She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea. What was it
she saw lying there? An old hat; a man's hat. Now when might that have
been washed overboard? She drew nearer, she stopped to look at the
hat; "Ha! what was lying yonder?" She shuddered; yet it was nothing
save a heap of grass and tangled seaweed flung across a long stone,
but it looked like a corpse. Only tangled grass, and yet she was
frightened at it. As she turned to walk away, much came into her
mind that she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of
spectres by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied
people, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate beach. The
body, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but the spirit could
pursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to him, and demand to be
carried to the churchyard, that it might rest in consecrated ground.
"Hold fast! hold fast!" the spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth
murmured these words to herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly
recalled to her memory, when the mother had clung to her, and
uttered these words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had
been torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who wanted
to hold her up in that terrible hour. Her child, her own child,
which she had never loved, lay now buried in the sea, and might rise
up, like a spectre, from the waters, and cry, "Hold fast; carry me
to consecrated ground!"
As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed to
her feet, so that she walked faster and faster. Fear came upon her
as if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her heart, so that she
almost fainted. As she looked across the sea, all there grew darker; a
heavy mist came rolling onwards, and clung to bush and tree,
distorting them into fantastic shapes. She turned and glanced at the
moon, which had risen behind her. It looked like a pale, rayless
surface, and a deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs. "Hold,"
thought she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the
moon. A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist, hanging
like a garment from its shoulders. "Stop! carry me to consecrated
earth," sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow tones. The sound did
not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no sign of such creatures. "A
grave! dig me a grave!" was repeated quite loud. Yes, it was indeed
the spectre of her child. The child that lay beneath the ocean, and
whose spirit could have no rest until it was carried to the
churchyard, and until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated
ground. She would go there at once, and there she would dig. She
turned in the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart
seemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but when she
turned to go home by the shortest way, it returned. "Stop! stop!"
and the words came quite clear, though they were like the croak of a
frog, or the wail of a bird. "A grave! dig me a grave!"
The mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist and
clammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and clung to
her, her mind became clear for thoughts that had never before been
there.
In these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a single
night and appears in the morning sunlight in its full glory of
youthful green. So, in a single instant, can the consciousness of
the sin that has been committed in thoughts, words, and actions of our
past life, be unfolded to us. When once the conscience is awakened, it
springs up in the heart spontaneously, and God awakens the
conscience when we least expect it. Then we can find no excuse for
ourselves; the deed is there and bears witness against us. The
thoughts seem to become words, and to sound far out into the world. We
are horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us, and at
the consciousness that we have not overcome the evil which has its
origin in thoughtlessness and pride. The heart conceals within
itself the vices as well as the virtues, and they grow in the
shallowest ground. Anne Lisbeth now experienced in thought what we
have clothed in words. She was overpowered by them, and sank down
and crept along for some distance on the ground. "A grave! dig me a
grave!" sounded again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried
herself, if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her
actions.
It was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish and
horror. Superstition made her alternately shudder with cold or burn
