PART IV.

Eight days after my arrival, I was sitting in the dusk with the old

people, while my thoughts were at ---- Court. The good clergyman,

according to habit, was shoving the skull-cap he wore on his head to

and fro, and talking half-aloud to himself. At length he exclaimed,

'In good sooth, nephew, I am quite surprised at you. Is it natural for

a young man to sit so much within doors? You have never gone a step

beyond the garden and our little shrubbery, and really there is some

very pretty scenery in our neighbourhood, quite worth your seeing.'

'It is a sin that he should be shut up here with us two old people,'

said his wife; 'if our son had been at home, it would have been more

pleasant for him. It is very unlucky that he should be at Kiel just

now. How can we amuse such a young man, my dear? I am quite sorry for

him.'

I assured them that I had everything I wished at their house, and

was extremely comfortable. But the fact was, that I felt extremely

uncomfortable. I was miserable at knowing that I was so near ----

Court, and yet could have no communication with its inhabitants; I was

certain that I must have thrown everything there into the greatest

commotion, yet, since my flight, I had heard nothing of or from the

place round which my heart's dearest thoughts hovered continually.

'Why, instead of a wild, mischievous, merry madcap, as you were

represented to be, we find a staid, quiet, grave young man. It is not a

good sign when a gay temper takes such a sudden turn. You seem to be

quite changed, nephew. Indeed, it strikes me your very appearance has

altered; your hair looks darker to me, within these eight days, and

your skin is as yellow as if you had the jaundice.'

'Oh, Heaven forbid! The Lord preserve him from that!' cried my worthy

aunt, much alarmed.

I relieved her mind by assuring her that my health was excellent.

'And you are allowing the hair on your upper lip to grow to a pair of

moustaches,' continued my uncle. 'You will soon look like an officer of

hussars. If you were not such a sensible, quiet youth, I should think

it was a piece of conceit and affectation, to look smart in the eyes of

the girls.'

Without having formed any settled plan connected with the change of my

appearance, but not without considerable trouble, had I by degrees

blackened my hair, and darkened my complexion with walnut juice, so

that I could not be recognized if any of the people from ---- Court

should meet me. I had also cultivated moustaches for the same purpose,

but they were as yet very diminutive.

'Just tell me, nephew, what do you want with moustaches?'

'I want them because ... I wish ... I must ... I belong to the corps of

riflemen, uncle, and the new regulation is, that every rifleman is to

have moustaches ... so I must mount a pair.'

'What a foolish regulation! Don't you think so, wife? But I suppose it

is a case in which one must do as others do.'

This settled, I was left, as to my disguise, in peace. But my venerable

uncle commenced another attack. 'I must positively have you to go out

and look about you, Adolph. I am going to-morrow to see my friends

Justitsraad ----, whose country seat is not far from this. You shall

drive over there with me; the road is very pretty.'

I was in agony. 'I would, much rather remain at home, uncle; I don't

know these people.'

'I will introduce you to them. They are a very amiable, charming

family, and you will soon become acquainted with them. You absolutely

must go.'

What excuse was I to manufacture? I had recourse to fibs again.

'The Justitsraad and my father are personal enemies--they quarrelled

about some matter of business. They are deadly foes--I should be very

unwelcome--my name is proscribed at ---- Court.'

'How very strange that I never heard of this before!' exclaimed the

unsuspecting old man. 'People should not hate each other for the sake

of sinful mammon. We must bring about a reconciliation between them. I

shall certainly preach upon the subject of forgiveness next Sunday--a

powerful discourse will I give.'

'It is also my wish that they should be reconciled, dear uncle, and

therefore, I think it would be most prudent not to mention my name

_yet_. If I make the acquaintance of the Justitsraad without his

knowing who I am, I shall feel more at my ease with him. I assure you

this will be best.'

'Well--so be it,' said my uncle; 'I will not then mention your being

here. But I shall throw out a few hints about forgiveness and Christian

feelings--these can do no harm.'

'No--that they cannot,' said my aunt. 'But I quite agree with Adolph. I

think his plan a good one.'

As soon as the old people had retired to rest, I stole softly through

the garden, and reaching the high road, took the way to ---- Court. As

I approached it, I saw with pleasure the white summer-house on the

outskirts of the garden. Soon after I reached the hill, where stood the

well-known swing. The moon was shining brightly, and it was a lovely

night. All was so still around, that I could hear the wind whistling

through the adjacent alleys of trees--and the rustling of the wind

amidst the branches of the pine and the fir has a peculiar sound. Far

away in the wood was to be heard the melancholy tinkling of the bells

worn by the sheep round their necks. There is a sadness in this

monotonous, yet plaintive sound, which has a great effect upon the

heart that is filled with longing--and where is the human being who has

nothing to long for? But such sadness is not hopeless, and as the bells

give tones sometimes higher, sometimes deeper, from different parts of

the woods or fields, so tranquillizing voices whisper to our souls,

'There is comfort for every sorrow--we shall not always long in vain.'

The moon shed its soft light over the quiet garden, the clock struck

eleven--that was generally the time at which the family retired to

rest--therefore I ventured to leave my place of concealment, without

the fear of encountering anyone. Presently after I stood again behind

the bushes of fragrant jasmine, immediately beneath the windows, and

beheld one light extinguished after the other. In the room I lately

occupied, all was dark. At length the light also disappeared in Hanne's

chamber.

Sleep, sweetly sleep! Dream blessed dreams!

I whispered with Baggesen, and my heart added, in the words of the same

poet,

I love--I love--I love but only thee!

In Jette's room there was still a candle burning; doubtless she was

thinking of her Gustav, perhaps writing a few kind words to him. I

could hardly refrain myself from climbing up _the_ tree, and speaking

to her; I had a claim upon her indulgence, for had I not laid the

fountain of her happiness? _Laid the foundation!_ How did I know that

the real cousin had not arrived? But even in that case it would be

scarcely possible to undo what had been done. I clung to the pleasing

idea that I had effected some good.

At length Jette's candle was extinguished also. The last--last light--I

had gazed on it, till I was almost blinded. With an involuntary sigh I

turned my steps slowly back towards the garden; something was moving

close behind me; it was my quondam friend, a greyhound belonging to the

Justitsraad, but he followed growling at my heels, as if he wished to

hunt me off the grounds I polluted by my presence.

'Watchel! my boy! is that you? So--so--be still, be still, Watchel!' I

turned to pat his head, but he showed his white teeth, and barked at

me; and presently all the other dogs near began to bark also.

'Forgotten!' I exclaimed bitterly to myself, 'forgotten, and disliked!'

Watchel followed me, snarling, to the extremity of the garden, and

barked long at my shadow as I crossed the field.

The next day my uncle drove over to ---- Court. The moment he was gone

I hurried up to his study, which looked towards the east, and arranged

his large telescope to bear upon that place which had so much interest

for me. I could overlook the whole plain; at its extremity was some

rising ground studded with trees--this was the garden; to the left lay

the grove, and close to it was the hillock on which stood the swing!

Suddenly the swing, until then empty, seemed to be occupied with

something white, which put it in motion. 'It is Hanne who is swinging!'

I exclaimed aloud in my joy; and I spent the whole afternoon in gazing

through the telescope, with a beating heart, and with my eyes fixed

upon the swing to catch another glimpse of her who had vanished, alas!

too soon. One glance at the folds of her white dress had thrown my

blood into a tumult of excitement, but how wildly did not all my pulses

beat when, towards evening, my uncle's carriage rolled up the avenue of

the rectory.

After he had greeted my aunt with all due affection, and delivered

the complimentary messages with which he was charged, inquired how

things had gone on during the hours of his absence, settled himself

comfortably in his old easy-chair, and lighted his pipe, he began

with--

'I heard some very strange news over yonder; I really can think of

nothing else.'

'What is it, dear? A great rise in the price of anything?' asked his

wife.

'Oh no, my dear, not at all. It is a very ridiculous story. It is not

to be mentioned; but I know you will keep it to yourself when I

particularly request you to do so. Well--I will tell you all about it;

it is really quite a mysterious affair.'

And the good man proceeded to relate how, one evening when they were

expecting a cousin who was betrothed to Jette, a person arrived who

answered every question about the family, seemed to know all their

affairs, gave himself out to be Carl, whom they had not seen for eleven

years, and, as might be supposed, insinuated himself into the good

graces of the whole of them. 'He found out that Jette was attached to

that young man Holm, who is studying agricultural affairs in this

neighbourhood; so he insisted on annulling his engagement to her,

declaring that he was not in love with her, but was betrothed abroad.

The Justitsraad was at first very angry, but he gave way at last, and

there were gay doings at ---- Court that evening. Next morning the

cousin was nowhere to be found; but he left behind him a paper of which

nobody can make anything. They expected him during two whole days, but

he did not make his appearance again. On the third day, another person

arrived, who also declared himself to be a cousin, said he was called

Carl, and that he was the expected guest. He brought letters from his

father, about whose handwriting there could be no doubt, and the whole

family recognized him at once from many things. The first, of course,

was an impostor. But Jette is now betrothed to Holm as well as to the

cousin, who had come to arrange about the wedding. There was an awful

scene--he insisted on Holm's giving up Jette to him, and her father had

at last to interfere to prevent the rivals carrying their wrath to some

fearful extremity. The cousin's obstinacy gave great offence, and he

took his departure the day after he had arrived. But he was so angry,

that it was with great difficulty he was induced to promise that he

would hold his tongue, and not blab about this absurd affair.'

'May the Lord graciously preserve us all! It must have been some wicked

sharper!' exclaimed my aunt, clasping her hands in great agitation,

when her husband had finished his recital.

'Of course he was an impostor. But it is a very curious story. For what

could he have come--will anyone tell me that?'

'Why, to steal, to be sure. Did he break into none of the

keeping-places? Is there nothing missing--none of the plate? no forks

or spoons?'

'Not the slightest article, and he was there for two days, and went

about like one of themselves.'

'It is very surprising; but the fact is, he must have come to

reconnoitre the premises, and, when the nights are longer and darker,

they will hear of him again.'

'It is a most incomprehensible affair,' said I, in a voice that might

have betrayed, me to more acute observers. 'And can they not guess at

all who he is--have they no clue to him?'

'Not the slightest, nephew. They all describe him as a handsome,

gentlemanly young man, who knew how to conduct himself in good society;

and he acquitted himself so well in his assumed character, that none of

them had the least notion what a trick he was playing them.'

'Believe me, my dear sirs, this person was no other than the celebrated

MORTEN FREDERICHSEN, who was arrested and imprisoned at Roeskilde, but

made his escape. He must be a very clever fellow, that,' said my aunt;

'I have been told that he pretended to be a Russian officer once in

Copenhagen, made his way into the higher circles, and spoke Russian as

if it had been his mother tongue. No doubt he has contrived to get free

again; and he is a dangerous man. Heaven preserve us from him! Where

_he_ is, there is always mischief going on. I will take care to see

that the house-doors are well bolted and secured, and I shall tell the

servants to let Sultan loose at night. One cannot be too careful when

there are such characters lurking in the neighbourhood.'

The old lady went out to superintend the safe fastening of the house,

without dreaming that he who caused her such alarm was dwelling under

her own peaceful roof.

The next day nothing else was spoken of, and it was easy for me to draw

from my uncle all that I wished to hear. I ascertained that the real

cousin had not made a favourable impression; and that, in fact, they

were all glad that the engagement between him and Jette was at an end.

My extraordinary and mysterious disappearance had set them all

guessing, but they despaired of ever solving the riddle, since all the

investigations and inquiries which could be quietly instituted had

failed to yield the slightest trace of me. Gustav, following up the

hint I had given in the note I had left, had written to a friend in

Fredericia, but, of course, this had led to no result. Thomas daily

scoured the country round, searching the woods and the moors to find

me; but every succeeding day lessened his hopes of being able to bring

me a prisoner to his home.

My imprudence, then, had been productive of no bad effects; fortune had

befriended the rash fool, as it so often does. I cannot describe with

what joy I gathered this happy intelligence; and when I had reflected

on it for some days, I came to the conclusion that I _might_ venture

again to show myself at ---- Court, and entreat forgiveness of my sad

delinquencies. I formed a thousand plans and relinquished them again.

At length I wrote to Copenhagen for new clothes, and sent a letter, to

be forwarded from thence by the post to the Justitsraad, wherein I made

a confession, and candidly avowed all that my inclination for a frolic

and a succession of accidental circumstances had led me into. I threw

myself upon Miss Jette's kindness to intercede for me, trusting that

she would not refuse me this favour; I dwelt on my contrition and deep

regret, and implored forgiveness for my misdemeanours. Nothing did I

conceal, except my name and my love for Hanne. I hope, dear reader,

that you will not find it necessary to ask why I concealed these.

The blue coat arrived at length from Copenhagen, with information that

the letter had been forwarded. It was not difficult for me to put it

into my uncle's head to drive over to ---- Court, and ascertain if

there had been any elucidation of the mysterious story that had almost

entirely chased sleep from my good aunt's couch. I had intended to have

accompanied him, but when the time came my courage failed, and,

pleading a headache, I left him to go alone.

'You are not well, my dear nephew, that I can easily perceive,' said

he, as I saw him into his carriage; 'we must positively send for the

doctor. You will turn quite black in the long run, for in a fortnight

only you have become as dark as a Tartar, and that is not a healthy

colour. Perhaps you have got worms.'

The worthy man little knew that I was purposely obliterating my good

complexion more and more, and had the greatest trouble in giving myself

this Tartar tint. 'He shall drink some of my decoction of wormwood,'

said my aunt; 'it is better than any apothecary's mixtures, and will do

him a great deal of good.' Whereupon she invited me to go with her to

her sanctum, and there I was compelled to swallow a horrid bitter

potion, which was enough to bring the most hardened sinner to a sense

of his guilt.

'Well, tell me, have they found Morten Frederichsen?' asked my aunt,

when my uncle returned. 'Has he broken in over yonder?'

'No, no, my dear. There was no housebreaker in question at all. Truly,

it is a laughable story. The man has written the Justitsraad from

Copenhagen.'

'Written? A threatening letter? A defiance? It is making nothing at all

of the police--a positive insult to them. But, God be thanked, he is no

longer in our neighbourhood.'

'Now, my good wife, you are quite mistaken,' replied my uncle, who then

proceeded to relate the contents of my letter, which, it appeared, had

still further excited the baffled curiosity of the worthy family.

My aunt could not recover from the state of amazement into which she

had been thrown.

'But what says the Justitsraad?' I asked.

'Why, what can he say? He is glad that the intruder was a gentleman,

for the letter is evidently written by one in that rank of life, but of

course he is angry at having been so hoaxed. But it was Jette who

pacified him, for she did not stop entreating him until he promised her

not to vex himself any longer about the matter. I thought of you,

nephew, and took the opportunity to say a few words about forgiveness

and placability, grounding my lesson of Christian duty on the excellent

admonitions of the Scriptures. They talked a great deal about the

mysterious personage; and the Justitsraad said at length that he would

not wreak his vengeance upon him if he could see him, but would rather

feel a pleasure in meeting him again. The girls wanted their father to

put an advertisement in the papers addressed in a roundabout way to

him, but Mr. Holm dissuaded them from this.'

'That was very right of Mr. Holm,' said my aunt. 'He is a sensible

young man; for if the person really was a thief--of which there can be

no doubt--for he who tells a lie will also steal ...'

'That does not by any means follow, dear aunt,' said I.

'Well, be that as it may, we are invited to ---- Court to-morrow, and I

promised that we would go, and you, too, Adolph. I told them I had a

nephew on a visit to me at present.'

'I ... but ... you know, uncle, my father and the Justitsraad ...'

'Oh, we must manage to set all that to-rights; to entertain feelings of

enmity is quite unworthy of two such men. Leave the matter to me. I

have not yet mentioned your name, therefore you need be under no

embarrassment in presenting yourself to the Justitsraad. He is a very

pleasant man.'

'Sooner or later--it makes but little difference,' thought I; 'and if I

can but look him full in the face, without dreading to be discovered, I

shall be willing to acknowledge all his good qualities.'

'Had we not better take the bottle of wormwood with us in the

carriage?' said my aunt, next day. 'Adolph looks so black under the

eyes this morning, that I am sure he is worse than he was yesterday.'

'I confess I do not like his looks,' said my uncle; 'but perhaps that

dark shade is cast by his moustaches. One might really fancy, nephew,

that you had darkened your face with burnt cork. You don't look at all

like yourself. Truly, the rifle corps has a great deal to answer for.'

My endeavours had been successful. Instead of the gay, fresh-looking,

light-hearted cousin, in a dark-green frock-coat, that had left

---- Court, came, along with the clergyman and his lady, a grave,

silent, dark-haired nephew, in a blue coat; with an olive complexion,

very sallow, and with black moustaches; my transformation was complete.

I scarcely recognized myself when I saw myself in the glass. The worst

that could happen would be to be taken for myself--the agreeably

characterized '_sad scamp_' from Hamburg. But for what would I not be

taken to see Hanne again!

None of them knew me; the Justitsraad addressed me as 'Mr. Adolph,' and

received me very courteously. The guests were Kammerraad Tvede, the

Jutlander, and his family, Gustav, a friend of his, and ourselves. I do

not doubt that my heightened colour might have been visible even

through the swarthy shade of my cheek when Hanne entered the room. She

had become ten times prettier than ever in these fourteen days; she

looked really quite captivating. Gustav and Jette cast many speaking

glances at each other, and her mother looked kindly at them. I stood

silent and grave in a corner window; the various feelings that rushed

upon me assisted me in playing the part of a somewhat embarrassed

stranger. Watchel rose from his mat, and walked round the room as if to

greet his master's well-known guests; he wagged his tail in token of

welcome to my uncle and aunt, but he growled at me, whereupon Hanne

called him away, and made him lie down in his usual place.

'But tell me, my dear friend, how does this happen? When I was here

last your daughter was engaged to another gentleman. What has become of

him?' said the inquisitive neighbour, Tvede.

'Oh, that was only a jest from their childhood,' said the Justitsraad.

'He was my brother's son, and was on a visit to us. Jette was betrothed

at that time to Mr. Holm, though her engagement was not generally

known.'

'Oh, indeed; but where is your nephew now?'

'He left us some time ago.'

'A very nice young man your nephew is; perhaps what was only jest

between him and the elder sister may become earnest between him and the

younger one. What say you to that, Miss Hanne?'

Hanne blushed scarlet, but made no answer. The Justitsraad looked a

little confused, and smiled to my uncle; I sat as if on thorns.

'So your father resides in Copenhagen, Mr. Adolph?' said the

indefatigable questioner, turning towards me.

I rose in a fright, and bowed.

'He is a merchant, is he not? and has a good deal to do with the West

Indies?'

'Yes, he has a good deal to do with the West Indies,' I replied, in a

feigned voice, as different from my own as I possibly could make it.

'My brother-in-law does a great deal of business with the provinces

also--commission-business--as a corn-merchant,' said my uncle; 'that is

safer than West India business.'

'Ah, so he is your brother-in-law--married to your sister, no doubt?

Well, your nephew seems a fine young man. He is in the army, I

suppose?'

'No, my dear sir, he is a clerk in his father's office; but as he has

joined a rifle corps, according to a new regulation he is obliged to

have moustaches,' replied my uncle, honestly believing the truth of my

assertion.

The observation of all present was drawn upon me. I turned crimson.

Gustav and his friend cast a meaning glance at each other, and both

smiled, I interpreted the smile into this, 'He is a vain, conceited

puppy; the regulation is the coinage of his own brain.' What an

unmerciful interpreter is conscience! We were to take our coffee in the

garden; thither, therefore, we all proceeded. I approached Jette, and

began to talk to her about the pretty country round.

'Have you been long at your uncle's?' she asked.

'I have been there some little time, and I should have left it before

now, had not a strange commission been imposed on me--one which I find

it very difficult to fulfil. It is a commission which relates to the

family here,' I added, when I found she was not inclined to ask any

questions.

'To us?' said Jette; 'and the commission is so difficult?'

'It is no other than to obtain for a man the restoration of that peace

of mind of which his inconsiderate folly has deprived him, and to

procure for him your father's forgiveness--his pardon of an injury that

otherwise will weigh him down with regret and remorse for the remainder

of his life.'

Jette looked at me in astonishment.

'What--Mr. Adolph? I do not understand.'

'A friend of mine has written to me from Copenhagen, and charged me to

try and make his peace with the Justitsraad; but the papers which he

has forwarded to me containing his case, really present it in such a

perplexing and unfortunate light, that I cannot attempt to carry out

his wishes, unless you, to whom he particularly desired me first to

apply, will grant me your valuable assistance. He certainly did most

shamefully abuse your confidence.'

'You know ... it is ... you are acquainted with that strange story?'

exclaimed Jette, much embarrassed.

'I know it thoroughly; and though this is the first time I have had the

honour of seeing you, I think I may say you yourself are not better

acquainted with the particulars of that affair than I am. It is on your

kindness that I principally rely; yet I may not mention my friend's

name until he has obtained entire forgiveness. He has given me very

positive directions.'

'I cannot but be much surprised that a person who insulted my father

and us all so much, should ...'

'Insulted you, my dear young lady? I am shocked to hear it; I am sorry

that he should have written me what was not true; his letter led me to

believe that, on the contrary, he had rather been of service to you.'

Jette blushed deeply, and I thought I perceived tears in her eyes. 'He

shall certainly not find me ungrateful,' she said; 'I have not

forgotten what I owe him. What do you require of me?'

'My friend entreats you, through me, to grant him your forgiveness for

a mystification to which purely accidental circumstances led at first,

but which was continued solely from an interest in your fate, and an

anxious desire to serve you. He entreats that you will use your

influence to mollify your father towards him, and procure for me a

private interview with him, which I trust will end in the pardon of my

friend, who has no dearer wish than to be received again into a circle

he so highly esteems and respects, and to be permitted to prove to them

how deeply he regrets his thoughtless folly.'

Some others of the same party now approached, and I was obliged to drop

the conversation. Gustave and Hanne were disputing.

'Jeer at me as you will,' said Hanne, 'I hold to my opinion, that

nothing is so tiresome as family connections. If one only could choose

one's kindred those sort of ties would be much stronger. It is a pity

not to go a step further, and let it be a fixed rule, that relations to

a certain extent remote, should marry whether they suit each other or

not. This would certainly extirpate _love_, but it would be vastly

convenient, and in a recent case it would have hindered many doubts and

hopes, and all that followed.'

'Pray recollect your last election; there was not much to boast of in

him. The ties of consanguinity could hardly have furnished any family

with a less desirable member.'

'Yes they could, for the member who came after him was much inferior,

notwithstanding he bore on his brow the stamp of legitimacy. Even

though my "election," as you call it, fell upon one who was

treacherous, he was at any rate pleasant, lively, and amusing, whereas

the legitimate one was cold, stupid, pedantic, tiresome; wearying one

with every slow word he uttered. You do not mean one syllable of all

the evil you speak of the stranger. The properly installed cousins and

nephews whom I have latterly seen have been miserable creatures, who

looked as if they could not count five, and as if they had not a

thought to bestow on anything but their own pitiful persons, on which

they placed the most exorbitant value, without the slightest grounds

for so doing.'

As she finished this tirade, Hanne cast a side-glance at me, who, in

truth, played capitally the part of the most tiresome, self-satisfied

blockhead of a nephew anyone could imagine. She had no conception how

part of her harangue had enchanted me.

'Legitimate right is a good thing; in that I quite agree with the young

lady,' said the Jutlander, who had just approached us, and thought fit

to join in the conversation. He had only caught a word or two of what

Hanne had been saying, and mistook entirely her meaning.

While we continued to stroll about, Jette took her sister aside, and

whispered something to her. Hanne turned her eyes full on me, and

looked keenly at me. As soon as it was possible, I went up to her, and

began to talk about the weather, that invariable preface to even the

most important and most interesting subjects. We soon fell into

conversation, and it turned upon the communication Jette had just made.

'My sister tells me that your friend is anxious to obtain our

forgiveness,' said she. 'We have already given him that, for he has

done us a greater service than he thinks. Our regard is another affair;

that would be more difficult to bestow, and doubtless he does not

entertain the slightest idea of ever winning it.'

'You would condemn him to a severe doom if you would forbid his

striving at least to deserve it. Without your good opinion, your

forgiveness would be a mere passing act of charity; without the former

he would be a beggar all his life, with it _he would become a

millionnaire_.'

Hanne coloured at the reminiscences these words awakened; but she only

said,

'You put a high value on it.'

'Not higher than my friend does. _Your_ regard, charming Miss Hanne, is

what he seeks, and were he not attracted to this place by a perhaps too

vivid _souvenir_ of you, I should not be standing here as his

spokesman. Your sister has kindly promised to obtain for me a few

minutes' private conversation with your father; if your hatred of my

unfortunate friend cannot be softened, tell me so, I pray you, at once,

and I shall spare your father a communication which may perhaps remind

him of disagreeable impressions, for without your entire pardon I

cannot fulfil my errand, and I will not attempt to do it by halves.'

'You are a very zealous agent, there is no denying that. Well, you may

speak to my father; I will not be the most hard-hearted of the family.

Besides, I really feel that your friend has an advocate in my own

inclination for a joke, though his jest was carried rather too far.'

'I expected this goodness from you, or my friend would not have painted

you in true colours.'

'And pray in what colours did he paint me, if I may venture to ask? It

would be difficult to give anyone's likeness on so short an

acquaintance.'

'They were as radiant as if he had borrowed for his pencil tints from

heaven to do justice to the original ... He adores you, to say the

absolute truth.'

'Indeed! He really does me too much honour,' she said, stiffly, and in

an offended tone of voice.

At the 'tints from heaven,' and 'justice to the original,' she had

smiled; at the 'absolute truth,' she became angry.

We were at the foot of the hillock, on which stood the swing.

'There must be a fine view from the top of that rising ground,' said I.

Politeness obliged her to ascend the bank. Gustav and his friend

followed us at a little distance in earnest conversation; the rest of

the party had gone to the summer-house, where coffee was prepared.

'Really, this is a lovely view!' I remarked, mechanically.

'Yonder lies your uncle's church,' said Hanne; 'it makes the twelfth

spire we can see from this hill.'

'I have remarked this place from my uncle's window; these white poles

shine out against the dark-green background.'

'Were you afraid of them? Did you fancy they were ...'

'A gallows!' I exclaimed, interrupting her. 'No, Miss Hanne; I am

rather more rational than my foolish friend.'

Hanne looked inquisitively at me.

'Have you remembered what he begged of you on this spot? That when you

heard evil of him, and doubts of his honour, you would come up here,

and judge leniently of the absent; that you would not condemn him

totally, although appearances might be against him?'

'He must have favoured you with a remarkably minute report of his

sayings and doings here,' said Hanne, laughing. 'You have got his

speeches by heart--word for word.'

'Every word which he exchanged with you remains for ever engraved on

his memory. You promised this to him. Dare he flatter himself that you

have not forgotten that promise, and have not deserted him, while he

relied on your compassion?'

'I have taken his part a great deal more than he deserves,' she

replied. 'But now that is no longer necessary, and if he return here,

he shall find me his worst enemy, for I do not allow myself to be made

a fool of without taking my revenge.'

'Have some mercy, fair lady! See, I sue for grace--he cannot stand your

ire. I have come to throw myself at your feet--acquitted by you, he

will have courage to meet any storm ... Miss Hanne,' I added, with my

own natural voice, 'you are the only one who knows that the unfortunate

sinner is here; condemn me irrevocably, if you have the heart to do

so--I will hear my sentence from your lips.'

Hanne looked at me with an arch smile.

'You will not betray me, or misuse my confidence,' I added, in a

supplicatory tone. 'Bestow on me your forgiveness, and procure for me

that of your parents. Without this I cannot live. You have discovered

me, notwithstanding my disguise; it was only under its shelter that I

ventured to come near you during the light of day. Ah! at night, I have

often been here, standing outside of the house, looking up at your

window, until the light was extinguished in your room, and I had no

longer any evidence of your proximity to feast upon.'

She looked at me for a moment with unusual softness,--nay, with

kindness; then clapping her hands together, she called out,

'Gustav! Linden! Come here--make haste! Here he is--here he is!'

'Who? What is it?' cried the two young men, as they came hurrying

towards us.

'For Heaven's sake--Miss Hanne--you surely will not ... you abuse the

confidence I placed in you--I did not expect this of you. Will you

betray me? Will you disgrace me before that stranger?' I stammered out,

amazed and vexed at her sudden change.

'There he is--the false cousin--standing yonder. Now he is caught,'

added Hanne, skipping about with joy.

'The cousin--he!' exclaimed Gustav, in great astonishment; 'but tell me

then ...'

'Mr. Holm,' said I, 'and you, sir, with whom I have not the pleasure of

being acquainted ...'

'True!' cried Hanne, interrupting me, 'I owe you an explanation. You

need not excuse yourself to Gustav, in his heart he acknowledges you to

be his benefactor; and this gentleman, _with whom you have not the

pleasure of being acquainted_, is quite as cognisant of your exploits

as any of us. "YOU WILL NOT BETRAY ME, OR MISUSE MY CONFIDENCE,"' said

she, mimicking me, 'therefore let me present to you Mr. Linden, my

bridegroom elect. You once asked me what this ring I wear betokened--do

you remember that? I was then obliged to give you an evasive answer;

now I will confide the secret to you, my much honoured cousin--and much

admired truth-teller.'

Could I have guessed _this_, or have had the slightest suspicion of it,

two hours earlier, I never again would have put my feet within the

doors of ---- Court.

There was nothing for it now but to let myself patiently be dragged

about by them, after I had muttered something, that might as well have

been taken for a malediction as a felicitation.

My uncle was walking in the alley of pine-trees with the Justitsraad

and Jette; she had been preparing him for the audience I told her I

wished of him, but she had not yet the least idea that I was the person

for whom she had been pleading. I appeared before them as a poor

culprit.

'Dear father,' said Hanne, 'I bring a deserter, who has given himself

up to me. He relies on your forgiveness, for which I have become

surety, and if you withhold it, my word will be broken.'

'Let me speak, child,' said my uncle, who fancied that a disagreement

between my father and the Justitsraad was the affair in question.

'As the servant of the Lord, it is my duty to exhort everyone to peace,

and forgiveness of injuries; you should all remember the divine mission

of Him who is the fountain of love, and who came to bring goodwill on

earth; remembering His example you should chase away hatred, and all

evil passions and thoughts from your mind. See, this young person comes

to you with confiding hope, and now do shake hands with him in sign of

reconciliation, and let not two worthy men remain longer enemies. Speak

kindly to him, my old friend, and do not oblige him longer to conceal

his name, because it is one which you once disliked--let the past be

now forgotten!'

'What, _you_ also pleading for him, my worthy friend? Then, indeed, I

must give in. Well, the foolish madcap has found intercessors enough, I

think,' said the Justitsraad, as he held out his hand to me.

'He is petitioning for his friend,' said Jette.

'For my benefactor,' said Gustav.

'For his old father,' said my uncle.

'For himself,' said Hanne. 'This is the pretended cousin himself, in

disguise; this is the very man himself who threw our family into such

confusion; but what his real name may be, Heaven only knows.'

'He is my sister's son--Adolph Kerner, a son of Mr. Kerner, the

well-known Copenhagen merchant; he has no need to be ashamed of his

name,' said my uncle.

Everyone was astonished; there was a general silence from amazement.

At length Jette exclaimed, 'The pretended cousin himself?'

'The young Kerner who went to Hamburg?' asked the Justitsraad.

'What! the impostor my own nephew?' cried my uncle, upon whom the truth

began to dawn. The formidable explanation was given, forgiveness

followed, and we were reconciled. The Justitsraad shook hands with me

cordially.

'And now let us seek my mother,' said Hanne, 'and fall at her feet. For

the honour of our sex, I hope Mr. Kerner will have to undergo the pains

of purgatory in her presence.'

We proceeded to the summer-house where the rest of the party were

sitting at table, taking coffee. The Justitsraad led me up to his wife,

and said, 'I beg to present to you your lost nephew, who returns, like

the prodigal son, and begs for forgiveness. Tomorrow he will show

himself without these moustaches, in his own fair hair, and he hopes to

find the same kind aunt in you whom the false cousin Carl learned so

speedily to love.'

The lady gave me her hand, after having held up her finger as if to

threaten me.

'And here you see Morten Frederichsen, my dear, against whom Sultan was

to have guarded our house. The good-for-nothing, he has certainly

hoaxed all us old ones,' said my uncle, laughing. 'His liver-complaint

was nothing but a trick.'

'What is that you say? Morten Frederichsen! How the idea of that

dreadful creature frightened me! But I have retaliated upon him with my

wormwood, I rather think.' The good woman was much puzzled, and could

hardly comprehend how it all came about.

'And now I beg to introduce to Kammerraad Tvede, the younger Kerner,

son of Mr. Kerner of Copenhagen, a youth who has lately returned from

an educational trip to Hamburg,' said the mischief-loving Hanne,

pulling me up to the Jutlander.

'A very fine young man,' stammered the Kammerraad. 'I have the pleasure

of knowing your father, and am aware of the high standing of your

house.'

I made my escape over to Jette and Gustav, who kindly took compassion

on me.

'Don't you all see now that it was not so stupid of me to propose

examining him in the almanack?' said Hanne.

'At any rate, to _you_ belongs the credit of having placed me in the

most painful dilemma,' said I, with some bitterness. 'Be merciful now,

and do not play with me as a cat does with a mouse; the conqueror can

afford to be magnanimous to the vanquished.'

'Well, the sun is about to set, and I suppose I must let my just

resentment go with it. I will forgive you for all your misdemeanours

upon one condition, that, according to our late agreement, you will

return by-and-by, and assist us in getting up some private theatricals,

to which I have the pleasure of inviting all now present. I think you

will shine in "_The April Fools_."'[6]

'Shame on you all!' cried Jette. 'How can you be so revengeful, and

still persecute Mr. Kerner in this inhuman way?'

'I trust he will excuse the persecution,' said her father; 'and I hope

that it will not frighten him from a house which will always be open to

him, and where he will henceforth be as well received under his own

name as he was under that of--COUSIN CARL.'

THE DOOMED HOUSE.

BY B. S. INGEMANN.

'The house near Christianshavn's canal is again for sale--your worthy

uncle's house, Johanna! and now upon very reasonable terms,' said the

young joiner and cabinet-maker, Frants, one morning to his pretty wife,

as he laid the advertisement sheet of the newspaper upon the cradle,

and glanced at his little boy, an infant of about three months old, who

was sleeping sweetly, and seemed to be sporting with heavenly cherubs

in his innocent dreams.

'Let us on no account think of the dear old house,' replied his wife,

taking up the newspaper and placing it on the table, without even

looking at the advertisement. 'We have a roof over our heads as long as

Mr. Stork will have patience about the rent. If we have bread enough

for ourselves, and for yon little angel, who will soon begin to want

some, we may well rest contented. Notwithstanding our poverty, we are,

perhaps, the happiest married couple in the whole town,' she added

gently, and with an affectionate smile, 'and we ought to thank our God

that he did not let the wide world separate us from each other, but

permitted you to return from your distant journey, healthy and

cheerful, and that he has granted us love and strength to bear our

little cross with patience.'

'You are ever the same amiable and pious Johanna,' said Frants,

embracing the lovely young mother, who reminded him of an exquisite

picture of the Madonna he had seen abroad, 'and you have made me better

and more patient than I was, either by nature or by habit. But I really

cannot remain longer in this miserable garret--I have neither room nor

spirits to work here; and if I am to make anything by my handicraft, I

must have a proper workshop, and space to breathe in and to move in.

'Your good uncle's house, near the canal, is just the place for me; how

many jovial songs my old master and I have sung there together over our

joiner's bench! Ah! _then_ I shall feel comfortable and at home. It was

there, also, that I first saw you--there, that I used to sit every

evening with you in the nice little parlour, with the cheerful green

wainscoting, when I came from the workshop with old Mr. Flok. I

remember how, on Sundays and on holidays, he used to take his silver

goblet from the cupboard in the alcove, and drink with me in such a

sociable way. And when my piece of trial-work as a journeyman was

finished, and the large, handsome coffin was put out in state in the

workshop, do you remember how glad the old man was, and how you sank

into my arms when he placed your hand in mine, over the coffin, and

said:

'"Take her, Frants, and be worthy of her! My house shall be your home

and hers, and everything it contains shall be your property when I am

sleeping in this coffin, awaiting a blessed resurrection."'

'Ah! but all that never came to pass,' sighed Johanna; 'the coffin lies

empty up in yonder loft, and frightens children in the dark. The dear

old house is under the ban of evil report, and no one will buy it, or

even hire it, now, so many strange, unfortunate deaths have taken place

there.'

'These very circumstances are in our favour, Johanna; on account of

this state of things Mr. Stork will sell it at a great bargain, and

give a half year's credit for the purchase-money. In the course of six

months, surely, the long-protracted settlement of your uncle's affairs

will be brought to a close, and we shall, at least, have as much as

will pay what we owe. The house will then be our own, and you will see

how happy and prosperous we shall be. Surely, it is not the fault of

the poor house that three children died there of measles, and two

people of old age, in the course of a few months; and none but silly

old women can be frightened because the idle children in the street

choose to scratch upon the walls, "_The Doomed House_." The house is,

and always will be, liked by me, and if Mr. Stork will accept of my

offer for it, without any other security than my own word, that

dwelling shall be mine to-day, and we can move into it to-morrow.'

'Oh, my dear Frants, you cannot think how reluctant I am to increase

our debt to this Mr. Stork. Believe me, he is not a good man, however

friendly and courteous he may seem to be. Even my uncle could not

always tolerate him, though it was not in his nature to dislike any of

God's creatures. Whenever Mr. Stork came, and began to talk about

business and bills--my uncle became silent and gloomy, and always gave

me a wink to retire to my chamber.'

'I know very well Mr. Stork was looking after you then,' said Frants,

with a smile of self-satisfaction, 'but _I_ was a more fortunate

suitor. It was a piece of folly on the part of the old bachelor; all

that, however, is forgotten now, and he has transferred the regard he

once had for you to me. He never duns me for my rent, he lent me money

at the time of the child's baptism, and he shows me more kindness than

anyone else does.'

'But I cannot endure the way in which he looks at me, Frants, and I put

no faith either in his friendship or his rectitude. The very house

that he is now about to sell he hardly came honestly by, as he gives

out--and I cannot understand how he has so large a claim upon the

property my uncle left; I never heard my uncle speak of it. God only

knows what will remain for us when all these heavy claims that have

been brought forward are satisfied; yet my uncle was considered a rich

man.'

'The lawyers and the proper court must settle that,' replied Frants; 'I

only know this, that I should be a fool if I did not buy the house

now.'

'But to say the truth, dear Frants,' urged Johanna, in a supplicating

tone, 'I am almost afraid to go back to that house, dear as every

corner of it has been to me from my childhood. I cannot reconcile

myself to the reality of the painful circumstances said to have

attended my poor uncle's death. And whenever I pass over _Long Bridge_,

and near the Dead-house for the drowned, with its low windows, I always

feel an irresistible impulse to look in, and see if he is not there

still, waiting to be placed in his proper coffin, and decently buried

in a churchyard.'

'Ah--your brain is conjuring up a parcel of old nursery tales, my

Johanna! We have nothing to fear from your good, kind uncle. If indeed

his spirit could be near us, here on earth, it would only bring us

blessings and happiness. I am quite easy on that score; he was a pious,

God-fearing man, and there was nothing in his life to disturb his

repose after death. Report said that he had drowned himself on purpose,

but I am quite convinced that was not true. If I had not unluckily been

away on my travels as a journeyman, and you with your dying aunt--your

mother's sister, we would most likely have had him with us now. How

often I have warned him against sailing about alone in Kalleboe Bay!

But he would go every Sunday. As long as I was in his employ, I always

made a point of accompanying him, and when I went away he promised me

never to go without a boatman.'

'Alas! that was an unfortunate Christmas!' sighed Johanna, 'it was not

until he had been advertised as missing in the newspapers, and Mr.

Stork had recognized his corpse at the Dead-house for the drowned, and

had caused him to be secretly buried as a suicide,--it was not until

all this was over, that I knew he had not been put into his own coffin,

and laid in consecrated ground.'

'Let us not grieve longer, dear Johanna, for what it was not in our

power to prevent; but let us rather, in respect to the memory of our

kind benefactor, put the house in order which he occupied and where he

worked for us, inhabit it cheerfully, and rescue it from mysterious

accusations and evil reports. _Our_ welfare was all he thought of, and

laboured for.'

'As you will then, dear Frants!' said Johanna, yielding to his

arguments. She hastened at the same moment to take up from its cradle

the child, who had just awoke, and holding it out to its young father,

she added, 'May God protect this innocent infant, and spare it to us!'

Frants kissed the mother and the child, smoothed his brown hair, and

taking his hat down from its peg, he hurried off to conclude the

purchase on which he had set his heart.

He returned in great spirits, and the next day the little family

removed to the house which belonged to Mr. Flok, Frants was rejoiced to

see his old master's furniture, which he had bought at an auction,

restored to its former place, and he felt almost as if the easy-chair

and the bureau, formerly in the immediate use of the old man, must

share in his gladness. But the baker's wife at the corner of the street

shrugged her shoulders, and pitied the handsome young couple, whom she

considered doomed to sickness and misfortune, because five corpses

within the last six months had been carried out of that house; and

because there was an inscription on its walls, that however often it

had been effaced had always reappeared. 'Et Forbandet Haus'--'The

Doomed House'--stood there, written in red characters, and all the old

crones in the neighbourhood affirmed that the words were _written in

blood!_

'Mark my words,' said the baker's wife at the corner of the street, to

her daughter, 'before the year is at an end, we shall have another

coffin carried out of that house.'

Frants the joiner had bestirred himself to set all to rights in the

long-neglected workshop, and Johanna had put the house in nice order,

and arranged everything as it used to be in days gone by. The little

parlour, with the green wainscoting and the old fashioned alcove, had

its former chairs and tables replaced in it; the bureau occupied its

ancient corner, and the easy-chair again stood near the stove, and

seemed to await its master's return. Often, as the young couple sat

together in the twilight, while the blaze of the fire in the stove cast

a cheerful glare through its little grated door on the hearth beneath,

they missed the old man, and talked of him with sadness and affection.

But Johanna would sometimes glance timidly at the empty leather

arm-chair--and when the moon shone in through the small window panes,

she would at times even fancy that she saw her uncle sitting there--but

pale and bloody, and with dripping wet hair.

She would then exclaim, 'Let us have lights; the baby seems restless. I

must see what is the matter with it.'

One evening there were no candles downstairs. She had to go for them up

to the storeroom in the garret. She lighted a small taper that was in

the lantern, and went out of the room, while Frants rocked the infant's

cradle to lull it to sleep. But she had only been a few minutes gone,

when he heard a noise as if of some one having fallen down in the loft

above, and he also thought he heard Johanna scream; he quitted the

cradle instantly, and rushing upstairs after her, he found her lying in

a swoon near the coffin, with the lantern in her hand, though its light

was extinguished. Exceedingly alarmed he carried her downstairs,

relighted the taper, and used every effort to recover her from her

fainting fit. When she was better, and somewhat composed, he asked in

much anxiety what had happened. 'Oh! I am as timid as a foolish child,'

said Johanna. 'It was only my poor uncle's coffin up yonder that

frightened me. I would have begged you to go and fetch the candles, but

I was ashamed to own my silly fears, and when the current of air blew

out the light in my lantern up there, it seemed to me as if a spectre's

death-cold breathing passed over my face, and I fancied I saw amidst

the gloom the lid of the coffin rising--so I fainted away in my

childish terror.'

'That coffin shall not frighten you again,' said Frants, 'I will

advertise it to-morrow for sale.' He did so, but ineffectually, for no

one bought it.

One day Mr. Stork made his appearance, bringing with him the contract

and deed of sale.

He was a tall, strongly-built man, with a countenance by no means

pleasant, though it almost always wore a smile; but the smile, if

narrowly scrutinized, had a sinister expression, and seemed to convulse

his features. He sported a gaudy waistcoat, and was dressed like an old

bachelor, who was going on some matrimonial expedition, and wished to

conceal his age. This day he was even more complaisant than usual,

praised the beauty of the infant, remarked its likeness to its lovely

mother, and offered Frants a loan of money to purchase new furniture,

and make any improvements he might wish in the interior of the house.

Franks thanked him, but declined the offer, assuring him that he was

quite satisfied with the house and furniture as they were, and wished

everything about him to wear its former aspect. However, he said, he

certainly would like to enlarge the workshop by adding to it the old

lumber-room at the back of the house, the entrance to which he found

was closed.

Mr. Stork then informed him that there was a door on the opposite side

of the lumber-room, which opened into the house _he_ occupied, and that

he had lately been using this empty place as a cellar for his firewood;

but he readily promised to have it cleared out as speedily as possible,

and to have the entrance into his own house stopped up.

'Yet,' he added, in a very gracious manner, 'it is hardly necessary to

have any separation between the two houses, when I have such

respectable and agreeable neighbours as yourselves.'

'What made you look so crossly at that excellent Mr. Stork, Johanna?'

asked her husband, when their visitor was gone. 'I am sure he is

kindness itself. He cannot really help that he has that unfortunate

contortion of the mouth, which gives a peculiar expression to his

countenance.'

'I sincerely wish we had some other person as our neighbour, and had

nothing to do with him!' exclaimed Johanna. 'I do not feel safe with

such a man near us.'

Frants now worked with equal diligence and patience--and often remained

until a late hour in the workshop, especially if he had any order to

finish. He preferred cabinet-making to the more common branches of his

trade, and was always delighted when he had any pretty piece of

furniture to construct from one of the finer sorts of wood. But he was

best known as a coffin-maker, and necessity compelled him to undertake

more of this gloomy kind of work than he liked. Often when he was

finishing a coffin, he would reflect upon all the sorrow, and perhaps

calamity which the work, that provided him and his with bread, would

bring into the house into which it was destined to enter. And when he

met people in high health and spirits, on the public promenades, he

frequently sighed to think how soon he might be engaged in nailing

together the last earthly resting-places of these animated forms.

One night he was so much occupied in finishing a large coffin, that he

did not remark how late it had become, until he heard the watchman call

out 'Twelve.'

At that moment he fancied he heard a hollow voice behind him say,

'Still hammering! And for whom is that coffin?'

He started--dropped the hammer from his hand--and looked round in

terror, but no one was to be seen.

'It is the old gloomy thoughts creeping back into my mind, and

affecting my brain, now at this ghastly hour of midnight,' said he; but

he put away the hammer and nails, and took up his light to go to his

bed-room. Before he reached the door of the workshop, however, the

candle which had burned down very low--quite in the socket of the

candlestick, suddenly went out. He was left in the dark, and in vain he

groped about to find the door--at any other time he would have laughed

at the circumstance, but now it rather added to his annoyance that

three times he found himself at the door of the lumber-room, instead of

getting hold of the one which opened into his house. The third time he

came to it, he stopped and listened, for he fancied he heard something

moving within the empty room; a light also glimmered through a chink in

the door which was fastened, and on listening more attentively he

thought he distinctly heard a sound as if buckets of water were being

dashed over the floor, and some one scrubbing it with a brush. 'It is

an odd time to scour the floor,' he thought, and then knocking at the

door, and raising his voice--he called out loudly to ask who was there,

and what they were doing at so late an hour. At that moment the light

disappeared, and all became as still as death.

'I must have been mistaken,' thought Frants, as he again tried to find

the door he had at first sought. In spite of himself, a dread of some

evil--or of something supernatural, seemed to haunt him, and the image

of his old master--who was drowned--appeared before him in that dark

workshop, where they had spent so many cheerful hours together. At last

he found the door, and retired as quickly as possible to his chamber,

where his wife and child were both fast asleep. He, too, at length fell

asleep, but he was restless in his slumbers, and disturbed by strange

dreams. In the course of the night he dreamed that his wife's uncle,

Mr. Flok, stood before him, and said,

'Why was I not placed in my coffin? Why was I not laid in a Christian

burying-ground? Seek, and you will find--destroy the curse, before it

destroys you also!'

In the morning when he awoke he looked so pale and ill that Johanna was

quite alarmed; but he did not like to frighten her by telling her his

dreams, and, indeed, he was ashamed at the impression they had made

upon himself, for, notwithstanding all the confidence he had expressed

on coming to the house, he could not help feeling nervous and

uncomfortable.

Nor did the unpleasant sensation wear off, his gay spirits vanished,

and he was also unhappy because the time was approaching when the

purchase-money for the house would become due, and the settlement of

the old man's affairs, to which he had looked forward in expectation of

obtaining his wife's inheritance, seemed to be as far off as ever. He

found it difficult to meet the small daily expenses of his family, and

he feared the threatening future.

'Seek and you will find!' he repeated to himself; 'destroy the curse

before it destroys you! What curse? I begin to fear that there really

is some evil doom connected with this house.'

It was also a very unaccountable circumstance that however often he

scratched out the mysterious inscription from the wall--'The Doomed

House'--it appeared again next day in characters as fresh and red as

ever. His health began to give way under all his anxiety, and the child

also became ill. One evening he had been taking a solitary walk to a

spot which had now a kind of morbid fascination for him--the Dead-house

for the drowned--and when he returned home, he found Johanna weeping by

the cradle of her suffering infant.

'You were right,' he exclaimed, 'we were happier in our humble garret

than in this ill-fated house. Would that we had remained there! Tell

me, Johanna, of what are you thinking? Has the doctor been here? What

does he say of our dear little one?'

'If it should get worse towards night, there lies our last hope,' she

replied, pointing towards the table.

Frants took up the prescription, and gazed on the incomprehensible

Latin words, as if therein he would have read his fate. The tears stood

in his eyes.

'And to-morrow,' said Johanna, 'to-morrow will be a day of misery. Have

you any means of paying Mr. Stork?'

'None whatever! But _that_ is a small evil compared to _this_,' he

answered, as he pointed to the feverish and moaning infant. 'Have you

been to the workshop?' he continued, after a pause, 'the large coffin

is finished; perhaps it may be our own last home--it would hold us

all!'

'Oh! if that could only be!' exclaimed Johanna, as she threw her arms

round him. 'Could we only all three be removed together to a better

world, there would be no more sorrow for us! But the hour of separation

is close at hand; to-morrow, if you cannot pay Mr. Stork, you will be

cast into prison, and I shall sit alone here with that dying child!'

'What do you say? Cast into prison! How do you know that? Has that man

been here frightening you? He has not hinted a syllable of such a

threat to me.'

Johanna then related to him how Mr. Stork had latterly often called,

under pretence of wishing to see Frants, but always when he was out. He

had made himself very much at home, and had overwhelmed her with

compliments and flattering speeches; he had also declared frequently

that he would not trouble Frants for the money he owed him, if she

would pay the debt in another manner. At first, she said, she did not

understand him, and when she _did_ comprehend his meaning, she did not

like to mention it to Frants, for fear of his taking the matter up

warmly, and quarrelling with Stork, which would bring ruin on himself.

Mr. Stork, however, had become more bold and presuming, and that very

evening, on her repelling his advances and desiring him to quit her

presence, he had threatened that if she mentioned a syllable of what

had passed to her husband, nay, farther, if she were not prepared to

change her behaviour towards himself before another sun had set, Frants

should be thrown into prison for debt, and might congratulate himself

in that pleasant abode on the fidelity of his wife.

'Well,' said Frants, with forced composure, 'he has got me in his

toils--but his pitiful baseness shall not crush me. I have, indeed,

been blind not to detect the villany that lay behind that satanic

smile, and improvident to let myself be deluded by his pretended

friendship. But if the Almighty will only spare and protect you, and

that dear child, I shall not lose courage. Be comforted, my Johanna!'

It was now growing late--the child awoke from the restless sleep of

fever--it seemed worse, and Frants ran to an apothecary with the

prescription. 'The last hope!' he sighed, as he hurried along; 'and if

it should fail--who will console poor Johanna to-morrow evening, when I

am in a prison, and she has to clad the child in its grave clothes! Oh,

how we shall miss you--sweet little angel! Was _this_ the happiness I

dreamt of in the old house? Yes--people are right--it _is_ accursed!'

The apothecary's shop was closed, but the prescription had been taken

in through a little aperture in the door, and Frants sat down on the

stone steps to wait until the medicine was ready. It was a clear,

starry December night, but the sorrowing father sat shivering in the

cold, and gazing gloomily on the frozen pavement--he was not thinking

of the stars or of the skies. The watchman passed and bade him 'good

morning.'

'It will be a good morning, indeed, for me,' thought poor Frants. 'A

morning fraught with despair.'

At that moment the clock of a neighbouring church struck _one_, and the

watchman sang, in a full, bass voice, these simple words:

'Help us, O Jesus dear!

Our earthly cross to bear;

Oh! grant us patience _here_,

And be our Saviour _there!_'

Frants heard the pious song, and a change seemed to come over his

spirit--he raised his saddened eye to the magnificent heavens

above--gazed at the calm stars which studded the deep blue

vault--clasped his hands and joined in the watchman's concluding

words--

'Redeemer, grant Thy blessed help

To make our burden light.'

A small phial with the medicine was just then handed out to him,

through the little sliding window; he paid his last coin for it, and,

full of hope that _his_ burden might be lightened, hastened to his

home.

'Did you hear what the watchman was singing, Johanna?' asked Frants,

when he entered the little green parlour, where the young mother was

watching by her child.

'Hush, hush,' she whispered, 'he has fallen into an easy and quiet

sleep. God will have pity upon us--our child will do well now.'

'Why, Johanna, you look as happy as if an angel from heaven had been

with you, telling you blessed truths.'

'Yes, blessed truths have, as it were, been communicated to me from

heaven!' replied Johanna, pointing to an old Bible which lay open upon

the table. 'Look! this is my good uncle's family Bible--that I have not

seen since he died, and God forgive me--I have thought too little

lately of my Bible. I found this one to-night far back on the highest

shelf of the alcove--and its holy words have given me strength and

comfort. Read this passage, Frants, about putting our whole trust in

the Lord, whatever may befall us.'

Frants read the portion pointed out to him, and then began to turn over

the leaves of the well-worn, silver-clasped book. He found a number of

pieces of paper here and there, but as he saw at a glance that they

were only accounts and receipts, he did not care to examine them, but

his attention was suddenly caught by a paper which appeared to be part

of a journal kept by the old man, the last year of his life. He looked

through it eagerly, Johanna observed with surprise how his countenance

was darkening. At length he started up and exclaimed,

'It is horrible!--horrible--Johanna! Some one must have sought to take

your uncle's life. See, here it is in his own handwriting--listen!' and

he read aloud:

'God grant that my enemy's wicked plot may not succeed! Why did I let

my gold get into such iniquitous hands, and place my life at the mercy

of one more ferocious than a wild beast? He has, cunningly plundered me

of my wealth--he has bound my tongue by an oath--and now he seeks to

take my life in secret. But my money will not prosper in his unworthy

hands--and accursed be the house over whose threshold his feet pass.

There are human beings who can ruin others in all worldly matters, but

mortal man has no power over the spirit when death sets it free.'

'What can this mean?' cried Frants, almost wild with excitement. Who is

the mortal enemy to whom he alludes, but whom he does not name? Who has

got possession of his house and his means? The same person, no doubt,

who bound him by an oath to silence, and threatened his life in secret;

who proclaimed to the world that he had drowned himself, and caused him

to be buried like a suicide? Why was no other acquaintance called to

recognize the body? We have no certainty that the drowned man was he.

Perhaps his bones lie nearer to us than we imagine. Ha! old master, in

my dream I heard you say, "Seek, and you shall find--why was I not

put into consecrated ground?" Johanna! what do you think about that

old lumber-room? There have been some mysterious doings there at

midnight--there are some still--that floor is washed while we are

sleeping. Before to-morrow's sun can rise I shall have searched that

den of murder, from one end to the other.'

'Oh, dearest Frants, how wildly you talk; you make me tremble.'

But as Frants was determined to go, she sat down by the cradle to watch

her sleeping child, while he took a light and proceeded to the

workshop. There he seized a hatchet and crow bar, and thus provided

with implements, he approached the door of the locked chamber.

'The room belongs to me,' said he to himself, 'who has a right to

prevent me from entering it?'

To force the door by the aid of the iron crowbar, was the work of an

instant, and without the slightest hesitation he went in, though it

must be confessed he felt a momentary panic. But that wore off

immediately, and he began at once to examine the place. Nothing

appeared, however, to excite suspicion. There were some sacks of wood

in a corner, and he emptied these, almost expecting to see one of them

filled with the bones of dead men, but there was no vestige of anything

of the kind. The floor seemed to be recently washed, for it was yet

scarcely dry. He then began to take up the boards. At that moment he

heard the handle of the door which led into the neighbouring house

turning; holding the hatchet in one hand, and the light, high above his

head, in the other, he put himself in an attitude of defence, while he

called out:

'Has anyone a desire to assist me?'

Presently all was still. Frants put down his light, and began again

hammering at the boards; almost unconsciously he also began to hum

aloud an air which his old master used always to sing when he was

engaged in finishing any piece of work. But he had not hammered or

hummed long before the handle of the door was again turned. This time

the door opened, and a tall, white figure slowly entered, with an

expression of countenance as hellish as if its owner had just come from

the abode of evil spirits.

'What, at it again, old man? Will you go on hammering and nailing till

Doomsday? Must that song be heard to all eternity?' said a hollow but

well-known voice--and Frants recognized with horror the ghastly-pale

and wild-looking sleep-walker, who, with eyes open--but fixed and

glazed--and hair standing on end, had come in his night-gear from his

sleeping-chamber.

'Where didst thou lay my bones?' said Frants, as if he had become

suddenly insane. 'Why was I not placed in my coffin?--why did I not

enter a Christian burying-ground?'

'Your bones are safe enough,' replied the pallid terrible-looking

dreamer, 'no one will harm them under my pear-tree.'

'But whom didst thou bury under my name--as a self-murderer, when thou

didst fasten on me the stain of guilt in death?' asked Frants,

astonished and frightened at the sound of his own voice, for it seemed

to him as if a spirit from the other world were speaking through his

lips.

'It was the beggar,' replied the wretched somnambulist, with a

frightful contortion of his fiendish face, a sort of triumphant grin.

'It was only the foreign beggar to whom you gave your old grey cloak

... but whom I drove from my door that Christmas-eve.'

'Where _he_ lies shalt thou rot--by _his_ side shalt thou meet me on

the great day of doom!' cried Frants, who hardly knew what he was

saying. He had scarcely uttered these words when he heard a fearful

sound, something between a shriek and a groan--and he stood alone with

his light and his hatchet--for the howling figure had disappeared.

'Was it a dream,' gasped Frants, 'or am I mad? Away, away from this

scene of murder--but I know _now_ where I shall find that which I

seek.'

He returned to Johanna, who was sitting quietly by the still sleeping

child, and was reading the holy Scriptures.

Frants did not tell her what had taken place, and she was afraid to

ask; he persuaded her to retire to rest, while he himself sat up all

night to examine further the papers in the old Bible. The next day he

carried them to a magistrate, and the whole case was brought before a

court of justice for legal inquiry and judgment.

'Was I not right when I said that a coffin would come out of that

house before the end of the year?' exclaimed the baker's wife at

the corner of the street, to her daughter, when, some time after, a

richly-ornamented coffin was borne out of Frants's house. The funeral

procession, headed by Frants himself, was composed of all the joiners

and most respectable artisans in the town, dressed in black.

'It is the coffin of old Mr. Flok,' said the baker's daughter, 'he is

now going to be _really_ buried, they say; I wonder if it be true that

his bones were found under a tree in Mr. Stork's garden.'

'Quite true,' responded a fishwoman, setting down her creel, while she

looked at the funeral procession.

'Young Mr. Frants had everything proved before the judge--and that

avaricious old Stork will have to give up his ill-gotten goods.'

'Ay--and his ill-conducted life too, perhaps,' said the man who kept

the little tavern near; 'if all be true that folks say, he murdered the

worthy Mr. Flok.'

'I always thought that fellow would be hanged some day or other--he

tried to cheat me whenever he could,' added the baker's wife.

'But they must catch him first,' said another; 'nothing has been seen

of him these last three or four days.'

On Christmas-eve there sat a cheerful family in the late Mr. Flok's

house near the canal. The child had quite recovered, and Frants,

filling the old silver goblet with wine, drank many happy returns of

the season to his dear Johanna.

'How little we expected a short time ago to be so comfortable now!' he

exclaimed. 'Here we are, in our own house, which was intended for us by

your kind uncle. I am no longer compelled to nail away alone at coffins

until midnight, but can undertake more pleasant work, and keep

apprentices and journeymen to assist me. My good old master's name is

freed from reproach, and his remains now rest in consecrated ground,

awaiting a blessed and joyful resurrection.'

The lumber-room with its fearful recollections was shut up. The outside

of the house was painted anew--and the mysterious inscription on the

wall, thus obliterated, never reappeared.

Frants had occasion one day, shortly after this favourable turn in

their affairs, to cross the long bridge; and as he passed near the

Dead-house for the drowned, he went up to the little window, saying to

himself--'Now I can look in without any superstitious fears, for I know

that my old master never drowned himself,--THAT foul stain is no longer

attached to his memory; and his remains have at length obtained

Christian burial.'

But when he glanced through the window he started back in horror, for

the discoloured and swollen features of a dead man met his view, and in

the dreadful-looking countenance before him, he recognized that of the

murderer--Stork--who had been missing some time.

'Miserable being!' he exclaimed, 'and you have ended your guilty career

by the same crime with which you charged an innocent man! None will

miss you in this world except the executioner, whose office you have

taken on yourself. I know that you had planned my death, but enemy as

you were, I shall have you laid decently in the grave, and may the

Almighty have mercy on your soul!'

Prosperity continued to attend the young couple--but the lessons of the

past had taught them how unstable is all earthly good; the old family

Bible--now a frequent and favourite study--became the guide of their

conduct; and when their happiness was clouded by any misfortune, as all

the happiness of this passing life must sometimes be, they resigned

themselves without a murmur to the will of Providence, reminding each

other of the watchman's song on that memorable night when all hope

seemed to have abandoned them:

'Redeemer, grant Thy blessed help

To make our burden light.'

THE FELON'S REVERIE.

* * * * *

In a narrow cell sat one who was a prisoner for life. Around him were

the four dingy walls, covered with great black characters, scratched

thereon at sundry times with bits of charcoal: but there was no

pleasure in reading these hieroglyphics, for they were the fruit of

solitude and melancholy, whose heavy, heavy thoughts had thus expressed

themselves. High up was placed the little window, the only connection

with life, with nature, and with the heavens; but the black iron bars

kept watch over that, and obscured the clear daylight. The links of his

chain, round his hand and his foot, kept the prisoner bound in his

dreary cage, but they could not fetter the soul's deep longing after

liberty.

Days and years had passed in this gloomy cell. A charming, fresh

summer's morning it was, when the door of this prison was first closed

on him, and when he was told that Death alone should set him free. Here

he had remained ever since; severed from the rest of mankind, shut up

from them as if he had been a wild beast; and their farewell words to

him had been--that Death alone was to be his deliverer. This was so

dreadful a thought that he did all he could to drive it away. He worked

diligently, he whistled, he sang, and he engraved strange names and

figures on the walls. He frequently gazed up at the window, though he

could only see through it a dead wall, but over that wall were the blue

skies. He soon came to know every stone in the wall; he knew where the

sun cast its streaks of light: where the little streams of water

trickled down when it rained; there was more variety in the sky--it

seemed to have compassion upon him, for sometimes the clouds were

chased along by the wind; sometimes they assumed strange, fantastic

shapes, and arrayed themselves in crimson and gold, like the gorgeous

garb of royalty; and sometimes they hung in heavy, dark masses over the

lofty wall--the boundary of his external world. But he saw no living

things; and once, when a daring swallow rested for a few minutes on the

outside ledge of his iron-barred window, he scarcely breathed, in his

anxiety to enjoy the sight of it as long as possible.

Winter was his saddest time, for _then_ the snow blocked up his

little window, and intervened between him and the skies; then, too, it

became so early dark, and daylight was so long of coming. He sang and

whistled no longer; he worked, indeed, but not so diligently, for his

tormentor--_thought_--had more power over him. During the short day he

could partly escape it; but when it became dark--oh! what had it not

then to recall to him! And the worst was, he was obliged to bear it

all. He could have silenced another, but he could not hush the voice

that spoke within himself. In vain he sought to banish remembrance; it

_would_ haunt him: so he dropped his head upon his hands, and listened.

And it spoke to him of the time when he was a little boy with rosy

cheeks, who had never done harm to a living being, and who sat or lay

in the bright sunshine, humming the song his mother had taught him. And

that mother, who loved him so dearly, who worked for him during the

day, and slept with him at night--well! She was dead, God be praised!

'Perhaps if she had lived,' said he to himself. No, no! Does he not

remember well one day, when the little boy with rosy cheeks was coming

from school, that he passed a blind old man who was begging, and

holding out his hat in his hand, that he dived quickly into the hat,

and caught up the pence some charitable persons had placed in it? No

one saw him--no one knew that he had done this--why does he now

remember it with such bitter regret?

His mother died, and a neighbouring family received the orphan kindly;

consoled and caressed him, and he slept by the side of their dog. But

they were very poor themselves, and could not maintain him long;

therefore he was sent to other people, where some one paid a small

board for him, and where he, the little stranger, was far from being

well treated. He had too little to eat--and he stole food; therefore he

was ignominiously turned away, and he fell among wicked people. They

talked to him of the paths of virtue--but they followed vicious courses

themselves, and he laughed at their admonitions. He grew older, and he

went to be confirmed[7] in the House of God; and there he was admitted

to the Holy Sacrament. The priest laid his hand with blessings on his

head, and he there pledged his heart to God, and vowed to forsake all

sin. How comes it that he now so distinctly remembers the solemn tones

of the organ as he was leaving the church, and the large painting of

the Saviour close by the altar, which he had turned to look at once

more before he passed from the crowded aisle? He had never been in that

church again to pray--alas! never.

He had, indeed, been there again--but it was on another and a reprobate

errand--and _then_ he was young at that time, and reflected less. Ah!

_then_, too, he thought more of the young and beautiful girl who had

knelt next to him at the altar, and with whom he had afterwards taken a

quiet walk. On other evenings he was wont to spend his time with some

wild, bad companions, and to join in their giddy mirth and mischievous

sports; but that evening, their company wearied and disgusted him, and

he followed the young girl to her father's house. He had now become an

apprentice: but he was careless and idle: to sit hard at work did not

suit his taste. And yet these were pleasant days when he looked back on

them.

He became a journeyman, and was betrothed to his pretty friend of the

Confirmation-day. She had gone into service, and was a hard-working,

honest, well-principled girl; _he_ continued to be idle. Often and

often she entreated him to be more industrious, to seek work, and not

to waste his time on riot and strife; and often he promised to reform.

But his only reformation was, that he took more pains to conceal from

her his bad habits. When he was sitting with her, and her anxious look

rested upon his dull eyes, or his faded cheek, he felt that it was time

to stop in his career of evil, and resolved to become a steady and

respectable workman. But these good resolutions vanished when he left

her presence. At length the evil spirit within him conquered; he wanted

money, and stole a watch from a fellow-workman. Then the arm of the law

seized him, never again to let him go.

After he had undergone the punishment awarded to his theft, he came,

abashed and with downcast eyes, to his betrothed; but she had heard of

his guilt. With bitter tears she reproached him for his conduct, and

she forbade him ever again to show himself in her presence. He was

furious at her reception of him, and left her, vowing to be revenged.

Many wild schemes rushed through his brain:--now he determined to

murder her; now, that she should also be dragged into disgrace. But one

day he met her in the street, and her pale, tearful, melancholy

countenance disarmed his wrath, and annihilated his plans of revenge.

And now, as the prisoner scrawls absently with that rusty nail on the

wall, and his sunken eyes fill with warm tears, what is memory

recalling to his saddened mind? Ah! is it not that short-lived time of

early affection--is it not those sweet, calm features--those speaking

eyes--that love, so true and so pure? Perhaps his fancy paints himself

as an honest, industrious citizen, as a happy husband and father,

with _her_ by his side, and in a very different place from that dreary

cell--in a comfortable home, enjoying all that he so madly threw

away--love, happiness and respectability! But his thoughts wander on;

he throws the nail away from him, and leans back, with arms folded

across his chest.

He left the town and went into the country. There was a voice in his

soul which urged him to reform. 'Return, return!' it said; 'return, for

there is yet time!' But another voice also spoke--that of the demon

which enslaved him; and that demon was--THE HABIT OF IDLENESS.

Unhappily he then fell in with a depraved wretch--a villain experienced

in crime--an escaped convict. They wandered about among the peasantry

and begged; but every door was closed against his companion, with

unmistakable signs of terror and distrust.

One summer night they had taken shelter in a stable, and he had fallen

fast asleep. He was awakened by his comrade. 'Get up,' said he, 'men

will give us nothing--the Lord must help us, therefore.' He thought the

man alluded to some intended theft, and accompanied him without the

least reluctance. They stole along the gardens and fences on towards

the churchyard. He stopped his guide.

'What are we to do here? 'he asked, with uneasiness. 'You surely will

not--'

'What?' asked the other, laughing.

'Oh, let the dead rest in peace!'

'Fool!' cried the convict, 'do you think I am going to meddle with the

dead? Follow me!'

And he scaled the walls of the churchyard, and broke open the Gothic

door of the church. Now he understood what his companion meant to do;

but his heart beat as if it would have started out of his breast. As he

went up the aisle, he felt as if he had lead in his shoes--as if the

flooring held him back at every step--as if it were a whole mile to

reach the altar. He had not entered the house of God since the day he

had been there to take upon himself his baptismal vow, and dedicate his

life to his Creator; and now--now he stood there to plunder! His hands

trembled violently, as he held open the sack for his comrade, who cast

into it the silver cups, the silver salvers, and everything that he

could find of value; and had it not been for fear of his ferocious

associate, he would assuredly have thrown down the sack and fled, for

he thought that the picture of Christ over the altar looked earnestly

and reproachfully at him. When his companion looked up from his

sacrilegious work, and observed his eyes fixed, as it were, by some

fearful fascination on the picture, he nodded to it in a scoffing

manner, and then closed the sack, and left the church.

When they were out of it, the prisoner breathed more freely; and when

they placed themselves on a tombstone to divide the booty, he received

without hesitation the portion that his comrade chose to allot to him.

They buried their treasure in the earth, and separated. But the massive

altar-plate could not easily be disposed of. He was in want; he begged

from door to door, but he was driven from them all; so he had again

recourse to stealing. Since the night that he had been drawn into

robbing the church, he had felt that he was an outcast from the whole

world--an outcast from God himself. He knew that punishment was sure to

overtake him, and he was miserable. His companion in guilt was soon

after arrested; he confessed all, and they were both imprisoned, and

put to hard labour.

But he had not yet quite lost all hope. He determined to work in future

for his daily bread. He came out of gaol a half-savage, half-frightened

being--lonely and deserted--bearing upon him that brand of infamy which

never more could be erased; but he had made up his mind to labour, and

he went far away to seek for employment.

It was the harvest-time. God had blessed the fields, and there were not

reapers enough to gather in the corn. No question was asked whence he

came, but his services were immediately accepted. There was something

in this display of the bounty of the Creator, in this activity, in this

working in the free open air, that pleased him; for the first time in

his life he toiled cheerfully. But the country people did not like him;

his look was downcast and dark--he was rough and passionate, abrupt in

speech, and he spoke little. After the farm-servants had one day

proposed to him to go to church, and he had refused positively, but

with an air of embarrassment, he was looked upon with great suspicion.

There was but one face that always smiled at him, and that was the face

of the youngest boy upon the farm. He had won the child's heart by

having once cut out some little boats for him, and sailed them in the

pond; and from that time the child always clapped his hands with joy

when he saw him. It was so new, so delightful to him to be beloved,

that he felt himself insensibly attracted towards the little creature.

He indulged him in all his childish whims, carried him about in his

arms, made toys for him, and seemed to feel himself well rewarded by

the innocent child's attachment.

Thus passed the winter. Peace, hitherto unknown to him, was creeping

into his heart; and when he stood in spring on the fields with the

sprouting seeds, and heard the lark's blithe carol, a new light began

to dawn on his benighted mind. One day, when he returned from the

fields towards the farm-yard, his little friend ran up to him, jumping

and playing. He stretched out his arms to the child, but in an instant

he started back, pale and horror-stricken. His former associate stood

before him, with a malignant smile upon his sinister countenance, and

held out his hand to him, while he said, in a tone of bitter irony,--

'So, from all I hear, you are playing the honest man in the place!

Excuse me for interrupting your rural content, but I have been longing

so much for you.'

'Away, demon!' cried the unfortunate man. 'Go, go, and leave me in

peace!'

'Not so fast!' replied the other, with a withering sneer. 'I have told

the people of the farm who you are. Do you think I am going to lose so

useful a comrade?'

At that moment the grandfather of the child came up, and when he saw

the little boy in the arms of him whom he had just been told was a

malefactor, he snatched him hurriedly away, in spite of the child's

tears and cries; and applying many abusive epithets to the man, ordered

him instantly to leave the farm. The disturber of his peace carried him

off with him, while his fiendish laughter rang around!

See! the prisoner's chest is heaving with emotion. Hark! what deep

sighs seem to rend his heart, while a few scalding tears are falling

from his eyes! Of what is he dreaming now?

He sees himself, in the grey dawn of day, stealthily creeping along the

hedges that surround the farm, to catch a glimpse of his little

favourite. He beholds the infant's soft cheek wet with the tears of

affection; he feels his tiny arms clasped lightly round his neck; the

kind words of farewell ring in his ears; he listens again for the sound

of the retiring little footsteps, as the child is leaving him, and sees

the little hand waving to him a last adieu from the door of his

mother's house. As he then threw himself down beneath the hedge on the

dewy grass, and burst into tears, he now hides his face on his hard

pallet, and sobs aloud.

But he has risen from that recumbent position. He wrings his hands, and

his teeth chatter, in his solitary cell. What horror is passing through

his mind? What agonizing remembrance has seized him, and is shaking

soul and body, as the roaring tempest shakes the falling leaves? Let it

stand forth from its dark concealment! In vain he presses his hands on

his bloodshot eyes not to behold that scene--in vain he tries to close

his ears against those voices--the blackest night of his gloomy prison

cannot veil _that_ picture, for it arises from the darkest depths of

his inmost soul.

Listen how his evil-minded associate tempts him, and draws him on!

'Yon old man at the farm has plenty of money--ready money--do you hear?

Do you think I lost my time there? His daughter and her husband are his

heirs; they do not need his gold so much as we do. The old man sleeps

in that low house near the larger one. It is but a step through the

window, and we shall be rich for a long time.'

'But what if he should awake, and recognize us?' asked the prisoner,

with much anxiety.

The other made a gesture which shocked him. He started back.

'No, no!' he cried, shuddering; 'no blood!'

His companion laughed.

'What matters it whether the old man dies a few days sooner or later?

People have generally no objection to the death of those to whom they

are to be heirs. And have you forgotten how roughly he spoke to you?

How he abused you, and drove you away? At that time I am sure you

thirsted for revenge. Besides, how are you going to live? Perhaps you

think you may find some good-natured fool to take a fancy to you; but

you forget that _I_ like you too well to separate from you.'

Want, fear, revengeful feelings, got the better of him; but at night,

when like two spectres they glided along the road, it seemed to him

constantly as if some one saw him; and notwithstanding his companion's

ridicule, he frequently looked back. And truly there was ONE who

watched him, but not with any mortal eye. They opened the window, and

got in one after the other, and easily found the old man's desk, which

was in the next room. The robber's practised hand soon opened it, and

he was about to take its contents, when the door of the bedroom was

suddenly thrown back and rapidly shut, and the old man, who was still

hale and strong, entered, armed with a thick cudgel. A short but

furious struggle ensued; he remembered having seized him by the back of

his neck with both his hands, and dragged him down on the floor; he

remembered having heard some dull blows, that made him shiver with

horror, and then having stood in breathless dismay by a dead body. The

two criminals looked at each other with faces of ashy hue; then the

most hardened kicked the corpse to one side, and went to secure the

booty, while the prisoner opened the door of the sleeping-room to

search it.

But--oh, anguish unspeakable! oh, avenging God!--who should spring

forward to meet him, clinging to his knees and imploring his

protection--who but his innocent, unfortunate little favourite! He

started back, speechless and powerless; but when he beheld his comrade,

without uttering one word, brandish his knife, he clasped the child

with one arm in a convulsive embrace, and stretched out the other to

defend him against the ruffian.

'Shall he be left to betray us both to-morrow?' mumbled the wretch. 'He

must die, for your sake as well as mine.'

'Oh, let us take him with us!' prayed the other, in the deepest

agitation, while he tried to keep off the knife, which, however, he did

with difficulty, as the child held fast to his arm, and, in his terror

at the murderous weapon, hid his little face on that breast where he

had so often rested in happy confidence, his silver voice murmuring his

childish love.

'You are mad,' said his companion. 'What should we do with the boy? Let

go your hold of him, I say--we have no time to lose--let him go, or it

will cost you your own life.'

The quivering lips of the miserable man had scarcely uttered a prayer

to wait, at least, till he could withdraw, when the child was torn from

him, and like a maniac he rushed away, sprang out of the window, threw

himself upon the ground, and buried his head among the long damp grass.

What a moment of agony! Such agony, that at the remembrance of it the

prisoner groaned aloud, and dashed his head against the stone wall,

then coiled himself up like a worm, as if he would fain have shrunk

into nothing.

The dear-bought, blood-stained booty was divided, and the criminal

associates separated. But suspicion fell upon them; they were pursued,

and soon taken. On being carried before a magistrate, he denied it all;

yet when he was placed by the dead body of the murdered child, guilt

spoke in his stiff, averted head--in the tell-tale perspiration that

stood on his brow--and in his clenched and trembling hands. He

confessed, and implored to be removed, even to prison, from the

harrowing spectacle. His accomplice was condemned to death, he himself

to imprisonment for life.

There he was now, alone with the dreadful recollections of former

days. The summer came and went, without bringing any other joy to him

than that the sun's rays fell broader, and more golden in their gleams

upon the wall outside that bounded his narrow view; and that now and

then a bird would fly over it, quiver a few notes, then wing its flight

away. That sight always awoke a voice in his heart that cried for

'Freedom--freedom!' But he would hush it with the thought, that he

could not be happier were he at liberty than in his dungeon cell. At

other times, he would take a violent longing to see a green leaf--only

a single green leaf--or a corn-blossom from the fields, or a blade of

grass. Ah! these were vain wishes! When winter came, and the sun and

the daylight forsook him so soon, he was still more gloomy, for he

could not sleep the whole of the long, long night, and the phantoms

that haunted him were terrific.

Once--it was a Christmas night--he was reflecting on all the joy that

was abroad in the world, and he thought if it would not be possible for

him to pray. Then long-forgotten words returned to his lips, and he

faltered out, 'Our Father, which art in heaven!'--but _then_ he

stopped.

'God is in heaven,' thought he, 'how can He condescend to hear the sigh

that arises from the hell within my breast? No, no--it is but mocking

Him for _me_ to pray!'

Days and years had gone by since the prisoner had inhaled the breath of

the fresh balmy air, had beheld the extended vault of heaven, or

wandered in the bright, warm sunshine; at length the spirit had

exhausted the body. He lay ill and feeble, and death was near. Then was

the narrow door of his dungeon opened, and he was removed to a more

cheerful place--to a place where the blessed air and light were freely

admitted, and where the voices of human beings were around him. But

their compassion came too late. Earnestly did he entreat them to let

him see a minister of the Gospel; and when one came, he poured out the

misery of his soul to him. He listened with the deepest attention while

the holy man discoursed about Him, who, in His boundless love, shed His

own blood to wash out the sins of mankind, and in whose name even the

darkest and most guilty criminal might dare to raise his blood-stained

hands in prayer. How consoling were not these precious words to him,

'My God and my Saviour! With what an earnest longing he waited to be

permitted to participate in that solemn rite which, by grace and faith,

was to unite him to that Redeemer! And how he trembled lest the lamp of

his mortal life should be extinguished before the first spark of that

sacred flame was lighted, which was to be kindled for an endless

eternity!

The time that his repentant spirit so thirsted for arrived. And when he

had partaken of the holy communion, and tears of penitent sorrow had

streamed over his burning cheeks, peace--long unknown--returned to his

weary heart, and his gratitude found vent in thanksgivings and prayer.

'Oh!' he exclaimed, as he looked out of his open window, 'it is spring,

my friends--I feel that it is spring, beautiful spring!'

'Yes,' replied the superintendent of the hospital, 'it is spring; even

the old tree by the wall is green. See here, as I passed it, I broke

off this budding twig for you;' and he placed the little green branch

in the hand of the dying man.

'Oh!' said he, with a melancholy smile and a tear in his eye, 'that

old, decayed, withered tree--can it put forth new leaves--fresh, green,

sweetly scented as these? May I not then venture to hope that the

Almighty may call forth a new life from me in another world? Oh, that

such may be His will!'

And with the green bough--the proof of God's power and goodness in his

hand, and with his Redeemer's promise on his lips, he passed to his

everlasting doom, in the blessed hope that he also might touch the hem

of his Saviour's garment, and hear these words of life--'Son, thy sins

be forgiven thee!'

MORTEN LANGE.

A Christmas Story.

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

Each midnight from the farthest Thule, to isles the South Sea laves,

To exercise themselves awhile the dead forsake their graves;

But when it is the Christmas time they stay much longer out,

And may in the churchyard be seen, then, wandering about;

And as they dance their merry rounds, the rattling of their bones

Produces, 'midst the wintry blasts, somewhat unearthly tones.

Poor things! For them there's neither wine, nor punch, nor supper

there,

The icicles are all they have, and a mouthful of fresh air.

When shines the moon strange forms are seen, tall spectral giants

some:

Such sights as these might even strike a chattering Frenchman dumb.

Scoff not at my poor hero, then, though once in a sad fright--

He is a most discreet young man, and Morten Lange hight.

One Christmas night the fates ordained a journey he must make,

So, for despatch, 'twas his resolve a horse and sledge to take.

Dark was the hour, and in the skies the ranks of stars looked pale,

While from a tower near hooted owls, as in a German tale.

And Morten Lange, by-the-by, was not unlearned, for

About Molboerne's exploits[8]--also the Trojan war,

'Octavianus,' Nisses, Trolls, Hobgoblins well he knew,

And all about 'the spectre white,' whose story is so _true_.

Too soon the sledge stood at the door, with many a jingling bell;

But ah! these sounds to his sad ears seemed like his funeral knell.

Yet, though the snow-flakes fell around, of them he took no heed,

But like a British runaway pair, he started at full speed.

He passed a regiment of old trees, whitened from top to toe,

And soon he gained an open plain, where nought he saw but snow.

Like Matthison's 'Gedichte,' 'twas very, very cold,

But still our hero tried to think that he was warm and bold.

He did not care to gaze about, and so half-closed his eyes;

Yet, spite of this precaution--lo! a curious sight he spies:

A muster of the Elfin-folk enjoying a gay spree,

The men were just five inches high, the women only three;

And though 'twas at the chill Yule-time, when cold reigns over all,

In clothes of flimsy cobwebs made, they capered at their ball;

The ancient dames, however, wore some more substantial gear,

For of bats' wings their shawls were formed--but, softly--what

comes here?

Twelve harnessed mice, with trappings grand, fit for a monarch's

own,

They draw a car of fairy work, where a lady sits alone.

It stops, and Morten Lange sees the lady getting out--

'Heav'n help me now! Heav'n help me now!' he sighed, for he dared

not shout.

'I'm no poltroon, and yet I feel the blood within my veins

Is freezing fast.' In mortal fear, his cold hand dropped the reins;

Then stooping to recover them out of the sledge he fell,

And with it scampered off the horse, whither he could not tell.

He felt that his last hour was come, all helpless as he lay--

And with such thoughts upon his mind he fainted quite away.

At length, when consciousness returned, and when his swoon was o'er,

He heard a fearful buzzing sound, that frightened him still more.

What had he done to be exposed that night to such alarms?

A troop of demons round him thronged--one imp secured his arms.

Another seized his lanky legs, another caught his head--

And powerless to resist them then, away with him they sped.

They carried him to some strange place, flames shone upon the walls,

Into another fainting-fit, half-dead with fright, he falls,

But when the pains of death seemed past, and trembling he looked

round,

He saw that in the other life a sad fate he had found.

The vaulted roof was black with smoke, and awful was the heat;

The devils stood with naked arms--he dared not scan their feet.

One held a hammer in his hand, and threatening, waved it nigh,

And in a burning furnace there, red flames were flashing high.

Soon guessed our hero where he was, and set himself to kneel,

And lustily for mercy prayed--but they laughed at his appeal.

Then to his side an angel came, benignant was her smile,

And holding out her small white hand, she said to him the while;

'Well, Heaven be praised, you're better now! But why are you

afraid?'

Shaking with fear in every limb, in a faint voice he said:

'Oh, angel! 'tis not death I dread, but help me out of hell!'

The angel laughed: 'You're in good hands--you ought to know us well.

This is the smithy--from your sledge thrown out upon the ground,

Lying alone amidst the snow half-frozen you were found;

And I'm no angel, bless your heart! I'm Annie, don't you see?'

Rubbing his eyes, and staring round, up Morten jumped in glee;

And that he soon forgot his fright 'tis needless to declare--

The roasted goose, the foaming ale, and other Christmas fare,

As might be guessed, put all to rights--and Annie by his side

At supper sat, that Christmas night, as Morten Lange's bride.

_Note by the Translator_.

The ghost-story alluded to--'Den hvide Qvinde' (The White Woman)--is to

be found in Thiele's collection of Danish 'Folkesagn.' This spectre is

said to haunt some old ruins near Flensborg. Two soldiers, long, long

ago, were keeping their night-watch on the ramparts of the castle; one

of them left his post for a short time, and when he was gone the other

sentry was approached by a tall female figure in white, who accosted

him thus:--'I am an unblessed spirit, who have wandered here for many

hundred years, and have never found rest in the grave.' She then

informed him that under the walls was buried an immense treasure, which

could only be found by _three_ men in the world, and that he was one of

the three. The soldier, fancying his fortune made, promised to obey her

in all things, and received her command to be on the spot the following

midnight. In the meantime the other sentinel had returned to his post,

and had overheard what the spectre had related to his comrade. He said

not a word, however, but the next night he went to the appointed place,

and concealed himself in some recess close by. When the soldier who was

to dig for the treasure arrived, with his spade and other implements,

the white spectre appeared to him, but knowing that he was watched, she

put off the _digging_ till another night. The man who had intended to

act as a spy was taken suddenly ill as soon as he got home; and feeling

that he was about to die, he sent for his comrade, confessed that he

had watched him, implored him to avoid witchcraft and supernatural

beings, and recommended him to consult the priest, who was a wise and

good man.

The soldier took his advice, and laid the matter before the priest, who

directed him to do the spectre's bidding, only taking care that _she_

should be the first to touch the treasure. The man accordingly met the

ghost at the appointed time and place, and she showed him the spot

where the treasure was deposited; but before taking it up, she told him

that one half would be for him, and the other half must be divided

between the church and the poor. But the demon of avarice had entered

into his heart, and he exclaimed: 'What! shall I not have the whole of

it?' Scarcely had these words passed his lips, than the spirit uttered

a fearful thrilling cry, and disappeared in a blue flame over the

castle moat. The soldier was taken ill, and died three days afterwards.

The story became noised about, and a poor student determined to try his

luck. He repaired to the old castle at midnight, saw the wandering

'White Woman,' told her his errand and offered his services. But she

informed him that he was not one of the chosen three, and could not

assist her, and that the walls would thenceforth stand so firmly, that

hand of man should never overthrow them. However, she promised at some

future time to reward him for his good intentions.

One day, long after, when he happened to be loitering near the old

castle, and thinking with compassion of the fate of the restless spirit

who haunted it, he stumbled over something; and, on stooping to see

what it was, he discovered a large heap of gold, of which he forthwith

took possession. As foretold by the spectre, the walls of the castle

are still standing, and the story goes, that whenever any portion of

them has been overthrown, it has always been raised again by invisible

agents during the night. Matter-of-fact people assert that the locality

of this ghost tradition is a _hill_, not a _castle_.

A TALE OF JUTLAND.

BY S. S. BLICHER.

I had often beheld the highest hill in Denmark, but had not hitherto

ascended it. Frequently as I had been in its neighbourhood, the

objects of my journeys had always required me to turn off in another

direction, and I was thus obliged to content myself with seeing at some

distance the Danish Schwarzwald; and as I passed on, to cast a hurried

glance down the valleys to the charming lake, dotted with green leafy

islets, and which winds, as it were, round jagged tongues of land. At

length I overcame all obstacles, and resolved to devote two days to a

pleasure-trip amidst this much-admired scenery. My cousin Ludwig, who

had just arrived from the capital, agreed to accompany me.

The morning was clear and warm, and gave the promise of a fine evening,

but shortly after mid-day there gradually arose in the south-west a

range of whitish clouds tinged at the sides with flame-colour. My

cousin did not notice them; but I, who am experienced in the signs of

the weather, recognized these indications of thunder, and announced to

him 'that the evening would not be as fine as the morning.' We were

riding exactly in such a direction that we had these clouds opposite to

us, and could, therefore, perceive how they kept rising higher and

higher, how they became darker at the base, and how they towered like

mountains of snow over the summit of the hill. Imagination pictured

them to us like the Alps of Switzerland, and we tried to fancy

ourselves in that mountainous country; we saw Schreckhorn, Wetterhorn,

and the Jungfrau; in the valleys between the clouds we pictured to

ourselves the glaciers; and when a solitary mass of cloud, breaking

suddenly, sank down, and seemed to mingle with the mountain chain, we

called it an avalanche which would overwhelm villages and scattered

chalets with everlasting snow. We continued, absolutely with childish

pleasure, to figure to ourselves in the skies the majestic scenery of

the Alps, and were quite wrapt up in our voluntary self-deception, when

the sudden roar of thunder awoke us from our fantastic dreams. Already

there stretched scarcely the thinnest line of light in the heavens

above us, and the wood which lay before us seemed as if in a moment

enveloped in a thick mist by the fast-falling rain. We had been too

long dilatory, and now we rode as hard as possible to reach the nearest

village; and we were soaked to the skin before we got to Alling, where

we sought shelter under an open gateway.

The owner of the place, an elderly farmer, who seemed a sort of

half-savage foreigner to us, received us with old Danish hospitality;

he had our horses taken to his stable, and invited ourselves into his

warm parlour. As soon as he observed our drenched condition, he offered

us garments belonging to his two sons to wear while our own wet ones

were dried by the blazing hearth. Joyfully did we avail ourselves of

his kind proposal; and in a room upstairs, called the best apartment,

we soon made the comfortable change of apparel, while laughing and

joking at our unexpected travestie. Equipped as peasant lads in their

Sunday's clothes, we shortly after rejoined the family. Our host was

much amused at the change in our outward men, and warmly extolled our

homely appearance, while his two daughters smiled, and stole sly

glances at us--

'Blushed the Valkyries, whilst they turned and laughed.'

The coffee-urn stood ready on the table, surrounded by china cups; the

refreshing beverage, amply provided with brown sugar and rich

unadulterated cream, poured out and handed by one of the pretty

daughters, speedily restored genial heat to our chilled blood; and then

the father of the family thought it time to inquire the names,

occupations, and places of abode of his unexpected guests.

Meanwhile the thunderstorm had passed away; the sun smiled again in the

cloudless west; far away to the east, indeed, could still be heard the

distant whistling and rattling of the winds, but where we were all was

mild and tranquil. The spirits of the storm had folded their dripping

wings, and the raindrops sparkled like diamonds upon every leaf and

flower. The evening promised once more to resemble the morning in

beauty.

'And now for the ascent of the mountains!' we exclaimed to each other.

'But your clothes?' interrupted the farmer. We hastened into an outer

room, where the other fair daughter was busy drying them; but, alas!

they were still quite damp, and she said she feared she could not

promise that they would be in a fit state to be put on for at least an

hour; and then it would probably be too late to enjoy the view from the

top of the hill, as the ascent, proceeding from where we were at that

moment, would take, perhaps, another hour. What was to be done? The

good-natured countryman helped us out of our dilemma.