In our wild and thorny region of the North a brave and toilsome
peasantry have long been engaged in victorious conflict with the barren
sleep to which nature seemed to have condemned the soil. They have
stirred up the sterile depths and watered them with their sweat; they
have summoned science and industry to their aid, drained marshes,
diverted the streamlets that descended toward the Meuse from the
highlands and put them in circulation through innumerable arteries to
fatten and enrich the land. What a glorious fight it was of man against
matter! What a magnificent triumph it has been to convert the unthrifty
Campine[A] into a fruitful and luxurious region! Indeed, our descendants
will hardly believe their own eyes when in future times they shall
behold grass-covered plains, flowery meadows, and fields waving with
grain, where the lingering patriarchs of our day may point out the sites
of burning sand-pits and barren moors!
[Footnote A: The Flemings have given the name of _Campine_ to the vast
uncultivated spaces extending in the north of Belgium from the vicinity
of Antwerp to Venloo. The improvement of the _Campine,_ undertaken on a
large scale within some years, has already produced the happiest
results.]
North of the city of Antwerp, toward the frontiers of Holland, there are
but few traces of this gradual improvement. It is only along highroads
that the traveller begins to observe the effect of liberal agriculture
on the sandy soil, while, farther on toward the heart of the region,
every thing is still bare and uncultivated. As far as the eye can
penetrate, nothing is to be seen in that quarter but arid plains thinly
covered with stunted vegetation, while the horizon is bounded by that
blue and cloudy line which always marks the limit of a desert. Yet, as
we journey over these vast spaces, it is impossible not to observe, from
time to time, that a clear and slender rivulet meanders here and there
over the moor, and that its verdant banks are studded with vigorous
plants and thrifty trees; while in many places the hardy sons of toil
who took advantage of the neighboring water, have opened their lonely
farms, built comfortable houses, and frequently gathered themselves
together in neat and thrifty villages.
In one of these spots, where meadow-land and pasturage have made
agriculture profitable, and by the side of an unfrequented road, there
is a farm of considerable size and value. The massive trees which spread
their thick shade on every side attest that the spot has been occupied
and cultivated for several generations. Besides, the ditches which
surround it, and the stone bridge that leads to the principal gate,
justify the belief that the estate has some right to be considered a
lordly demesne. In the neighborhood it is known as GRINSELHOF. The
entire front of the property is covered by the homestead of the farmer,
comprising his stables and granges; so that, in fact, every thing in
their rear is concealed by these edifices as well as by dense thickets
and hedges which are growing in all the wild luxuriance of nature.
Indeed, the dwelling of the proprietor was a mystery even to the farmer
who worked the soil; for its surrounding copses were an impenetrable
veil to his eyes, beyond which neither he nor his family were ever
allowed to pass without special permission.
Within this lonely and sacred precinct, buried in foliage, was a large
house, called THE CHÂTEAU, inhabited by a gentleman and his daughter,
who, without a single servant, companion, or attendant, led the lonely
lives of hermits. The neighbors said that it was avarice or ill-humor
that induced a person possessed of so beautiful an estate to bury
himself in such a solitude. The farmer who worked on the property
carefully avoided all explanations as to the conduct or purpose of the
proprietor, and sedulously respected the mysterious habits and fancies
of his master. His business prospered; for the soil was fertile and the
rent low. Indeed, he was grateful to his landlord, and, every Sunday,
lent him a horse, which carried him and his daughter, in their
weather-beaten _calèche_, to the village church. On great occasions the
farmer's son performed the duty of lackey for the proprietor.
It is an afternoon of one of the last days of July. The sun has nearly
finished his daily course, and is declining rapidly toward the horizon;
still, his rays, though less ardent than at noontide, are hot enough to
make the air close and stifling. At Grinselhof the last beams of the
setting luminary play gayly over the foliage, gilding the tree-tops with
sparkling light, while, on the eastern side of the dense foliage, the
long, broad shadows begin to fall athwart the sward, and prepare the
groves for the gentle and refreshing breeze that springs up at twilight.
Sadness and gloom hang over the sombre château and its grounds; a
deathlike silence weighs like a gravestone on the desolate scene; the
birds are songless; the wind is still; not a leaf stirs; and light alone
seems to be living in that dreary solitude. No one could observe the
entire absence of noise, motion, and vitality, without being impressed
with the idea that nature had been suddenly plunged in a deep and magic
sleep.
Suddenly the foliage at the end of a thicket in the distance is seen to
stir, while a cloud of twittering birds, frightened from the herbage,
flies rapidly across the little path, which is immediately occupied by a
young female dressed entirely in white, who dashes from between the
branches with a silken net in pursuit of a butterfly. The beautiful
apparition, with loose and streaming hair, seemed rather to fly than
run, as her light and rapid steps, full of eagerness and animation,
scarcely touched the earth while darting after the gaudy insect. How
graceful she is, as, halting for an instant beneath the coquettish moth,
she looks up to behold its gold-and-purple wings dancing round her head,
mocking and playing with its gay pursuer! She thinks she has caught it;
but, alas! the edge of her net only touched the butterfly's wings, and
away it dashes, over hedge and copse, far, far beyond her reach! How
beautiful she is, as, in that golden light, warmed with exercise and
excitement, her eyes glistening, her lips parted, her graceful arms
stretched upward, she stands gazing, half pleased, half disappointed,
after the departing insect, till it is lost in the evening sky! Wind and
sunshine have slightly tanned her delicate cheeks, but their roses are
only heightened into the glow of perfect health. Beneath her high and
polished brow, coal-black eyes shine through long and silken fringes,
while a chiselled mouth discloses rows of faultless pearls between lips
which shame the coral! Her stately head is framed in masses of long,
curling hair; and, as the locks are floated over her ivory shoulders by
rapid motion, the proud and arching lines of her swan-like neck are
fully displayed in all their splendor. Her form is lithe and supple, and
its graceful contour is modestly marked by a snowy dress. As she lifts
her head and gazes at the sky, a poet might easily fancy her to be some
fanciful "being of the air," and convert her into the fairy queen of the
solitary realm!
For a long while this beautiful woman wandered about the paths of the
lonely garden, seemingly absorbed in reveries of various kinds. At times
she was gay, at times sad. At length she approached a bed of violets,
which, from the training of the plants, had evidently, been carefully
tended, and, observing that they languished under the intense heat of
the past day, began to grieve over them.
"Alas! my dear little flowers, why did I neglect to water you yesterday?
You are very thirsty, are you not, my charming pets?"
For a moment or two she was quiet, still gazing at the violets, and
then continued, in the same dreamy tone:--
"But then, alas! since yesterday my mind has been so disturbed, so
happy, so--" Her eyes fell, and a blush crimsoned her cheeks, as she
murmured, softly, "GUSTAVE!"
Motionless as a statue, and absorbed in her enchanting dream, she forgot
the poor little violets, and, probably, the whole world.
"His image ever, ever before me! his voice ever ringing in my ears! Why
try to escape their fascination? Oh, God! what is this that is passing
within me? My heart trembles; sometimes my blood bounds wildly through
my veins, and then again it creeps and freezes; and yet how happy I am!
what inexpressible joy fills my very soul!"
She was silent; then, seeming suddenly to rouse herself, she raised her
head and threw back the thick curls, as if anxious to disembarrass her
mind of a haunting thought.
"Wait, my dear flowers," said she, smiling, to the violets; "wait a
moment: I will comfort and refresh you."
With this she disappeared in the grove, and, in a short time, brought
from it a few twigs and leaves, which she arranged in a little trellis
over the flower-beds, so as to shadow the violets completely from the
sun. After this she took a small watering-pot and ran across the grass
to a basin or tank in the middle of the garden, around which a number
of weeping-willows drooped their branches into the water. On her arrival
its surface was perfectly smooth; but hardly had her image been
reflected in the tank when it appeared to swarm with living creatures.
Hundreds of gold-fishes, of all colors, swam toward her with their
mouths gaping from the water, as if the poor little animals were trying
to speak to her. Holding on by the trunk of the nearest willow, she bent
gracefully over the pond and tried to fill her watering-pot without
touching the gold-fish.
"Come, come; let me alone just now," said she, as she carefully avoided
them; "I haven't time to play with you; I will bring you your dinner
after a while."
But the fish fluttered around the watering-pot until she withdrew it
from the tank; and, even after her departure, continued to crowd toward
the bank she had touched with her foot.
The young lady watered her flowers and replaced the pot gently on the
ground; then, retiring slowly to the solitary house, she returned after
a while at the same slow pace, and, throwing some crumbs to the fish,
began to saunter slowly about the garden-paths, inattentive to every
thing but her own absorbing thoughts. At length she reached a spot where
a gigantic catalpa-tree overarched the garden and bent its branches
almost to the earth. A table and a couple of chairs stood beneath the
fresh and fragrant shade, and a book, inkstand, and embroidery-frame,
gave token that the retreat had not long been abandoned by the lady
herself. She seated herself in one of the chairs, took up the book, then
the embroidery, let them fall one after another, and finally leaned her
beautiful head on her hand, like one who is weary in spirit and anxious
for rest.
For a while her large dreamy eyes were vaguely fixed, as if gazing into
space; at intervals a smile played around her mouth, and her lips moved
as if talking with a friend. Occasionally her drooping eyelids closed
entirely; but the lashes quickly reopened, only to fall more heavily
than before, till at last a profound sleep or intense reverie seemed to
get possession of her mind and body.
But did she sleep? There is no doubt that her spirit watched and was
happy; for a pleasant expression constantly played over her features,
and, if sometimes it became serious, the joyous look quickly returned
with all its radiance. She had long been plunged by this happy dream
into complete forgetfulness of real life, when a noise of wheels and the
neigh of a horse was heard at the gateway, disturbing the silence of
Grinselhof. Still the maiden was not aroused.
The old _calèche_ returned from the city, drew up near the stable, and
the farmer and his wife ran out to salute their master and put up the
horse. While they were thus engaged, Monsieur De Vlierbeck got out of
the vehicle and spoke to them kindly, but in a voice so full of sadness
that both looked at him with astonishment. In fact, the gravity of this
singular person never abandoned him even in his most affable moods; but
at that moment his physiognomy indicated a degree of intense depression
which was by no means habitual. He seemed altogether worn out with
fatigue, and his eyes, which were commonly so vivacious, drooped, dull
and languishing, beneath their heavy lids.
The horse was quickly put in the stable, and the young lackey, who had
already divested himself of his livery, took several baskets and packets
from the vehicle, carried them into the farm-house, and placed them on
the table of the antechamber.
"And now, Master John," said De Vlierbeck, approaching the farmer, "I
shall have need of you. There will be company to-morrow at Grinselhof.
Monsieur Denecker and his nephew dine here."
The farmer, perfectly stupefied by the announcement and scarcely able to
believe his own ears, looked at his master with staring eyes and gaping
mouth, and, after a moment's hesitation, stammered forth,--
"That large, rich gentleman, sir, who sits near you every Sunday at high
mass?"
"The same, John. Is there any thing surprising in it?"
"And young Monsieur Gustave, who spoke to _mademoiselle_ in the
churchyard when church was over?"
"The same!"
"Oh, sir, they are such rich people! They have bought all the land
around Echelpoel. They have at least ten horses in the stable at their
_château_, without counting those they have in town. Their carriage is
silver from top to bottom."
"I know it; and it is exactly on that account that I desire to receive
them in a becoming manner. You must be ready; your wife and your son
also. I shall call you to-morrow morning very early. You will willingly
lend a hand to help me, won't you?"
"Certainly, certainly, sir; a word from you is enough. I am always happy
to be able to serve you in any way."
"Thank you for your kindness, John. We understand one another, my worthy
fellow; and so farewell till to-morrow."
Monsieur De Vlierbeck entered the farm-house, gave some orders to the
young man in relation to the things he had taken from the vehicle, and,
passing through the screening grove, walked on to Grinselhof.
As soon as he was out of the farmer's sight his physiognomy assumed a
more serene expression, and there was a smile on his lips as he cast his
eyes around in search of some one in the solitude of the garden At a
turn of the path his eye fell suddenly on the sleeping girl. How
beautiful she was in her calm repose! The golden twilight covered her
with its bright reflection, and threw a rosy tint on every thing about
her. Thick curls strayed in beautiful disorder over her cheeks, and
snowy flowers, shaken from the catalpa's branches by the evening breeze,
had fallen around her in profusion. She still dreamed, and the happy
smile yet rested on her features. De Vlierbeck gazed earnestly at his
sleeping child, and raised his eyes to heaven as he said,
tremulously,--"Thanks, Almighty Father! she is happy! Let my martyrdom
be prolonged; but may all my sufferings render thee compassionate for
her!"
After this short and ardent ejaculation he threw himself into a chair,
leaned his arm carefully on the table, and, resting his hand on it,
remained still as a statue. For a long time he watched his sleeping
child, while his face seemed to reflect each emotion that flitted across
the delicate features of the maiden. Suddenly a modest blush overspread
her brow, and her lips began to articulate. The old gentleman watched
her narrowly, and, although she had not spoken in connected sentences,
he caught one of those stray words which often betoken what is passing
in a dreamer's mind.
"'GUSTAVE!' She dreams of Gustave. May God be propitious to us! Ah, yes,
my child," exclaimed her father, "open thy heart to hope! Dream, dream;
for who knows what is in store for us? Yet, no!--let us not destroy
these happy moments by cold reality! Sleep, sleep! let thy soul enjoy
the heavenly enchantment of love which it is awakening!"
Monsieur De Vlierbeck continued for a while his quiet observation of the
sleeper, and then, rising, passed behind her chair and imprinted a long
kiss on her forehead.
Still half-dreaming, the sleeper slowly opened her eyes; and, the moment
she perceived who had awakened her, she sprang into her father's arms
with a bound, and, hanging round his neck, overwhelmed him with
questions and kisses.
Vlierbeck gently disengaged himself from his daughter's embrace, as he
remarked, in a tone of raillery,--
"It seems altogether unnecessary, Lenora, to inquire what new beauties
you have discovered in Vondel's 'Lucifer.' You have not had time, I take
it for granted, to begin the comparison between this masterpiece of our
native tongue and Milton's 'Paradise Lost'?"
"Ah! father," murmured Lenora, "my mind is indeed strangely troubled. I
do not know what is the matter with me; I cannot even read with
attention."
"Come, Lenora, my child, don't be sad. Sit down: I have something of
importance to tell you. You do not know why I went to town to-day, do
you? It was because we are to have company to dinner to-morrow!"
Lenora gazed at her father with an earnest and questioning look.
"It is Monsieur Denecker," continued he:--"the wealthy merchant, you
know, who sits near me at church and lives at the _château_ of
Echelpoel."
"Oh, yes! I remember him, father; he always speaks to me so kindly, and
never fails to help me from the carriage when we go to church."
"But your _eyes_ ask, I see, Lenora, whether he is coming _alone_.
_Another_ person will accompany him, my girl!"
"_Gustave!"_ exclaimed the maiden, involuntarily and blushing.
"Exactly! Gustave will be here," replied Monsieur De Vlierbeck. "Don't
tremble on that account, Lenora; and don't become frightened because
your innocent heart may find itself opening to the dawn of new
sensations. Between us, my child, there can be no secret that my love
will not discover."
His daughter's eyes looked inquiringly into his own, as if asking an
explanation of the enigma. But all of a sudden, as if a ray had darted
unexpectedly into her soul, she threw her arms around the old man's neck
and hid her face in his bosom.
"Oh, father! beloved father," murmured she, "your kindness is
unbounded!"
For some moments the old gentleman did not put aside the affectionate
caresses of his child; but by degrees his expression became gloomy;
tears started into his eyes, and he said, in broken tones,--
"Lenora, whatever may happen to us in life, thou wilt always love thy
father thus, wilt thou not?"
"Always, always, father!'
"Lenora, my child," continued he, with a sigh, "thy tender affection is
my only recompense and happiness here below: never deprive my soul of
its consolation!"
The sad tone in which these words were uttered touched the maiden's
heart so deeply that she took her father's hands, without saying a
syllable, and wept in silence with her head in his bosom.
For a long time they remained thus motionless, absorbed by a feeling
which was neither joy nor sorrow but seemed to acquire its power and
mastery by the mingling of these opposite sentiments.
Monsieur De Vlierbeck's expression was the first to change. His features
became severe as he bent his head downward reproachfully. In truth, the
strange words that started the tears into his daughter's eyes had
excited the reflection in his own mind that another person was, perhaps,
about to share his Lenora's love and probably to separate him from her
forever. He was ready for every sacrifice, were it even infinitely
greater, provided it contributed to the happiness of his child; yet the
very idea of separation caused his heart to bleed at every pore. By
degrees he stifled this selfish anxiety, and, striving to control
himself, raised his daughter with a kiss.
"Come, Lenora," said he, "be gay again! Isn't it a happy thing that our
hearts can sometimes get into the shade after they have been too much in
the sunshine? Let us go into the house. We have many arrangements to
make in order to receive our guests becomingly."
Lenora obeyed her father in silence, and followed him slowly, while the
tears still dropped from her beautiful eyes.
Some hours afterward Monsieur De Vlierbeck might have been seen seated
in the principal saloon of Grinselhof, near a little lamp, with his
elbows on the table. The apartment was dark and dreary, for the feeble
rushlight illuminated but a single spot and cast the distant and lofty
ceiling into vague obscurity. The flickering flame threw long and sombre
shadows over the wall, while a line of old portraits in the panels
seemed to fix their stern and immovable eyes on the table. Amid the
gloom nothing came out with distinctness but the calm and noble face of
the poor old gentleman, who sat there, absorbed in his reflections,
fixed as a statue.
At length, rising from his chair and cautiously walking on tiptoe to the
end of the room, he stopped and listened at the closed door. "She
sleeps," said he, in a low voice; and, raising his eyes to heaven,
added, with a sigh, "may God protect her rest!" Then, returning to the
table, he took the lamp, and, opening a large safe which was imbedded in
the wall, he went down on his knees and drew forth some napkins and a
table-cloth, which he unfolded carefully to see whether they were torn
or stained. As he refolded the articles one after the other, a smile
betokened that he was pleased with his examination. Rising from this
task, he went back to the table, from the drawer of which he took a
piece of buckskin and whiting. Mashing the latter with a knife-handle,
he began to rub and polish several silver forks and spoons which were in
a basket. The salt-cellars and other small articles of table-service,
which were mostly of the same metal, were all subjected to a similar
process, and soon glittered brightly in the feeble lamplight.
While he was engaged in this strange work, the soul of the poor old man
was busy with a thousand conflicting thoughts and recollections. He was
constantly muttering to himself; and many a tear escaped from his lids
as he dreamed over the past and repeated the names of the loved and
lost!
"Poor brother!" ejaculated he; "but one man alone in the world knows
what I have done for thee, and yet that man accuses me of bad faith and
ingratitude! And thou, poor brother, art wandering in the icy solitudes
of America, a prey perhaps to sickness and suffering, while for months
no kindly look is fixed upon thee in that wilderness where thou earnest
thy miserable wages! Son of a noble race! thou hast become a slave to
the stranger, and thy toil serves to amass the fortunes which others are
to enjoy! My love for thee has made me suffer martyrdom; but, as God is
my judge, my affection has remained entire,--untouched! May thy soul, O
brother, feel this aspiration of mine even in the isolation where thou
art suffering; and may the consciousness of my love be a balm for thy
misery!"
The poor gentleman was absorbed for some time in painful meditation; but
after a while his dream seemed over, and he betook himself again to
work. He placed all the silver utensils side by side on the table, and,
after carefully counting and examining them, resumed his soliloquy:--
"Six forks! eight spoons! We shall be four at table: it will be
necessary to be careful; else it will easily be seen something is
wanting. I think, however, it will do. I must give very precise
instructions to John's wife, for she is a clever woman, and knows what
she is about!"
As be uttered the last words he replaced the silver in the basket and
locked it in the safe; after which he took the lamp, and, leaving the
saloon on tiptoe, descended through a little door into a large vaulted
cellar. Here he hunted about for a considerable time amid stacks of
empty bottles, and at last succeeded in finding what he was in search
of; but his face became extremely pale as he drew three bottles from the
sand.
"Good heavens! _only three bottles!_" exclaimed he; "three bottles of
_table_-wine! and Monsieur Denecker is such a connoisseur of vintages!
What shall I do if they ask for more when these three bottles are empty?
I have it! I do not drink, and Lenora drinks very little; so there will
be _two_ bottles for Monsieur Denecker and _one_ for his nephew! But,
even at the worst, what is the use of anxiety? Let _luck_ settle it!"
With this De Vlierbeck went into the corners of the cellar, where he
gathered from the walls a quantity of cobwebs, which he wound
artistically around the bottles and covered with dust and sand.
On reaching the saloon he went to work with paste and paper to mend some
rents in the tapestry on the wall; and then, after passing nearly half
an hour in brushing his clothes and disguising their threadbare spots
with water and ink, he came back to the table and made preparations for
a task which was still more singular than any he had hitherto been
engaged in. Taking from the drawer a silk thread, an awl, and a bit of
wax, he put his boot on his knees and began to mend the rents in the
leather with the skill of a cobbler! It will readily be supposed that
this odd occupation stirred a variety of emotions in the heart of the
poor gentleman; violent twitches and spasms passed over his face; his
cheeks became red, then deadly pale; till at last, yielding to a
passionate impulse, he cut the silk, threw it on the table, and, with
his hands stretched toward the portraits, cried out, with struggling
passion,--
"Yes! behold me,--behold me,--ye whose noble blood runs in my veins!
You, brave captain, who, fighting at the side of Egmont, at St. Quentin,
gave your life for your country,--you, statesman and ambassador, who,
after the battle of Pavia, rendered such eminent services to the Emperor
Charles,--you, benefactor of your race, who endowed so many hospitals
and churches,--you, proud bishop, who, as priest and scholar, defended
so bravely your faith and your God,--behold me, all of you, not only
from that senseless canvas, but from the bosom of God where you are at
rest! He whom you have seen at the wretched task of mending his boots,
and who devotes his life to the concealment of his poverty,--he is your
descendant, your son! If the gaze of his fellow-men tortures him, before
you at least he is not ashamed of debasing toil! glorious ancestry! you
have fought the foes of your native land with sword and pen; but I,--I
have to contend with unmerited shame and mockery, without a hope of
ultimate triumph or glory; my weary soul sinks under its burden, and the
world has nothing in store for me but scorn and contempt! And, yet, have
I ever stained your noble escutcheon? All that I have done is generous
and honest in the sight of God;--nay, the very fountain-head of my wo is
love and compassion! Yes, yes!--fix your glittering eyes on me;
contemplate me in the abyss of poverty where I am fallen! From the
bottom of that pit I lift my brow boldly toward you, and your silent
glance does not force me to grovel in the earth with shame! Here, in the
presence of your noble images, I am alone with my soul, with my
conscience;--hero, no mortification can touch the being who, as
gentleman, Christian, brother, and father, has sacrificed himself to
duty!"
His voice ceased; and for a few moments he stood still in the midnight
silence, looking at the antique portraits as the last echoes died away
in the lofty apartment, with his arms stretched toward the pictures as
if invoking the beings they represented.
"Poor, senseless creature," continued he, after a while, clasping his
hands and lifting them anew to heaven, "thy soul seeks deliverance in
dreams! Yes; it is, perhaps, a dream, an illusion! Yet, thanks, thanks
to the Almighty that allows even a dream to fortify me with courage and
endurance! Enough: reality once more stares me in the face; and yet I
defy the mocking spectre which points to ruin and misery!"
"And then to-morrow,--to-morrow!" continued he; "wilt thou not tremble
beneath the glance of those who seek the secret of thy life? Yes; study
well thy part; have ready thy mask; go on bravely with thy cowardly
farce! And now begone; thy nightly task is done;--beg, beg from sleep
the oblivion of what thou art and of thy threatening future! _Sleep!_ I
tremble at the very thought of it! Father in heaven, have mercy on us!"