Let him who will, burn beneath these smouldering fires.--BRANTOME.
“Open the window, daughter; those panes are very dirty, and I would fain
see the day.”
“See the day, father! It will soon be night.”
“The sun still lies on the hills along the fjord. I long to breathe the
free air through my prison bars. The sky is so clear!”
“Father, a storm is at hand.”
“A storm, Ethel! Where do you see it?”
“It is because the sky is clear, father, that I foresee a storm.”
The old man looked at his daughter in surprise.
“Had I reasoned thus in my youth, I should not be here.” Then he added
in a firmer tone: “What you say is correct, but it is not a common
inference for one of your age. I do not understand why your youthful
reasoning should be so like my aged experience.”
Ethel’s eyes fell, as if she were troubled by this serious and simple
remark. She clasped her hands sadly, and a deep sigh heaved her breast.
“Daughter,” said the aged prisoner, “for some days you have looked pale,
as if life had never warmed the blood in your veins. For several
mornings you have approached me with red and swollen lids, with eyes
that have wept and watched. I have passed several days in silence,
Ethel, with no effort on your part to rouse me from my gloomy
meditations on the past. You sit beside me more melancholy even than
myself; and yet you are not, like your father, weighed down by the
burden of a whole lifetime of empty inaction. Morning clouds vanish
quickly. You are at that period of existence when you can choose in
dreams a future independent of the present, be it what it may. What
troubles you, my daughter? Thanks to your constant captivity, you are
sheltered from all sudden calamity. What error have you committed? I
cannot think that you are grieving for me; you must by this time be
accustomed to my incurable misfortunes. Hope, to be sure, can no longer
be the subject of my discourse; but that is no reason why I should read
despair in your eyes.”
As he spoke these words, the prisoner’s stern voice melted with paternal
love. Ethel stood silently before him. All at once she turned away with
an almost convulsive motion, fell upon her knees on the stone floor, and
hid her face in her hands, as if to stifle the tears and sobs which
burst from her.
Too much woe filled full the wretched girl’s heart. What had she done to
that fatal stranger, that she should reveal to her the secret that was
eating away her very life? Alas! since she had known her Ordener’s true
name, the poor child had not closed her eyes, nor had her soul known
rest. Night brought her no alleviation, save that then she could weep
freely and unseen. All was over! He was not hers, he who was hers by
all her memories, by all her pangs, by all her prayers, he whose wife
she had held herself to be upon the faith of her dreams. For the evening
when Ordener had clasped her so tenderly in his arms was no more than a
dream to her now. And in truth that sweet dream had been repeated
nightly in her sleep. Was it a guilty love which she still cherished for
that absent friend, struggle against it as she might? Her Ordener was
betrothed to another! And who can tell what that virginal heart endured
when the strange and unknown sentiment of jealousy found entrance there
like a poisonous viper? When she tossed for long sleepless hours upon
her fevered bed, picturing her Ordener, perhaps even then, in the arms
of another, fairer, richer, nobler than herself? For, thought she, I was
mad indeed to suppose that he would brave death for me. Ordener is the
son of a viceroy, of a great lord, and I am nothing but a poor prisoner,
nothing but the daughter of a proscribed and exiled man. He has left me,
for he is free; and left me, no doubt, to wed his lovely betrothed,--the
daughter of a chancellor, a minister, a haughty count! Has my Ordener
deceived me, then? Oh, God! who would have thought that such a voice was
capable of deceit?
And the wretched Ethel wept and wept again, and saw her Ordener before
her, the man whom she had made the unwitting divinity of her whole
being, that Ordener adorned with all the splendor of his rank, advancing
to the altar amid festal preparations, and gazing upon her rival with
the smile that had once been her delight.
However, in spite of her unspeakable agony, she never for an instant
forgot her filial affection. The weak girl made the most heroic efforts
to conceal her distress from her unfortunate father; for there is
nothing more painful than to repress all outward signs of grief, and
tears unshed are far more bitter than those that flow. Several days had
passed before the silent old man observed the change in his Ethel, and
at his affectionate questions her long-repressed grief had at last burst
forth.
For some time he watched her emotion with a bitter smile and a shake of
the head; but at last he said: “Ethel, you do not live among men; why do
you weep?”
He had scarcely finished these words, when the sweet and noble girl
rose. By a great effort she checked her tears, and dried her eyes with
her scarf, saying: “Father, forgive me; it was a momentary weakness.”
And she looked at him with an attempt to smile.
She went to the back of the room, found the Edda, seated herself by her
taciturn father, and opened the book at random; then, mastering her
voice, she began to read. But her useless task was unheeded by her and
by the old man, who waved his hand.
“Enough, enough, my daughter!”
She closed her book.
“Ethel,” added Schumacker, “do you ever think of Ordener?”
The young girl started in confusion.
“Yes,” he continued, “of that Ordener who went--”
“Father,” interrupted Ethel, “why should we trouble ourselves about him?
I think as you do,--that he left us, never to return.”
“Never to return, my daughter! I cannot have said such a thing. On the
contrary, I have a strange presentiment that he will come back.”
“That was not your opinion, father, when you spoke so distrustingly of
the young man.”
“Did I speak distrustfully of him?”
“Yes, father, and I agree with you; I think that he deceived us.”
“That he deceived us, daughter! If I judged him thus, I acted like most
men who condemn without proof. I have received nothing but professions
of devotion from this Ordener.”
“And how do you know, father, that those cordial words did not hide
treacherous thoughts?”
“Usually men disregard misfortune and disgrace. If this Ordener were not
attached to me, he would not have visited my prison without a purpose.”
“Are you sure,” replied Ethel, feebly, “that he had no purpose in coming
here?”
“What could it be?” eagerly asked the old man.
Ethel was silent.
It was too great an effort for her to continue to accuse her beloved
Ordener, whom she had formerly defended against her father.
“I am no longer Count Griffenfeld,” he resumed. “I am no longer lord
chancellor of Denmark and Norway, the favored dispenser of royal bounty,
the all-powerful minister. I am a miserable prisoner of State, a
proscribed man, to be shunned like one stricken with the plague. It
shows courage even to mention my name without execration to the men
whom I overwhelmed with honors and wealth; it shows devotion for a man
to cross the threshold of this dungeon unless he be a jailer or an
executioner; it shows heroism, my girl, for a man to cross it and call
himself my friend. No; I will not be ungrateful, like the rest of
humanity. That young man merits my gratitude, were it only for letting
me see a kindly face and hear a consoling voice.”
Ethel listened in agony to these words, which would have charmed her a
few days earlier, when this Ordener was still cherished as her Ordener.
The old man, after a brief pause, resumed in a solemn tone: “Listen to
me, my daughter; for what I have to say to you is serious. I feel that I
am fading slowly; my life is ebbing. Yes, daughter, my end is at hand.”
Ethel interrupted him with a stifled groan.
“Oh God, father, say not so! For mercy’s sake, spare your poor daughter!
Alas! would you forsake me? What would become of me, alone in the world,
if I were deprived of your protection?”
“The protection of a proscribed man!” said her father, shaking his head.
“However, that is the very thing of which I have been thinking. Yes,
your future happiness occupies me even more than my past misfortunes;
hear me, therefore, and do not interrupt me again. This Ordener does not
deserve that you should judge him so severely, my daughter, and I had
not hitherto thought that you felt such dislike to him. His appearance
is frank and noble, which proves nothing, truly; but I must say that he
does not strike me as without merit, although it is enough that he has
a human soul, for it to contain the seeds of every vice and every crime.
There is no flame without smoke.”
The old man again paused, and fixing his eyes upon his daughter, added:
“Warned from within of approaching death, I have pondered much, Ethel;
and if he return, as I hope he may, I shall make him your protector and
husband.”
Ethel trembled and turned pale; at the very moment when her dream of
happiness had fled forever, her father strove to realize it. The bitter
reflection, “I might have been happy!” revived all the violence of her
despair. For some moments she was unable to speak, lest the burning
tears which filled her eyes should flow afresh.
Her father waited for her answer.
“What!” she said at last in a faint voice, “would you have chosen him
for my husband, father, without knowing his birth, his family, his
name?”
“I not only chose him, my daughter, I choose him still.”
The old man’s tone was almost imperious. Ethel sighed.
“I choose him for you, I say; and what is his birth to me? I do not care
to know his family, since I know him. Think of it; he is the only anchor
of salvation left to you. Fortunately, I believe that he does not feel
the same aversion for you which you show for him.”
The poor girl raised her eyes to heaven.
“You hear me, Ethel! I repeat, what is his birth to me? He is doubtless
of obscure rank, for those born in palaces are not taught to frequent
prisons. Do not show such proud regret, my daughter; do not forget that
Ethel Schumacker is no longer Princess of Wollin and Countess of
Tönsberg. You have fallen lower than the point from which your father
rose by his own efforts. Consider yourself happy if this man accept your
hand, be his family what it may. If he be of humble birth, so much the
better, my daughter; at least your days will be sheltered from the
storms which have tormented your father. Far from the envy and hatred of
men, under some unknown name, you will lead a modest existence, very
different from mine, for its end will be better than its beginning.”
Ethel fell on her knees.
“Oh, father, have mercy!”
He opened his arms to her in amazement.
“What do you mean, my daughter?”
“In Heaven’s name, do not describe a happiness which is not for me!”
“Ethel,” sternly answered the old man, “do not risk your whole life. I
refused the hand of a princess of the blood royal, a princess of
Holstein Augustenburg,--do you hear that?--and my pride was cruelly
punished. You despise an obscure but loyal man; tremble lest yours be as
sadly chastised.”
“Would to Heaven,” sighed Ethel, “that he were an obscure and loyal
man!”
The old man rose, and paced the room in agitation. “My daughter,” said
he, “your poor father implores and commands you. Do not let me die
uncertain as to your future; promise me that you will accept this
stranger as your husband.”
“I will obey you always, father; but do not hope that he will return.”
“I have weighed the probabilities, and I think from the tone in which
Ordener uttered your name--”
“That he loves me!” bitterly interrupted Ethel. “Oh, no; do not believe
it.”
The father answered coldly: “I do not know whether, to use your girlish
expression, he loves you; but I know that he will return.”
“Give up that idea, father; besides, you would not wish him for your
son-in-law if you knew who he is.”
“Ethel, he shall be my son-in-law, be his name and rank what they may.”
“Well!” she replied, “how if this young man, whom you regard as your
solace, whom you consider as your daughter’s support, be the son of one
of your mortal foes,--of the viceroy of Norway, Count Guldenlew?”
Schumacker started back.
“Heavens! what do you say? Ordener! that Ordener! It is impossible!”
The look of unutterable hatred which flashed from the old man’s faded
eyes froze Ethel’s trembling heart, and she vainly repented the rash
words which she had uttered.
The blow was struck. For a few moments Schumacker stood motionless, with
folded arms; his whole body quivered as if laid upon live coals; his
flaming eyes started from their sockets; and his gaze, riveted to the
pavement, seemed as if it would pierce the stones. At last these words
issued from his livid lips in a voice as faint as that of a man who
dreams. “Ordener! Yes, it must be so; Ordener Guldenlew! It is well.
Come, Schumacker, old fool, open your arms to him; the loyal youth has
come to stab you to the heart.”
Suddenly he stamped upon the ground, and went on in tones of thunder:
“So they send their whole infamous race to insult me in my disgrace and
captivity! I have already seen a d’Ahlefeld; I almost smiled upon a
Guldenlew! Monsters! Who would ever have thought that this Ordener
possessed such a soul and bore such a name? Wretched me! Wretched he!”
Then he fell exhausted into his chair, and while his breast heaved with
sighs, poor Ethel, trembling with fright, wept at his feet.
“Do not weep, my daughter,” said he, in gloomy tones “come, oh, come to
my heart!”
And he clasped her in his arms.
Ethel knew not how to explain this caress at a moment of rage, but he
resumed: “At least, girl, you were more clear-sighted than your old
father. You were not deceived by that serpent with gentle but venomous
eyes. Come! let me thank you for the hatred which you have shown me that
you feel for that contemptible Ordener.”
She shuddered at these praises, alas! so ill-deserved.
“Father,” said she, “be calm!”
“Promise me,” added Schumacker, “that you will always retain the same
feeling for the son of Guldenlew. Swear it!”
“God forbids us to swear, father.”
“Swear, swear, girl!” vehemently repeated Schumacker. “Will you always
retain the same feeling for Ordener Guldenlew?”
Ethel had scarcely strength to falter, “Always.”
The old man drew her to his heart.
“It is well, my daughter! Let me at least bequeath to you my hate, if I
cannot leave you the wealth and honors of which I was robbed. Listen!
they deprived your old father of rank and glory; they dragged him in
irons to the gallows, as if to stain him with every infamy and make him
endure every torment. Wretches! Oh, may heaven and hell hear me, and may
they be cursed in this life and cursed in their posterity!”
He was silent for a moment; then, embracing his poor daughter, terrified
by his curses: “But Ethel, my only glory and my only treasure, tell me,
how was your instinct so much more skilful than mine? How did you
discover that this traitor bears one of the abhorred names inscribed
upon my heart in gall? How did you penetrate his secret?”
She was summoning all her strength to answer, when the door opened.
A man dressed in black, carrying in his hand an ebony wand, and wearing
about his neck a chain of unpolished steel, appeared upon the threshold,
escorted by halberdiers also dressed in black.
“What do you want?” asked the captive, sharply, and in astonishment.
The man, without replying or looking at him, unrolled a long parchment,
to which was fastened by silken threads a seal of green wax, and read
aloud: “In the name of his Majesty, our most gracious sovereign and
lord, Christian the king. Schumacker, prisoner of State in the royal
fortress of Munkholm, and his daughter, are commanded to follow the
bearer of the said command.”
Schumacker repeated his question: “What do you want?”
The man in black, still immovable, prepared to re-read the document.
“That will do,” said the old man.
Then, rising, he signed to the surprised and startled Ethel to follow
with him this dismal escort.
[Illustration: _Schumacker and his Daughter made Prisoners._