The hunting bugle-call and the baying of hounds awoke Arwed from his
morning slumbers. As he opened his eyes they were greeted by the imaged
orb with which the rays of the morning sun announced its rising,
glowingly and tremblingly reflected from the bosom of the sea. Arwed
sprang from his bed, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and raised the
window to enjoy the beauty of awakening nature. In the court below, the
huntsmen, horses and hounds were moving about with loud and joyous
tumult, and old Knut, who had saddled Arwed's black charger, was now
leading him from the stable.
'By whose command is this?' asked Arwed of the man below.
'The countess Christine!' cried Knut.
'Lead him back to his stall and take the saddle off,' commanded Arwed.
'I shall not ride this morning.'
Shaking his head, the faithful servant obeyed, and at same moment the
door was thrown open and his beautiful cousin, whose fresh charms
almost outshone the morning's splendor, entered his room in her hunting
dress.
'I am going upon a bear hunt,' said she in a more friendly manner than
on the preceding evening. 'Will you accompany me, cousin Arwed?'
'I am much obliged to you,' answered Arwed, 'but I prefer remaining in
the house.'
Christine started, apparently surprised and perplexed by a cold refusal
which she had not anticipated as possible, 'Perhaps you are not fond of
this kind of chase?' she satirically asked.
'Yes!' answered Arwed, quietly; 'but not in your company, cousin.'
'Now, I confess!'--cried Christine, making a powerful effort to
suppress the last part of the sentence which was at her tongue's end,
'May one venture to ask, wherefore, major?'
'Oh yes, one may venture, countess,' answered Arwed, 'and I will most
willingly respond to the question. I do not like to see women pursuing
employments unsuited to their sex. The riding and hunting and baiting
and shooting of ladies, always excites in me intolerable displeasure.'
'That is nothing but the quite common pride and selfishness of your
sex,' said Christine with bitterness, 'which would have our's always
feeble that you may the more easily keep us under the yoke.'
'Woe to you, poor women,' exclaimed Arwed, laughing, 'if you had no
better defence against our imperiousness than your physical strength;
you would every where come off the worse. Nevertheless, countess, your
sex is more powerful than you believe it. Your most powerful talisman
is your womanhood; and it is a bad exchange, when you give it up for
the fame of a rifleman or hussar.'
'_Give it up?_' repeated Christine with great excitement.
'Nothing less,' answered Arwed. 'To override horses, to chase and
kill animals, is a rough business. A man may pursue it without
suffering in his character, for nature has destined him forcibly to
oppose its hostile powers by contending with them for his safety and
his food,--and, in doing so, he but fulfills his destiny. More tender
and delicate woman has other duties. God created women to be the
proteges, the tender companions of men, to soften and ennoble their
fierce and intractable natures, and to be the loving mothers and
guardians of their children.'
'Silence!' cried Christine, angrily.
'All the peculiar qualities, however, which naturally belong to you,'
continued Arwed pleasantly, seizing Christine's hands and holding them
fast, as if he feared Megret's fate, 'all, and they are the noblest
which adorn your sex, must be lost in the masculine woman, and she will
be very fortunate if she preserve the purity of her soul, which is in
great danger, when the restraint of modest, maidenly customs is once
thrown off.'
Christine started with a sudden shudder. Tears burst from her beautiful
eyes, and she withdrew her hands from his.
'What is the matter, cousin?' he exclaimed, with deep sympathy.
'You despise me, Arwed!' sobbed the maiden.
'What an unfortunate idea!' answered Arwed. 'Whoever fears the contempt
of another, feels that he deserves it, and that can never be the case
with the countess Christine.'
'You are right!' exclaimed Christine, with a firm tone, applying her
handkerchief to her eyes to remove all traces of her tears, and
proceeding to the window to cool her flushed face in the morning air.
'You will not accompany me to the chase, then?' she finally asked, as
if nothing had occurred between them.
'No!' answered Arwed.
'Then I will also remain at home,' said she; and, calling to the
servants from the window, she directed them to give over their
preparations, as she was indisposed; after which she threw herself into
a seat opposite Arwed.
'This chase was in reality only devised to obtain an opportunity for an
undisturbed conversation with you,' said she, 'and that object can be
attained as well here. My father has had a bad night and now sleeps
soundly.'
'Well, speak on!' answered Arwed, placing himself in a listening
attitude. 'If what you wish to say be something good, it will give me
great pleasure to hear it.'
'Not altogether good,' said Christine, casting her eyes upon the floor
in great embarrassment.
'So I should imagine,' answered Arwed. 'The feelings you have
manifested toward me since my arrival have not been of the most
friendly kind.'
'By heaven, Arwed, you do me injustice!' exclaimed. Christine,
springing up and holding out her beautiful hand to him. 'My feelings
are as kind toward you now as formerly, when we, two joyous children,
sought shells together on the beach; and I would be on yet better terms
with you; only you appear not to desire it.'
'How do you mean?' asked the ingenuous Arwed, who understood his cousin
but too well.
'In one word,' she suddenly exclaimed, 'my father destines my hand for
you, and I shall be compelled to oppose his determination.'
'That is indeed no very flattering communication,' said Arwed. 'It
explains the unmannerly reception you gave me, however. It was nothing
but your fear of my tenderness; but as you know your father's
intentions, so you should also know the impediments, on my side, in the
way of their accomplishment. I love another maiden.'
'That I knew,' said Christine, 'but I was afraid....'
'That your cousin's truth would not be able to withstand these powerful
attractions,' said Arwed completing the sentence for her. 'You are
either very vain of your charms, beauteous cousin, or have made
acquaintance with very bad specimens of our sex.'
A deep sigh escaped from the oppressed bosom of Christine.
'Now, so long as I remain here,' continued Arwed, 'it shall be my most
anxious endeavor to restore my sex to your good opinion. In the first
place I shall quiet your apprehensions by the assurance, that my heart
is entirely filled by a distant and beloved object,--that I shall never
become troublesome to you as a suitor,--and that I will decline the
proposed connection with so much decision, that the anger of our
parents shall fall entirely on myself. I would love you as a brother
should love a sister; but I would also be allowed the brother's right
to tell you the truth whenever I may think it necessary to your
welfare,--would counsel you,--warn you....'
'Yes, Arwed, be my brother!' cried Christine, with a convulsive
pressure of his hand. 'Ah, that you could always have been so!'
'By this, however,' said Arwed, 'I must consider myself as having
acquired some claim to your sisterly confidence. I am glad to know that
you can feel no other sentiment for me, as it would give me pain to be
compelled to reject your heart as well as your hand. But I cannot
possibly believe that your coldness extends to the whole sex. That,
indeed, would be still more unnatural than your horse-racing and
bear-hunting; No, no! your heart is not insensible. The glance of your
eye, like the diamond, now flashing fire, and now dissolving in
crystals, has already revealed it. You know what it is to love!'
'You afflict me cruelly, cousin!' cried Christine, holding her hand
before her traitorous eyes.
'Confide in me,' entreated Arwed, affectionately withdrawing her hand
from her face. 'Go back with me to the times of our happy childhood,
when we mutually imparted all our little secrets, when we laid our
hearts before each other like open books. Let me once more read in
yours: who is the man of your choice?'
'You _shall_ read it, Arwed,' cried Christine; 'by heaven you shall
read it! But not now,--only not to-day.'
'Why not now?' urged Arwed. 'The present is precisely the right moment.
Your heart is now softened and open. Pour it out towards me before
caprice and false shame shall again harden and close it. Name the man
of your choice to me, and take my word that I will honestly do whatever
I can to promote your happiness. Surely, Christine can have no reason
to be ashamed of her choice!'
'Pity me!' cried she; and, again bursting into tears, she fled from the
room.
'Strange!' said Arwed, looking after her. 'The maiden is not at peace
with herself; that is evident from the violence and eccentricity of her
behaviour. There is a wounded spot in her heart which smarts at the
least touch. Pray heaven it be not Mac Donalbain! It would be a pity
for so magnificent a creature.'