The Danes Sketched by Themselves Volume Iii Part 5

She hands him the letter, and, as he reads it, his stormy brow clears, and his features relax. 'From my earliest youth I have been attached to a poor artist, he was my first love, and will be my last.' These words, which he reads, and re-reads, several times, quickly appease his wrath.

'And this is what you were writing!' he exclaims, in a tone of joy. Oh!

I am so happy! Now I cast suspicion to the winds; from this time, henceforth, I bid adieu to all jealousy.' In the delight of the moment he communicates to Lisette what had before been hovering on his lips, the unexpected good fortune which had fallen to his share. An uncle, whom he had never seen, had bequeathed him a little fortune, which was large enough to place them in easy circ.u.mstances. Lisette is in raptures, and, mingling their joy, they lay plans together for their future life. It is not Lisette alone who now _builds castles in the air_, for Ludvig joins her in this pleasing occupation with all his might; and yon humble garret becomes, at that moment, a heaven of love and happiness.

TWICE SACRIFICED.[1]

FROM THE DANISH OF CARIT ETLAR.

I.

THE DREAMS OF YOUTH.

About three miles from Viborg lies the celebrated Hald. The palace upon the high hill, the lake slumbering beneath the ruins of the old baronial castle upon the island, the fresh luxuriant forest, make in combination a charming and romantic picture, which, placed as it were in a frame of dark-brown heath-clad hills, forms a strong contrast to the monotonous, melancholy-looking plain, in the centre of which it appears like a beautiful flower in the dreary desert, suddenly and unexpectedly seen, and therefore the more highly appreciated.

One afternoon, in the spring of the year 1705, three persons were riding through the wood not far from Viborg. One was a young lady, by her side rode a gentleman who did not look much older than herself, and at some distance behind them a servant in a rich livery, embroidered according to the fashion of the time.

The young lady was very beautiful; the mild, calm, expression of her countenance, the sweet, trusting glances from her large dark-blue eyes, disclosed one of those soft, feminine natures for which life should be all quiet and sunshine, because they bend and break beneath its storms.

The gentleman who rode by her side, as near as the horses could approach each other, wore the uniform of an officer. His features were expressive of courage and talent, and all that freedom from care which is the happiest endowment of youth and inexperience.

The young lady was Jeanne Ryse, a daughter of the Baroness Rysensteen, in the district of Rive. The gentleman was her cousin, Captain Kruse.

They were both returning from a visit to Major-General Gregers Daa, who two years before had purchased Hald, and built the handsome house upon the hill.

There was evidently a deeper feeling between Jeanne and the captain than merely cousinly regard; this was betrayed both by their very confidential conversation, by Jeanne's smile, and by the endearing glances that seemed to meet and answer each other. They loved each other; and they were laying plans for the future, as that afternoon they rode together through the wood. It was not of the present moment they were thinking--no, none but children and old people, the two at the extreme points of life--take pleasure in the present moment. Around them everything reposed in a deep and serene tranquillity; the clear, transparent air, the sun's rays gleaming through the foliage of the trees, the perfume of the flowers, the blackbird's flute-like song, all tended to increase the sense of happiness which pervaded both their hearts, that fresh young love that causes all the blossoms of the soul to expand.

'This evening,' said Jeanne, 'I will tell all to my mother; it appears to me that it would be wrong to conceal our wishes longer.'

'Oh, let us wait,' said he. 'The confession will not augment our happiness.'

'But it will indeed!' replied Jeanne. 'My mother has. .h.i.therto always been my confidante in everything; it will distress her when she finds that I am concealing our attachment from her. Do not be afraid, dearest. She is so good, she has never thought of anything but my happiness, and she will undoubtedly give her consent to our engagement.

I know perfectly well that my mother will refuse me nothing,' she added with a gay smile.

Kruse made no reply; they rode on for some time in silence side by side, while the same subject engrossed the minds of both, but there was a difference in the way they thought of it. He was thinking, as it is natural for men to do, only of his own happiness; Jeanne, on the contrary, of that which she hoped to be able to bestow upon him.

'What if your mother should disapprove of our marriage?' exclaimed Kruse, at length, after they had left the wood, and were riding towards Viborg, which was to be seen at a little distance.

'But she will not disapprove,' replied Jeanne, decisively. 'I know her too well. Still, happen what may, my friend,' she said, as she stretched out to him a small, well-shaped hand, 'we love each other, and we will never cease to do so. Is not this knowledge enough to induce you to overcome every obstacle?'

Kruse's answer was the same as has been given in similar cases from the time of the Deluge. Both forgot at that moment how long it is to--never!

On the same evening, about two hours later, Jeanne sat alone with the Baroness in her private apartment, and confided to her the whole story of the attachment--indeed, the engagement between herself and Kruse.

The elder lady listened patiently and attentively to the tale; her face wore its usual bland smile, her voice had its accustomed sweet and affectionate tone.

'I have long suspected these feelings on your cousin's side, my dear child,' she said quietly, 'but I did not suppose that you would admit having returned them without first making some communication to me.'

'Oh, my own dearest mother!' cried Jeanne, in the most caressing manner, and in a beseeching tone, 'you must forgive me!'

'There is nothing to forgive,' replied the Baroness. 'What has happened has happened, and it appears to me there is nothing more to be said on the subject. I have known Kruse since he was a child; he is of a very amiable disposition and n.o.ble character, most gentlemanly and chivalric in all his actions. I also truly believe that he loves you, my darling Jeanne; who could do otherwise?'

And the mother leaned over the kneeling daughter, who had placed her hands upon her lap, and kissed her fair brow.

'But Kruse, notwithstanding all these excellent qualities, can never be your husband.'

Jeanne uttered a faint shriek.

'Oh, mother, mother! What do you say?' she cried, in the greatest consternation.

'Listen to what I have got to say,' continued the Baroness, 'and listen calmly. Kruse is poor; he has nothing except his pay as an officer, which is scarcely enough to meet the daily expenses of a gentleman.

You, my dear child, are not rich either, as after my death your brother will inherit the property. It is only, therefore, by marriage that your future comfort can be secured. You have, naturally, never thought of all these circ.u.mstances. At your age the heart is swayed by happier interests; it is not until later that the prosaic part of life forces itself upon us, and awakens us from our dreams. But I--your mother--have well considered all this. While you have engaged yourself to your cousin, I have fixed upon another for you--another who, with the same chivalric character, unites better prospects for your future life. Yes, weep on, my darling girl! I understand your tears, for I have felt as you do, for I have loved as you do. When I was about your age I was much attached to a young n.o.bleman, who was as poor as Kruse.

My parents chose another for me, and I acknowledge now how fortunate it was that they were not influenced by my wishes. I judge by this--that the woman whom he afterwards married has led a very unhappy life.'

Jeanne's face expressed the deepest grief while her mother was speaking; she wept, she wrung her hands, and at length she exclaimed:

'Oh, my dear mother! If you have considered what is best for me, have you not remembered that the fate for which you destine me will render me utterly miserable? It will be my death!'

'No, it will not, Jeanne! That is merely an idea peculiar to your age; people don't die so easily. Time is an excellent doctor for such wounds.'

'Who, then, have you chosen for me?'

'Major-General Gregers Daa, of Hald. He was with me to-day when you were out riding with your cousin; he asked for your hand, and obtained my consent to your marrying him.'

Major-General Gregers Daa was a tall, thin man, with a pallid face and very grave expression of countenance. His hair was beginning to turn grey, the numerous wrinkles on his expansive brow-were perhaps as much the consequence of deep thought as of advanced age, for both of these despots impose their marks in the same mode.

Gregers had held an important post, and had won many laurels in the last war. At the cessation of hostilities which followed the peace of Travendal, he returned to Jutland, purchased Hald, and had the palace rebuilt. When these two events were completed, he had nothing before him but a quiet, monotonous life, without interest to himself, and without affording happiness to any one. The landed proprietors who were his neighbours found no pleasure in his society, for he was cold and reserved in manners. The poor lauded his charity and his munificent donations; but these, in accordance with the nature of the donor, were dictated more by a sense of duty than by any positive satisfaction he had in relieving distress. No one sought his friendship; indeed, it was rather avoided. In the lonely situation in which he was placed, he was poor--for even fortune becomes a burden in utter solitude. The present time offered nothing, the future seemed to promise nothing, and the past was the repository of no cherished recollections for him.

When Gregers returned from the war, and had ceased to fight foreign foes, he found at home a still more obstinate foe to battle with, and that was _ennui_. A sister, much younger than himself, who had resided with him, and taken charge of his house, had died a few years before the date of the commencement of this story. He regretted her loss very much, and day by day he missed more and more the comforts a lady's taste and society had spread around him. It was about this time that he first met Jeanne Ryse, and the sight of her awakened emotions in his mind which he had never before known. He wished to have her in his lost sister's place; he wished to be her confidential friend, her counsellor, her companion, and, yielding to these growing wishes, he determined on asking from the Baroness the hand of her daughter. He had, however, not the most remote idea of the wretchedness with which his proposals were to blast Jeanne's. .h.i.therto tranquil and happy existence.

He was wealthy; he was the last--the only survivor of his race. Both of these considerations had also some weight in Gregers's resolution, and had not less influence on that of the Baroness Ryse. But expediency and good intentions sometimes merge into wrong, especially when they forget to take into account the pa.s.sions and the heart. This fault was committed both by Gregers and the Baroness.

Eight days after her conversation with Jeanne, the Baroness Ryse's carriage was seen going towards the Hald, with running footmen before the horses, a coachman, and another servant, with powdered perukes; in short, with all that show and affectation of state which might lead the beholder to forget the Dutch plebeian Henrik Ryse, to whom the family owed their patent of n.o.bility. The Baroness herself was elegantly dressed; she was one of those old beauties on whose exterior the hand of taste must replace what time has stolen away.

Gregers Daa received the lady at the foot of the outside stairs in a garb which plainly showed he had not expected her visit at that moment.

He led her with a bewildered air into his study, where, before her arrival, he had been occupied. Everything in this room bore witness to an old bachelor's uncomfortable home. An ancient-looking hound was stretched on the sofa, and gazed in evident astonishment at the intruder without vacating his place. The dust lay thick on the sills of the window, on the chairs, tables, and bookcases; the air was redolent of tobacco-smoke; books, plants, and weapons were lying in dire confusion about the room.

The Baroness's ironical smile, and the somewhat sneering manner in which she glanced round at the various articles in the study, seemed to open Gregers's eyes to its untidy condition. He stammered an apology, and opened a door leading to a large room close by, but the lady declined entering it.

'Let us stay here,' she exclaimed. 'The one room is as good as the other for what we have to talk about.'

She removed a bundle of papers from a high-backed easy-chair, placed herself in it, and motioned to Gregers to sit down also.

The sun was shining brightly through the window, the soft breeze was swaying the branches of a large elm-tree, with their fresh light-green leaves, backwards and forwards outside, the sparrows were chirping under the roof; farther off was heard the song of the larks as they soared over old Bugge's Hald,[2] the ruins of which were to be seen from the window, and were glittering in the sun.

Presently the lady spoke.