CHAPTER III.

For some days after the little scene in the music-room, Theodore took

great pains to dispel the gloom his ill-humour had occasioned, and he

tried, by unusual courtesy, to do away with any disagreeable impression

he might have made upon Aurora; but she appeared to notice as little

his efforts to please as she had previously noticed his indifference,

which had bordered on rudeness. He was annoyed, and said to Francisca,

'I can't imagine what that girl wants; I have never in my life beheld a

person with so much pretension. If she expects that _I_ shall approach

her upon my knees, according to the homage she is perhaps accustomed to

in Holstein, she will find herself much mistaken. One does not worship

a pretty face so much in this part of the world; thank Heaven, here

beauty is not so rare.'

'A face like Aurora's, however, is seldom to be seen anywhere,' said

Francisca. 'But you quite misunderstand her--she has no pretensions,

and hardly knows how beautiful she is. She is sorry that she is not on

better terms with you, and, as Kitty tells me, cannot imagine why you

dislike her so much.'

Such conversations frequently took place between Theodore and

Francisca, but they had no apparent result, for Theodore, though he

agreed with all that she said, and was polite to her young guest, did

not seem to feel any interest in her; and Aurora, on her part, remained

cold and distant to him. Six weeks had now elapsed since the arrival of

the ladies, and the time had passed slowly to Theodore, who had never

felt himself fully at ease; these weeks had also imperceptibly made a

change in his and Francisca's manners towards each other--a colder and

more distant tone had sprung up between them, they seldom met alone,

and when they did, Theodore's thoughts always seemed preoccupied, or he

was out of humour. Francisca observed this with regret, and one Sunday

morning she contrived to follow him alone into the garden, determined

to clear up anything that might have annoyed him. She had a book in her

hand, probably snatched up by chance to lead the rest of the party to

fancy that she was going to read in the garden. Theodore came up to

her, and said:

'What interesting work have I to thank for this unexpected meeting? To

see you alone is now a rare event; the claims of love, methinks, are no

longer of the importance they used to be.'

He seized the book with some impetuosity--it was Goethe's 'Egmont.'

'Claerchen!' he exclaimed. 'Is Claerchen to be always thus thrust upon

me? I wish I could as easily get rid of all Claerchens as I can of this

book.' And he was about to fling the book away.

'For Heaven's sake, Theodore, don't throw Aurora's book into the pond!

How can you be so childish as to be angry with a poor book? It was not

Claerchen that brought me here; I took it up in the breakfast-room to

have something in my hand; I did not even know what book it was. I came

out here,' she added, timidly, and colouring deeply, 'to seek you.'

'Me, Francisca? Really to seek me? So these visitors of yours have not

made you quite forget me? But I am unreasonable, detestable; forgive

me, sweet Francisca! I hardly know myself what I want. It is very

foolish, but I confess I am as jealous of Aurora as if she had been a

man. The way in which she engrosses you quite separates us; when a

woman chooses to pay court, it is much worse than attention from a

man--she scarcely ever leaves you for a moment.'

'Unreasonable that you are!' cried Francisca, smiling. 'Do you think

you are to be the only 'person who is to be allowed to love me? Come,

let us make the most of these uninterrupted minutes, and speak

confidentially together. Let us go into the forest, I feel as if I

should be more at my ease there.'

Theodore drew her arm within his, and they went into the wood. It was a

lovely morning, the thick foliage of the trees formed a cool shade from

the warm rays of the blazing sun. The birds were carolling among the

branches, the chime of the distant church bells was answered by the

tinkling of the sheep bells as the animals fed amidst the grassy glades

of the forest, and a few peasants passed now and then on their way to

church, in all their Sunday finery, and with their prayer-books in

their hands. They respectfully and kindly saluted the lovers as they

sat together under the large tree, beneath whose spreading boughs

Francisca had prayed for strength on the memorable night when she had

traversed the forest alone in order to obtain the means required for

saving Theodore's life.

'This is our chapel,' said Theodore. 'This mossy seat the altar at

which I have vowed to devote my life to you. Do you remember that it

was here you hinted at the possibility of my forgetting you? Ah! Did I

not then say that Heaven must forget me first? I feel now, even more

than I did then, the truth of my words.' But at that moment a

recollection shot across Theodore's mind which caused him a painful

sensation: had he not all but forgotten Francisca? He passed his hand

over his eyes for a moment, but Francisca took it gently away, while

she replied:

'My doubts were unholy. I was but a child then, and I did not think

that I could be loved as I felt I loved you. Forgive me for these

sinful thoughts. I know now how true you are.'

Theodore embraced her, and played with the ring he had given her,

which, not daring to wear on her finger, as the engagement was yet

unknown to her father, she had hung round her neck, and generally

placed near her heart, but which on this occasion had escaped from

within her dress. Francisca had taken her own likeness before her

glass, and, although it had many faults, it resembled her. She

intended it for Theodore, but had never been able to gather courage

until this day to present it to him. She had brought it down into the

breakfast-room with her, and when she saw him stroll into the garden

she thrust it hurriedly between the leaves of a book which was lying on

a side-table, and took it with her when she went to join him. The ring

reminded her of the little portrait, and, turning to Theodore, she

said:

'You have been very kind to give me both this ring and that dear

miniature--that likeness of yourself, to which I confide all my

thoughts when I am alone with it. I have no ring to offer you in

return, Theodore; but will you excuse its many faults, and accept this

little sketch which I have done for you? When you look at this pale

face, I beseech you not to forget that the soul which animates it is

capable of the most devoted love, and is grateful for its undeserved

happiness.'

Frightened at the warmth with which she had ventured to express her

feelings, the poor girl became quite embarrassed, her eyes were blinded

with tears, and her fingers nervously felt through the leaves of the

book for the drawing she had mentioned. She found it, and with averted

head, she handed it to Theodore. He kissed it as he received it, but no

sooner had he looked at it than he exclaimed in great agitation,

'Francisca, this is a bitter mockery! I did not deserve this from you.'

Francisca looked at him with astonishment. He was holding the drawing

in his hand, and gazing on it. One glance was enough to show her that

it was not her likeness; the book had contained at least one other

drawing besides her portrait. A young lady was leaning over a harp,

amidst the strings of which one hand was lingering, while the other

hand held a pocket-handkerchief towards her face, as if to dry the

tears that were swimming in the soft eyes; beside her stood an elegant

young man, in an attitude of utter indifference, cleverly depicted by

his having placed his foot on a chair near, and being engaged in

adjusting his shoe. It was only a sketch, but very spirited, and very

well done. In a corner of the paper was written the German line--

Das Herz allein schafft Holl' und Paradies.

'Aurora!' cried Francisca, in dismay.

'Claerchen,' said Theodore, fretfully. 'Am I then doomed to find that

image everywhere--is it not impossible to escape it! Nay, Francisca,

this is an unfair punishment. I have acknowledged my rudeness,

regretted it in my own heart, and endeavoured to make up for it--what

more would you have?'

'It is no punishment; it is only a mistake. I did not know that there

was any such drawing in the book; the sketch is not by me--it is by

Aurora,' stammered Francisca.

'Aurora! Did Aurora do this?' exclaimed Theodore, looking at it again,

and eagerly.

Francisca did not answer, but she seemed as if she was going to cry.

Little heeding her looks, however, he remained with his eyes riveted on

the picture; at length he said,

'Claerchen is true to herself. Only see what coquetry there is in

this little sketch; and the verse, and the tears--it is really

charming!--But what is the matter, Francisca? You look so pale--so

overcome. Are you not well?'

Francisca tried to laugh at herself. 'It is nothing; I felt a little

giddy, but the sensation has passed off. Let us go home, for we may be

missed, and it is rather damp here.'

Theodore rose and accompanied her through the wood, while he carefully

carried the book with the two drawings within its leaves. On reaching

the house Francisca took it from him, and hurried up to her room. She

put away her own likeness with very different feelings to those with

which she had taken it from its accustomed place. It seemed so strange

that fate should have made her own hand the means of substituting

Aurora's likeness for hers! This incident, trifling as it was, awoke a

degree of uneasiness in her mind; but she endeavoured to conquer the

feeling, and, going downstairs, she replaced Aurora's book on the table

where she had found it. Seeing, however, Theodore approaching from the

garden, and not being yet quite composed enough to meet him, she

hastily left the room; but, angry at herself for her folly, she

returned after a little time, and with the intention of begging him to

say nothing about Aurora's sketch, which had been seen by him without

her knowledge. Why did she a second time so suddenly and silently leave

the apartment she had just entered? It was because she beheld Theodore

bending with the deepest attention over 'Egmont,' which was open on the

table before him. Was it the play or the drawing which so fascinated

him?

The old doctor and some neighbouring gentlemen dined at the Garlovs'

that day, and in the course of the evening the whole party repaired to

the garden; Francisca had quite recovered her spirits, and Theodore was

in an unusually gay mood. Swinging was proposed, and Francisca and

Aurora got together into the swing, which had a capacious seat. The old

doctor insisted upon swinging the girls, but after trying it for some

time, puffing and panting, he called to Theodore and gave up his post

to him with, 'It is your turn, now; I am too old to go on long.' But

Aurora vehemently opposed his doing it--she would not on any account

give him so much trouble.

'Oh, I shall dispense with all gratitude from you,' said Theodore.

'Don't distress yourself about giving me trouble, that can all be

placed to Miss Francisca's account; she will return so many thanks,

that I am sure they will suffice for both of you.'

Francisca laughed, and so did the old doctor and Kitty. As if in fun,

Theodore set the swing into more violent motion, and it flew higher and

higher, with a disagreeable jerking movement. Aurora screamed, and then

called out that she was frightened; but Theodore continued his

exertions, while he exclaimed, 'Angels are at home in the higher

regions, therefore it is impossible for Miss Angel to be afraid of

reaching the tops of the trees.'

'I don't choose to swing any more; I command you to stop!' cried

Aurora, with a look that made it doubtful whether she was in jest or

earnest.

Theodore laughed, and then replied, 'Entreaties would have more weight

than commands; you had better say _I pray you_, Miss Aurora. Now you

can truly exclaim, "Ich bin ubel dran."'

Aurora would not condescend to entreat, but when next the swing came to

near the ground, she prepared to spring out; in a moment, however, it

was off again, and the spring, which she was then not able to check,

was made from a considerable height. Francisca tried to catch her, and

losing her own balance, she, too, with a wild shriek, fell forward. At

the same moment both the young ladies lay stunned upon the ground.

Theodore was in an agony of terror; the old doctor clasped his hands in

consternation, and Kitty almost fainted away. The rest of the party,

hearing the shriek, rushed to the place where the swing was erected,

and only added to the confusion. Theodore raised Francisca gently in

his arms; he took no notice of Aurora, who still lay insensible after

Francisca had recovered her consciousness. The latter was carefully

carried into the house and laid on her couch by her mother and Kitty,

and Theodore stood at the outside of her chamber door until he heard

her voice speaking in its natural tones. He then suddenly remembered

Aurora, and returned to the garden to see how she was. In the meantime

she had come to herself, and had found herself surrounded by the old

doctor, Mr. Garlov, and the gentlemen who were spending the day with

them--the ladies had all disappeared. She tried to rise, but could not

stand, her ankle was either broken or dislocated. Some of the servants

were called; Aurora was placed in an arm-chair, and carried by them

towards the house, while the old doctor walked on one side of her and

Mr. Garlov on the other, the strangers bringing up the rear. Theodore

flew to meet her, and exclaimed, with the utmost anxiety, 'For God's

sake, tell me, are you much hurt? How do you feel?'

Aurora looked somewhat reproachfully at him, but she answered, 'It was

my own fault.'

'It was the fault of that abominable swing--a most dangerous pastime!'

exclaimed the old doctor, who forgot, in his wrath, that he had been

among those who encouraged it. Aurora was carefully laid on a sofa in a

small chamber leading into the music-room, where Mrs. Garlov and Kitty

came to her after they had made Francisca as comfortable as possible;

she had struck her chest against the projecting root of a tree, and the

spot looked blue, but there was no other apparent injury. The doctor

found Aurora's foot much swollen; the joint was dislocated, and he

tried to put it in its place, but not being able to manage it, he

called Theodore to perform the operation, which, though painful, Aurora

bore with great fortitude.

The strangers, of course, took their departure, and the old doctor,

after having visited Francisca, declared that he also was obliged to

go. Aurora said she hoped to see him again soon; but he told her that

he must put her under Theodore's care, as he would be unavoidably

compelled to absent himself for some days. She seemed much annoyed at

this, and anxiously requested to be removed to Copenhagen, for she

would suffer any amount of pain on the journey, she said, rather than

be attended by Theodore. She was assured, however, that it was

absolutely necessary for her to remain where she was. Theodore cursed

in his heart his past rudeness to Aurora, which had caused the poor

girl to dislike him so much.

Meantime, every arrangement was made for Aurora's comfort, and her host

and hostess were most assiduous in their attention to her. She

happened, however, to be alone when Theodore paid her his first visit

next morning. She lay on the sofa, which had been converted into a bed,

in a white dressing-gown, with her beautiful hair falling negligently

about her shoulders, and her rounded cheek resting on one hand. So

beautiful did she look, that Theodore started on entering the room, and

stood as if turned into a statue of stone; it was some moments before

he could recover himself sufficiently to ask her how she was.

Aurora gave him one of her sweetest smiles, and held out her hand to

him, while she said, 'Like the frightened one in the German tale, let

me ask, "Daniel, Daniel, why do you persecute me?"'

This mild rebuke quite overcame Theodore; he stooped and kissed her

hand, while he whispered, 'O Aurora, be merciful!'

From this moment their former seeming dislike to each other vanished

entirely. Theodore devoted much of his time to the interesting invalid;

he talked to her, read to her, and before long had quite adopted her

opinion of her favourite Claerchen in the drama of 'Egmont.' Francisca

made no fuss about herself, but she had come off the worst,

nevertheless, for the blow on her chest had brought on a spitting

of blood, which, however, she concealed from everyone except my

mother--her cousin Kitty. Aurora's foot had had ample time to get well;

but she complained constantly of it, and could not be induced to try to

walk. Thus, at the end of three weeks, she was still confined to her

sofa. During all this time Theodore had not had any opportunity of

conversing alone with Francisca, for either the one or the other was in

attendance on Aurora, or they were both with her. Francisca looked pale

and ill, and ought by rights to have changed places with Aurora, who

reclined like an invalid on the sofa, though her blooming face was the

picture of health. But as she still complained of her sufferings,

Francisca innocently charged Theodore to be very attentive to her--an

injunction he was only too willing to obey.

It never occurred to Francisca that Theodore might fall in love with

Aurora; and yet that was already the case. On her first arrival he had

been dazzled by her extraordinary beauty; but looking upon her as a

cold-blooded coquette, he had endeavoured to steel his heart against

her. It was mistrust of himself which made him pretend to dislike her;

her indifference piqued him, and was the cause of his ill-humour and

caprice, but Francisca's mistake about the sketches awoke a new feeling

in him, and he determined to win Aurora's love. _She_ marked well all

the fluctuations in his feelings and his manners, but, sure of her

game, she went calmly on. Theodore had judged rightly when he had

denounced the sketch as an artful piece of coquetry; nevertheless, it

had its effect on him in spite of his sober reason. The particular

attention which he always showed Francisca provoked Aurora, who could

not endure anyone to interfere with the monopoly of all homage which

she claimed for herself, and she worked hard to separate them. The

scene at the swing and its consequences, though caused only by her

jealousy, had aided her designs, and now she had not a doubt of her

conquest. Both Theodore and Aurora were vain--both were coquettes--for

gentlemen can be coquettes as well as ladies; the difference between

them was, that she was a profound coquette, he a thoughtless one; she

had improved her talents in that way by deep study, he was guided only

by his natural tendencies. Surely much were those to be pitied who had

founded their hopes on such characters, for they had built their house

upon quicksand!

Theodore soon found that he could no longer gloss over his feelings for

Aurora, and shelter them under the well-sounding names of regret, duty,

Christian charity, or friendship, with which he had hitherto tried to

silence his awaking conscience. He was forced to confess to himself

that he loved Aurora as he never before had loved--what had bound him

to Francisca was only friendship and gratitude; yet he could not but

admit that she had bestowed her whole heart on him. When Aurora began

to limp about a little, first with a crutch, then with a stick, and,

lastly, with the aid of his arm, he found himself so happy with her,

that he could scarcely sober his feelings before Francisca, who, still

unsuspicious of any evil, rejoiced to see them such good friends.

But all were not so blind as Francisca: her mother and cousin saw more

clearly what was going on, and they trembled for the moment when she

should find out the unwelcome truth, if truth it really were. That

moment came sooner than they had expected. It so happened that Kitty

was confined to her room for a few days by a bad cold, and at that very

period Francisca was obliged to be a good deal with the daughters of

the clergyman of the parish, in whose family a death had taken place.

Theodore was, therefore, almost entirely alone with Aurora.

One evening, about dusk, Francisca returned from a visit to the

clergyman's family, and on the stairs she met a servant-girl, who was

carrying a glass of lemonade to Aurora. She took it from the girl to

carry it in herself; the door was half open between the anteroom and

the music-room, and, hearing Aurora playing on the harp, she stopped,

not to disturb her. It was Claerchen's song, and Theodore was singing a

second to it in a low tone. It was so long since she had heard him

sing, that she sat down near the door to listen to his voice. He

stopped before the end of the song, and Aurora finished it alone. As

she sang the last two lines, Francisca heard Theodore sigh deeply. 'He

is thinking of _me!_' whispered Francisca to herself, 'as I am thinking

of him.' Poor Francisca!

'Grieved unto death!' repeated Theodore. 'You are singing my requiem,

Aurora.'

'And my own,' said Aurora. 'Would to Heavens I had never come here!

What have I done that I should be so punished?'

'Speak not thus, Aurora; I alone am guilty. Why did I not tell you of

my engagement to Francisca? Why did I not fly and leave you both?'

'Francisca is of an affectionate but tranquil character; she will

forgive a temporary inconstancy, if she has observed it; but it is not

probable that she has. It is not yet too late. I must go, and you will

soon forget me. Francisca may yet be happy--but, oh! what a blank is

before me! Yet I must away.'

'For Heaven's sake, forbear, Aurora! Leave me! No, no, I cannot tear

myself from you, come what may. My life is doomed--alas! there is no

happiness more for me in this world. But these vows--these dreadful

vows--must they be fulfilled?'

'They may crush our hearts,' said Aurora, 'but they must be fulfilled.

Let my hand go, Theodore--you are engaged to Francisca; leave me--leave

me to weep alone.'

'Dearest--adored--most precious Aurora!--how wretched I am! How could I

fancy that I loved Francisca? And yet, shall I repay all her goodness

to me by treachery?'

'Hush, Ancker, hush! You will kill me. Go, marry Francisca, and be

happy!'

'Happy!' cried Theodore, vehemently; 'happy without you? How can you

mock me thus, Aurora?'

'Perhaps time may do something for us,' said Aurora, with a smile as

beautiful as the sun breaking through the dark clouds in a stormy sky.

'I dare hope nothing from time,' replied Theodore.

'Ah! do you not now feel the force of these words, "I am in a strange

position?"' murmured Aurora.

'You are revenged, Aurora,' said Theodore, not without some bitterness.

'The loss of a lifetime's happiness is surely enough to atone for a

moment's thoughtlessness.'

A deathlike weakness, which she could not shake off, had compelled

Francisca to overhear this conversation. The first words had been

enough almost to kill her; as soon as she was capable of moving, she

rose and fled like a hunted deer to her own apartment: there, throwing

her arms round my mother's neck, she could only exclaim, 'Kitty, Kitty,

what have I not heard!' My mother too well guessed whence the blow had

come, and she was not surprised at what was told her. The cousins spent

the evening alone together, and when the family had retired to rest, my

mother sought the wing of the house in which Theodore's rooms were

situated. He was not there. She was rather glad to escape an interview

with a young man, at night, in his own apartment, and in returning she

observed that the door of the music-room was half-open; on going

forward to shut it, she perceived that a window was also open, and she

went to close it first. But what was her surprise on reaching it, and

looking out for a moment, to see, in the clear moonlight, Theodore

standing below Aurora's window, talking earnestly to her, while she was

leaning out, with a little shawl thrown over her head. Kitty drew back

hurriedly, but Theodore had seen her, and immediately joined her. He

forthwith began to account for his being found there; but it was

evident that he was telling a falsehood got up at the moment. My mother

interrupted him by briefly informing him what Francisca had overheard;

she laid the ring and the miniature on the table before him, simply

adding a request that he would leave the house as soon as possible.

The next day Francisca was confined to her room by illness, which was

given out to be a cold, and Theodore set off for Copenhagen without

having seen either of the cousins. Aurora soon followed him, and then

Kitty communicated to Mrs. Garlov the fact of Francisca's engagement

being broken off. Mr. Garlov had never heard of it, and often, to

Francisca's great distress, wished Theodore back again. A hard battle

she had to fight with herself, but she bore up wonderfully under her

deep disappointment. And this is the history of Aunt Francisca's youth.

Rudolph paused, and Arnold seized the opportunity of exclaiming,

'Why, we have only had a mere tissue of sentimentality as yet. What has

become of the child, Rudolph, that Mrs. Werner was whispering to you

about? You smile--come, out with the child, don't withhold the best

part of the story from us--the child--the child.'

'Oh!' said one of the other young men, shaking his finger at Arnold,

'what have you to do with the child? Leave it in peace, poor thing!

there is no use in recalling these forgotten affairs.'

'No; we _must_ have the little affair of the child,' insisted Arnold,

as Rudolph was about to continue his narrative.

Francisca spent some years quietly in the country, not mixing at all

with the world, and only cared for by those who were immediately around

her. My mother was her sole friend and correspondent, and she used to

pass two months every summer at the Garlovs'. These were Francisca's

pleasantest days, for she could talk freely to _her_ of her own short

and too bitterly lost period of happiness. Her sorrow and mortification

had not made her either sour or melancholy, as you will perhaps believe

when I tell you that she had two or three offers at this time which she

refused. She was about two-and-twenty years of age when her father

died, and as he had lived up to his income, there was but little left

for the widow and her daughter. They removed to Copenhagen, where they

lived on a slender income, but slightly increased by what Francisca

received from the Tontine in which she held some shares. Often did Mrs.

Garlov lament, for her daughter's sake, their altered circumstances;

but Theodore's name was never mentioned between them. Only once Mrs.

Garlov had spoken of him, and then she had wondered how it was possible

for her dear child to forgive him.

But Francisca answered, 'It is so easy to forgive, dear mother. Let us

not, however, again allude to him; it only pains you.'

Theodore, in the meantime, had married Aurora. When my mother

communicated this event to Francisca, she determined to burn every

little memento of him which she had treasured with the pardonable folly

of affection! and 'Oh!' she exclaimed, as with bitter tears she made an

auto-da-fe of these souvenirs, 'may he be as happy as my most earnest

wishes would make him, and may every remembrance of me be obliterated

from his thoughts as entirely as this last withered leaf is now

consumed!'

About two years after his marriage Theodore removed to Russia, where

physicians, at that period, were in great request, and made large

fortunes. Kitty had heard that his principal reason, however, for

leaving Denmark, was to withdraw Aurora from the connections she had

formed in Copenhagen, where her conduct often gave him occasion to

repent the choice he had made. They lived unhappily together; her

coquetry annoyed him extremely, and the number of admirers whom she

encouraged to be constantly around her was a source of daily torment to

him. A jealous husband generally makes a fool of himself; when he has

an arrant coquette for his wife, his doing so is inevitable, therefore

the names of Theodore and Aurora were soon in everybody's mouth, and

_she_ found it as desirable as _he_ did to escape from all the gossip

and scandal to which her own behaviour had given rise. Kitty, however,

did not relate these unpleasant details to Francisca, who only knew

that her good wishes must follow Theodore to St. Petersburg.

Shortly after this Mrs. Garlov died, and Francisca was left almost

alone in the world; but she sought happiness in constant occupation,

and in doing as much good as her slender means would permit. When my

mother married she wished her cousin to come and reside with her, but

Francisca preferred to be independent, and continued to live alone,

with her servant-of-all-work.

Theodore had not found the happiness in Russia he had anticipated. His

fortune had indeed increased, but his domestic peace had diminished.

Aurora cared little either for his advice or his anger, and had soon

formed intimacies which quite consoled her for his fits of crossness.

He also found amusements away from his home; thus they often did not

see each other for days, and when they did meet it was only to quarrel.

One evening, on returning home at a late hour, he found his wife was

absent; she had left the house early in the forenoon, and had not been

seen since. Next day the servant of a Russian officer called with a

message to Theodore, to say that he need not expect his wife, as she

had gone to Moscow with his master, and did not intend to come back.

This was a dreadful blow to him, notwithstanding the levity of her

former conduct, and with a sudden feeling of hatred to St. Petersburg,

to which he had no longer any ties, he converted all his effects into

cash, and embarked with it on board a ship bound to Copenhagen.

But he had a most disastrous voyage, the ship was totally lost off

Ruegen, and the passengers saved only their lives. Theodore found

himself all at once a beggar, and this calamity, following so closely

on his other misfortunes, brought on a dreadful illness. He passed six

months in an hospital, and at the end of that time was discharged--a

wretched lunatic! The Danish consul took charge of him, and had him

safely conveyed to Copenhagen. But no one recognized him there; his

passport and his papers had all been lost in the ship which had also

contained his money and effects. There was, therefore, no refuge for

him but the common bedlam, where he was accordingly placed. It

happened, however, that after a short time he had lucid intervals,

during which periods he occasionally mentioned names that were known,

and this led to the discovery of who he was, and to his being removed

from the bedlam and boarded with a private family, who received a few

gentlemen labouring under mental disease.

Tidings of his unfortunate situation soon reached Francisca's ears, for

it was the theme in every family where he had been formerly known. She

had deemed him far away, but happy and prosperous, loving and beloved;

she found him near her, but unhappy, deserted, and an object of that

cold charity which counts every shilling and every farthing that it

expends. She determined to see him, and to administer as much as she

could to his comforts. He did not know her; she stood before him as a

stranger, and as if from the hands of a kind stranger he received the

various little gifts with which she sought to please him. For a whole

year she continued to visit him daily, and it was with deep sorrow she

observed that his mind was becoming more and more clouded, no thought

of the past, no dream of the future, seeming ever to enter it.

At this time the landed proprietor, who was formerly mentioned, and who

had been attached to Francisca since she was sixteen years of age,

again made her an offer of marriage. He was rich, high-principled,

kind-hearted, and well-educated. She knew also that her parents had

much wished her to marry him. But Theodore required her care, and she

determined never to forsake him. She had just finished the letter

declining the offer so handsomely made, and saying that she had

resolved never to marry, when the lady with whom Theodore boarded, and

who supposed her to be a relation of his, sent a pressing message to

her begging her to come immediately. She hurried to the house, hoping

that some favourable change had suddenly taken place, and that Theodore

would be restored to reason. But there was no such joy in store for

her.

She found him sitting in a corner of his room playing at cat's-cradle

with some twine and his long, wasted fingers; so eagerly engaged was he

on his infantine diversion, that he scarcely raised his vacant eyes as

she entered. His gait was slouching, and his clothes hung loose about

him. Oh, how different from the Theodore of former days!

His hostess was sitting at work in the same room, and looking extremely

cross. A letter and a parcel lay on the table, beside which stood a

little boy, whose inquisitive and half-frightened glances wandered

round first to the strange man, then to the unknown ladies, and lastly,

to an elderly woman in a foreign dress, who was sitting near the stove,

and who said a few words to him in a foreign language, apparently

bidding him do something he was not inclined to do, as he shook his

little head; he seemed bewildered by the scene around him. Francisca

also stood as one bewildered, but the lady of the house proceeded at

once to explain things to her as far as she could. She told her that

the foreign woman had informed her, in bad German, that she was the

wife of the captain of a small trading vessel from Revel, who had been

requested to take charge of the little boy and deliver him to his

relations, the address given being only that of Dr. Theodore Ancker,

Copenhagen. All the child's expenses had been paid. The woman had

conscientiously tried to find out Theodore, and the lady in whose house

he lived had detained her until she could send for Francisca.

The letter contained but a very few words; it was signed 'Aurora.' The

child's name was Alexander, and he was three years of age. His mother

sent him to take his chance in the world, as _she_ could no longer

maintain him, and she entreated Theodore to take care of him, as she

was now no longer a burden upon his means or a sharer in his wealth.

Not a syllable was mentioned of her own fate--not an address or

reference to her own place of abode given. In a postscript it was

stated that the child understood Danish.

Francisca's determination was soon taken. Although the child was

certainly not Theodore's son--although he was the image of his

mother--of that Aurora who had blasted her happiness--she resolved to

give a home to the deserted and helpless little stranger, and that very

night the little Alexander slept comfortably in a cot prepared for him,

and placed close to her own couch. The same night she opened the small

box which held all that had been bestowed upon the poor child by his

parents. In addition to his scanty wardrobe, there was a little parcel

containing some papers in the Russian language--certificates of the

child's baptism and vaccination--and below these lay a miniature. It

was Theodore's likeness, the same that had formerly belonged to

Francisca, which she had afterwards returned to him, and which had now

passed from Aurora's possession once more into hers, and rendered its

unconscious little bearer dear to her. She gazed at it long, as if

comparing the likeness of what he once had been with the ruin he now

was. Days long gone by arose vividly before her; she pressed the

miniature to her lips, and then put it away along with her own--with

the likeness of herself which Theodore had never seen. It seemed to her

as if the meeting of the two portraits after so long a separation were

the type of a future meeting between Theodore and herself in that

bright spirit-world which shall haply be disclosed when this mortal

scene has vanished for ever. She knelt by Alexander's bed, kissed the

innocent child who had brought the treasure to her, and who had himself

been thrown on her compassion, and at the same time she vowed she would

be a mother to him.

But her adoption of him gave rise to many reports. Some said he was a

poor person's child, to whom she had taken a fancy; others, that he was

her own son, whom she had till then kept concealed in the country. Her

relations, with the exception of my mother, were the most ill-natured.

They took great pains to find out who could have been the boy's father,

and finally had the folly to confer his paternity upon her old lover,

the poor deranged doctor, whom she visited so often.

'Well, there was not such folly in that belief, after all,' said

Arnold. 'For want of a better, I think we must accept this parentage

for the youngster; for the story of a boy three years old travelling

over from Russia, as if he had fallen from the moon, is not at all

credible.'

'But I can swear to the truth of it,' said Rudolph. 'Do you doubt my

word?'

'I do _not_ doubt your word in the slightest degree,' replied Arnold;

'that is to say, I do not doubt that you believe what you have been

telling us. But I think it likely that your mother kindly got up this

pretty story, and impressed it on your mind to hide your cousin's _faux

pas_.'

'You judge of other people's principles by the rectitude of your own, I

presume,' said Rudolph, laughing. 'But to continue:'

Aunt Francisca's prayers were not unanswered, for Theodore recovered

his senses before he died. He recognized Francisca, blessed her for all

her goodness to him, and passed into eternity with her name on his

lips.

Alexander was a great source of happiness to Francisca, but severe

trials still awaited her. He was carried off by a fever exactly one

month after the death of her dearest and most faithful friend, my poor

mother, and she was left alone in the world. The rest of her life was

devoted to works of charity, for no day passed over her head without

her being engaged in some act of benevolence. Love was an absolute

necessity to her, therefore she transferred to me much of the affection

she had felt for my mother. It was her delight to make people happy,

and her last deed was to give what she knew would confer happiness.

'Good soul!' cried Arnold, laughing. 'That deed was to bestow on Mr.

Horn all her lands and tenements--her goods and chattels--her Chinese

pagodas and mandarins. I wish you joy of the inheritance.'

Flora turned angrily upon him, and exclaimed, 'For shame, Arnold!' But

Rudolph went on quietly.

'I repeat, her last deed was an act of benevolence. None of us knew

that Aunt Francisca had money to leave. She never spoke of this, for

she wished to be valued for herself, not for what she possessed.'

'Aunt Francisca rich! You really must be quizzing us,' exclaimed Mrs.

Werner.

'No; I only knew it myself this evening. It seems that she was the last

surviving member of the Tontine, which I mentioned before, and she

became, by its rules, the possessor of the whole sum. I hold her will

here, in my hand, and I find that she has left not less than twenty

thousand dollars.'

The whole party gathered round Rudolph and Louise, and poured forth

congratulations.

'My dear Louise,' said Mrs. Werner, 'what a nice addition this will be

to your income, and what a mercy it was that Aunt Francisca never

married. Had she done so, Rudolph and you would not have got a

shilling, though you were both so fond of her.'

'I loved Aunt Francisca for her own sake,' replied Louise; 'and I

almost wish that she had left nothing to Rudolph but the little matters

she valued herself.'

Rudolph took Louise's hand in silence and kissed it.

'Good Heavens!' exclaimed Arnold. 'She has left twenty thousand

dollars, do you say? No wonder you were her faithful knight, Rudolph!

It was a sort of instinct that led you to take up that position; you

scented the cash. For twenty thousand dollars I would pledge myself to

sing the blessed creature's praises all the days of my life, and for

half that sum I would swear to draw a merciful veil over the affair of

the child?'

'Would you?' said Rudolph. 'Then I will take you at your word. Listen

now to _the Will_. "As my dear cousin Rudolph Horn is so well provided

for that he does not stand in need of what I can give, and as his

marriage is not delayed by any pecuniary difficulties, I shall leave

him only five thousand dollars from my Tontine capital; the other

fifteen thousand I hereby bequeath to my dear Flora Werner and to

Lieutenant Arnold, upon the condition that their wedding takes place

within one year from the day of my death." You see that this bequest is

a passport from Aunt Francisca to that happiness in the future for you

two which fate had denied to herself. Perhaps you were so polite as to

walk home with her some evening, Arnold, and that you entrusted to her

the secret of your engagement,' added Rudolph, with a slight sneer.

Arnold coloured and bit his lips. Flora would not believe what she had

heard until she saw the words on paper; and Cousin Ida, who looked over

her shoulder, to convince herself also, exclaimed, 'Fifteen thousand

dollars! There it stands, true enough. Who would have thought that the

old lady could leave so large a legacy? It is quite a godsend to you

and Arnold, Flora.'

Flora burst into tears, and threw herself into her sister's arms.

'Well, recommend me to old maids, however absurd they may be,' said one

of the gentlemen; 'who could have guessed that such a windfall would

have come through one of the sisterhood? I solemnly vow hereafter to

pay court to all old maids, for no one can know what they may leave

behind when they are screwed down in their coffins. And if I fail with

ten of them, the eleventh may prove a benefactress.'

'You have drawn another moral from Rudolph's tale to what I expected,'

said Mrs. Werner; 'but your ideas are perhaps those which would

generally suggest themselves in this selfish world. Take care, in

future, to show decent civility to old maids. You will not, of course,

do so from kindness of heart, but bear in mind that there is always a

hope of being remembered in the last will and testament.'

Arnold sat for a few minutes quite abashed, with his hands over his

eyes; at length he looked up and exclaimed:

'Aunt Francisca has heaped coals of fire on my head. She has humbled me

thoroughly, and taught me a painful lesson; but I had well deserved it.

You cannot conceive how much I am ashamed of myself: I feel quite

guilty before you all.'

'Aunt Francisca knew how to distinguish thoughtlessness from

malignity,' said Rudolph, as he joined Flora's and Arnold's hands. 'The

slight annoyance you might have occasioned her was soon forgiven and

forgotten. Be as happy together as she prayed you might be. I can add

no higher wish for you both. But when you meet by chance an old maid,

do not forget that you were--Aunt Francisca's heirs.'

THE SHIPWRECKED MARINER'S

TREASURE.[3]

FROM THE DANISH OF CARIT ETLAR.

CHAPTER I.

One summer afternoon, two young fishermen were together before the door

of one of the last cottages which are situated between the sandhills

near Stadil Fiord, in the district of Ringkjoehing. The one was painting

a pair of oars, the other had stretched himself at full length along

the bench near the well, and was resting his head idly on both his

hands, while he watched his comrade's work. In this attitude his

countenance expressed a sort of quiet contentment, which seemed never

to have been disturbed by the storms of passion. He had a low forehead,

prominent eyes, a round face, smooth hair, combed straight down, and

colossal limbs. His companion was of more slender proportions, and

evidently possessed less bodily strength; but he seemed active, and

there was an expression of benevolence and honesty in his features that

could not fail to inspire confidence in him.

The sun was shining that afternoon from a cloudless sky; the larks were

singing, gulls and other sea-birds were flying about in circles in the

air; and the monotonous sound of the waves of the German Ocean, rolling

lazily on the Jutland coast, as, borne across the sandhills, was like

the audible breathing of a sleeping giant. The church bell at Vaedersoe

was ringing for the afternoon service. All was quiet and repose in that

sandy desert, where the eye in vain sought a tree, a bush, a single

blade of fresh green. Only the lymegrass amidst the hillocks, and here

and there a little yellow patch of rough, half-withered grass in the

hollows, varied the dismally uniform colour of the sand.

'Come, now,' said the young man who was doing nothing, after he had

remained a long time silently contemplating the other, 'put away that

paint-pot, and give up work for to-day. Wash your hands, Joergen, and

come with me to Vaedersoe; we will have a game at skittles. This is a

holiday, and one can't be always labouring.'

The young man thus addressed looked up and smiled, and after having for

a minute glanced at his handiwork with apparent pleasure, he exclaimed:

'I am ready now, Ebbe. But only look! I have painted two hearts, with a

wreath round them, inside of our names, which are to signify that you

and I will hold together in friendship and good companionship all our

days.'

'Yes, that we will, Joergen.'

'I don't see why one should be idle all Sunday, any more than on other

days,' said Joergen. 'In spring, you know, we two bought a boat

together; it was a very ugly one, and in a sadly dilapidated state, you

may remember; but in consequence of devoting our spare time to

repairing and beautifying it, we have now got as smart a little craft

as there is on the whole coast. I am never so happy as when I am at

work.'

'And I am never so happy as when I can lie quietly and comfortably on

my back in the sunshine, and look up at the heavens, as I am doing now.

I don't see the least use in a man's working harder than he absolutely

need do. You and I, Joergen, have been obliged to work since we were

quite little fellows. Our parents sent us away among strangers, because

they had no longer the means of maintaining us; we toiled and slaved

for the benefit of others, and for the same reward that they gave their

beasts--for mere food. From those days to this, we have never been

able, with our united efforts, to make more than the fifteen dollars we

paid for the boat. And now we must begin to labour afresh; and so we

shall be forced to go on through the whole of our lives, until we are

too old to work any more, and then we shall be thrust into the

poor-house, as our parents before us were, and get leave to hobble

about with a stick and a clay pot, to beg for food from those whom we

helped to enrich when we were young. You may laugh, Joergen, but what I

am saying is the plain truth nevertheless. If a poor lad such as I am

could only earn enough in his youth to enable him to take it easy in

his old age, he would be labouring to some purpose; if our gains could

amount to so much as the gains of the person who owns that large ship

out yonder; or if we could make as much as the lord of the manor at

Aabjerg possesses, who has nothing to do but to drive in summer round

his fields, with his hands behind his back, and his German pipe in his

mouth, and in winter to sit at home in his warm chimney-corner, and

play at cards with all the strangers that visit him, it would be

another thing. Ah, Joergen, Joergen! if one could only get so far as to

be able to take the reins in one's own hands, instead of carrying the

bit in one's mouth.'

Joergen shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Shortly afterwards, the two

young fishermen were to be seen strolling arm in arm to the village of

Vaedersoe.

Towards evening the weather changed; the skies became cloudy, and

before the sun had set the whole coast wore an aspect very different

from the peaceful calm that had reigned around in the earlier part of

the afternoon. A cold north-west wind blew in sharply from the sea,

whose waves, rising higher and higher every moment, sent a thick rain

of spray and foam over the adjacent sandhills, whilst the breakers

dashed loudly on the reefs along the shore. The sand began to whirl

about among the hills, and flocks of sea-gulls and other birds flew in

towards the beach, their hoarse and mournful cries predicting bad

weather.

The peasants at Vaedersoe had finished their games of skittles, and were

about to return to their homes, when a fisherman brought to the little

town the tidings that a foreign ship was in distress at sea, outside of

Husby Sandhills. This intelligence, which seemed to interest all who

heard it, drew particular attention from those who were standing in

groups. A number of men and women set off immediately on the way to the

sandhills, without heeding the rain and the coming storm.

Amidst the crowd who sought as speedily as possible to witness the

calamitous spectacle might be observed a person of a very peculiar

appearance. He was a tall, heavy-limbed man, with a blood-red

complexion, the natural hue of which became deeper and deeper every

moment, in consequence of the haste with which he was making his way

through the heavy sandy road. His face was encircled by a forest of

coal-black hair and beard, and shaded by a dark calf-skin cap. The

deep-set eyes were nearly hidden beneath a pair of dark eyebrows that

almost met over a nose which looked unnaturally broad, as chance had

not bestowed much length upon it. This was the village blacksmith. He

was by birth a Pole, and had served for some time in the army, under

the reign of Frederick VI.

The road from Vaedersoe to the sandhills, as has been said, was entirely

through sand. On both sides might be seen fields of rye, whose slender

pale blades were beaten down by the tempest. The smith had taken as a

companion along this fatiguing path a favourite and faithful friend,

who lived at free quarters in his house, and carried on in this

comfortable abode his trade, which was that of the village tailor.

These two persons were almost always to be seen together--the lesser

man, indeed, seemed to be quite a necessary appendage to the taller

one, who looked as if nature had appointed him the tailor's protector.

The merits of the latter, however, were not to be questioned; he was an

untiring listener, and so submissive and dependent that, if the smith

had pushed him out by the door, he would have crept back through a

window; so complaisant, that if the smith had chosen to tell a

falsehood, the tailor would have sworn to its truth.

These two individuals formed, for the moment, the centre of a group of

peasants who had gathered on the sandhills. Below, upon the sea-shore,

were to be seen several fishermen hard at work, drawing up their boats

farther on the beach, and when that was done, standing in silence,

anxiously contemplating the sea, on which a large ship was struggling

with the furious wind, and heavy waves that were every moment driving

it nearer to the land, notwithstanding all the efforts those on board

seemed making to escape the threatened danger.

The groups among the sandhills were less silent. The smith had just

declared, in decisive tones, to what nation the unfortunate ship

belonged.

'Yes, as I have this moment told you,' he continued, in the sort of

barbarous Danish in which he usually spoke. 'It is an English vessel,

and I thank God it is not Swedish.'

'Why?' asked the tailor.

'Because they build their ships with such bad timber--only fir and

pine--not an inch of good strong oak among it. I wish no evil to

anyone, or anything; but if it be our Lord's will that a ship is to be

run aground to-night, I am glad it should be an Englishman: those

English know how to build ships.'

'You are right, there, Master Harfiz!' said the tailor. 'What capital

iron bolts we got from the last wreck, and what excellent oak timber to

boot! When the wreck that is going to be is brought to auction, I shall

look out for a share of it.'

'And I also,' said the smith. 'I dare say, now, that craft out there

will furnish me with some good strong posts for my new smithy; it does

not look to be built of tinder or matches.'

'We can discern the goodness of the Almighty towards all mankind,'

remarked the tailor. 'No cotton grows here--no silk, no iron is to be

found; nothing, so to speak, but salt fish can be got on these bare

coasts, and He is good enough every year to let one or two vessels be

lost here that we may obtain what we require at a reasonable rate.'

'Yes, and He mercifully ordains this to happen generally in the fall of

the year,' added an old woman, 'because he knows that the winter is

approaching, and that poor folks want a little wood for firing to warm

themselves.'

'There is no dishonesty in taking what is cast in to us by the sea,'

said the tailor. 'They did much worse in old times down yonder at

Nymindegab.'

'At Nymindegab?' echoed the smith. 'I know nothing about it. What did

they do down there?'

'Don't you remember that true tale we heard last Candlemas at Thimgaard

about the rich nobleman Espen? He lived at a castle which was called

Ahner, and he used every stormy evening, and during the dark nights of

winter, to ride over the sandhills with a lighted lantern bound

underneath his horse, in order that the seafaring people who were

driven out of their course should fancy that the light came from a ship

sailing in deep water, and thus get stranded on the reefs while they

steered for the light. This went on well for a long time, and Espen of

Ahner became a very rich man, for all the wrecks on that part of the

coast belonged to him. But at length, just when he was celebrating his

daughter's wedding, a poor half-witted creature found his way into the

castle, and disclosed their lord's evil deeds to all his vassals.'[4]

During this conversation the ship, which had excited the attention of

so many, had tried several times to tack about, so as to get away from

the shore, but the attempt had always failed. In the terrible storm,

which seemed to be increasing every moment, it was no longer possible

to carry such a press of sail as was required to take the ship out. Its

fate could not, therefore, long be doubtful, as every swell of the sea

brought it nearer and nearer to the dangerous reefs which stretched

along the coast.

It is about half a century since the events here related took place. At

that period the German Ocean had dashed many a wreck over the outer

reef, and many a cry for help or death-groan had been wafted away by

the stormy wind, or smothered by the sea, before anyone thought of

taking effective measures to give help to the drowning mariners. On the

occasion of the shipwreck in question, however, the unfortunate crew

were often so close to the land that their despairing cries and earnest

prayers were distinctly heard on shore, and the tempest had driven them

within the outer reef, their vessel almost smashed to pieces indeed,

but so near that, but for the fury of the waves, the fishermen could

have got out to them even in their frail boats, and have saved them.

In the meantime daylight had gone, but in the summer evening even

distant objects were still visible; and when the moon struggled forth

from the heavy clouds, in the pale and tremulous light it cast over the

sea, the ill-fated ship could be seen driving, with two or three small

sails up, nearer to the coast. Presently one of the masts went

overboard, was caught in the cordage, and hung on one side of the hull.

From time to time, between the more furious gusts of wind, the gale

bore heartrending cries of distress to the land. All exercise of

authority on board seemed to have been long given up, everyone

apparently thinking only of saving himself. A boat was with difficulty

lowered, but it filled the moment it reached the water.

The crowd on the beach was now increased by two persons--the lord of

the manor from Aabjerg and his son. The first-named was a very stout

man, muffled up in a thick great-coat and a fur-cap, with wings that

came close down over his ears, and were tied under his chin. He had a

tobacco-pouch well fastened to a button-hole in his overcoat, and was

smoking a large German pipe. His son was a lieutenant in the Lancers at

Kolding, on a visit for a few days at his father's country-house. He

wore that evening a blue uniform, and carried an umbrella, which was

every minute almost turned inside out by the wind.

'Hark ye, good people!' cried the great man, stretching his chin over

the enormous handkerchief that enveloped his throat; 'we must try and

do something for them out yonder. It would be a sin to let all these

poor fellows perish, would it not--eh? What say you?'

'God have mercy on them!' muttered an old fisherman. 'It is too heavy a

sea for any boat to live in; we can do nothing for them, Herr

Krigsraad.'[5]

'Not if I promise a ten-dollar note to anyone who will take a rope out

to them? What! Is there not one of you who will try it?'

The fishermen looked at each other, and shrugged their shoulders; but

no one spoke.

'I shall add five dollars to my father's ten,' cried the lieutenant.

'Well, I think this is a very good offer,' said the Krigsraad.

'But you must not take too long to consider about it,' added his son.

'Courage, my lads! It only wants hearty good will and a pair of strong

arms, and you will soon reach them out yonder.'

'Since the noble Herr lieutenant thinks so, he had better make the

attempt himself,' said one of the fishermen. 'Your honour seems to have

a pair of strong enough arms; I will lend you my boat for this

venturesome deed, but I won't sell my life for any money.'

'The impertinent scoundrel!' muttered the young officer, turning

towards his father. 'I wish I had him on the drill-ground at Kolding.'

'For Heaven's sake be quiet, lieutenant,' whispered his father, 'and

don't draw me into a quarrel with my fishermen. That man is no coward;

I have myself seen him and another rescue sailors from a wreck in the

most frightful weather, when there seemed no more chance of his getting

safely back than there would be for me were I to try to wade out yonder

in my great-coat.'

While this short colloquy was going on, a piercing cry was heard from

the wreck--a gigantic billow had raised the ship aloft and cast it in

over the reef; when the waves rolled back the vessel lay on its side,

having been raised and dashed down again several times in the raging

surf, and left lying partially buried in the sand. After this, every

wave washed over it with a force that must have been seen to have been

believed possible, and which, in the course of a few minutes, swept the

deck clean of every object that had hitherto been securely fastened on

it.

In the confusion which followed, another cry of distress arose, and

those of the fishermen who stood nearest to the water, thought in the

dusk that they perceived many of the sailors carried away by the sea,

which, unchecked, was rolling over the deck. As the swelling waves

dashed forward, these unfortunate victims stretched out their arms.

When they retired, nothing more was to be seen: the men were gone.

Three sailors had crept up the shrouds, and had lashed themselves to

the only remaining mast, and every now and then the wind carried to the

land their agonized appeals to the people on shore to save them.

Shortly after a boat was seen to be shoved off from the beach with four

men in it; they bowed their heads, took off their hats, and held them

for a few moments before their faces, while they seemed to be offering

up a short prayer, then they let the boat glide out into deep water.

The four men stood up, and appeared to be working hard to get over the

inner reefs. For a short time the boat went bravely on, the oars were

plied by experienced hands, and every effort was made to reach the

stranded ship, but the raging sea cast them back, and filled the boat,

and the fishermen were obliged to return without having effected their

object.

At length, the next morning, about dawn of day, the storm seemed to be

abating. In the interim those who still remained on the wreck had made

another effort to reach the land in one of the boats which had not been

carried away from the ship, but had continued fastened to its side. But

this attempt also failed; the waves broke over the unfortunate boat,

and relentlessly swept it out to sea. When the sun came forth only one

man was to be seen, and he was lashed to the mast.

The Krigsraad returned to the beach at an early hour, and renewed his

appeals to the fishermen. Ebbe and Joergen were both there; they had not

left the sea-shore the whole night.

'The weather is not so wild as it was,' whispered Joergen to Ebbe, 'and

the sea is not so terribly rough. What do you say to our making the

attempt? Our boat floats lightly, and will stand the waves better than

any of the others.'

'It can't be done,' replied Ebbe; 'we should be risking too much--our

beautiful newly-painted boat, that we spent everything we had to buy!

You don't remember all that.'

'I remember that once when my father was shipwrecked up near Skagen, he

was fastened to a mast like that poor man out yonder; let us do as the

natives of Skagen did, and save him.'

'Let us wait a little longer, at least,' whispered Ebbe, eagerly.

'Perhaps the Krigsraad may offer a larger reward presently.'

Joergen cast a reproachful look at his comrade, and said,

'God forgive you for the sin of thinking of money and reward at such a

moment as this. I won't wait; and if you do not choose to go, I will

get some one else to accompany me; for, happen what may, I am resolved

to attempt the rescue of that poor man.'

'Have a little patience,' cried Ebbe, holding Joergen back by his arm.

'Just wait till I take off my new waistcoat and my nice cravat; it

would be a shame to spoil them with salt water.'

'What are you two consulting about?' asked the Krigsraad, going up to

them. 'Have you determined to go out yonder, my lad?'

'We shall attempt to do so,' replied the young fisherman.

'That's right, Joergen! you are a brave fellow, and have more courage

than all your comrades put together. Well done.'

'I am younger than any of them,' replied Joergen, blushing at the great

man's praise, 'and I have neither wife nor child to grieve for me if

any accident happens to me.'

'I also am going,' said Ebbe, in a doleful voice. 'I also will risk my

health and my life to save a suffering fellow-creature. And though your

honour was so good as to promise a reward, I must beg you not to think

that I am going for the sake of the money. Nevertheless, I shall accept

it, for I am betrothed to a little girl here in the neighbourhood, and

the money might be useful to her if I am lost.'

'Go, then, in Heaven's name!' cried the Krigsraad. 'What! Do you think

I am the man to withhold the ten dollars I promised?'

'It was fifteen, sir,' observed Ebbe.

'Well, well, fifteen then! Make yourself easy, I shall be as good as my

word; but be off now!'

'I shall trust to your word, sir--and there are witnesses,' mumbled

Ebbe.

Ebbe then divested himself of his new green-and-red-striped vest and

gay-coloured necktie, which he put away carefully together under one of

the boats that were drawn up on the beach. He then went down to Joergen,

who was busy launching a small, newly-painted boat into the sea.

'The weather is moderating,' cried the Krigsraad, filling his pipe

comfortably. 'I think the sun is going to shine briskly.'

'Our Lord is pleased that we are so humane as to risk our all in order

to save a human being who is a stranger to us,' whined Ebbe, as he took

his place in the boat with Joergen.

It was a moment full of anxiety and sympathy when the frail little boat

was caught in the first heavy sea, was thrown up aloft, and then hidden

among the engulphing waves! The crowd on the beach stood silent and

breathless, and even the Krigsraad forgot his newly-lighted pipe. He

mounted on a fragment of rock, holding his hand over his eyes, and

standing with his head bowed forward, intently watching the treacherous

sea; and he was the first to break the silence with a loud oath, when

Joergen's boat glided safely over the reef, and up to the side of the

shipwrecked vessel. A thrilling shout burst forth at that moment from

the spectators on shore--a shout full of triumph and joy; it rang over

the waters as far off as the wreck, and Joergen was seen to turn towards

the land and wave his hat in the air, after which he made his boat fast

to the shattered ship by the end of a rope that was hanging loosely

from the fallen mast, and crept up by the side of the wreck.

The one man still clinging to it had fastened himself on the bowl of

the mast. At the extreme end of the ship stood a black, shaggy-haired

dog, who, with a weak, suppressed whine, was gazing out on the open

sea, without taking the slightest notice of the strangers. When Joergen

reached the deck the man turned his head towards him, made a sign with

his hand, and murmured repeatedly one word--'Water!'

'I am sorry you will have to wait till we reach the land,' said Joergen,

'but, with God's help, that shall not be long.'

'I am afraid I have got my chest very much injured,' said the man, in

the mixture of low German and Danish which he spoke. 'The same accursed

wave which carried off our captain with it during the night dashed me

down from the bowl of the mast, where I had lashed myself with the end

of a rope, to prevent my being washed overboard. Whilst I was hanging

there a heavy sea came rolling over the wreck, and it drove me with

such force against the mast, that I lost all sense and consciousness.

Since then it has been almost impossible for me to hold out against the

weather, and I was on the point of loosening the rope, and letting

myself go down to Davy's locker with the rest, when I saw your boat put

off from the shore. In the name of Heaven, why were you so long of

coming to our assistance?'

'We dared not venture out sooner,' replied Joergen, 'on account of the

awful storm.'

'Do you call this bit of a puff of wind a storm?' cried the man,

scornfully. 'It is more likely that you were afraid of a wet jacket, or

of catching cold. Ah well! I must not complain; you have done what you

could, and I'm thinking that you yourself will profit the most by

having saved me.'

'I don't know what you mean by _profit_.'

'Oh, that's not the question just now. Help me to get free of this

rope; my hands are so cramped that I can scarcely use them, and let us

be off.'

Whilst Joergen was assisting the man, who at every movement that he made

uttered a sigh or groan of pain, a voice was heard from the boat.

'Make haste to come, Joergen, or Ebbe will lose the boat.'

'What do you say?' cried Joergen, much surprised. 'I say that our boat

will be thumped to pieces--to splinters--lying here and knocking

against the wreck. Already the edge of the gunwale has started, and we

have sprung a leak on one side; so come down, Joergen--it is too

unreasonable for anyone to expect that we should risk ourselves and our

all to save other people.'

'A brave comrade you have got!' muttered the stranger, as Joergen

carried rather than helped him down out of the shrouds. 'Call out to

him, and tell him that I have with me that which would make him cry his

eyes out to lose if he does not take me safely from this wreck.'

Joergen full well knew what effect this intelligence would have upon

Ebbe, and instantly repeated to him the stranger's words. The object

was attained, for Ebbe immediately came creeping up the side of the

wreck, to assist in bringing the shipwrecked man down to the boat. The

suffering seaman groaned repeatedly, and the exertion of moving seemed

almost too much for him; bloody froth issued from his lips, and when he

reached the boat he sank down exhausted at the bottom of it. The poor

dog, meanwhile, had never stirred from its place, although Joergen had

done his best to coax it to come to him; the animal had turned his head

for once towards him, and then sprang to a higher part of the wreck,

with a dismal and heart-rending howl.

'There is no use in your calling that beast,' murmured the stranger.

'He has stood in one place and done nothing but howl since his master,

the captain, was washed overboard. He will not quit the ship as long as

a plank of it is left. Cast loose the rope, and push out with the oars,

you there in the flannel waistcoat, who were afraid of scratching your

smart little craft.'

After this petulant speech, the stranger laid himself back in the boat,

and closed his eyes. Joergen loosened the rope; as he did so, a wave

carried the boat at once far away from the wreck. The dog was the only

living creature left on board of it, and he did not seem to perceive

that the boat was speeding fast away.

As they were rowing towards the land, Joergen and Ebbe had a good

opportunity of observing the stranger. He was a man apparently about

fifty, partially bald, with a round forehead, high nose, pointed chin,

and a shrewd and cunning expression of countenance, which was strongly

marked, even though the eyes were closed. Ebbe surveyed his prostrate

figure with a degree of veneration, and much would he have given to

have known where the treasure could be deposited in safety, to which

the unknown had so recently referred, and with the possession of which

his humble attire so ill accorded.

The passage from the wreck back to the land was made speedily, and in

silence, until they had got over the innermost reef, which the receding

tide had left almost bare of water; then suddenly arose a cry of

exultation from the fishermen on shore. At that sound the stranger

opened his eyes, raised his head, and exclaimed:

'What are they shouting for in there? Oh! I suppose it is in honour of

the great feat you have accomplished. Nonsense! How far is it from this

place to Hjerting?'

'About nine miles,' replied Joergen.

'North or south?'

'South.'

'Ah, I thought sure enough that we had made a mistake in our reckoning;

but it must be forgiven, since it was the last piece of stupidity our

blessed captain has been allowed to commit. Are you quite sure that it

is not more than nine miles to Hjerting?' he asked again a little

after, as if the matter were of great consequence to him.

The two fishermen repeated the assertion.

'Are you going on to Hjerting?' asked Ebbe.

'Certainly; my sympathizing friend, it is easy to travel nine miles[6]

with a severe wound in one's chest. Find me a hut to lie down in and a

doctor to put plaster on me, and I shall want nothing more just at

present. I have the means to pay you for everything you do for me. And

now not another question or another word, for I feel the greatest pain

whenever I open my mouth to speak.'

In the course of another hour the stranger was lying comfortably in

Joergen and Ebbe's hut. He had reported himself to the Krigsraad as the

first mate, Fourness, from Amrom. Joergen had gone to Vaedersoe to ask

assistance from the smith, who, in addition to his other

accomplishments, also carried on secretly the profession of a medical

man among the peasantry in the neighbourhood. Joergen found the learned

gentleman sitting in his smithy, surrounded by some countrymen, to whom

he was reading aloud the political intelligence from a soiled

provincial newspaper that was lying, spread open, upon his knees. In

the furthest corner of the workshop an apprentice was busy shoeing two

horses.

When Joergen mentioned his errand, the smith put away his newspaper with

alacrity, and instantly gave all his attention to the report of the

case.

'Do you think you will be able to cure him, master,' added the young

fisherman, 'or shall I go on to Ringkjoebing, though it is so much

farther off, for the doctor of the district?'

'I'll tell you what, Joergen,' replied the smith, in a raised voice, and

with a look that betokened the utmost self-confidence, 'I will

undertake to cure any creature who is not already dead, and even then

sometimes they may be called back, as the worthy priest can testify,

who knows that about Easter, last year, I brought back to life his

brown filly, after it had been dead for nearly half-an-hour. If that

can be done with a filly, I should think it can be done with a human

being. Why not? But where is he wounded? In the head?'

'No; in the breast.'

'So much the better. We must give him something. I shall take my pills

with me; if they don't set him to rights, you can order his grave to be

dug. Come over the way, Joergen, and let us have a dram together before

we set off to cure the man.'

The smith then left his workshop accompanied by Joergen. His secret--the

preparation of these wonderful pills--it may be mentioned here, was

found out some years later, during an investigation which took place

before the magistrates of Ringkjoebing, on the occasion of the worthy

smith being charged with culpable quackery. They were only made of rye

bread and the juice of walnut leaves!

While Joergen had gone to summon the smith, Ebbe had remained with the

sufferer, who seemed to have become worse since he had landed, for he

moaned repeatedly, and tossed about as if in pain on his bed. Ebbe sat

by the window in silence, reflecting deeply upon the words of promise

the stranger had let fall before he had left the wreck.

'What are you sitting there and waiting for?' asked the seaman, when he

observed Ebbe.

'I am sitting here to see if you want any help before the doctor

comes.'

'Yes, I want something. Get me another glass of grog, and let it be

warm and strong. Do you hear?'

'It is not good for you, mate. When Joergen went away he said you were

not to have more than one glass of grog, and you have already drunk

three.'

'You blackguard! mix me a glass directly. Don't you think I am the best

judge of what is good for me?'

Ebbe arose and went towards the fireplace, where a kettle of water was

boiling. A bottle, half full, stood upon the table.

'It is too bad, when rum is so dear with us in these parts,' muttered

the fisherman, while he mixed the grog. The stranger took no notice of

him. 'I had to give three marks for the pint I bought for you.'

The mate still remained silent.

'Please to remember, mate, that the money spent for your rum was mine,'

said Ebbe, in a surly tone.

'Oh yes, I shall remember it. Make yourself easy; you shall have your

money back. What are three marks to me? I could cover you with gold, if

it were not a useless expense.'

Ebbe's eyes sparkled, and he looked with reverence at the unknown, as

he approached the bed with the desired grog. The mate raised himself,

seized the glass, and emptied it at one draught.

'Ah!' he exclaimed, while his face was distorted with pain, 'that _was_

warm! It burned me more than the confounded wound, but it will do me

good for all that.'

'No doubt you have made many long voyages, sir?' said the fisherman,

after a short silence.

'Yes, I have,' replied the stranger; 'you may swear to that.'

'And is that how you have gathered so much money?'

'What money?' asked the mate.

'That which might cover me with gold, if you liked.'

'Oh, to be sure--no, indeed! That would have been impossible. The money

I own I could not have made myself if I had been as old as the German

Ocean.'

'Mercy on us! How can you carry so much money about with you?'

'Who said that I carried it about with me? Blockhead! I have disposed

of it better than that. The earth keeps it safely for me; I can take it

when I want it; and I intend to take it up as soon as I am well. Then

we shall have a jolly life. It has been long enough of commencing. But

don't talk any more to me now; the pain is increasing.'

Shortly after Joergen, accompanied by the smith, entered the hut. The

shipwrecked guest turned his face towards the wall as they approached,

but on Joergen's informing him that the doctor had come, he muttered a

few unintelligible words, and then stretched forth his hand, without

altering his position. The smith evidently misunderstood the meaning of

the action, for he laid hold of the outstretched hand and shook it

heartily, while he said in a cheerful tone, 'Good morning.'

'The mischief take you!' cried the sailor, as he raised himself

quickly. 'What sort of a doctor is that you have brought me, young man?

I put out my hand that he might feel my pulse, as they always used to

do at the hospitals, and he wrings it so furiously that I feel the

shock through my whole body. Confound it!'

When the smith heard these words, which were spoken in the Low-German

dialect, his scarlet face assumed a very benignant expression.

'So you are a German!' he exclaimed, in the same dialect; 'then we are

almost countrymen. So much the better. I have nothing to do with your

pulse, my good friend, and I should like to ask any sensible man, what

use there would be in feeling the arm when the wound is in the breast.

Turn over a little bit towards the window, and let us see what the

injury is. If you are not able to move yourself, let me get hold of

you, and I will turn you in the twinkling of an eye.'

There was something in the smith's sharp and determined way of speaking

that seemed to please the stranger; he turned towards the light, and

opened his vest and his under-garment. However rough and unsusceptible

the three spectators might have been, they all started back at the

sight of the frightful wound which they beheld before them.

'Well, what do you say to this?' asked the sufferer.

'Heavens and earth!' cried the smith, grasping his own hair tightly in

his dismay. 'This really does look dangerous! I would rather have to

deal with a horse in the worst case of staggers, than to cure such an

awful hurt. The person who expects to set you to rights must indeed

look sharp.'

'Of course you must look sharp; but only standing staring at me won't

be of any use,' said Fourness. 'What do you think of doing with it?'

'You must have a good large plaster on it; and you must take some

medicine. I have brought my pills with me.'

'The plaster with all my heart; get it ready at once; but I'll have

none of your pills. I once swallowed a whole boxful of pills, and they

did not do me the least good.'

'But you _must_ take the pills,' replied the smith, decidedly. 'There

is no use in jabbering about your past experience, my good man; you

have got a nasty wound in your chest, as you see yourself, but you also

feel ill internally, don't you?'

'To be sure I do.'

'Now listen. I know what I am about. A breast like yours resembles a

watch that has been smashed almost to pieces. What would be the use of

putting in a new glass if the works inside were not repaired also? So

you must take the pills; and if you make any fuss about it, we shall

have to hold you fast, stick the handle of a hammer in your mouth to

keep it open, and so pop them down your throat. _I_ know how to manage

you.'

The mate felt himself too weak to struggle with his powerful medical

attendant, and he made no further objections. The smith cast a

significant glance towards the two young fishermen as he betook himself

to the table, where he set about spreading an enormous pitch plaster.

'Come, this will do you good!' he said, when he returned to the bed to

put the plaster on the wound. 'And see, here is a packet of pills. I

shall give you some of these at once; and if you should be worse before

I come back, you must take half-a-dozen more; they will certainly

relieve you. I shall call again early in the evening.'

The wound was bandaged; and, after giving a few directions, the smith

left the hut. Towards the afternoon the invalid became much worse, in

spite of the remedies which had been applied. The wound burned under

the pitch plaster; he tore it off; and, cursing and swearing, he

refused to take any more of the prescribed pills. In this state the

smith found him in the evening.

'How do you _really_ think that he is?' asked Ebbe, who had called the

learned man aside.

'Well, I think it is a very doubtful case,' replied the smith. 'Since

my pills have done him no good, not to speak of the plaster, I am

inclined to believe he is pretty near his last gasp.'

'Do you mean that he is actually in danger?' inquired Ebbe, with a

degree of interest which was inspired by the thoughts of the mate's

gold and the unpaid rum.

'When a person is ill there is always danger,' said the smith; 'and as

he will not use the means for his recovery which I advise, I think the

best thing either you or Joergen could do would be to go and call the

parish doctor.'

'You are right,' said Ebbe; 'I will go for him.'

'When you see him, you need not say anything about my having been here.

These folks with diplomas are so very jealous. And I think you had

better lose no time before you set off. And--by-the-by, Ebbe, you can

keep the rest of my pills, lest you should be ill yourself some day.

They won't spoil by keeping.'

The smith took his departure, and Ebbe soon after also left the hut,

and set off for Ringkjoebing to call the doctor. Joergen remained alone

with the patient.

CHAPTER II.

'How long will it probably be before he brings the doctor?' asked the

stranger, after a considerable silence.

'He will be here soon. There is a man who lives down at Vaedersoe, to

whom we have sometimes been of service, he will lend Ebbe his gig, and

if the doctor be at home they may be here before nightfall.'

'I hardly think I shall hold out so long; the wound in my chest burns

like a glowing coal, Joergen, and my breath is failing me. Lord help me!

Must I lie down and die now--now that I am just close upon the

realization of all my wishes? For eleven long years I have been

speculating on coming to this coast. I wanted to set up my rest here. I

have plenty of means--plenty of means, and could live like a king; but

first came that accursed shipwreck, and then, after I was so fortunate

as to reach the land, to be obliged to creep into a dog-hole like this!

There is no luck with the money--it is mixed up with blood and

injustice!'

'What money?' asked Joergen, in amazement.

'What, the devil! why that of which I am speaking, to be sure. But I

will do some good with it. Do you need an hospital here, among these

sandhills? If so, I shall have one built, so large that a man-of-war

might tack about in it. I will build a tower, too, with a lighthouse at

the top of it, to warn my comrades not to approach too near the coast.

And I will go to church every Sunday, and listen to the preacher, who

tells us that we are never too old to repent.'

'How will you find the means to build these places?' asked Joergen,

simply. 'Bricks and timber are so expensive up hereabouts.'

'But do you not hear that I know where a large treasure is buried, that

it belongs to me--_me_ alone, and that I have only to dig it up in

order to make use of it? I believe I am able to pay for anything I

please.'

Joergen shook his head incredulously. 'He is delirious, and does not

know what he is saying,' he thought. 'I wish Ebbe would come with the

doctor.' Then, turning to the invalid, he said,

'So you have been on this coast before, mate?'

'Yes, lad, that I have. Eleven years ago I landed down yonder, near

Hjerting, pretty much in the same way as I did here this morning. I am

only afraid I shan't come off so well here as I did there.'

The sick man was interrupted by the opening of the cottage door, and

the entrance of the smith, who said,

'I have come to tell you that Ebbe might have saved himself the journey

to town, for the doctor drove a little while ago into Aabjerg. I went

up there, and he has promised to call here as soon as he leaves the

Krigsraad's.'

'Coming at last!' exclaimed the sufferer. 'Then I shall soon be well

again. Tell him, from me, that he will be the cause of a great calamity

if he does not come soon.'

'That I will,' replied the smith, shrugging his shoulders, and glancing

towards Joergen. 'Do me a favour, Joergen, my boy. Just put my pills out

of sight, and say nothing about my having been here.'

Shortly after a carriage was heard making its way through the sandy

road, and the physician entered the hut. He only needed a quick glance

at his patient to perceive how hopeless was his condition.

'Poor man!' he exclaimed, as he prepared to bleed him, 'you have been

sadly hurt.'

'Oh, not so badly, after all,' replied the mate. 'Last year, about this

time, the whole of the upper part of my arm was torn to pieces by the

chain of the anchor--that was worse. You will be able to cure me. It is

very strange that I feel such difficulty in speaking; my voice seems to

be so husky, too! How long do you think it will be till I get on my

legs again?'

'Why it is hardly possible to name a time.'

'The doctors here are good for nothing. In England they charge higher,

but they know their business better.'

'Have you taken anything since you came ashore?'

'Nothing whatsoever. I have only wet my lips with three or four small

glasses of grog; but it is very odd, I don't feel the least inclination

for any more.'

After the doctor had done all that he possibly could to alleviate the

sufferings of the poor stranger, he was turning to go, but the sick man

grasped his hand, endeavoured to raise himself in his bed, and

exclaimed, with impetuosity,

'You won't leave me, doctor? Are you angry at what I said about

physicians? Pray think nothing of that; it is a habit I have got of

amusing myself by teazing people. You must stay with me to-night--all

night. Do you hear, sir? You need not be afraid that you will be giving

your time for nothing.'

'I have not asked, and I do not expect, any fee,' said the doctor; 'but

I have other patients who require my help as well as you. I shall see

you again early to-morrow morning. God be with you till we meet again,

mate!

He left the room, and Joergen followed him out.

'And will you really be so kind as to return early to-morrow morning,

Herr Doctor?'

'Yes, my friend, I shall most certainly come; but, to say the truth, I

fear that my visit will be of no use, for to-morrow your guest will no

longer need my assistance.

'What do you mean, sir?'

'I mean that he will be dead before to-morrow, and that no human skill

can save him. If you should find an opportunity, you had better prepare

him for this. Good night.'

The physician drove away; Joergen returned to the invalid. He found him

sitting on the side of the bed, the light of the lamp falling full upon

his face, which, during the last hour, had become of a pale bluish hue.

He was pressing his hand on his chest, as if to lessen the pain, while

with a thick and trembling voice he whispered,

'Hark ye, Joergen! Yonder, in the breast-pocket of my pea-jacket there

is a small leather purse with nine Prussian thalers in it. Will you

earn one of them?'

'I don't understand you, mate,' said Joergen, much surprised.

'What did the doctor say of me outside of the door there?'

Joergen considered for a moment or two what he should answer. 'Oh!' he

came out with at length, 'he said--'

'In the devil's name, let me have no evasive answer,' cried the mate,

raising his voice. 'I will know what he said, word for word; and if I

give you a Prussian thaler to speak the truth, I think you are pretty

well paid to open your mouth. So, out with it!'

'Do you wish to know the whole truth?' asked Joergen, seizing his hand.

'Certainly.'

'All that he said?'

'Ah! it was nothing very cheering, I perceive,' remarked the sufferer,

in a low tone, and with trembling lips. 'But speak out, my lad--speak

out! Whatever that withered old stick could say, I can bear to hear.'

'Well, then,' stammered Joergen, in considerable agitation, 'he said--he

said--that you had not long to live.'

'Did he, indeed! Well, well, one must put up with that. A few years of

comfort and pleasure are probably worth a long life of care and want.'

'Ah! God help you, and send you better thoughts, mate: you cannot look

forward to _years_.'

'May I not? How long can I count upon, Joergen? Speak, my son. Why do

you hang your head so? I have seen death too often close under my eyes

to be afraid of it. When did he hint that I might be called away?'

'He said that you would die to-night, and that no human skill could

save you.'

There was a deep and prolonged silence in the room after these words

had been uttered.

'To-night!' at length exclaimed the mate, in thick and trembling

accents. 'I am to die _to-night!_' And as he repeated this dreadful

sentence he burst into tears, and into loud, convulsive sobs.

Joergen was much affected; he wrung the sick man's hand, but did not

venture to speak for fear of betraying his emotion. At length he said,

in a subdued and sad voice,

'Take comfort, mate! If you will allow me, I will read a hymn to you.'

'A hymn!' exclaimed the stranger, starting. 'Ah, well--read it.

The young fisherman took a hymn-book from a shelf, and began to read in

a low and trembling voice,

'Teach me, like autumn leaves, to fade

With joy, oh yellow forest glade!

A brighter spring is nigh.

The summer of eternity

Reigns where, an ever-verdant tree,

My roots shall never die.

'Teach me--oh, wandering bird! like thee

To wing my way, undaunted, free,

To distant unknown lands;

When here, 'tis winter, storm and ice,

Yonder, an endless paradise,

Open, before me stands!'

The dying man had apparently been listening to the hymn with earnest

attention, even devotion, while his clasped hands lay on the coverlet;

suddenly he turned towards the light, and exclaimed:

'Hark ye, Joergen! If you will swear to me not to reveal what I am now

going to tell you, I will confide a secret to you.'

'Certainly,' replied Joergen, who, shocked at this sudden interruption

of the hymn, laid the book aside.

'Come closer to my bed--my voice is growing weaker, and pay particular

attention to what I say:

'Eleven years ago I went as a sailor in a Neustader merchantman; we

came from England, where we had sold a cargo of dye-woods, silk, and

spices from Canton, and on which the firm, in whose employment I was,

had made a considerable sum of money. Well, we were driven ashore near

Hjerting, and forced to try and save ourselves in boats. It happened

then like last night---the long boat was overcrowded; it capsized and

sank! The captain had brought up his papers and a little box from the

cabin, and was standing ready to go in the second boat, when an

enormous wave washed him overboard. There were then but two men left;

the one was myself, the other was the cook. We took the box, which

contained all the cash for which the cargo had been sold, got into the

boat, and reached the land in safety. This was at night, pitch dark,

and in a pouring rain. Our first care was to bury the box--after

that--'

'Go on, mate. I am listening to you, and I have promised secresy; you

may depend upon me.'

'Well, then,' continued the man, apparently with a strong effort

overcoming his repugnance to say more, and in a lower and more unsteady

tone of voice, 'after that something happened--which I have regretted

and repented deeply--something which I can never forget: after that I

killed the cook, that I might be the sole possessor of the contents of

the case.'

'You murdered him!' whispered Joergen. 'God forgive you!'

'I did! But it was not such a sin after all. He was a bad, malicious

fellow; he cooked shockingly, and was always making mischief between us

and the mates. The next morning I was sent to my native home, and I

left the case, well knowing that it was safe enough where it was

deposited. Time passed on, and I went to sea again. First I went to

Brazil, and then I went to the South Sea for the whale fishery,

and so on, until full eleven years had elapsed before I had a chance

of returning to the place where my treasure was. At length, luck

favoured me, and I had determined to begin a new life, and to enjoy my

money--and now, I am lying here in the agonies of death! But no, no--it

is a fabrication of the cursed doctor's! I will not die! I once lay ill

for fourteen months in the hospital at Boston, and became quite well

again. Remember, you have sworn never to disclose a syllable of what I

have told you. May God punish you if you betray me! Come closer to my

bed. How cold it is this evening! Below the wall of Oxby church, at the

corner facing the north, lies the buried case, among three hard stones.

If I should not recover, you can dig up the box, and keep what you

find. Have you understood me?'

'Yes, I have, perfectly well; but it is not worth talking more about,

mate. I shall not meddle with your money--there could be no luck with

it. Will you listen if I read another hymn to you?'

'Yes, read a psalm, Joergen; it is long since I have heard of our Lord.'

Joergen began to read slowly, and with much feeling; he was often

stopped by his own agitation, and at these times he heard the dying

man's breathing becoming thicker, and a rattling occasionally in his

throat. He also heard now and then a sigh and a low murmur, which he

supposed to be the invalid repeating what he had read. Suddenly, the

mate laid his hand upon his arm, and exclaimed,

'I am counting about how much money there may be in that case, my lad.

You will find much more than you can possibly make use of. When I was

last at home, my brother lived at Amrom; you must send him fifty

guineas. I know that they won't be particularly well spent, for he has

taken to the bottle, poor creature! But that cannot be helped, it is

his only gratification now.'

Joergen nodded his head, and began to read aloud again.

'Oh, put away that book,' said the mate; 'what is the use of your

sitting there, and reading that I shall go to heaven, and that I am

tired of being in this world, when it is not true? I will live, and

live merrily with all my money.'

A long and uncomfortable silence prevailed for some time in the room,

which was only broken by the monotonous and uniform ticking of an old

clock that hung against the wall. The moonbeams were streaming in

brightly at the window, the storm had ceased, and the sky was clear and

cloudless.

'If it should go hard with me, see that you have a large three-masted

ship made with full rigging. It must be painted black and green, with a

red water-line, and my name, in large gold letters, must be put on the

stern. I make a present of this to Vaedersoe church, and it shall hang

there from the roof.'

One hour later, and the stranger was dead!

Whilst this scene was taking place in Joergen's hut, Ebbe was on his way

back from Ringkjoebing, deeply buried in reflecting on the unusual gains

the last day or two had brought him.

'It is too bad that I am obliged to share all this money with Joergen,'

he said to himself; 'this stupid partnership won't do. I will see about

getting rid of it, and carrying on the business on my own account. The

foreign mate shall help me to manage this; he must have money, for he

has several times alluded to it; he is too ill to leave our house for

some time to come, and before he is able to go I shall have made

something out of him. Besides, he owes me some recompense, for I helped

to bring him off from the wreck.'

Thus far he had proceeded in his cogitations, when the conveyance

stopped at the door of his cottage. The light was extinguished in the

room; Joergen was lying, fast asleep, upon a mattress stuffed with

sea-weed, on the floor. He awoke as Ebbe opened the door.

'I have had bad luck,' said Ebbe, in a whisper, 'and have gone my

errand for nothing. The doctor had driven out of the town an hour

before my arrival.'

'I know that very well,' replied Joergen. 'He has been here.'

'How is the sick man?' asked Ebbe, striking a light.

'He is dead!' said Joergen.

'Dead!' cried Ebbe, in a tone that sufficiently evinced how many hopes

and expectations that one word had overthrown. 'Dead! Good Lord! Poor

man! Did he pay you the three marks I laid out for him in rum?'

'No!'

'Then it was a disgraceful imposition on his part, setting forth to me

that he was able to repay us tenfold for all our trouble. Did you look

to see how much money he had with him? I am quite convinced that he

possessed nothing, and that he only wanted to make fools of us.'

'Now, be done with all this, Ebbe,' said Joergen, almost out of

patience. 'He did not intend to deceive you; and he was in the right

when he said that he had the means of repaying us tenfold for what we

did for him.'

'Really!' exclaimed Ebbe, with a smile, and a glance strangely

expressive of covetousness. 'Then he _had_ a good deal of money?'

'No; but he knew where to find a good deal of money. He had been

shipwrecked once before on this coast, and then he buried a box, which,

according to his representation, contains much more than we two could

ever dream of possessing. He described to me the place where it is

concealed.'

'To you!' exclaimed Ebbe. 'Indeed! Did he not say that you and I were

to divide the treasure between us?'

'No!'

Ebbe seemed lost in thought; he remained silent for some minutes, while

his countenance underwent an unpleasant change.

'Then it is you who have become rich--you alone; and I have helped to

bring this about. Well, well, it was to be so. What quantity of money

is hidden away in the box?'

'Oh! how should I know? Judging by what he said, there may be several

thousand dollars. But do not let us talk any more about it now. The

cocks are crowing, it will soon be morning, and I am so sleepy. Come,

lie down near me, and put out the light.'

'Several thousand dollars!' continued Ebbe. 'Good Lord! And all this

money is yours! If I had not gone to fetch a doctor for him he would

surely have said that we were to divide it. Are you quite certain that

he absolutely said nothing about that, Joergen?'

'No, he did not; but that is no reason why we should not divide it.'

'Oh, of course! You would be a fool if you did that. Dear me! Several

thousand dollars! You will be able to buy a new boat, with an English

compass in it. Oh, yes! you will be able to buy a house for yourself,

and, moreover, to put some of the money out at a good interest. It is

enough to make one mad. Will you spare me five dollars for a watch, eh,

Joergen? Joergen! Are you asleep? Good Heavens! he can sleep! Several

thousands!--and _I_ have got nothing!'

Ebbe burst into a passionate fit of tears. The morning, which was then

dawning, found him awake and ruminating on his disappointment, on the

bed by the side of Joergen.

The next day the body of the mate, Fourness, was removed to the

hospital at Vaedersoe, to be buried from thence in the village

churchyard. Joergen and Ebbe pursued their accustomed occupations. The

hull of the foreign vessel was carried out to sea at night, and

apparently knocked to pieces by the waves, for many portions of the

wreck were cast ashore along the adjacent coast.

Ebbe did not leave Joergen's side that day; all his thoughts were

devoted to the mysterious casket, and to the painful reflection that

Joergen alone was aware of the spot where it was concealed, consequently

was master of its valuable contents. He had no inclination to work, but

was continually recurring to the one vexatious fancy, which represented

Joergen surrounded with wealth and all the prosperity which he had so

often wished for himself.

Thus passed the week. It had been settled between the two friends that

on Saturday they would set off to Oxby church, so early that they might

reach the place that evening, before it began to get dark. Ebbe had two

or three days beforehand arranged everything for this journey, secretly

and eagerly. Joergen could not help observing the striking change which

in a few days had come over him. He saw how his energies were quite

paralyzed beneath the dreamy state into which he had fallen. Ebbe had

become silent and irritable; he avoided his comrade's society, and

sought solitude, where it was not necessary for him to conceal his

feelings.

When he was alone, his mind always dwelt upon the hidden treasure, and

picture after picture arose from the depths of his imagination of

wealth, prosperity, and triumph over those who now looked down upon

him. At other times he was tormented by a bitter, gnawing doubt if the

mate had spoken the truth, and there existed any treasure at all. Then,

again, he would make himself miserable about the portion of it that he

might obtain. He would sometimes fancy himself set aside by Joergen;

then he would work himself up to believe that it was no freewill offer

to share with him, but a right which belonged to himself; and to this

oft-recurring thought succeeded, little by little, another, dark and

dreadful, which, nourished by envy and covetousness, assumed by degrees

a more distinct and decided form.

When Saturday arrived, Ebbe rose in the grey of the morning, and was

ready for the journey long before Joergen; his whole bearing betrayed a

degree of feverish impatience, an eagerness and impetuosity which he

had never evinced before. Joergen carried a saddle-bag with provisions,

Ebbe a spade, and furnished with these necessaries, they left their

hut, and passed through the village even before the peasants had left

their beds.

The road from Aale parsonage down to Oxby traverses a long and wide

tract of boggy land, which, at that time, was overgrown with a sort of

close rough glass and a layer of moss, that in summer concealed many a

cavity and break in the ground, and which was the resort of frogs and

of various moor fowls, that took wing in large flocks when anyone

approached their places of shelter.

The two fishermen trudged on with unwearying patience towards their

goal, which already they could perceive far in the distance. It was

late in the day; the sun had sunk behind the line of sandhills which

hid the German Ocean, and a deep stillness reigned around. The church

stood in a naked, sandy plain, surrounded by a stone wall that was

partially sunk in the sand. One side of the edifice was, at that

moment, illuminated by a bright reflexion from the red evening sky.

Swallows were flying about under its roof. As far as the eye could

reach, there was no sign or appearance of the inhabitants of the

neighbourhood.

'At last we have reached our destination!' exclaimed Ebbe, as, tired

and gasping for breath, he threw himself down on a heap of gravel at a

little distance from the wall of the churchyard.

'Yes, at last,' replied Jogen, with a smile; 'and it will soon be seen

if we have not had our trouble for nothing.'

'Oh, don't say so, Joergen,' cried Ebbe. 'How could such an idea enter

your head? You have surely not forgotten the place where we were to

dig?'

'Oh, no!' replied Joergen. 'The direction was not so difficult to

remember. It was towards the north, he said, and among three stones

which had fallen there from the wall. If you will remain here to rest

yourself, I will go at once and try and find the place.'

'No!' said Ebbe, rising quickly from his recumbent position. 'I will go

with you. Why should I stay behind, and not help you to look for it?'

Joergen then led the way, proceeding along the wall of the churchyard,

while Ebbe followed him with the spade over his shoulder; but it was

some time before they found the place indicated. The grass grew so high

near the churchyard wall, that, in the increasing dusk of the evening,

it would have been impossible to have discovered the stones described

until close upon them. In the time, too, which had elapsed since the

treasure was buried, the stones might have sunk into the ground, or

become hidden by moss. At length, however, Joergen found the spot. The

three stones lay exactly in the position the mate had described; a

young elder-tree had shot up its straight branches just before them.

'It must be here,' said Ebbe; 'you have good luck with you in

everything. Let us begin to dig at once. But, hush! be still! I'll be

sworn I heard a horse panting on the other side of the churchyard wall.

We will wait a little before we begin.'

'Let us rather go round, and see if anyone is there,' said Joergen,

about to go.

'No, by no means; stay with me, I don't fancy being alone in such a

place as this. They say the Evil One goes riding about at night on a

white horse. Have you never heard that?'

'Yes; but what have we to do with him? We are here on a lawful errand,

and have no reason to be afraid of anything.'

So saying, Joergen walked on by the churchyard wall until he came to the

next corner. 'There is nothing to be seen,' he said, when he returned.

'Let us commence the digging. Lend me the spade.'

'No; let us dig by turns, and I will go to work first,' replied Ebbe,

as he took off his jacket, and put the spade into the ground.

The uppermost layer of earth among the stones was hard and stiff, and

moreover, the roots of the elder-tree formed a sort of tough piece of

network among the stones, so that it was not possible to proceed

otherwise than slowly with the work. Ebbe groaned; his impatience was

increased by the strong spirit of covetousness which had taken

possession of him. Joergen sat down quietly on a stone near him. In the

deep stillness which reigned around the spot, the bats might be heard

flapping their wings as they fluttered about the walls of the church,

and in the distance a hollow, rushing sound, which came from the German

Ocean, away behind the sandhills. Ebbe continued to dig, and had made a

tolerably deep hole, when he suddenly stopped, pushed the spade well

into the ground, and bowed his head down as if he were listening to

something.

'Do you think you have come to anything?' asked Joergen.

'No, it is only a stone which lies in the way; but I am tired now.'

'Then let me take my turn of digging,' said Joergen.

'Let us rather rest a little while, and take a mouthful of our

provisions and a drop from our flask. What have you done with the

wallet?'

'I left it at the gravel pit yonder, where we rested first.'

'Then let us go there, Joergen. After we have had something to eat we

shall set to work again. It will be long before it is daylight; we have

time enough.'

Joergen made no opposition to this arrangement; he was accustomed to

give way to Ebbe's wishes, and he went back to where they had left

their provender.

Ebbe cast a longing look back at the hole; then took the spade under

his arm and followed Joergen.

At a little distance from the walls of the churchyard the path lay near

the edge of a pit, from which the peasants dug up gravel for the

repairs that were annually made in the high road. The pit was tolerably

deep, and sloped from the brink, along which the two fishermen directed

their steps until they came to a kind of gap, or narrow defile, from

whence the gravel was carted away.

When Ebbe reached this place, he took up the flask, drank off its

contents, and let it drop quietly into the grass. Joergen, in the

meantime, had sat down, and began to eat. Ebbe remained standing, and

leaned upon the spade.

'Why don't you sit down?' asked Joergen.

'Because the grass is wet.'

'Where is the flask? I don't see it.'

'You will find it on the grass.'

Joergen stooped down to look for it, and at that moment Ebbe lifted the

spade, and, exerting all his strength, struck Joergen with it on his

head!