THE ARMS OF EXPECTATION.
On the day after their father's departure, I saw neither Ernestine
nor Gabrielle. They were no doubt discomposed by his sudden absence;
but they had been so used to see him go and come again, and generally
little the worse save a slash or two, that in the evening I expected
to meet them in the garden adjoining the royal residence of
Nyekiöbing, the spacious donjon tower of which, with its heavy
battlements and grated casements, overlooked it. I was not
disappointed. From the window of my apartment I saw them walking
there, and hurried to meet them.
It was a beautiful autumnal evening; the low flat shore of the island
was bordered by a stripe of golden sand, encircled by the glittering
waves of a dark blue sea, on which the sunburnt woods of the past
summer cast a long and lingering shadow. Behind the yellow beach and
its shady woods of brown, the sun like a golden targe began to sink,
and as it sank, a million of sparkles seemed to shoot from its
descending disc; down, slowly down it went; the wavering rays shot
further upward; they played upon the clouds above, and lingered long
there after the sun itself had disappeared; then a deeper blue spread
over the waters of the Guldborg Sound--those waters among which (as
the old queen once told us) Grön Jette--or the Green Giant--shot a
beautiful mermaid, whom he had pursued round Falster for seven years
and a day; the woods appeared in darker outline against the lurid
sky, and their crisped leaves rustled in the rising wind, as the
evening deepened.
Gabrielle was looking sadly towards the sea, as if she was pondering
on the path their father was pursuing; but Ernestine had seated
herself, and was embroidering on the cover of a large Roman missal, a
coat of arms with gold and variously coloured thread. Poor
Ernestine's ideas of Catholicism were not very well defined, and
consisted more in forms than belief; for nearly all that her Spanish
mother had taught her in infancy, the mother of Gabrielle--a French
or Belgian Protestant--had left no means untried to obliterate; but
Ernestine loved to do all that she thought would please her mother
who was in heaven; she loved, as she said, to consider herself "the
peculiar care of the mother of God;" she read more prayers than usual
in the month of May, and decorated her little altar with the lilies
of Mary; but her opinions were very vague and undecided. She and
Gabrielle said their prayers every night and morning together on
their knees, and before a crucifix; yet Gabrielle did not consider
herself a Catholic. Ernestine seemed the most devout in the queen's
train when in the Lutheran church of Nyekiöbing, yet she would have
repelled with scorn the imputation of being a Protestant. They had
both been taken frequently to task by Father d'Eydel, but his
asceticism and his harangues rather terrified them; and, being almost
entirely occupied by military duty and dreams of ambition, the count
had permitted them both to please themselves. Ernestine had an
intense love for Gabrielle, and her regard for Gabrielle's mother had
only been second to that which she bore her own.
There was but one heart--one soul seemed to animate these two winning
creatures.
"Herr Kombeek," said Gabrielle, hastening to me; "you saw our father
before he left this, and can tell us his last messages?"
"The most tender love to you, and that you were both to keep light
hearts till his return. But you must not call me that name now,
Gabrielle. Mine is the same as your father's--the same as yours, as
I have just discovered--Philip Rollo."
"Oh, that is charming!" exclaimed both the girls looking up, one with
her blue eyes, and the other with her black, beaming with pleasure.
"Your father----"
"Our poor father!" said Gabrielle sadly, as the tears rose again to
her eyes, and she turned towards the sea.
"He deputed me to be your guardian."
"You!" said Gabrielle, with a sunny smile of wonder in her bright
blue eyes.
"You!" added Ernestine, with a flash of astonishment in her dark
orbs, which were red with weeping, although she proudly endeavoured
to conceal it.
"I--there is nothing so surprising in that surely, except to
myself--that I should have so great an honour, so supreme a happiness.
"A rare guardian--as if we were mere children, who could not look
after ourselves!" they said, laughing.
"Besides, there is that dear old queen," added Gabrielle.
"Nay, ladies, if the wild musketeers of Merodé, or Tilly's savage
Walloons--if some exasperated Holsteiners or discomfited Danes, paid
a visit in the dark to this castle by the sea; or if the boors
revolted under some popular ruffian, as they do at times, and
assailed the dowager's court, because her son the king will not make
peace with an emperor, who has sworn to conquer Denmark as he has
conquered Bohemia, you might find there were worse protectors than
Philip Rollo and his company of kilted musketeers."
"And your tall kinsman that wears the eagle's-wing," said Gabrielle,
with a faint blush.
"I thank you for remembering me, though he in his vanity forgot me,"
said Ian laughing, as he stepped forward and saluted the ladies,
while Phadrig Mhor, his tall henchman, remained a few paces behind;
"but harkee, Philip, here hath Phadrig Mhor just learned from a
fisherman, that the king is concentrating forces in Laaland to attack
Pehmarn."
Ernestine gazed at him anxiously.
"He will certainly recall us. Our swords will rust and our tartans
become moth-eaten in this mouldy old castle. Dioul! was it to guard
an old woman that we came to Denmark?"
"Are you not very happy here, Herr Major?" asked Gabrielle timidly.
"Doubtless he is, madam," said Phadrig, who had picked up a little
German in these wars; "but while we stay here, I will continue a
sergeant. Dugald Mhor Mhic Alaster, Gillian M'Bane, and Dunachadh
Mhor of Kilmalie, will all be mere musketeers; while our Scots lads
in Sweden and Germanie are all becoming colonels of foot and
rittniasters of horse. Huich!" he added, cutting a Highland caper,
at which the girls laughed excessively; "Clanna nan Gaël an' guillan
a chiele!"
"Right, Phadrig!" said Ian, with sparkling eyes, as he caught our
sergeant's enthusiasm; "here's to our Highlandmen, shoulder to
shoulder!" he added, drinking a handful of pure water which bubbled
into a stone basin near him.
"I am weary of this place already--my sorrows be on it!" grumbled
Phadrig.
"Discontented rogue!" said I; "thou wilt never be pleased, I fear.
Have we not the best of Danish beef, of Rostock beer and German wine,
with easy duty and dry quarters to boot?"
"Phadrig is a true Highlander," said Ian, giving his foster-brother a
slap on the shoulder; "he snuffs the distant strife like the erne or
gled. A true Highlander, M'Farquhar, thy sword is as ready for a
foe, as thy purse for a friend. But away to our company, and in case
the king summons us, look well to the hammer-stalls and collars of
bandoliers; for orders may come to embark in an hour; and, if we
unfurl our colours, Count Tilly must keep sure watch at Fehmarn."
Phadrig retired, flinging up his bonnet as he went.
"It is to Fehmarn our father has gone," said Gabrielle, in a
tremulous voice; "surely--I hope you will not go there."
"We must go where the king commands us; but fear not, lady, for your
father, the count. He bears a charmed life; I could almost vow be
was _gefrorn_, as the Germans and Walloons call it--bullet proof.
But, come--I have brought some bread for you to feed the golden fish
in yon old mossy basin," continued Ian, offering his hand to
Gabrielle to lead her away; for he knew well that I wished to be
alone with her sister, and a few days residence at Nyekiöbing had
made a wonderful change in his sentiments regarding these two girls.
I saw the colour mount to the fair brow of Gabrielle, and a smile of
pleasure play on her rosy mouth as Ian led her away.
In the garden there was a pond or large basin, built of stone, and
sunk in a thick carpet of rich moss and grass, surrounded by Gueldre
rose-bushes; water filled it to the brim, and therein a few gold fish
shot to and fro, and now and then a stray frog croaked or swam among
the leaves that floated on its surface.
In this garden the great beeches and tall solemn poplars stood in
rows, with black branches old and gnarled. Like the castle itself,
the aspect of the garden was dreary and antique, for the hand of Time
had passed over every thing; but when I sat beside Ernestine, all
seemed to grow beautiful and bright; the scentless roses gave forth
perfume; leaves covered the trees; the still stagnant bosom of the
pond became limpid and sparkling, while the old castle walls shone
redly and joyously, though the last flush of the west was dying upon
their broad fagacle.
As Ian and Gabrielle retired, I drew nearer Ernestine, and for a
moment saw the blood suffuse her face and white neck as she stooped
over her needle, and my thoughts were beginning to be very much
perplexed, when a fortunate incident gave a sudden--I may say
glorious--turn to the conversation.
"What a very remarkable coat of arms!" said I.
"They are my _arms of expectation_," said she, looking up with a
waggish smile.
"Your arms of--pardon me--but I do not understand."
"You know that I am half a Spaniard."
"And half a Scot," I added, placing a hand timidly upon her left
shoulder.
"Well--it is the fashion in my mother's country to divide their
shield per pale, _thus_--placing their paternal arms on the sinister
side."
"On my honour, Ernestine, you are quite a little herald!"
"And leaving the dexter _blank_ for those of----"
"Who--what?"
"Their future husband--whoever Heaven shall send; and these we call
our 'arms of expectation.'"
Encouraged by her merry laugh, with a beating heart I took up a
pencil which lay in her work-case, and traced upon the dexter side my
own arms, three cinque foils within a border.
"Whose arms are these?" she asked, looking up with a timid expression
in her eyes.
"The Rollos--they are mine! Oh, Ernestine!--do not be offended; but
you are so proud, that I am positively quite afraid of you. My
fathers have carried these emblems on their shields in many a
battle--and by the side of Scotland's kings."
"Ah! good heavens!--what do I see--they are the same as ours!
_argent_, three cinque foils _or_, is it? My father has them
engraved on every thing at Vienna, from his banner to his
saddle-bags."
"This is very remarkable; we may be related."
"Who can say that we are not?" continued Ernestine with a charming
smile, while every moment her colour deepened; "my father bears an
assumed name, and even we scarcely know him by any other than
Rupert-with-the-Red-plume. His is a strange story! He quarrelled
with his elder brother, the lord of his family, who concluded that he
was born to misfortune because his mouth was not adapted to the
capacity of a certain gigantic spoon, or heirloom, which, however, I
do not understand; but to ask questions about it is sufficient to
kindle his anger. He served in a Scottish ship of war as captain of
arquebusses, and fought against the Spaniards and Portuguese. He was
wrecked; and, after many and strange vicissitudes, found his way into
the Imperial army, and, belying the old tradition of his house, won
himself a coronet, and a fame that will die only with the history of
Austria. His own name, written in a character which I do not
understand, is traced here on a blank leaf of this old family missal."
I had listened to her as one transfixed by her words, and now,
trembling with eagerness, I turned to the leaf of the Latin missal (a
thick little volume, printed on vellum by Thomas Davidsone, "Printer
to the King's Majestie of Scotland,") and read a single line in the
old Gaëlic letter, which will make two when translated;--
"_Helen, daughter of Iain MacAonghais, to her son Philip, on his
tenth birthday, at the Tower of Craigrollo._"
"This is the writing of my grandmother, the daughter of John, the son
of Angus of Strathdee! She had been reared by her aunt, who was a
nun in a Lowland convent, and, after the storm of the Reformation,
had retired to her father's house, where she dwelt in the strictest
seclusion, and practising every austerity and rule of her order, had
reached a wondrous age, and, outliving all her contemporaries, died
only a short time before my embarkation for Denmark. The Count of
Carlstein is my long missing uncle, Philip--Oh, Ernestine, I am your
cousin!"
I exclaimed all this with one breath; threw an arm around her, and
kissed her forehead. A sudden light--a gleam of pleasure and
astonishment--flashed in the eyes of Ernestine.
"My cousin!--you--are we cousins? Oh, it is impossible!"
"You are my dear cousin. Oh, Ernestine! my sweet little heart, how I
shall love you!"
"Good Heaven--how strange! In one day I lose my father and find a
kinsman!"
"Now, have I not a right to be your guardian--and Ian, too! And
Gabrielle--oh, I must kiss that little fairy! Ian--Ian! Hallo!" I
exclaimed, throwing my bonnet into the air; "M'Farquhar--come
hither--we are all cousins!"
"It is a miracle!" said Ernestine.
"Believe me, dear Ernestine," said I, tenderly; "love works more
miracles than all the saints in your Roman calendar."