When a cessation of hostilities for a time was agreed on, and Johan was to return home, he endeavoured and hoped to be able to shake off his deep gloom. He was to see Ellen again, but the thought of her no longer brought gladness to his soul. It was with slow and heavy steps that he approached the cottage in the valley; and when Ellen came out to meet him, and hid her tearful face on his breast, it did not anger him that she wept, for his own heart was so overcharged with misery, that it seemed to weigh him down to the earth. At length he felt somewhat easier; he tried to concentrate his thoughts upon Ellen, and he had everything that could remind him of his brother removed from sight. Yet, when in passing through the woods, he came near some large tree, on which his brother and himself, as children, had cut their names together, painful and dark remembrances would rush on him; and it was still worse when his mother wept, and spoke of George--of what he was as a little boy, and how good, and affectionate, and kind-hearted he had always been. When in the society of the neighbouring peasants, he was silent, and seemingly indifferent to all amusement; and when he heard them remark 'How Johan is changed since he went to the wars!' he felt himself compelled to leave them and fly to solitude. Ellen was kind and gentle to him; but when, of an evening, he loitered near the window of her little chamber, he could not help hearing how she sighed and sobbed.
One afternoon, when he came slowly home from his work in the fields, he began to commune with himself, and his soliloquy ended by his saying to himself--'I will be happy; for, as things are now, I might as well be where George is.' And, thus resolving, he went straight to the window of Ellen's room, at which she was standing, and leaning against the outside frame, he said--
'Listen to me, Ellen! We have mourned long enough for George. I have been fond of you ever since you were a child--will you be my wife now?'
Ellen looked down for a moment; then, raising her eyes to his, she said--
'Ah, Johan! I saw very well how matters stood between you and George; but I will tell you frankly, that I would have preferred to have taken poor George for my husband, and kept you as my brother. However, since it was God's will to remove him from this world, there is no one whom I would rather marry than you. Are you content with this acceptance?'
'I suppose I must be,' replied Johan; but he became very pale, and he added, in a lower and somewhat discontented tone--'There was no need for your saying all this, Ellen; you may believe my assurance, that I am as much attached to you as ever George could have been.'
'Yes, Johan, yes!' said Ellen; 'but it is needless to make comparisons now; nor ought you to be angry at what I have said. You are dearest to me after him; and, even if he stood here in your place, I should not be happy if you were dead and gone.'
'Hush, Ellen, hush!' cried Johan, as he glanced over his shoulder with uneasiness. 'Let us speak about our wedding-day; for my mother cannot live long, and we could not reside together after her death unless we were married.'
After a little more conversation, Ellen shut the window, and withdrew; and the subject was not again alluded to the whole evening. When Johan went to bed, the thought occurred to him--'It was very strange that I forgot to seal our engagement with a single kiss. Am I never more to feel that I have a right to be happy?'
He could not sleep that night--he could not help reflecting how it would have been, if it were George who was about to marry Ellen, and he who was lying in the grave. 'But George would then have caused my death, and perhaps things are better as they are.' He tried to escape from thought--he tried to sleep, and at last sleep came; but it brought no relief, for he found himself again standing in that well-remembered wood, and saw again before him that small house, with its dreadful recollections. He felt himself struggling violently to keep the trapdoor shut, till the perspiration poured down his face; and then he awoke in his agitation, and anything was better than the horror of such a vivid dream. 'Oh! why is it not all a dream?' he exclaimed, as he wrung his hands in agony of spirit.