"No, because you are convinced it is impossible for me to do so."
"Not at all--because I know forgetfulness will come of itself. I only desire to impress on you the necessity of leaving this place, and no longer loitering about the sea-sh.o.r.e here. To-morrow I am going to sail to aero, or aebler, and if you will come with me, Kjeld, we will go on to Copenhagen. You had better engage yourself on board some ship going to the south, and stay away a few years. When you come back again, if our Lord has spared my life till then, you will thank me for the advice I have given you this night. But see! here are our boats. For G.o.d"s sake, Kjeld, do your duty! I will fasten our little skiff to one of the gunboats."
Christine in the meantime remained standing on the beach at a little distance from the other women. She had been a silent but much interested spectator of all that had occurred previous to Kjeld"s and Ellen"s departure, and she stood watching the frail little boat as long as it was visible. At length the fisherwomen rejoined her, and were loud in the expression of their fears and forebodings. Christine said scarcely anything.
"Of course you have no reason to be afraid, Christine," said the same woman who had before commenced jeering at her in Jan Steffens"s house.
"Kjeld cannot arrive yonder until all the dangerous work is over, but he can always boast of being one of the party, and perhaps he may get a share of the prize-money. And if any accident should happen to old Jan Steffens, you will have a new protector ready at hand."
"What do you mean by all the insinuations you have been throwing out to-night?" asked Christine.
"Well, this is too good!" cried the woman, laughing, and turning towards the other females. "She pretends to be so ignorant, the little lamb!"
"But speak out--explain yourself! I do not understand a word you have been saying, and cannot imagine what you have been all driving at to-night."
"I mean that you and Kjeld will marry as soon as Jan"s eyes are closed for ever, and that it is no fault of yours or Kjeld"s that this has been so long of taking place."
"And will you listen to my answer?" said Christine, in a peremptory tone, and speaking with such pointed distinctness that her words were perfectly heard by every one near. "If such a misfortune should befall me that any accident shall occur to Jan Steffens to-night, I swear that I will never marry either Kjeld Olsen, or any other man upon this earth."
"Oh, you would think better of it--you would change your mind," cried the other, laughing scornfully.
"No!" said Christine. "By my hopes of salvation and eternal happiness in the world to come, I speak the truth. And I beseech you to believe me, and leave me in peace."
Shortly after the firing ceased, and many eyes were turned anxiously towards the place where it was known the ship lay.
"It is over now," said a solemn voice. "They will be coming back presently. G.o.d have mercy on us all, but especially on those who have lost any near and dear to them!"
There was a deep and unbroken silence among the crowd. Terror and anxiety had closed all their lips, and every eye was strained looking out for the boats. Old Poul Mikkelsen, who had clambered up to the top of a pile of rocks, was sitting without his hat, and singing the first verses of a psalm in a weak and tremulous voice. Suddenly there burst forth a bright light in the direction of the ship; it increased in width until by degrees it became a broad sheet of dark flame, the glowing reflection of which streamed over the waves and tinged the hills that skirted the adjacent coast. Such was the glare of light that the sh.o.r.e at Fyensland could be seen crowded with people, and several boats were discerned apparently rowing in great haste to and from the corvette.
"The ship is on fire!" cried Poul. "Our people have been victorious."
The fire seemed to increase until at length it appeared to become concentrated, when it shot up in one high pillar of flame, from which jets of sparks were thrown up into the air around. While the group on the sh.o.r.e at Lyngspoint were standing in breathless silence, the church clock at Erizo was heard to strike three, and the grey dawn of morning began to give place to the clear light of day. In the glare from the fire the corvette--with its slender masts, its yards, and cordage--became distinctly and fearfully visible, and people could be perceived hurrying up and down the deck. Shortly after, the guns went off, the fire having then reached them, and one cannon-ball struck the bank at no great distance from where the wives and families of the fishermen were a.s.sembled. No one seemed to notice it, for the thoughts of all were earnestly bent upon the terrible drama which was being enacted out upon the sea; each person present had a deep interest in it, and not one of them but waited for its _denoument_ with dread and apprehension.
"Here come our boats!" cried Poul, pointing with his staff towards two dark specks which were to be seen tossing on the waves at a little distance from the corvette. Soon after a third boat was observed, towed by one of the gun-boats. Christine had been the first to perceive it; she folded her hands, and cast a grateful look of thanksgiving up towards heaven.
At length the gunboats reached the sh.o.r.e. In the deeply-affecting scene that followed were mingled joyous exclamations and groans of despair--smiles and tears--as those so dear and so anxiously looked for were found to be safe, or, alas! to be among the wounded and the dead.
Christine"s eyes sought Jan everywhere--but in vain--she did not see him. She covered her face, and burst into tears.
In a few minutes Kjeld approached her, and laid his hand gently on her arm.
"Where is my husband?" she asked, impatiently.
"He is dead," replied Kjeld.
"Dead! dead!" exclaimed Christine, in a voice faint and trembling from agitation.
"Yes! He fell at the very moment that he ordered us to return to our boats, when the Englishmen had set fire to the corvette. I did all I could to save him, dear Christine; I posted myself at his side, and defended him to the last. But it was all in vain; it was impossible to rescue him from death."
"Why did you not go with him at first?" asked Christine abruptly.
"Because he insisted that I should not. He knew all that we, too, have felt and thought; he desired me to remain behind, and carry a message to you, but I was not to deliver it until to-morrow."
"It will be needless," said Christine. "To-morrow I shall be gone to my aunt at Kjaerup."
She stretched out both her hands to him, and struggling with her tears, she added, in a tone of deep emotion.
"G.o.d be with you, Kjeld! my dear, my only friend!"
"You are not going away, Christine?" exclaimed Kjeld.
"Yes," she replied. "I made a vow to the Almighty that I would do so when I offered up my prayers to Him to bring you back unhurt."
"But still why must you go away?" he asked, in a voice of alarm and anxiety.
"Because we two must forget our hopes and our dreams; because we must separate from each other, never more to meet again!"
AUNT FRANCISCA.
FROM THE DANISH OF CARL BERNHARD.
CHAPTER I.
On a lovely summer evening, in the month of July, an old lady was to be seen walking alone by the row of small houses which forms one side of St. Anne"s Place, and stretches down towards the harbour. This part of Copenhagen contains the domiciles of the fashionable world; it is what the Faubourg Saint-Germain used to be to the Parisians; palace succeeds to palace, the Court is situated in this neighbourhood, and the foreign diplomatists--a cla.s.s more important in Copenhagen than perhaps in any other place on earth--honour this portion of the city by making it their abode. But, as it were, to remind the world that great people cannot do without the poorer sort, certain small houses have here and there thrust themselves into good society, and the many signboards hanging out plainly evince that their inhabitants do not wear laurels so easily won, or enjoy such luxurious repose as their neighbours do.
At any rate, such certainly is the case with the dwellers in the row of houses above mentioned, which, from one end to the other, is occupied by mechanics, seafaring men, and other common people.
The old lady walked so slowly that you could easily perceive she was already on the shady side of life; her carriage was stiff, and her steps measured, as if she moved with some difficulty; yet it was evident that she had some determined object earnestly in view. Her features were sharp, and denoted firmness; indeed, they might have been thought harsh and forbidding, had not her mild blue eyes imparted an expression of tenderness and goodness to her otherwise stern countenance. I know not if my description is clear enough to convey to my readers any idea of the face that now stands before my mind"s eye, but Aunt Francisca"s countenance was always somewhat of a difficult problem, and this must be my excuse if I have failed in the delineation of it. Her dress was in keeping with her general appearance; it was in the fashion of a bygone period, at least twenty years old in make and materials, and yet one might in vain have sought for a single spot or crease in it. There were such fastidious cleanliness, and such a degree of scrupulous neatness visible over her whole person, that the beholder at once felt a.s.sured an old maid was before him. Be this said without any disrespect to other ladies, whose _nicety_ I am far from calling in question.
With an extensive parasol in her hand, and a large and apparently heavy silken bag over her arm, the old lady advanced towards a house whose exterior denoted that it was occupied by people belonging to the lower cla.s.ses. She did not scan the number of the houses, and her feet seemed mechanically to have found its threshold, as if she had often pa.s.sed over it. And so she had, in truth. A young woman, with a child in her arms, opened the door to her, and exclaimed,
"Is it really you, my dear lady? Our Lord himself must send you here to us, poor miserable creatures!"
The speaker and the infant she held in her arms were both clad in absolute tatters. The child looked like a monster in a magic gla.s.s, shrivelled up, yellow skinned, with sunken but staring eyes, and wrinkled, though scarcely yet two years of age. It would have been difficult to have determined which bore the palm for dirt and disorder, the room or its inhabitants.
The elderly lady looked about in vain for a place where she might seat herself.
"You do not deserve that I should come more frequently to visit you,"
the lady said; "all hope of a.s.sisting you is at an end when you yourself will do nothing to improve your condition. In what state is this that I find you? You promised me that when next I came I should see everything tidy about you."
The woman cast down her eyes at this reproachful greeting, and remained silent. She placed the child on the floor while she dusted with the shreds of an old garment a wooden stool, the only seat in the room. The lady looked compa.s.sionately at the child, and said, in a less stern voice,
"What you will not do for your own comfort"s sake, you will surely not refuse to do for the sake of your poor children. The unfortunate little creatures will perish amidst all this dirt; it _must_ engender disease.
Where are the other children? Has the eldest gone to school yet?"
The poor woman looked much embarra.s.sed, and stammered a few words which it was impossible to comprehend. The lady continued her interrogations: