The Northern Light | Page 9

great burning
eyes, possessed an indefinable witchery, and a certain charm lay in her
voice, which, though she talked in whispers, had a soft, deep tone, and
an odd intonation, as though the German which she spoke so fluently
was not her mother tongue.
"Hartmut, look at me. Do you really not know me any more? Does no
memory of your childhood come back to you, to tell you who I am?"

The young man shook his head slowly, and yet some dreamy and
obscure memory did come to his recollection, of having heard this
voice before, and of this face which had looked into his at some far
distant period. Half shy, half fascinated, he stood looking at this
stranger, who suddenly threw her arms around him.
"My son, my only child! Do you not know your own mother?"
"My mother is dead," he answered, half aloud.
The stranger laughed bitterly, shrilly, and her laugh seemed but an echo
of the hard, joyless sounds which had come from Hartmut's lips a few
moments since.
"So that's how it is. They would even say I was dead and not leave you
the memory of a mother. It is not true, Hartmut. I live, I stand before
you; look at me, look at my features, are they not your very own? That
at least they could not take from you. Child of my heart, do you not feel
that you belong to me?"
Still Hartmut stood motionless, looking into that face in which his own
was so faithfully mirrored. He saw the same lines, the same luxuriant,
blue-black hair, the same dark, flashing eyes; and the same demoniacal
expression which was a flame in the eye of the mother, was a spark in
the eye of the son. Their close resemblance to one another was witness
enough that they were of one blood. The young man felt the influence
of the mysterious tie.
He demanded no explanation, no proof; the dreamy, confused
recollections of his childhood were suddenly clear, and after a second's
hesitation he threw himself into the arms which were stretched out to
him.
"Mother!"
In this cry lay the whole fervid intensity of the boy, who had never
known what it was to have a mother, and who had longed for one with
all the passion of his nature. His mother! And now he lay in her arms,

now she covered him with warm kisses, and called him by sweet,
tender names, which had been strangers to his ear until that
moment--everything else seemed forgotten by him in this flood of
stormy ecstasy.
After a few minutes Hartmut loosed himself from the arms which still
enfolded him.
"Why have you never been with me, mamma?" he asked vehemently.
"Why have I always been told that you were dead?"
Zalika stepped back, and in an instant all tenderness had died out of her
eyes, and in its place was a wild, deadly hate, as the answer came like a
hiss from between her set lips.
"Because your father hates me, my son--and because he wishes to deny
me the love of my only child since he thrust me from him."
Hartmut was silent. He knew well enough that the name of his mother
dare not be mentioned in his father's presence, and that he had been
sharply reproved once for doing so, but he had been too much a child at
the time to ask "why." Zalika gave him no time to do so now. She
brushed the thick locks back from his brow and a shadow crossed her
face.
"You get your forehead from him," she said slowly. "But that is the
only thing that reminds me of him, all the rest belongs to me and me
alone. Every feature tells that you are mine--I always knew that."
She suddenly clasped him in her arms again with unspeakable
tenderness, and Hartmut returned the embrace with ardor. It seemed to
him like the fairy tales which he had so often dreamed, and he gave
himself up unresistingly to the spell of happiness which some
wonderful magic had cast over him.
Just at that moment, Will called loudly to his friend from the opposite
shore to come on, that it was time to go home. Zalika spoke at once.

"We must part now. Nobody must learn that I have seen and spoken
with you; above all things your father must not know it. When do you
return to him?"
"In eight days."
"Not for eight days?" The words sounded almost triumphant.
"Until then I can see you daily. Be here by the pond to-morrow at this
same hour; make some pretext for leaving your friend behind, so that
we may be undisturbed. You will come, Hartmut?"
"Certainly, mother, but--"
She gave him no