Rudolph paused for a moment--Louise glanced at him as if she felt sure he had pa.s.sed the proof--Arnold indulged in a sneering smile, and the other gentlemen looked innocently apathetic.
There is an old French saying (continued Rudolph), which signifies that absence has the same effect upon love that a high wind has upon fire--it extinguishes the weak, but makes the strong burn more intensely. Thus, while Francisca"s ardent love gained strength in absence, and in her sleeping and waking dreams she invested Theodore with every possible good quality and charm, his feeble love became more and more languid, and the image of Francisca lost by degrees all the attractions he had fancied it possessed.
Francisca had communicated all her feelings by letter to her friend, my mother, and the correspondence between them, on a subject so interesting, helped to while away the tedium of the winter months.
Theodore, on the contrary, concealed his little love affair in the country from his friends in town. At first, it seemed a topic too sacred to enter upon, and afterwards he thought it would be ridiculous--he would only expose himself to be laughed at by his companions. b.a.l.l.s, and all sorts of amus.e.m.e.nts occupied his leisure hours. He was one of the best dancers in Copenhagen, and could have as many pretty partners as he liked. Time flew fast with him; he sometimes forgot that such a being as Francisca existed, and in a fit of vexation, as it reminded him of his duty, he hid away the amulet that was to have been so potent a talisman. Early in spring, however, he had an illness, which confined him to his room for a few days; during that short period of seclusion Francisca a.s.sumed a more prominent part in his recollection. Which of all the girls he had been flirting with during the winter would have risked so much, done so much for him as she had done? Not one among them. The country and Francisca were again in the ascendant for a time, and it was at this period that he had his likeness taken. He would give it to her. How much _she_ would value it!
That was a pleasant idea, for even in love men seldom forget vanity.
Indeed, what love is to be compared, in general, to self-love?
Armed with the miniature of himself, and a small plain gold ring on his little finger, Theodore set off for Mr. Garlov"s. The wood was already clothed in its mantle of green. How anxiously had not Francisca watched the budding leaves, and longed for the arrival of spring, which would bring back to her him she loved so much! She had gone out to meet him, and when he caught a glimpse of her, springing from the carriage he threw himself at her feet. She was happy, for she had never doubted his constancy. Mr. Garlov welcomed him as an old friend, but he did not look upon him in any other light, as Mrs. Garlov, who knew of her daughter"s attachment, had never yet found a suitable opportunity to communicate the matter to her husband, though she was aware that he intended Francisca to marry a wealthy proprietor in their neighbourhood, who, although somewhat advanced in years, was a very worthy man, and would be a good match.
The evenings were still cold, and were consequently pa.s.sed within doors, but were enlivened by conversation, music, and reading aloud, for Theodore excelled in the latter accomplishment, and also sang well.
A happy time it was to Francisca, and even Theodore felt the pleasing influence of these quiet evenings; but when summer came, with its long days and warm nights, and the lovers could stroll out arm-in-arm, Francisca was still happier, and would sometimes exclaim, "I could not have thought it possible for this world to afford so much felicity as I experience at this moment!" With her the days flew like hours, and the hours like minutes! At length Theodore spoke of returning to his home.
But he was a.s.sailed by father, mother, and daughter, with entreaties to remain a little longer, as guests were expected, and his society would enliven the party very much.
"If you will only stay," said Francisca, "you shall be rewarded by seeing a most beautiful girl."
"Is your cousin Kitty so beautiful?" asked Theodore.
"No, she is only amiable; but a Miss Angel is to accompany her, who is over from Holstein on a visit to my cousin. She is called Aurora Angel--two ominous names, are they not? But they are not misapplied."
"Do you think I would stay for anybody"s sake if not for yours, dear Francisca?" said Theodore. "No; the G.o.ddess of the dawn of day shall have no such triumph. Since you wish it, I will remain longer; but I should only be too happy if this blooming damsel would stay away."
She came, however, along with my mother and my grandmother, and very beautiful she was both in face and figure, with remarkably fine arms, and the prettiest feet in the world. She looked lovely as she played the harp, and her voice was one of that peculiar sweetness that, once heard, could never be forgotten. Her slight foreign accent gave a piquancy to her simplest words--in short, she was altogether a most attractive little creature.
Mrs. Garlov and Theodore Ancker were the only persons who did not seem quite captivated by the fascinations of the fair Aurora; every one else was enchanted with her, Francisca most of all. Theodore insisted that the glances of her bright eyes had, when she thought she was not observed, something sinister in them that caused involuntary mistrust; he accused her of being coquettish, cold, and heartless, notwithstanding her affection of feeling. In fact, he evinced a strange repugnance to her society, and much annoyance that the arrival of other guests had thrown a sort of barrier between himself and Francisca, with whom he could no longer be frequently alone, and more than once he expressed a wish that he had gone when first he proposed doing so. He was at all times a little given to variations of temper, but now he appeared to be always out of humour, and when he was compelled to show any attention to Aurora, he did it with a very bad grace, and looked as awkward as a dancing bear.
Aurora herself never appeared to observe anything odd in his manners, but the rest of the party could not fail to be surprised at him.
One evening, after Theodore had been all day looking quite cross because he had not been able to have some private chat with Francisca, though his own bad humour had made him neglect more than one opportunity that had presented itself, the little party were a.s.sembled in the music-room which opened on the garden. Aurora was singing and accompanying herself on the harp. Theodore seemed annoyed at the praise bestowed upon her, and she had scarcely finished her song when he began vehemently to press Francisca to sing. She declined, though she really sang very nicely, and her admirer was so vexed that he was leaving the room, when she called him back, that he might hear Aurora sing Clarchen"s Lied from Goethe"s "Egmont," which was then quite new. After preluding for a moment or two, with a sweet smile Aurora commenced the romance, and the expression of her countenance changed suddenly to sadness as she sang,
Freudvoll Und leidvoll Gedankenvoll seyn;
while she seemed powerfully affected by the two last lines:
Glucklich allein Ist die Seele, die liebt;
for her voice sank almost to a whisper, and her eyes filled with tears.
At that moment her glance met that of Theodore, and she coloured deeply, while he in vain strove to look indifferent. Mrs. Garlov entered on a disquisition touching the tragedy of "Egmont" and the character of Clarchen, while Aurora sought to conceal her annoyance by speaking of the song.
"I do not know any song that has prettier words than these. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Ancker?"
"I think," replied Theodore, "that Clarchen"s mother p.r.o.nounced a very proper judgment on the words when she said, "Ah, it is the same eternal nonsense.""
"And I will answer you in Clarchen"s own words", said Aurora, good-humouredly: ""Nay, do not abuse it; "tis a song of marvellous virtue. Many a time I have lulled a grown child to sleep with it.""
This reply in her own language--the German--came so prettily from Aurora"s coral lips, that Theodore did violence to his own feelings when he answered:
"Yes, "schlafen wiegen," that was perhaps Clarchen"s art. Probably you admire Clarchen"s character. I would swear that you did."
"Yes, I admire it; it is a faithful and pleasing sketch of the female character."
"Of _one_ female character, say rather. G.o.d be praised, not of all,"
replied Theodore. "Clarchen is capricious, coquettish, inconsiderate, heartless. She makes a mere tool of the man who wishes to marry her--a mere hack and errand boy--and she repays the poor fellow"s services by the coquetry which holds him in her chains. Does she not say herself, "Often, without a thought, I return the gentle loving pressure of his hand? I reproach myself that I am deceiving him--that I am nourishing in his heart a vain hope.""
Aurora listened to him with a smile, complimented him on his admirable p.r.o.nunciation of German (a compliment which evidently pleased him), and then went on to defend Clarchen, quoting sentences from the drama itself, and wound up by a.s.suring him that men could not understand love--at least not such deep, all-absorbing love as a Clarchen could feel.
Mr. Garlov remarked that the fair damsel was very severe upon their s.e.x, and Theodore shrugged his shoulders in silence.
Again Aurora spoke. "Clarchen," she said, "was placed, as it were, between Life"s cold prose and Eternity"s warm poetry. It was the battle between these that consumed her, as it had consumed many another heart.
_You_ have no conception of that struggle: and may you never feel it.
May you never have to say, like Clarchen, "I am in a strange position.""
Aurora rose, put away her harp, and hurried into the garden. The other ladies followed her, and Theodore was left alone with Mr. Garlov, who said,
"You have got into a sc.r.a.pe, my good friend. One must be very guarded in speaking to these German ladies, they are so deucedly sensitive. I can"t conceive, though, what made you fall upon her as you did; it was really an unwarrantable attack."
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 pa.s.sed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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."
"Clarchen!" he exclaimed. "Is Clarchen to be always thus thrust upon me? I wish I could as easily get rid of all Clarchens 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 Clarchen 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 gra.s.sy glades of the forest, and a few peasants pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s, 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: