Francis, pale with terror, disengaged herself from my embrace,
and stepped forward a few paces. As for myself, I stood as if
thunder-struck.
The person who had spoken these offensive words, and who had doubtless
been watching our movements for some time, was an old peasant woman
bearing a strong resemblance to the witches in Macbeth. Her sharp
black eyes, bare skinny arms, as red and dry as a boiled crab, her face
wrinkled and tanned, her blue checked handkerchief tied over her white
cap, and the stick on which she supported herself, all contributed to
call up before my mind one of those creatures our ancestors would have
burned alive. I confess I wished her such a fate when she advanced
towards Francis and said, with her ingrained impertinence--
"Now, miss--now I see what you have been so busy about the last five
weeks, that you have never once had time to come and see the child."
"My grandfather has been ill, Mrs. Jool."
"Yes, rich people's sickness--there's no great danger; but the young
gent there, that's another thing, eh? I tell you all the village is
talking about it."
"About what, Mrs. Jool?" asked Francis, indignantly.
"Your neglecting the child for----"
"Listen to me, Mrs. Jool," interrupted Francis, in a calm and firm
tone: "neither you nor the village have any right to interfere with
my business."
"Hum! the month is up, and a week gone in the second, and when Trineke
[6] is not paid the boy suffers for it."
"You shall be paid to-morrow; but I warn you if the child suffer on
account of a week's delay in payment, either at your hands or your
daughter's, I will take him away from you. To-morrow, or the day
after, I shall come to see him myself, and I shall make inquiries of
the neighbours."
"What! You would disgrace me and my daughter by taking him away? You
try it! we shall then see who is the strongest."
And the insolent, vulgar woman set her arms akimbo, as she whined out--
"This is what one gets for defending great folks."
"It has cost you no sacrifices, Mrs. Jool; for you have simply tried
to make money out of your daughter's misfortune."
"And he must have shoes and socks, or else he will have to run about
bare-legged in clogs like a peasant's child."
"I will provide them, Mrs. Jool; and now I have heard enough. This
is the path which leads to the village."
"What a hurry you're in!"
"These are private grounds; do you understand that? Now take yourself
off, or----"
"Marry come up! how anxious you are to get rid of me. Well, well,
I am going. Otherwise I am afraid this dandy will play the policeman
for her." And so she limped off along the path indicated, mumbling
all the way.
Francis then turned to me and said--
"Well, Leopold, this incident will serve to enlighten you; behold a
power opposed to my freedom and happiness."
"I understand," I answered, trying to assume a calmness I did not
possess; "I understand, Francis--you are too honest to bind any man
to you for life, saddled as you are with such a burden. But why did
you not confide this terrible secret to me sooner? I will attempt
the impossible to save you!"
"But, Leopold, what are you thinking of?" she responded, quite red
with emotion; "you surely do not suspect me of anything unworthy? You
comprehend that my honour is not herein concerned, though I must
suffer for the deplorable consequences of the fault I committed."
"I am listening, Francis; but, excuse me, I do not rightly understand
you. Is this not a question of a child which you are obliged to
maintain?"
"Yes, certainly; and that's not the heaviest part of the burden. I
have also to maintain the mother."
"Francis!" I exclaimed, in a transport of joy and relief.
"Now it is my turn to say I don't understand you," she rejoined,
regarding me with an adorable simplicity. "Do you think it a light
charge for me, in my position, to bring up a child, and provide for
its mother whom I have sent to a private asylum?"
I thanked Heaven from the bottom of my heart that she, in her
innocency, did not suspect the conclusions I had drawn from the words
and manner of the old witch.
"This is the fatal consequence of my rash obstinacy with poor Harry
Blount," she continued. "You have heard me speak of the accident
before. He was carried in a dying state into the cottage of this
Mrs. Jool and her daughter. In my despair, I repeated several times:
'It is my fault; I have killed him, I have killed him.' The daughter
knelt beside Blount in the wildest agony; and Harry could just murmur,
'My wife, my poor wife; have pity on her, Miss Francis!' I did not
know until this moment that they were secretly married. I promised
solemnly I would care for her, and even if I had made no promise I
should still have done all I have done for her.
"The mother always was, and is, a bad woman; she had, as it were,
thrown her daughter into the arms of Blount, whom she considered a
good match. After the funeral, she made such good use of my words
uttered in despair, and spread such nefarious reports in the village,
that I was accused in all earnest of being his murderer. In fact,
we were obliged to consult the magistrate, a friend of ours, as
to the measures we ought to take to contradict and put a stop to
such slanderous charges. This, of course, did not relieve me of my
obligations towards the daughter, in whom, very soon after the birth of
her child, symptoms of insanity manifested themselves. The child had to
be taken from her, and it was given in care to a sister of hers in the
neighbouring village, who had just lost her youngest born. Perhaps you
would imagine she took it out of sisterly charity; but no, she insisted
upon my paying her monthly wages as I should have to do any other wet
nurse. Besides, I had to do what I could for the poor mother. It was
most fortunate for me that on the occasion of my visit to Utrecht
I met with Aunt Roselaer, otherwise I could not have afforded the
expense the mother has cost under the care of Dr. D. Mrs. Jool,
not caring to live alone, went to the house of her married daughter
under the pretext of watching over the little one; but the fact is,
she would there have a better opportunity of extorting money from me,
and this she does under all kinds of pretences. The child has long
been weaned, and ought not to be left in their charge. I am always
threatening to take it away from them, but I have not yet done so;
for, to confess a truth, I have recoiled from the rumours and false
charges such a change would give rise to. The mother and child are
now costing me the greater part of my income. My grandfather finds
fault with me about it, for he regards it as so much money thrown
away. Now, Leopold, do you think I could draw a man I really loved
into such a maelstrom as this?"
"The man worthy to possess you, Francis, will not be drawn in, but
will aid you in getting out of it."
"It is impossible; I will never abandon this child of Harry Blount's."
"I would never advise you to do anything of the sort. I know the way
to treat such people as Mrs. Jool. The child must be taken away from
her and brought up by respectable farmers; perhaps the Pauwelsens
would take him. To-morrow I will go with you to the village----"
"You will only stir a wasps' nest about your ears."
"Oh, never mind; I am not afraid of a sting."
"It's bad enough that this woman has been playing the spy on us
to-day."
"When she sees us together to-morrow she will understand that it is
useless playing the spy on us any longer."
"But then she will make us the talk of the country-side. You don't
know the wickedness that woman's capable of."
"Well, what can she say more than that we are an engaged couple? And
is this not true, Francis?" I said, gently taking her hand in mine.
"You come back to the subject again, even now you know all," she
murmured; "but you have not calculated all the troubles and burdens
which would fall upon you: Rolf, whom we could not send away from
the Werve; my grandfather with his large wants--and small income. Oh
yes, I know you are going back to the Hague to reconcile yourself
with your uncle the minister, as the General has advised you to do;
and I understand why. But don't do so for my sake, Leopold, for you
have yourself said it would demean you."
"Reassure yourself on that point, Francis; I may forgive my uncle
and seek to be reconciled to him, as my religion bids me; but never
for the sake of his favours. But why so many difficulties? Don't you
see I love you, Francis; that during the last few days I have been at
some pains to suppress my feelings, and have therein succeeded better
than I gave myself credit for; that, now I have told you all, we must
either part for ever, or I must have the assurance you will accept
me as your husband? I desire it, Francis; I desire it with a firmness
of will that despises all objections and will remove all difficulties."
"Leopold," she replied, "don't talk to me like this. No one ever spoke
to me as you have done--you make me beside myself. And yet I ought to
resist. I don't wish to be an obstacle in the way of your happiness,
whatever it may cost me."
I took both her hands in mine. "Francis," I said, "I love you!" This
was my only answer.
"You persist? Can it be? May I still be happy!"
"Enough, Francis; you are mine! I will never forsake you; you are
mine for life!"
"For life!" she repeated after me, becoming so pale that I was afraid
she would faint. "Leopold, yes, I am yours; I put my trust in you,
and I love you as I have never loved before--never before," she
whispered quite low.
"At last!" I cried; and pressed the first kiss of love on her lips.
I need not tell you we came in too late for luncheon. It is true
we were not hungry. We returned to the house slowly, and almost
in silence, and we even slackened our pace as we drew nearer the
Castle. Francis, especially, seemed loath to enter.
"Let us rest on the moss at the foot of this large oak tree," she said;
"it seems to me that all my misfortunes will come back to me as soon
as I enter yonder. I cannot yet separate myself from my happiness. Oh,
Leopold! I wish we could fly away together, that no one might interpose
between us two."
"We will fly away, dearest; but first we must go through certain
formalities which will give us the right to appear in the world as
man and wife, and lift up our heads with the best of them."
"And then will follow the breakfast, the visits, and the
congratulations of mean and false people, who come with a hypocritical
smile to wish us joy, whilst behind our backs they will make a mock
of the man who has dared to marry Major Frank!"
"Oh, what a supposition!" I replied; "you must pay for that," kissing
her sad face into cheerfulness.
"I don't understand," she continued, "how people can treat so serious
a subject as marriage with such lightness. The woman especially
makes an immense sacrifice--her name, her will, her individual self;
a sacrifice which I always considered it would be impossible for me
to make, until I met you."
"And now?" I asked, kneeling before her on the moss, the better to see
into her beautiful eyes, which sparkled with happiness and tenderness.
"Now I have no longer so many objections," she replied with her
sweetest smile. "But do not remain in that position before me,
Leopold. It is only acting a lie, for I foresee you will be my lord
and master. But let us now go in, my dear, otherwise they will be
alarmed about us at the Castle. They won't know what to think of our
long absence."
"Just let me say, Francis, it must be with us as Tennyson puts it--
"Sit side by side, full summed in all their powers,
------
Self-reverent each, and reverencing each:
Distinct in individualities,
But like each other even as those who love."
"Exactly my opinion!" she exclaimed, applauding the sentiment.