CHAPTER I.

Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

http://www.archive.org/details/danessketchedbyt02bush

2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

THE DANES

Sketched by Themselves.

A SERIES OF POPULAR STORIES BY THE BEST

DANISH AUTHORS,

TRANSLATED BY MRS. BUSHBY.

_IN THREE VOLUMES.--VOL. II_.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1864.

* * * * *

[_The right of Translation is reserved_.]

LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,

AND CHARING CROSS.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

Too Old.--By Carit Etlar.

Aunt Francisca.--By Carl Bernhard.

The Shipwrecked Mariner's Treasure.--By Carit Etlar.

Damon and Pythias.--By Carl Bernhard.

The Fatal Chain.--From the Swedish of Uncle Adam.

THE DANES

Sketched by Themselves.

* * * * *

TOO OLD.[1]

FROM THE DANISH OF CARIT ETLAR.

CHAPTER I.

Between Fredericia and Snoghoei the sandy and stony shore forms a

tolerably broad tongue of land, which is called Lyngspoint. The coast

stretches out long and flat, without any defence against the sea except

a stone wall, and the fishermen who dwell here seem to have thought of

nothing but the safe little bays that, on either side of the

promontory, afford shelter to their small skiffs and protect them from

the wild waves, and the blocks of ice which during winter the

north-west winds drive in from the Kattegat.

Farther up on the land, the bare, desolate-looking plain of sand

disappears by degrees under high banks which are overgrown by a thick,

low copse of brushwood, with some stunted oak and beech-trees showing

themselves as sad mementoes of an extensive wood, that formerly joined

the forest of Erizoe, and in the midst of which the village of Hannerup

was situated. The village and the wood have both disappeared long

since.

Far in among the bushes people sometimes stumble upon pieces of broken

stones with their mouldering cement of lime, the last fragments of the

work and walls of ages gone by: in a few years the copse itself will

have vanished, and the blackbird and the thrush, whose blithe carols on

the summer evenings were heard even by those sailing near in the Belt,

will seek other leafy homes.

At a little distance from the sea-shore at Lyngspoint stand ten or

twelve small cottages, built in the irregular style which is always

observable in the houses of the peasantry of ancient days, and composed

of hard clay framework and thatched roofs. To each cottage there

belongs a small garden enclosed by a low earthen dyke, or a hedge of

elderberries and the blackthorn. Behind several of them are to be seen

boats turned upside down, lying in the sand with their keels exposed,

and each furnished with a little gate in the stern. These boats serve

as a shelter for sheep, or geese, after having become too frail any

longer to carry their owners out to sea. The inhabitants of Lyngspoint

are fishermen, a reserved and silent race, rough and stern like the

element on which they pass so much of their time. Among them the

struggles of life have no cessation--labour has no reward--time affords

no day of rest, except when storms forbid them to launch their boats,

or the sea is covered with ice; but such dreaded and unwelcome repose

is always associated with distress and want. The women employ

themselves in their household affairs, and not unfrequently share the

labour of the men, as they always share their privations. Even the

ocean's tempests are felt in common here, since every squall in which

the boats are exposed to danger on the water, causes gloom and anxiety

to those in the huts, who dread to lose their relatives and their means

of support.

In one of these fishermen's cottages one evening there were two

persons--an old man, tall and athletic, his grey hair thin and

sunburnt, his countenance decided and daring, and a woman, very

youthful-looking, pale, and apparently unhappy, but nevertheless of

rare beauty. He sat at a table, which was lighted by a lamp suspended

by a chain from a beam in the roof, and the glare from which fell upon

two long Spanish cavalry pistols which he was busy loading. She was

standing at the window gazing through the dark window-panes.

It was a gloomy November evening. The storm from the seaward swept

wildly along, howling dismally, while the rain beat heavily against the

windows, and the flame in the lamp fluttered and flickered in the gusts

of wind that rushed into the room through the open chimney. There had

been a long and unbroken silence between the two occupants of the

apartment; the man, while continuing his work, cast several glances

towards the young woman, but always looked quickly away when she turned

towards him.

At length he asked, 'At what are you looking?'

'At the weather,' she replied. 'It will be a bad night to go to sea

in.'

'The weather is good enough,' he muttered, gruffly. 'It is all the

better for being dark; the darkness will be of use to us.'

So saying, he started up, buckled on a cutlass, and stuck the pistols

in his belt.

'Give me something to eat.'

The woman spread the table for supper, and taking a pot off the fire,

poured its contents into a dish, which she placed before the man.

There was again complete silence; he ate his supper without saying a

word, while the young woman sat leaning back in her chair near the

table, and fixed her eye on him with a sad, yet scrutinizing look.

'I am done,' he exclaimed, after a little while, 'and now, good-by.'

'Are you going already?' she asked, sorrowfully.

'To be sure I am--it is the time agreed on, and they will be waiting

for me on the shore down yonder.'

He drew on a thick sailor's jacket over his other clothes, and went

towards the door.

'Farewell, Christine!' he said, without even turning to look at her.

Christine stretched both her hands towards him, and her trembling lips

moved, but the words she would have spoken died away in a deep sigh.

The man turned round and walked back a step or two. For a few moments

he stood in silent surprise, and then exclaimed, 'What are you weeping

for?'

'Oh, Jan Steffens!' she whispered, half aloud, as she again stretched

her hands towards him, 'I am so afraid lest any evil should happen to

you.'

The man did not take her proffered hand, and his thick eyebrows were

knitted together, as he said, 'How childish you are, Christine! What is

there for you to be afraid of? I am going on a lawful errand, and

things must take their course. Take care to put the fire out, and don't

forget to feed the watch-dog in the morning. I have locked him up in

the wash-house, that he might not make a noise to-night.'

So saying he turned to go, but when he had reached the door he came

back once again, and exclaimed, with solemnity, 'May the Lord's

protecting hand be over you, Christine!' In another moment he was gone.

The young woman laid her head on the table, covered her face with her

hands, and wept bitterly. She had sat there for some time absorbed in

grief, when suddenly she raised her head, for she had heard steps on

the outside of the cottage. She got up and went to the window.

Presently she saw a figure in the doorway. It was that of a young man

in a sailor's dress, and armed in the same manner as Jan was.

'Good evening, dear Christine!' he exclaimed. 'Has Jan gone?'

'Yes,' she answered; 'you will find him down yonder with the other

boatmen.'

The fisherman seemed to be reflecting on something, while he fixed his

eyes intently upon the young woman's face. He observed that there were

tears in her eyes, and approaching her, he seized her hand.

'Christine!' he exclaimed, in a soft and sympathizing voice, 'you have

been weeping? Has there been any quarrel between you and your husband?'

'No,' she replied, 'there never has been any.' And as she spoke she

tried to draw her hand away, but he grasped it more firmly.

'Would to Heaven you had never seen that old Jan Steffens,' he

whispered; 'you would have been much happier--oh, what misery we would

both have escaped!'

'Would to Heaven I had never seen you, Kjeld,' she answered; 'then,

perhaps, Jan and I might have been comfortable together.'

The young fisherman's eyes sparkled at this imprudent confession, which

admitted so much more than Christine had any intention of doing.

'But what harm have I done?' he asked, gently. 'We loved each other

from our childish days, when we used to go to school together. Ah!

_then_ we looked forward to living together, to working together,

to trying our luck together--and--being so happy! Then came Jan

Steffens--and now--'

'And now I am Jan Steffens's wife,' cried Christine, interrupting him

impetuously. 'Never speak to me more of the past, therefore, Kjeld--it

is gone! It is forgotten,' she added, in a lower and sadder tone.

At that moment the light from the lamp fell upon a face, which, on the

outside of the house, was intently looking in through the window. Those

in the room did not observe it, and had no suspicion that prying eyes

were upon them. Kjeld asked, with warmth, 'Why should we not speak of

the past? We have always been only like brother and sister to each

other.'

'Brother and sister!' said Christine, trying to smile, 'what else could

we have been? But I am a married woman, Kjeld, and you, like every one

else, are only a stranger to me. Therefore you must not come here so

often--people remark the frequency of your visits, and talk of them.'

'But Jan himself has allowed them,' said the fisherman. 'Only

yesterday, when we were coming from church, he asked me where I had

been all last week, and why I had never once entered his house. He said

that you had been speaking of me.' Christine raised her head, and cast

a surprised and inquiring look at Kjeld. He went on: 'Jan said that you

were longing to see me again.'

'I cannot understand his conduct,' murmured Christine, musingly.

'When your husband spoke thus,' said Kjeld, tenderly, 'why will you be

harsher than he? Answer me, Christine--why may I not come here as

hitherto? I ask for nothing more.'

The young woman's lips quivered, and her whole frame trembled with

emotion, which she seemed struggling to overcome, as she replied, in a

broken voice, 'Oh, Kjeld, leave off such questions. It is a sin on your

part to speak in this manner to me. Go--go, I beseech you. Jan will

expect to meet you down yonder with the other boatmen.'

Kjeld seemed lost in thought for a few moments; he then came close to

Christine, laid his hand on her head, and tried to speak--but words

failed him, and turning suddenly away, he rushed from the cottage. At

the same moment the face vanished, which, from the outside of the

window, had been watching the scene within.

The storm appeared to be increasing. The lamp swung, and its light

fluttered in the draughts of air from the ill-secured window-frames.

When Christine found that she was alone, she crouched down close to the

door, as if she wished to catch the last expiring echo of the footsteps

of him who had just gone. She listened, but nothing was to be heard

save the roaring of the tempest, and the sound of the rain pattering

against the windows.

This is a tale of the year 1808, at the commencement of that

unfortunate period when Denmark, without a fleet, without an army, and

almost without finances, entered into war both with Sweden and England.

Down at the shore, in one of the little bays before mentioned, the

water from which was conveyed a good way inland by a broad channel that

had been dug for the purpose, there lay that evening two gunboats,

which a number of men were getting out into the open sea. They worked

hurriedly and silently, and the little noise that they unavoidably made

was drowned in the roaring of the waves, which were dashing furiously

on the beach of the narrow tongue of land. The men were all armed in

the same way as Jan Steffens, and seemed to obey his orders.

Jan was the principal pilot of the place, and well known as an

excellent seaman. The two gunboats had been built and rigged at

Fredericia, and afterwards placed under his command. They were the

masters of the whole Belt, so to speak, and the previous summer they

had taken several valuable prizes from the English.

At the moment in question the pilot was standing on a rock on the

beach, and dividing his attention between the men's work and the black

clouds above, from which the rain was pouring down in torrents. All the

preparations, so energetically carried on that evening, were made for

the purpose of taking by surprise an English corvette, which, for want

of a pilot, had anchored in a bay near Fyen shortly before the darkness

and the storm had commenced.

Just about the time that the gunboats had been hauled out to the

extremity of the point, two persons approached the shore, both coming

from the direction of the cottages. One was a half-grown lad, the other

was Kjeld. The boy looked about for the pilot, and when he perceived

him standing on the rock he hastened towards him.

Jan stooped and whispered in the boy's ear,

'Was he in yonder?'

'Yes.'

'You are sure you saw him--you have not made any mistake?'

'I saw him as plainly as I now see you, Jan Steffens.'

'Very well, Jens; you can go home. Let the sails alone!' he cried,

shortly after, turning towards the group of men near; 'the storm is

increasing, the wind is right against us, and we must row the boats

out. How late may it be, I wonder?'

'It is not yet midnight,' replied Kjeld, who had just approached the

pilot. 'As I was coming along I heard the clock at Erizoe church strike

eleven.'

'Mongens Dal, at Fyensland, promised to place a light in his window at

twelve o'clock,' observed another. 'His farm lies close by the bay

where the English ship has anchored; we have only, then, to look out

for that light, and there will be no mistake.'

'Ay, ay--all right,' replied Jan, gruffly. 'Mind your own business,

Vextel, and leave me to determine how we shall steer.'

A few minutes afterwards he announced that it was time for them to put

to sea.

'Take your places,' cried Jan, 'and see that you make as little noise

with the oars as possible. Ebbe, take the helm of the other boat, and

follow close to the one I steer. We shall be a tolerable number this

time, I think.'

'You promised to take the porpoise-hunters from Middlefart with us.'

'To be sure I did, and we shall find room for them; they are fine brave

fellows, these porpoise-hunters. Has Kjeld come on board?'

'Yes, pilot,' answered the young man from the first gunboat.

'A word with you, Kjeld. Come a little way on shore.'

Kjeld sprang out of the boat, the pilot went up to him, and they walked

together from the beach towards the sandhills.

'You will see that Kjeld will be half-mad this evening,' said one of

the seamen in the first boat. 'Jan Steffens looks as sulky and savage

as can be; very likely he has found out the love affair at home in his

house up yonder.'

'Poor man!' said another, 'why did he take so young a wife. He is much

too old for her.'

In the meantime, after Jan and Kjeld had walked to some distance in

silence side by side, Jan asked suddenly,--

'Where were you this evening, Kjeld? It was very late before you joined

us.'

Kjeld stammered some almost unintelligible words, while he seemed to be

framing an answer.

'You are thinking what you can say,' exclaimed the old pilot, in a

voice unsteady with suppressed anger, 'for you dare not speak it out.

You were with Christine. You ought not to conceal this from me. You

were there also yesterday, and on Sunday, and last Friday; and, in

short, whenever I am absent, at sea in my boat, or elsewhere, you find

some pretext to visit her.'

'I admit it is true,' replied Kjeld, who was startled by the stern

coldness of Jan's looks and words.

'But did it never occur to you that you were wrong in visiting her so

often? Christine is a married woman, and you will bring discredit upon

her with your frequent visits.'

'I am a man of honour, Jan Steffens,' replied Kjeld, in a voice that

trembled somewhat with anxiety at what might be the result of this

conversation, 'and I have never behaved in your house in any way that

you or the whole world might not have witnessed.'

'That is, perhaps, a misfortune, sir.'

'A misfortune!' exclaimed Kjeld, in amazement; 'what can you mean?'

'If it had been otherwise,' replied Jan, quietly, 'I should have put a

pistol to your head, and shot you--that's all. It would have been

better both for you and her, maybe.'

'But you yourself gave me permission to visit at your house; you said

that Christine longed to have some news of me.'

'Well, if I said that, of course you knew on whose account I asked you

to come. You need not take the matter so much to heart, my lad; let us

speak reasonably now. I know that you are a well-principled young man,

Kjeld; I have watched you narrowly ever since Christine and I were

married. I am aware how things stand between you two; I know all,

Kjeld!'

'You?'

'Ah, yes! I know that she loves you, and that she has never in her life

cared for anyone else.'

'Then you know, also, that I am the most unfortunate man on earth,'

replied Kjeld.

'You!' exclaimed Jan, shrugging up his shoulders mockingly--'you! No,

my lad, there is one who beats you in misfortune.'

'Who?'

'_I_. If you had acted towards me as you ought to have done, you would

have come to me when I was courting Christine, and have told me how

things were between you and her.'

'We thought of doing that, Jan Steffens, but we did not dare to risk

it.'

'Nonsense--nonsense! one should dare everything to fulfil one's duty.

But you kept silence at that time, so did she, and matters were allowed

to take their course.'

'Oh, Jan Steffens!' replied the young fisherman, in a voice trembling

with emotion, 'what could I have said to you? I was a poor fellow,

working hard to obtain food enough for my own support. You were well

off, and had been kind to Christine's father, therefore they were glad

to let you have the girl.'

'A very good reason, truly. What! because I had been kind to the old

people, had I a claim to make their daughter unhappy? No; the blame was

your own. You both kept silence, and yourselves are answerable for the

evil that followed. Hearken, Kjeld! from this evening forward we must

understand each other. I loved Christine from the first moment I beheld

her; she was so amiable, so dutiful, and so full of affectionate

feeling for the old people, her parents, and so attentive to them, that

I thought she would make an excellent wife. I knew that she would have

many more comforts in my house than she had at home. I reflected on

everything, except upon the difference between our ages. She was

silent--she wept; but she married me. Since that time, Kjeld, I have

done all that a man could do to make myself liked. I was kind and

indulgent to her. I allowed her to rule in all things, and to do

whatever she pleased. I brought her home the most beautiful dresses and

presents when I went on voyages. But all was of no avail. I was _too

old_.

'I bought a new boat for her father, I took her mother into our house,

I clothed her little sisters and sent them to school, I prayed to the

Lord every morning and evening of my life in mercy to inspire her with

kindly feelings towards me--but in vain, in vain! She went through her

duties, and was civil and good-tempered; but love me she never could.

When I was young, like you, Kjeld, I dared not attach myself to any

woman, because I was _too poor_; now that I have become rich, none will

attach herself to me, because I am _too old_. You look sad. Ah, so goes

the world, my boy! It was not long before I found out that you loved

Christine; and, alas! still worse--I too soon perceived how much she

cared for you. While you both thought the secret was buried in your own

hearts, I read it as if in an open book. Then I was seized with the

most furious jealousy. I resolved to murder you, and more than once, at

that period, there was but a hair-breadth between you and death. I

watched you closely--my eyes were often on you, and never were you out

of my thoughts.'

Jan stopped; he seemed to be nerving himself to go on with his

narration. Kjeld observed that he was shaking, as if in an ague fit.

'You were an honourable man, Kjeld, as you declared a little while

ago,' continued Jan, 'yet that which ought to have made my unhappiness

less, absolutely added to it. I have nothing to complain of--nothing to

reproach you with--all falls back upon myself--upon that disastrous,

that wretched union of hands, in which the soul took no part; and when

one has come to the full knowledge that such was the case, the painful

truth fastens itself upon the mind, and impels one to seek some remedy

to the misfortune.'

'You are right, Jan Steffens,' replied Kjeld, earnestly. 'I, too, have

been reflecting upon a remedy since I left Christine a little while

ago, when she wished to Heaven she had never known me--never even

beheld me.'

'Did Christine really say that?' exclaimed the pilot with surprise,

but, it must be owned, not without feeling somewhat pleased and

flattered. 'Well, that was rather a cruel wish to bestow on you this

evening, when she thought that you were going on an expedition from

whence many of us will, perhaps, never return.'

'Christine is a better wife than you fancy; she discards every thought

that is not in accordance with her duty; I shall not be wanting in mine

either, and I have hit upon a plan to set all to rights.'

'So have I,' said the pilot.

'I shall go away and engage myself on board some ship trading with a

foreign country, and neither she nor you shall see me often again, if

it shall please God to spare my life in our enterprise to-night.'

'That he certainly will do, my lad, for a good reason--that you shall

not go with us.'

'Not go with you! What do you mean by that?' asked Kjeld, in the utmost

amazement.

'Listen!' replied Jan, with cold, quiet decision of manner. 'I have not

much time to spare, and my resolution is taken. Because you have

behaved honourably, and because you have both felt so kindly disposed

towards an old man who, without knowing or intending it, brought upon

you the greatest disappointment that can befall anyone, I will ensure

you both a reward. Go back to Christine, and tell her, that from this

evening henceforth I will bestow on her all the liberty she can desire;

she shall no longer have cause to grieve and to weep, as she has so

often done when she supposed no one saw her, or at night, when she

thought I was asleep: you can say that since it was impossible for me

to win her affection, and be happy myself, I will not hinder her from

being so. On this account, it is not _you_, young man, but _I_, who

must go away to a distant land, never more to return.'

It would be difficult to describe the young seaman's amazement as he

listened to these words.

'I do not at all understand you, Jan Steffens,' he said. 'What do you

mean by speaking in this manner?'

'They are calling to me from the boats!' cried Jan. 'Do you not hear

their shouts? I must away. What do I mean?' he added, in a lower tone.

'It is easily understood; if I die to-night, I cannot stand in your way

to-morrow.'

'Die!' cried Kjeld. 'Are you going to kill yourself?'

'No,' replied the pilot, calmly. 'But I feel pretty sure that the

Englishmen will take the trouble of despatching me upon themselves.'

'No, no! that shall not be! You must let me go with you, Jan Steffens,

and share your danger; you promised that you would. Besides, according

to the lots that we drew in the dark, I have a right to accompany you.

And if you were to die--if you were to put yourself forward to be

killed--I should be still more miserable than I am now. Christine

would never be mine, if that happiness were purchased by your death

to-night.'

'Oh, as to that, you will change your tune when the time comes,'

replied the pilot, turning to go; but Kjeld stopped him, and placing

himself before him, while he seized his arms, exclaimed,

'Oh, Jan Steffens! take me with you; I entreat you, as the greatest

favour, to do so. You shall not forsake Christine; you are a far better

husband to her than I should be. Let me go with the boats!'

Jan shook himself free from the young man's grasp, and in answer to his

earnest appeal, he said,

'It shall be as I have determined, Kjeld, so there is no use for

another word on the subject. But you must not go to Christine till

to-morrow, for you may well believe that I must have ceased to live

before I cease to love her. Farewell, Kjeld--be kind to her, and make

her as happy as you can. She is very mild, and is easily intimidated.

When she is yours, and you speak of me in future years, remember that I

wished to do good to you both--that I atoned for my fault as well as I

could--and that my greatest misfortune was--that she was so young, or

rather, that I was _too old_.'

The pilot wrung Kjeld's hand as he said these words, and before the

young fisherman had time to conquer his emotion so as to be able to

make any reply, the old man had left him, and was crossing the sand

with rapid strides towards the shore where the boats' crews were

assembled. Kjeld followed him, crying, 'Jan Steffens, let me go with

you only this once; do not thus turn a deaf ear to me. You will rob me

of my honour, my share in your glory, if I alone am to be left behind.'

'Push off!' shouted the pilot, as he jumped into the leading gunboat,

and took his place at the helm.

The oars sank, and both the boats began to move towards the sea. Kjeld

uttered a despairing cry, and sprang after them, but he could not reach

them, and the waves cast him back on the shore.

'Things shall be as I have said,' he heard in the pilot's deep voice

from the foremost boat. 'But do not go up yonder before to-morrow, and

may the Lord be with you both!'

The men in the boats had been astonished witnesses of this scene. Those

who sat nearest to him cast looks of inquiry towards the pilot; but his

eye gave no responsive glance, his sunburnt face only expressed

inflexible resolution, and his countenance was, perhaps, a little

sterner even than usual.

From the beach Kjeld saw the boats rising and sinking amidst the

foaming waves, while his passionate entreaties and his wild shouts were

lost in the roaring of the wind and the thunder of the sea. The rain

was pouring in torrents, and the skies were obscured by heavy black

clouds. Soon after the two boats appeared only as dark specks upon the

water, and presently even these vanished amidst the thick fog which

rested over the sea at a little distance.

Fortunately the current was running northwards that night--that is to

say, in a direction which favoured the progress of the gunboats, so

that their crews were not obliged to fatigue themselves with rowing

hard. The raging sea broke repeatedly over the boats, but no one seemed

to mind this; they placed complete confidence in the pilot, whose tall

figure, apparently immovable, stood upright at the helm: and perhaps

the thoughts of all were directed to the object of their expedition,

which they were rapidly approaching. The rain had somewhat abated in

that particular place, and when a gust of wind partially dispelled the

fog for a moment, they saw on the opposite high coast of Fyen the

signal-light, which, though it was but faint and flickering, pointed

out to them where they should seek the enemy. Amidst the profound

silence that reigned in the boats, the pilot addressed the men in low

but distinct tones.

'Row more quietly still, Gutter! Make no noise with your oars; you may

be certain that they have their eyes and ears open yonder. They know

right well where they are. Have the guns clear in front there, Nikolai;

you must show us to-night that you understand your work like an old

artilleryman. The wind will fall off the nearer we come under the

shelter of the hilly land. If I see aright, we have our man there in

the lee of the boats.'

All eyes were instantly turned in the direction he had named; a dark

object became soon after perceptible amidst the thick gloom around, it

gradually grew in size and developed its outline, until the hull of a

ship was to be discerned, sharp and black, reposing on the waters like

a swan.

CHAPTER II.

In pursuance of the plan which Jan Steffens had arranged, the boats

shaped their course so as to come between the land and the corvette.

They could hear the wind whistling amidst the cordage, could see the

light in the captain's cabin, and the heads of the officers of the

watch as they paced up and down the quarter-deck. The silence which had

reigned on board was broken the moment the pilot's boat was perceived

from the ship. Immediately afterwards Jan's sonorous voice was heard

commanding his men to fire. Both the gunboats fired at the same moment,

and with terrible effect.

It would be in vain to try to describe the commotion which now took

place on board the enemy's ship. The attack had been made as suddenly

as it had been planned; it was also favoured in the highest degree by

the darkness and the tempest, which embarrassed many of the movements

of the ship at anchor, whilst the gunboats, on the contrary, were able

to move easily towards the places where their fire would operate most

effectively, and be most destructive. Under these fortunate

circumstances the fishermen continued to load and to discharge their

guns. Splinters and pieces of broken planks evinced the accuracy of

their gunners. On board the corvette they were not able to point their

cannon so low that they could sweep the boats, whose flat hulls,

besides, were only visible during the flashes of fire from the guns,

and in an instant after seemed to have been swallowed up by the lofty

billows.

Meanwhile the drums beat on board the ship; the boatswain's whistle

mingled with the officer's words of command--disorder was at an end.

Everything was done that circumstances permitted to oppose the enemy,

and their fire was returned whenever their position could be

ascertained. Soon after the rain ceased, and faint rays of pale

moonlight struggled through the dark masses of clouds that were driving

across the skies. The gunboats came close under the man-of-war, and

after another discharge of their guns, the crews boarded the ship,

climbing in by every possible opening, amidst cries of joyous triumph;

and then commenced a scene in which were mingled the sounds of oaths,

shouts, and pistol-shots, while everything was shrouded in the thick

veil of mist and dark clouds of smoke.

At Lyngspoint every shot was heard, and caused the deepest anxiety for

the absent. As usual upon similar occasions, lights appeared in all the

fishermen's huts. None of the females thought of sleep while their

husbands and their brothers were fighting upon the stormy sea. The

tempest roared around the cottages, the watch-dogs howled as if

lamenting their masters' danger, and the crowing of the cocks announced

the approach of morning. Pale countenances, expressive of fear and

anxiety, appeared one after the other at the half-open doors; presently

the women began to go over to each other's houses to communicate their

forebodings, or to seek for the comfort so much needed. In the little

porch of one of the houses nearest to the shore stood a group of three

females muffled up in woollen shawls and gazing upon the sea. Every

shot was noticed by them with a sigh or a speaking glance.

'There is warm work going on over yonder,' groaned one woman.

'Ah, yes!' replied another; 'I was just thinking that every one of

these shots may cost a man's life--the lives of _our_ men, perhaps.'

'Nonsense! there is nothing to make such a fuss about,' exclaimed a

rough voice. 'Our people's lives are in God's hands, even though they

may stand before the barrel of a gun, or ride on a plank over the

ocean. I have put up a prayer to the Lord for my boy. "Do your duty," I

said to him when he went away, "and our Almighty Father will order the

rest as seems good to Him!"'

She who spoke thus was an extraordinary-looking woman. Her face was

entirely covered with wrinkles and marks of the small-pox, which made

her harsh features look still coarser than they really were. Some years

before the date of the night in question, her husband had been lost at

sea, and she and her little son had been left in the utmost poverty.

From that time Ellen went out with the men to fish: she worked as hard

as the best of them, managed her boat like an experienced seaman, and

never seemed to feel fatigue. Equipped in a short dress, a pair of

large fisherman's boots, and a dark, low hat, which in nautical

language is called 'a sou'-wester,' she was to be seen in the worst

weather carrying her fish about to the neighbouring farms for sale; in

the autumn months she hired the old right of ferryman at Snoghoei, and

carried fruit over from AEro to Zealand--she took travellers across to

Strib--mended her own boat when it needed repairs; in short, she worked

hard, for she worked to maintain her son.

Doubtless some local readers of this slight sketch will recognize in

Ellen an old acquaintance, who was always welcome wherever she showed

herself; an honest, upright, self-sacrificing character, whose whole

life was one scene of unflinching devotion to her duties, until she

suddenly disappeared from her home, and was never seen again.

Ellen was standing with a short clay-pipe in her mouth, her rough grey

locks confined by a handkerchief tied under her chin.

'I'll tell you what, Ellen,' said one of the other women, 'let us run

over to Stine Steffens, as none of us have any mind to go to sleep

to-night. She has a warm, comfortable room, and can give us a good cup

of coffee.'

Her proposition was readily agreed to by the group of women who had now

assembled, and, tying handkerchiefs over their heads like hoods, they

all repaired to Jan Steffens's house, with the exception of 'Skipper

Ellen,' as she was generally called, who remained behind.

Christine was still sitting in the same corner of the room where she

had placed herself after Kjeld had left her. Her beautiful, expressive

eyes were swimming in tears.

'Good evening, little Stine!' cried one of the fisherwomen. 'How goes

it with you?'

'Oh, as with the rest of you,' she replied. 'I am full of anxiety and

terror. It was kind of you to come here. Pray sit down.'

'You had better come to one of our houses, and we shall make some good

strong coffee; that will help to kill the time.'

'We can make the coffee as well here,' said Christine.

'Oh, certainly,' said the other, joyfully, 'and I will help to blow up

the fire.'

The fire was rekindled, the coffee made, and the conversation was then

resumed.

'Would to Heaven our people were safe at home again!' exclaimed

Christine. 'I am so terrified at the risk they are running to-night.'

'And with good reason too,' said one of the women. 'There is sure to be

sorrow among some of us to-morrow, for the firing has been going on at

least half-an-hour. But we must comfort ourselves by remembering that

storm and sunshine come from the same hand; and if some are sufferers

others will be gainers, for no doubt there will be a good deal of

prize-money from so large a ship. You, at any rate, can take things

easily, my good Stine, for if anything should happen to your old man,

your fate won't be very hard--you will soon have another and a younger

husband. Besides, Jan Steffens always gets a double portion of any

prize-money, or any treasure that is found, though all the other men

risk their lives as much as he does his.'

'Oh, come now,' cried another, 'Christine has twice as much cause of

anxiety as we have. We have only _one_ to think of--she has _two_.'

'Two!' exclaimed Christine. 'What do you mean?'

'Why, have you not first your old husband, and then a young sweetheart

in the background? I mean Kjeld Olsen.'

While Christine was reflecting what answer to make to this sudden

attack, another woman said,

'There is no fear of anything happening to Kjeld Olsen to-night; he was

wiser than to put himself into jeopardy, so he remained at home, and

let them go without him. Of course he had good reasons for determining

to spare his own life--old Jan Steffens may lose his.'

Up to this moment Christine had not made any reply to their rude jests,

hut her patience was now exhausted, her pale cheeks turned crimson, and

rising up she said firmly,

'You have not been speaking the truth. Kjeld is to-night where he

always delights to be, in the midst of danger, the boldest among the

bold.'

'Who is speaking of Kjeld?' asked Skipper Ellen, who had entered the

room at that moment. 'He is standing down yonder on the shore, and

trying hard to persuade Poul Mikkelsen, at any price, to take him over

in his boat to the English ship.'

'There now, you hear he is at home,' cried the woman, who had first

mentioned the fact. 'It is well you came, Ellen, for Christine would

not believe our word.'

'Will you come down to the shore?' asked Ellen; 'the rain is over, the

wind has lulled, and the moon is shining clearly.'

'Yes, let us go,' said Christine, laying aside the empty coffee-cups.

'Ah! now we shall see what is the matter with poor Kjeld.'

'Of course old Jan Steffens did not care to have his company,' said the

most ill-natured woman. 'No doubt he knew pretty well where Kjeld's

thoughts would be wandering to.'

'And _I_ say you are quite mistaken,' replied Ellen, casting a look of

angry scorn on the woman. 'It would be a happy thing for you, Birthe,

if you had a son, or anyone belonging to you, that resembled Kjeld.'

So saying, she took Christine by the arm and went towards the shore,

followed by the rest of the women. It had ceased raining, and the wind

had abated, but the sea was still much agitated, and the noise of

firing was yet to be heard. Kjeld was standing in earnest conversation

with an old man, who was leaning on a staff, and who shook his head

occasionally as if refusing something.

'What is the matter, Kjeld?' asked Skipper Ellen. 'And why have you not

gone with the rest of them?'

'Jan Steffens said there were too many in the boats,' he answered

evasively.

'Ay--and now he insists upon following them,' said the old man, 'and

offers me everything he has to help him to row over yonder. But the

weather is too bad. I won't trust my boat out in such a wild sea.'

'What nonsense!' cried Ellen, jeeringly. 'Are you afraid of risking

your life, Poul?'

'You know better, Ellen,' replied the old man. 'I have no fear for my

life, but if I lose my boat my children will starve.'

'That is a serious consideration, to be sure,' said Ellen, 'but the

young man shall go, notwithstanding, and if you won't accompany him,

_I_ will. Come here, Kjeld--when you and I put our strength together I

think we shall manage to reach the other side.'

Kjeld uttered a cry of joy, shook Ellen's hand warmly, and exclaimed,

'May God bless and reward you, dear good Ellen; I shall never forget

your kindness.'

'As to your boat, Poul, you must not be alarmed if we borrow it,' said

Ellen. 'If we are unlucky, and the sea takes us, my boat lies drawn up

on the land, newly painted and just put to rights; and in the village

yonder I have a small house--you can take both as payment if your boat

be lost. But Kjeld _shall_ go as he wishes.'

'Don't attempt to go, Ellen,' cried one of the women, 'you will only

get into trouble.'

'With God's help I have no fear of that. The lad shall go, if we should

cross in one of my fishing-boats.'

She forced herself through the circle of women who had gathered around

her, and hastened to the shore, where Kjeld had already placed himself

in the frail boat. Ellen got into it, and, standing up, seized an oar.

Soon after the boat glided out to sea, and the somewhat hazardous

voyage was begun.

'She is a wonderful woman, that Ellen!' exclaimed one of those who were

looking on. 'A lucky fellow he was who got her for a wife; there's

nothing she can't turn her hand to; and she can work as well as the

best man among them.'

As long as it was possible to perceive the boat, it was observed to be

making straight for its destination; rowed by vigorous arms, and

managed by experienced persons, it seemed sometimes to be swallowed up

by the waves, and then it would be seen as if riding over them, and

defying them, while it never swerved from its appointed course.

'Come now, Kjeld,' cried Ellen, after they had got some distance from

the land, 'let us two have a little rational conversation. It was

partly to find an opportunity for this that I was so willing to go to

sea with you to-night. What really is the matter with you, my lad? Why

have you been going about latterly with your head drooping in such a

melancholy way, and loitering about in idleness, instead of following

your occupations cheerfully and diligently?'

'The matter with me!' exclaimed Kjeld, in well-feigned astonishment;

'why, nothing, Ellen--you are quite mistaken in supposing that anything

is the matter with me.'

'Oh, there is no use in your denying that something ails you; I am too

old to be easily humbugged. You must speak the honest truth to me,

Kjeld; you must be as frank with me as I am with you. You need not

fear to speak freely, for no one can overhear you out thus far on the

sea--no one, my boy--except myself and He who rules the ocean. You are

still silent, Kjeld--then _I_ will speak out. You are sighing and

grieving because you love Christine Steffens, and because you think

that she loves you; that's the short and the long of the matter. But

have you forgotten that Christine is a married woman? and are you aware

that your conduct is bringing her name into people's mouths--that every

creature in the village is talking of you and her, and that the walls

of her own house cannot protect her against jeering and insult? I have

myself been a witness of this to-night.'

'What was said to her, Ellen?' asked Kjeld, in consternation. 'Who

could speak a syllable in disparagement of Christine?'

'Say, rather, who can prevent it, Kjeld, since you yourself afford such

ample room for tittle-tattle.'

'Ah, Ellen! if you only knew how much I love Christine! She has been my

thought by day, and my dream by night; and when I have been away on

long voyages, I denied myself everything to save all I got for her. I

always expected that she would certainly one day be mine--but when I

came home this autumn, she was married!'

'It was a pity. There is nothing left for you, therefore, now, but to

forget her.'

'Forget her! I shall never, never forget her.'

'Oh, I have heard such vows before; young folks have always these

ideas, but they smile at them when they become older. An honourable man

loves a girl when he marries her, or when he intends to marry her.'

'And when he cannot marry her?'

'Then he lets her alone, my good lad, and turns his attention to some

one else.'

'More easily said than done, Ellen.'

'You think I do not know what I am speaking about because I am old, and

grey, and wrinkled. Is it not so, Kjeld? But remember that old people

have been young themselves once, and let me tell you that the misery

which you find it so impossible to bear, I have borne, though I am only

a woman. Long ago, when I was a little better-looking than I am now,

there was one who was always uppermost in my thoughts--one whom I

cherished in my secret soul; in short, to whom I was as much attached

as you are to Christine. He wooed me, too; he begged me to be his wife,

and swore by Him who made yon heavens above that he loved only me.'

'And what answer did you give him?'

'I told him that we could not be so imprudent as to marry, for he had

little, and I had still less; that I would marry the man who was the

landlord of the house in which we resided, to provide a comfortable

home for my mother as long as she lived. And I did marry that man. He

whom I had refused never knew how much I cared for him; he did not

think that I had been really attached to him. But I grieved when he

went away. There never was a squall at sea that I did not think with

anxiety about him; and many a night have I soaked my pillow with my

tears, when I could not go to sleep because the tempest raged so

without.'

'Do I know the person of whom you are speaking, Ellen?'

'Yes, you do, Kjeld: he is your own father.'

'My father!'

'Can you now comprehend why I have always taken such an interest in

you, and why I have some right to advise you to let Christine alone? I

do not say that you must forget her.'

'No, because you are convinced it is impossible for me to do so.'

'Not at all--because I know forgetfulness will come of itself. I only

desire to impress on you the necessity of leaving this place, and no

longer loitering about the sea-shore here. To-morrow I am going to sail

to AEro, or AEbler, and if you will come with me, Kjeld, we will go on to

Copenhagen. You had better engage yourself on board some ship going to

the south, and stay away a few years. When you come back again, if our

Lord has spared my life till then, you will thank me for the advice I

have given you this night. But see! here are our boats. For God's sake,

Kjeld, do your duty! I will fasten our little skiff to one of the

gunboats.'

Christine in the meantime remained standing on the beach at a little

distance from the other women. She had been a silent but much

interested spectator of all that had occurred previous to Kjeld's and

Ellen's departure, and she stood watching the frail little boat as long

as it was visible. At length the fisherwomen rejoined her, and were

loud in the expression of their fears and forebodings. Christine said

scarcely anything.

'Of course you have no reason to be afraid, Christine,' said the same

woman who had before commenced jeering at her in Jan Steffens's house.

'Kjeld cannot arrive yonder until all the dangerous work is over, but

he can always boast of being one of the party, and perhaps he may get a

share of the prize-money. And if any accident should happen to old Jan

Steffens, you will have a new protector ready at hand.'

'What do you mean by all the insinuations you have been throwing out

to-night?' asked Christine.

'Well, this is too good!' cried the woman, laughing, and turning

towards the other females. 'She pretends to be so ignorant, the little

lamb!'

'But speak out--explain yourself! I do not understand a word you have

been saying, and cannot imagine what you have been all driving at

to-night.'

'I mean that you and Kjeld will marry as soon as Jan's eyes are closed

for ever, and that it is no fault of yours or Kjeld's that this has

been so long of taking place.'

'And will you listen to my answer?' said Christine, in a peremptory

tone, and speaking with such pointed distinctness that her words were

perfectly heard by every one near. 'If such a misfortune should befall

me that any accident shall occur to Jan Steffens to-night, I swear that

I will never marry either Kjeld Olsen, or any other man upon this

earth.'

'Oh, you would think better of it--you would change your mind,' cried

the other, laughing scornfully.

'No!' said Christine. 'By my hopes of salvation and eternal happiness

in the world to come, I speak the truth. And I beseech you to believe

me, and leave me in peace.'

Shortly after the firing ceased, and many eyes were turned anxiously

towards the place where it was known the ship lay.

'It is over now,' said a solemn voice. 'They will be coming back

presently. God have mercy on us all, but especially on those who have

lost any near and dear to them!'

There was a deep and unbroken silence among the crowd. Terror and

anxiety had closed all their lips, and every eye was strained looking

out for the boats. Old Poul Mikkelsen, who had clambered up to the top

of a pile of rocks, was sitting without his hat, and singing the first

verses of a psalm in a weak and tremulous voice. Suddenly there burst

forth a bright light in the direction of the ship; it increased in

width until by degrees it became a broad sheet of dark flame, the

glowing reflection of which streamed over the waves and tinged the

hills that skirted the adjacent coast. Such was the glare of light that

the shore at Fyensland could be seen crowded with people, and several

boats were discerned apparently rowing in great haste to and from the

corvette.

'The ship is on fire!' cried Poul. 'Our people have been victorious.'

The fire seemed to increase until at length it appeared to become

concentrated, when it shot up in one high pillar of flame, from which

jets of sparks were thrown up into the air around. While the group

on the shore at Lyngspoint were standing in breathless silence, the

church clock at Erizoe was heard to strike three, and the grey dawn of

morning began to give place to the clear light of day. In the glare

from the fire the corvette--with its slender masts, its yards, and

cordage--became distinctly and fearfully visible, and people could be

perceived hurrying up and down the deck. Shortly after, the guns went

off, the fire having then reached them, and one cannon-ball struck the

bank at no great distance from where the wives and families of the

fishermen were assembled. No one seemed to notice it, for the thoughts

of all were earnestly bent upon the terrible drama which was being

enacted out upon the sea; each person present had a deep interest in

it, and not one of them but waited for its _denoument_ with dread and

apprehension.

'Here come our boats!' cried Poul, pointing with his staff towards two

dark specks which were to be seen tossing on the waves at a little

distance from the corvette. Soon after a third boat was observed, towed

by one of the gun-boats. Christine had been the first to perceive it;

she folded her hands, and cast a grateful look of thanksgiving up

towards heaven.

At length the gunboats reached the shore. In the deeply-affecting

scene that followed were mingled joyous exclamations and groans of

despair--smiles and tears--as those so dear and so anxiously looked for

were found to be safe, or, alas! to be among the wounded and the dead.

Christine's eyes sought Jan everywhere--but in vain--she did not see

him. She covered her face, and burst into tears.

In a few minutes Kjeld approached her, and laid his hand gently on her

arm.

'Where is my husband?' she asked, impatiently.

'He is dead,' replied Kjeld.

'Dead! dead!' exclaimed Christine, in a voice faint and trembling from

agitation.

'Yes! He fell at the very moment that he ordered us to return to our

boats, when the Englishmen had set fire to the corvette. I did all I

could to save him, dear Christine; I posted myself at his side, and

defended him to the last. But it was all in vain; it was impossible to

rescue him from death.'

'Why did you not go with him at first?' asked Christine abruptly.

'Because he insisted that I should not. He knew all that we, too, have

felt and thought; he desired me to remain behind, and carry a message

to you, but I was not to deliver it until to-morrow.'

'It will be needless,' said Christine. 'To-morrow I shall be gone to my

aunt at Kjaerup.'

She stretched out both her hands to him, and struggling with her tears,

she added, in a tone of deep emotion.

'God be with you, Kjeld! my dear, my only friend!'

'You are not going away, Christine?' exclaimed Kjeld.

'Yes,' she replied. 'I made a vow to the Almighty that I would do so

when I offered up my prayers to Him to bring you back unhurt.'

'But still why must you go away?' he asked, in a voice of alarm and

anxiety.

'Because we two must forget our hopes and our dreams; because we must

separate from each other, never more to meet again!'

AUNT FRANCISCA.

FROM THE DANISH OF CARL BERNHARD.

CHAPTER I.

On a lovely summer evening, in the month of July, an old lady was to be

seen walking alone by the row of small houses which forms one side of

St. Anne's Place, and stretches down towards the harbour. This part of

Copenhagen contains the domiciles of the fashionable world; it is what

the Faubourg Saint-Germain used to be to the Parisians; palace succeeds

to palace, the Court is situated in this neighbourhood, and the foreign

diplomatists--a class more important in Copenhagen than perhaps in any

other place on earth--honour this portion of the city by making it

their abode. But, as it were, to remind the world that great people

cannot do without the poorer sort, certain small houses have here and

there thrust themselves into good society, and the many signboards

hanging out plainly evince that their inhabitants do not wear laurels

so easily won, or enjoy such luxurious repose as their neighbours do.

At any rate, such certainly is the case with the dwellers in the row of

houses above mentioned, which, from one end to the other, is occupied

by mechanics, seafaring men, and other common people.

The old lady walked so slowly that you could easily perceive she was

already on the shady side of life; her carriage was stiff, and her

steps measured, as if she moved with some difficulty; yet it was

evident that she had some determined object earnestly in view. Her

features were sharp, and denoted firmness; indeed, they might have been

thought harsh and forbidding, had not her mild blue eyes imparted an

expression of tenderness and goodness to her otherwise stern

countenance. I know not if my description is clear enough to convey to

my readers any idea of the face that now stands before my mind's eye,

but Aunt Francisca's countenance was always somewhat of a difficult

problem, and this must be my excuse if I have failed in the delineation

of it. Her dress was in keeping with her general appearance; it was in

the fashion of a bygone period, at least twenty years old in make and

materials, and yet one might in vain have sought for a single spot or

crease in it. There were such fastidious cleanliness, and such a degree

of scrupulous neatness visible over her whole person, that the beholder

at once felt assured an old maid was before him. Be this said without

any disrespect to other ladies, whose _nicety_ I am far from calling in

question.

With an extensive parasol in her hand, and a large and apparently heavy

silken bag over her arm, the old lady advanced towards a house whose

exterior denoted that it was occupied by people belonging to the lower

classes. She did not scan the number of the houses, and her feet seemed

mechanically to have found its threshold, as if she had often passed

over it. And so she had, in truth. A young woman, with a child in her

arms, opened the door to her, and exclaimed,

'Is it really you, my dear lady? Our Lord himself must send you here to

us, poor miserable creatures!'

The speaker and the infant she held in her arms were both clad in

absolute tatters. The child looked like a monster in a magic glass,

shrivelled up, yellow skinned, with sunken but staring eyes, and

wrinkled, though scarcely yet two years of age. It would have been

difficult to have determined which bore the palm for dirt and disorder,

the room or its inhabitants.

The elderly lady looked about in vain for a place where she might seat

herself.

'You do not deserve that I should come more frequently to visit you,'

the lady said; 'all hope of assisting you is at an end when you

yourself will do nothing to improve your condition. In what state is

this that I find you? You promised me that when next I came I should

see everything tidy about you.'

The woman cast down her eyes at this reproachful greeting, and remained

silent. She placed the child on the floor while she dusted with the

shreds of an old garment a wooden stool, the only seat in the room. The

lady looked compassionately at the child, and said, in a less stern

voice,

'What you will not do for your own comfort's sake, you will surely not

refuse to do for the sake of your poor children. The unfortunate little

creatures will perish amidst all this dirt; it _must_ engender disease.

Where are the other children? Has the eldest gone to school yet?'

The poor woman looked much embarrassed, and stammered a few words which

it was impossible to comprehend. The lady continued her interrogations:

'And your husband--has he got any work? Why did he never go to the

place where I told him he could obtain employment? Because he prefers

remaining in idleness to attempting any useful occupation--he would

rather spend in rioting the few pence he can scrape together, than work

to place himself beyond want and wretchedness. What will be the end of

these courses?'

'Ah, my good lady, you are quite right,' replied the woman; 'my

husband, the good-for-nothing that he is, is the cause of all our

misery. He will not let spirits alone, and every penny we have goes

down his throat in strong drink. I beg pardon for mentioning this to

you, madam, who no doubt have a fine, good gentleman for a husband, but

men-folks in _our_ rank are dreadful creatures; I often wish I had

never married.'

'Very likely your husband has the same improper feeling towards you,

and upon as good grounds,' replied the old lady. 'Married people should

bear with each other, and share their burdens between them as well as

their pleasures. A disorderly wife has no right to complain of a

disorderly husband. It is a woman's duty to make home comfortable;

_that_ can be done at little cost, but it cannot be done without order

and cleanliness. All that I have seen here proves that you are quite as

much in fault as your husband. Where is the yarn for which I gave you

money? Have you bought the flax?'

The poor woman burst into tears, and began to protest that she was not

to blame. Had she known the lady's name, or where she resided, she

would have come to her in her trouble. But she was ignorant of both;

the landlord had threatened to turn them out into the street if they

did not pay their rent; and she had nothing to give him, no means of

keeping a roof over their heads except by handing him the money

entrusted to her, which she was assured by her husband there was no sin

in disposing of in this way, as it had been a gift. The old lady

inquired more minutely into the state of their affairs, remonstrated

with the young woman, scolded her, and threatened to withdraw the

assistance she gave them if they would not make some exertion for the

future to help themselves, and finished by drawing forth from the large

silk bag sundry articles of food and clothing, which she laid on the

table before the unfortunate mother. She then took the infant up from

the floor, kissed it, and gave it some nice wheaten bread and a new

dress, and promised the mother that she would give the child an entire

suit of new clothes if, on her next visit, she found everything clean

and in order. Bestowing upon her once more some earnest injunctions,

the lady left the house without waiting to listen to the poor woman's

thanks and blessings.

When she went up the street it was with the same measured steps, and

the same prim air as before; the large silk bag hung from her left arm,

but it was empty now, while she held daintily with two fingers of her

right hand the old-fashioned parasol. Thus she walked on until she

reached a house in Bredegade, where resided a relation of hers named

Werner, the widow of a councillor of state,[2] who had two daughters,

of whom the elder was called Louise, the younger Flora. Louise was a

very quiet girl and of a retiring disposition; she was betrothed and

soon to be married to Rudolph Horn, a young lawyer, who had a great

deal of business, and was possessed of a good private fortune besides.

Flora was secretly engaged to Lieutenant Arnold--secretly, that is to

say, the engagement had not been declared, though everybody was aware

of it. It might be a tolerable match when he became a captain, but it

would probably be a dozen years or more before he obtained his company.

They were both young, however, and time flies rapidly, as everybody

knows, so they consoled themselves with hope.

The family were sitting in an arbour in the garden, as they often did

in summer; Arnold had brought a new novel which he had just commenced

reading aloud to them. The ladies--their number increased by the

addition of two cousins, who frequently visited them--sat round the

table with their work, exceedingly interested in the novel, which began

'so charmingly,' and promised to be 'so interesting,' when Arnold

happened to look up, and glancing along the garden-walk, exclaimed,

'May I be shot, if stalking towards us yonder is not--yes, it is

herself! I have the honour to announce Aunt Francisca's august

arrival.'

The girls all cast looks of annoyance at the old lady, who was slowly

approaching the arbour where they were assembled. 'How very tiresome!'

exclaimed the little party as with one voice, while Arnold threw his

book angrily on the table, and said,

'Now we must give up knowing the rest of this new story, for I have to

return the volume to its owner early to-morrow morning. What unlucky

chance can have brought that wearisome old spectre here this evening, I

wonder?'

Louise rose and went to meet the old lady. Aunt Francisca curtseyed,

and then kissed her on both cheeks. Mrs. Werner and Flora underwent the

same species of greeting. A heavy, forced conversation was then carried

on about the weather and the pleasure of having a garden in Copenhagen.

Arnold took no part in it, although Aunt Francisca frequently addressed

herself to him; Mrs. Werner was the only one who maintained it with

decent civility, for people advanced in years can bear disappointments

better than young persons.

'Will Rudolph soon return from Holstein?' asked the old lady of Louise;

'it is surprising that he has not written to me. You can tell him, my

dear, that I have been expecting a letter from him on both the last

post-days.'

'That is devilish cool! A nice piece of pretension on the part of such

an antiquated virago,' observed Arnold, in a half-whisper.

Cousin Ida could not refrain from giggling.

'You seem to be quite in a laughing humour, my child,' said Miss

Francisca.

'Have you been to the German plays yet?' asked Flora of the old lady,

with a furtive smile to the rest of the party.

'No, my head can't stand theatres now,' replied Aunt Francisca. 'They

do not suit my age, and, indeed, I see so badly that I could not enjoy

acting. Have you been there?'

Mrs. Werner answered her, and plunged into a disquisition on some of

the plays, and on the parts of the performers, but Aunt Francisca heard

them without any apparent interest. She afterwards entered on the

subject of the Bible Society and its great usefulness, but was listened

to in return with apathy and suppressed yawns; nobody _there_ cared

about Bible societies. Flora proposed that they should drink tea a

little earlier than usual, and Louise went to order it. The

conversation came to a dead stand; at length Aunt Francisca said, 'I am

afraid my visit is inconvenient to you this evening; you might have

been going out--perhaps to the German play?'

'We were only going to have read aloud a book which I brought with me,'

said Arnold. 'There is no German play to-night; but they are performing

at Price's, and if the ladies are inclined to go, we shall be quite in

time.'

'So speaks youth--distances are nothing for them,' said the old lady,

with a smile, under which she attempted to hide the unpleasant feeling

she experienced at finding herself unwelcome. 'You must not mind me, my

dear cousins; I should be sorry to put you to any inconvenience, and am

going presently.'

But Mrs. Werner begged her to stay, assuring her that the tale could be

read some other time, and that nobody had dreamed of going to Price's;

Arnold was only joking.

'That other time must be during the night, then.' said Arnold, in no

very dulcet tone, 'for I have promised to return the book to-morrow

morning, without fail.'

Aunt Francisca did not hear his civil speech, for she was talking to

Mrs. Werner. The young people put their heads together, and whispered

to each other. Judging by their glances, it was evident that the old

maiden visitor was the subject of their remarks. One criticised her

arms, another her bonnet, a third her parasol.

'But what do you say to that huge foraging-sack hanging from her arm?

Can any one inform me for what she carries it?' said Arnold. 'It would

hold at least half a bushel of corn. Perhaps the stingy old animal goes

to the market to buy all her own provisions, for fear that her

servant-girl should make a penny or two out of them now and then.'

'Nonsense; she is too prim to venture among the market folks,' said

Ida. 'But she fancies it is fashionable. Dare you attack her about it,

Flora?'

Flora wished to show her courage, but could scarcely speak for

laughing, as she took up Aunt Francisca's bag, and said,

'This is a very pretty bag; the embroidery is a la Grecque, is it not?'

Miss Francisca replied gravely, '_Pretty?_ You cannot possibly mean

that, my child; it is as ugly as a bag can be, but it holds a good

deal, and therefore I use it sometimes. Living so much alone as I do, I

must occasionally go my own errands.'

Flora looked foolish, and stammered a few words in defence of the bag,

while she coloured deeply; but the old lady pretended not to observe

her embarrassment, and she continued: 'I think it _really_ very pretty,

but it should not be seen near this lovely shawl, which certainly puts

it to shame.' So saying, she took up a little muslin shawl, beautifully

embroidered in gold and coloured flowers, which was lying on the table.

'I am glad you admire it, my dear,' said the old lady, 'for I have

often intended to beg your acceptance of it. I have another at home

exactly like it, which I intend for Louise; they are too gay for my

time of life.'

Flora was much pleased with the gift, and had just thanked her

cousin--for the old lady, though generally called among her young

connections 'Aunt Francisca,' was by no means so nearly related to

them--when Ida whispered, 'Why, it is real East Indian! Well, it was

lucky for you that I persuaded you to go into raptures about the

hideous bag--set to now and praise her high-heeled shoes. Who knows

what they may yield?'

'Shame on you, Ida. Do you think I am going to be rude to her again?'

said Flora.

Aunt Francisca found the evening air rather chilly, and hinted that it

would be as well to repair to the more comfortable drawing-room within

doors. Many were the glances of anger and annoyance which passed among

the young people when Mrs. Werner thereupon desired the servant to

carry the tea-things back to the house, and they had all to rise in

order to leave the garden. Arnold, of course, gallantly assisted the

young ladies in putting up their work and carrying their work-boxes,

while he exercised his witty propensities at the expense of Miss

Francisca. Flora meanwhile offered her arm to the old lady, who,

however, did not proceed immediately to the house, but expressed a wish

to look first at some of the flower-beds.

When they were alone, she turned suddenly towards Flora, and said,

'Tell me, my dear girl, are you engaged to Lieutenant Arnold? Perhaps

you will think that it is no business of mine whether you are or not;

but whatever is of consequence to you is interesting to me, and it is

not from mere curiosity that I ask you. Ah! I saw how he pressed your

hand.... Come, you must not deny it, for I saw it distinctly. Though I

am old, I have sharper eyes and ears than people may fancy. But you

know, my dear, girls should not allow gentlemen to squeeze their hands

unless they are actually engaged to them. It would be quite improper

otherwise.'

Flora cast down her eyes, but made no reply.

'I know that you are a very good, sensible girl, and that is why I like

you so much; but truth must be told and listened to, although it is not

always palatable. What are the prospects now-a-days of a lieutenant in

the army? Poor indeed, my child; it would be almost an eternity before

you could marry. In the meantime there might be a hundred flirtations,

and the first love might be left in the lurch. Arnold is very flighty,

and I fear also very imprudent. I know that he is in debt, and that

leads to beggary.'

'But all young men get into debt. Aunt Francisca,' replied Flora, in a

low, subdued voice.

'Bless you, child! how can you say so? Correct and respectable persons

do not _run_ into debt. Rudolph does not owe a shilling to anyone--I

could take my oath to that.'

'But there is no necessity for Rudolph to fall into debt. Seeing that

he has a good private fortune, he has no great merit in keeping out of

it. But what can a poor young officer do who has nothing but his pay to

live on?'

'He has no business by his flattery and fair words to entice a girl

into an engagement which he cannot carry out,' said Miss Francisca;

'that is altogether indefensible. The age of miracles is past; no bird

will come flying into your window with gold on its bill, and in our

days people don't live on air. Do you really imagine that love is so

durable a feeling that it can withstand adversity, privations, and

time itself, which conquers all things? Love and inconstancy are

half-sisters, dear Flora. Ten years hence you will be called an old

maid, though, if married, you would be still considered at that age a

young woman. In twenty years from this time it would be positively

ridiculous on your part to think of marrying, yet Arnold could scarcely

venture to take a wife before then.'

Flora played with her sash, and her eyes filled with tears, whilst the

gloom that overspread her countenance showed how disagreeable the

conversation was to her. Aunt Francisca looked earnestly at her, and

putting her arm gently round her waist, asked, in a low voice,

'Are you betrothed to Arnold, my child? Answer me truly, Flora--are you

or are you not?'

The girl tried to speak, but her lips closed again. She looked at the

pretty East India handkerchief, and in her embarrassment crushed it

between her fingers. The old lady withdrew her arm, and stooped to pick

a flower.

'Come, my dear,' she said, 'let us go in; it is getting quite chill,

and the evening air is not for old people like me. Your roses are

beautiful; permit me to take one or two home for my flower-vase.'

Flora hastened to gather a bouquet of flowers, and then accompanied

Miss Francisca to the house, the latter talking on indifferent

subjects.

'What did she want with you?' asked one of the cousins. 'Did she give

you anything besides the little shawl?'

'Oh, I wish she had kept her shawl,' said Flora, sharply. 'When

presents have to be paid for by listening to stupid prosy lectures, I,

for one, would rather dispense with the gifts. She is a tiresome old

maid as ever lived.'

Louise was presiding at the tea-table, so Aunt Francisca sat down near

her, and did not again approach Flora, who seemed out of spirits, and

spoke neither to the old lady nor to Arnold. When the latter attempted

to whisper something to her, she drew back pointedly without listening

to him, and with a toss of her head which plainly showed Arnold that

she was out of humour. Arnold looked at Miss Francisca as if he could

have murdered her, and muttered: 'This is that old wretch's fault, I'll

be bound. A starched old maid like her would infect a whole regiment of

young girls with her prudery. I suppose I shall be expected to see that

ancient piece of goods home--and if I am compelled to undertake this

pleasing office, she shall come to grief, for I swear I will contrive

to make her fall and break one of her old legs.'

If Louise had not spoken from time to time, not a word would have been

uttered the whole evening; she was the only one who took any trouble to

keep up a little conversation. Arnold placed himself by the window, and

drummed listlessly with his fingers on the panes of glass: Flora sewed

diligently, as if her daily bread depended on her getting through a

certain quantity of work. Madame Werner knitted with equal

perseverance, and only occasionally contributed a 'yes' or a 'no' to

the conversation; the cousins cast sidelong glances towards Arnold, and

tittered. At length nine o'clock struck, and it was announced that Miss

Francisca's servant had come for her. Everybody seemed relieved--and

the old lady rose instantly, as if she felt that her company was

unwelcome, and that the sooner she took her departure the better.

Madame Werner squeezed out an invitation for her to stay a little

longer, but it was not accepted.

When Arnold found that she was really going, he strode up to her, and

asked if he might have the pleasure of escorting her home; at which

request the cousins could not restrain their laughter, and Flora had to

bite her lips to prevent herself from following their example, while

Louise did her utmost to prevent the old lady from observing the

rudeness of her relations. Her back was scarcely turned before every

tongue in the drawing-room she had just quitted became loosened, and

the sounds of mirth and laughter could be distinctly heard by her

before she had even left the house. When Louise, who had quitted the

room with Aunt Francisca, to see her well wrapped up, returned to it,

she attacked them for their rudeness in laughing, and talking so loud

as soon as she had left the room, when they had been sitting in solemn

silence the whole evening previously. Madame Werner sided with Louise,

but Arnold was not to be checked in his rejoicings at having got rid of

the stupid, tiresome old maid.

Poor Miss Francisca, meanwhile, heard the shouts of laughter as she

walked up the street, and looking up sadly at the windows she thought:

'They are rejoicing at my departure; even there I am _de trop_.' But on

her servant remarking how uncommonly gay they were at Madame Werner's,

she only replied, 'They are a very lively, happy family, and long may

they remain so.'

When the 'happy family' were relieved of her presence, the novel

reading was resumed--and it was late before the tale was finished, and

the party separated. After the young ladies had retired to the room

which they shared together, Flora exclaimed, as she put away the pretty

Indian shawl, 'Aunt Francisca is a very good soul, but she is

abominably tiresome--it is hardly possible to put up with her.'

'I should think that where there is much real worth, a little

peculiarity of manner might easily be borne with,' replied Louise; but

Flora laughed as she said,

'Nothing is so bad as to be wearisome dear Louise; I can't endure

anyone who bores me.'

Six weeks had elapsed since Miss Francisca's visit above recorded;

autumn was approaching, the evenings were becoming longer, and the

leaves of the trees assuming a yellow tint. It was on a grey afternoon

in September that a young man passed slowly along Halmtorv, in

Copenhagen, and stopped before a small house which looked as if it were

the abode of death, for the blinds were all down, although there were

no lights inside. The street-door was locked, and it was not till long

after he had rung that it was opened by an elderly woman, who had on a

black dress and black ribbons in her cap. They recognized each other

gravely and then the young man, who seemed familiar with the house,

ascended the stairs, and entered a room on the first floor, whilst the

servant carefully locked the outer door. The apartment which he entered

was empty, not an article of furniture relieved the bareness of the

walls, and before the windows hung long white curtains, closely drawn;

in the centre of the room there was a square space, where the uncovered

boards looked white and shining, but the rest of the floor was thickly

strewed with fine sand, and on that again lay flowers and green leaves

taken from trees, which in the four corners of the room were formed

into elaborate patterns.

The young man stopped on the threshold of the floor, and gazed sadly at

the empty desolation before him. He was speedily joined by the old

servant, who placed herself by his side, and also contemplated

sorrowfully the square space, as if she recalled in thought what had so

lately occupied it. Then, turning her eyes towards the young man, and

perceiving by the expression of his countenance what was passing in his

mind, she held out her hand to him in silence, which he took and

pressed warmly. She was a trustworthy, affectionate creature, a servant

of the olden time, such as are scarcely ever to be met with now in

families of our modern days.

Presently the young man crossed the room, stepping lightly, as if he

were afraid to crush the already fading flowers, and opened the door to

another apartment, where, as in the first, long white curtains, drawn

across the half-closed windows, gave a dim sad tone to the tasteful

furniture and gay-coloured carpet. He was followed by the old servant,

who told him that he would find the keys belonging to her late mistress

in her own little daily sitting-room, and that all her keeping places

were in perfect order. 'Alas! sir,' she added, 'how miserable it is for

me to be left behind. I had always hoped and prayed that our Lord would

graciously call me first.'

'It is the course of nature in this world, Inger,' he replied, 'that

the eldest should go first. Your mistress was almost ten years older

than you.'

'Very true, sir. Had my dear mistress lived till next Candlemas, she

would have completed her sixty-seventh year, and I shall be fifty-seven

come next March. Three-and-twenty years have I lived with her, and I

can testify to her goodness in every respect; she was such a

benefactress to the poor. Oh! how many of them will miss her!'

And Inger began to weep bitterly; her tears were of genuine sorrow for

the loss of her kind mistress, for Rodolph, who was the nearest of kin

to the deceased lady, had already told the faithful servant that a

comfortable provision should be made for her, so as to secure to her

independence for the rest of her life.

Rudolph Horn was the legal heir of Miss Francisca Garlov, who had that

day been buried. She had been his mother's first cousin and dearest

friend, they had been almost brought up together, and their intimacy

had subsisted without any diminution, until death had separated them,

thirteen years before, by removing Rudolph's mother from this world.

The old maid had transferred the friendship for the mother to the son;

when he came to Copenhagen, as a student, her house had always been

open to him, and she gave him to understand that he should inherit

whatever she might leave. She had died after a very few days' illness,

and Rudolph, who was at the time in the country, though he hastened to

Copenhagen the moment he heard of her mere indisposition, had not

arrived in time to see his old friend alive.

As he sat in her now deserted parlour, his memory retraced the days of

his childhood, when he used to visit her along with his mother, and

when he used to admire the Chinese pagodas and mandarins which

ornamented her sitting-room, her old china teacups, her pretty inlaid

tea-table, her large well-stuffed easy-chair, her chiffoniers with

mirrors and gilding in the doors, and, above all, a certain japanned

cabinet, that had always to be opened to let 'the dear boy' see the

pretty things in it, and some one or other of which was generally

bestowed on him, for 'Aunt Francisca' never let him go empty-handed

from her house. Ah! how different were the desires which filled his

soul _then_ and _now_; a whole lifetime almost seemed to lie between

these two periods of his existence; he was then only eight years old,

and now he was thirty!

Old Inger brought in candles, and offered to go through an inventory of

the furniture and effects with him, but Rudolph told her that was quite

unnecessary, as he had entire confidence in her; however, he took the

key of Miss Francisca's bureau, as Inger informed him that it was the

last injunction of her beloved mistress that he should be requested to

open that depository of her papers immediately after her funeral.

Rudolph looked at his watch, as if he would fain have found that it was

too late that evening to examine the papers of the deceased; but it was

only six o'clock, and he had no excuse for putting off his painful

task. It was some little time, however, after he had opened the bureau,

before he could bring himself to disturb the neat packets of letters,

and other little articles, arranged with so much order in this

depository of the good old lady's treasures. He felt that it was almost

a sin to touch these relics of the past, and merely half-opened the

various drawers, more to obey the wishes of the dead than to search

into their contents; but when he came to a hidden compartment, and

unlocked its little door, he beheld what riveted his attention, for in

it were two miniatures, a few papers, and two or three manuscript

books. One of the miniatures was the likeness of a very handsome young

man, dressed according to the fashion of a bygone period. The

complexion was florid, rather than pale; the dark blue eyes expressed

at once thoughtfulness and mirth, and round the mouth played a gay

smile, while the smooth forehead gave no evidence of care or sorrow;

the cravat was carelessly tied, imparting an idea of negligence in

attire, which contrasted rather oddly with the elaborate ruffles that

appeared below the brown coat sleeves, and coquettishly shaded a hand

of delicate whiteness.

Close to this miniature lay another, which evidently portrayed 'Aunt

Francisca' in her earlier years. She was pale, but with pretty

features, finely-arched eyebrows, and a face altogether pleasing, from

its expression of goodness and cheerfulness. Her hair, which fell in

rich curls over her slender throat, was confined by a light-blue

ribbon, and her dress had the peaked stomacher worn in those days.

Here, then, was a clue to the history of Aunt Francisca's youth; after

so many silent years, these portraits, hidden away together, told a

tale of the past--a tale, doubtless, of sorrow and disappointment. How

little do the friends and acquaintances, made in after-life, know of

the feelings, the hopes, the dreams, and the incidents of earlier

years, many of which are hushed into deep mystery until the grave has

received its prey, when some cherished token, some treasured

reminiscence may unfold the secrets of days gone by.

When Rudolph had gazed for a time on these interesting faces, he

replaced the miniatures where he had found them, and proceeded to

examine the papers. Among them were memoranda and account-books, which

showed how well regulated the affairs of the deceased had been, and how

her economy had afforded her ample means to do good to those around

her. He continued to read the documents before him until he became

quite absorbed in them; and he was sitting at the old bureau, forgetful

of the flight of time, until the clock struck nine. Its unwearied

tongue, which amidst life and death ceased not to give forth its

warning tones, aroused him from his dreamy mood, and, snatching one

more glance at Aunt Francisca's likeness, he closed the bureau, and

calling Inger, he prepared to depart. The old woman lighted him to the

door, and attempted to draw him into conversation, but he shook his

head and hurried out, with tears in his eyes.

'Ah!' said Inger, to herself, as she returned to her solitary chamber,

'how kind-hearted Herr Rudolph is--so different from most young men

now-a-days, who are ashamed to let people see that they have any

feelings at all!'