Conscience 
 
 
 HE?^DRlCIi 
 CONSCIENCE 
 
BERKEIIV 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY Of 
 CALIFORNIA 
 

 TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 HENDRICK CONSCIENCE 
 
 p. J. KENEDY & SONS 
 
 44 BARCLAY 8TREBT. NEW YORK 
 
 
TTLu-W 
 
 ) ^00 
 
 ONTENTS. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 Authoe's Address to his Friends, . • 3 
 
 The Recruit, 7 
 
 Mine Host Gtansendonck, . • • . 101 
 
 Blind Rosa, ....... 215 
 
 The Poor Nobleman, • • • • • 247 
 
 L, 054 
 
THE AUTHOB TO HIS FBIEND8. 
 
 Aktwebp, No9. 16, 1840. 
 
 Respected Readers, — To you, my good friends, who haTe 
 remained true to the story-teller, however much his name and 
 office have been abused, I bring good news to-day. 
 
 I have been ill. My spirit was weary, my soul disenchanted, 
 my body sick. I, endowed by God — if with nothing else, at 
 least with energy, life, and universal love — sank into the 
 deepest dejection, and became alarmed as I felt a deadly 
 poison — it might have been misanthropy — taking possession 
 of my soul. 
 
 Have I not seen, for the first time in my life, in these in- 
 comprehensible times, every selfish passion rage — ^nakedl 
 shameless? Gross injustice and crime legalized by the 
 struggle for existence, as murder is legalized by war ? And 
 the holiest thing of all — the elevation of Flanders — the aspi- 
 ration of my youth, the endeavour of my manlier years — but 
 let us not speak of that ; I have a wound in my heart which 
 might begin to bleed afresh. Let us talk of sweeter memo- 
 ries. 
 
 Three months I lived upon the heath — ^you know it well- 
 that beautiful spot where the soul returns into itself and ib at 
 
4 THE AUTHOB TO HIS FRIEKDI. 
 
 fert ; where everything sings of peace and calm ; where tie 
 spirit, face to face with the primeval creation of Gbd, throws 
 off the wearisome veil of conventionality, forgets mankind, 
 and with renewed youth frees itself from all restraint ; where 
 every thought forms itself to a prayer; where everything 
 disappears from the heart which is not in unison with freeh, 
 free nature. 
 
 Oh ! yonder, yonder is peace for the weary spirit — yonder 
 the strength of youth is still in store for the toilwom man. 
 
 And so passed the days of my illness — days of inexpressible 
 joy for my soul. To go to meet the sun with a smile, when 
 in ftill majesty it pours its first rays over the horizon ; to wait 
 upon nature at her awaking, when the first tones of her great 
 song of praise ascend to heaven ; to wander over heath and 
 through hush, questioning my own soul, and reflecting — look- 
 ing into the life of plants and animals, and wondering ; inhal- 
 ing the pure air in full draughts ; now standing, now moving 
 on, retracing my steps and speaking aloud in my solitude ; 
 dreaming of things inconceivably beautiful— of God, of the 
 future, of Flanders, of peace, and of love. 
 
 And in the evening, to sit in the old inn, under the broad 
 projection of the fireplace, my feet in the ashes, and my eyes 
 towards the star which blinks down upon me from above 
 through the opening of the chimney, as if it had a message 
 for me ; or, with wandering thoughts, to look into the fire, 
 and watch how the flames take shape, rise, pant, crackle, and 
 blow, and press against one another as if in rivalry to lick 
 the kettle with their fiery tongues; and to think, t?iat is 
 human life, — to be bom, to labour, to love, to hate, to grow 
 to maturity, and to perish. The smoke flies upward out 
 of the chimney, and nothing more comes of all this pant- 
 ing and crackling. 
 
 And then again, to awake out of my dream, and listen to 
 
THE AUTHOR TO HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 the villagers' talk. To see in motion around me a little nai»- 
 row world, with its unconcealed weaknesses and passions ; to 
 read into the heart of man, and follow out his instincts laid 
 bare in their workings ; and to revel in this simple country 
 life which uncomipted nature painted with so fresh a colour- 
 ing. 
 
 Meanwhile, to remember to collect a store of things which 
 everybody there knew how to relate, that on my return home 
 I might be able to oflfer my friends some presents from the 
 Kempenland. 
 
 Here am I now, p nts and all, — modest wreaths, dreamily 
 woven by my own hand, of heath and corn-flower. 
 
 Some among you, honoured readers, may not be pleased 
 with these quiet, peaceful Tales. Simple as the soil from 
 which they grew, they are diametrically opposed to the reign- 
 ing fashion ; they are no medley of blood, thieves' slang, dis- 
 honour, connubial infidelity, barefaced debauchery, mocking 
 unbelief, or destructive and morbid despondency : they do not 
 make the reader anxious about his own virtue, or the future 
 of humanity. No, no ; the demon of Despair and Hate finds 
 here no place. Nature in her unspotted freshness has woven 
 these tales out of humble material, here and there lighted up 
 by a pure pearl of a human heart. To enjoy them, one must 
 still have some poetry in one's soul ; for they are addressed 
 only to the finest chords of the heart, the tender sources of 
 life-enjoyment — love to God and our fellow-man, which alas ! 
 too soon grow weak, and wear out by contact with grasping 
 selfishness. 
 
 Accordingly, readers, if I here promise to tell you storiei 
 which I have heard narrated in the old inn, or picked up 
 in my wanderings over the heath, expect nothing but * 
 fidthful description of the peaceful manners of the dwellers 
 tkert ; and be in ^.ulgent with me when I attempt to write 
 
V THB AUTHOB TO HZB FBIKIIM. 
 
 ft whole book for your amnBement out of Buoh slender m** 
 teriaL 
 
 To you, my Flemish friends, do I dedicate, in this tale of 
 The Becbuit, the first blossom of the wreath. May your 
 friendly reception of it be my reward, and encourage m* to 
 folfil my whole promise in the course of iim« t 
 
THE RECRUIT 
 
 CHAPTBB L 
 
 The earliest snn of spring beamed witt fiill splendorir ia 
 the bine heavens, as if it were the exalted countenance of the 
 Deity looking down beneficently, and calling out to creation, 
 "Up I up I the winter is past, live and rejoice before me I" 
 The young light diffused itself over heath and field, and the 
 moist earth smoked with its genial warmth. 
 
 A few plants had already heard the call of the world-friend ; 
 the little snow-drops shook their silver starlets on the borders, 
 the hazel-bushes unfolded their catkins, the wood-anemone 
 put forth its first leaves among the underwood; while the 
 "birds hopped joyously in the warm light, and sang in cleat 
 notes of the approaching time of love. 
 
 Not far frora Zoerselbosch stood two mud cottages, solitary 
 and forgotten. In the first dwelt a poor widow with her 
 daughter ; all she possessed was a cow. The other was also 
 mhabited by a widow, with her aged father and two sons, one 
 of whom had just attained the years of manhood. Tbey wen 
 
I TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE* 
 
 wealthier than their neighbours, for they possessed an ox ag 
 well as a cow, and rented far more land. 
 
 Spite of this, the inhabitants of both huts — for their dwell- 
 ings were little better — had for many years formed only one 
 family, loving and helping one another. John and his ox 
 worked on the poor widow's field, while Trien fetch'^d fodaer 
 for the ox, herded for her neighbours, and helped them at 
 harvest-time ; and neither ever thought of reckoning which 
 had done most for the other. 
 
 Simple-minded, and knowing nothing of all that befel in 
 the stirring muxen of human life beyond their native parish, 
 they lived contented with the bit of black bread whici the 
 Almighty had granted tnem. Their world was very limited ; 
 on one side of the hamlet a humble little church, on the other, 
 the immeasurable heath, and the unbounded sky. 
 
 And yet dwelt laughter and song around this lonely habit- 
 ation ; joy and merriment were there in full measure, and not 
 one of these poor people would have exchanged their lot for 
 one apparently far better. 
 
 It was love which, with its magic power, had breathed 
 life into solitude. John and Trien, though they knew it not, 
 loved each other with that unexpressed and shy feeling which 
 makes the heart beat quick on the slightest occasion, and the 
 brow redden at the most trifling word ; which changes life into 
 a long dream — a blue heaven sparkling with stars of happi- 
 ness — an immeasurable deep, as if the human heart must ever 
 remain that which the first sigh of love — the pure and holy 
 incense of the soul — ^has made it. 
 
 Poor people 1 they thought not of the vast masses swarm- 
 ing in the distant cities ; and, as they desired nothing from 
 them, they imagined that they likewise would be forgotten, 
 and, full of confidence, lived on in their sweet and beaatifal 
 poTortj. 
 
THE RECRUIT. f 
 
 Bat Biiddenly came one and demanded blood-tax from these 
 poor mud-huts. The only young man who dwelt there — the 
 only one who had the strength to make the ungrateful soil fruit- 
 ful by the sweat of his brow — was to draw lots and become 
 a soldier, if his trembling hand should draw an unlucky num- 
 ber ; bid a long it might be an eternal farewell to his mother, 
 his friends, and his native heath ; and pine, perchance die, of 
 the wounds which the wild and dissolute soldier -life would in- 
 flict on his yet pure and peaceful soul. 
 
 The sad March day in '33, which Trien had marked 
 with a black cross, arrived. The young man had gone out 
 of the village to Brechts, with about ten companions, to draw 
 lots. 
 
 Within the huts, both mothers and the little boy were kneel- 
 ing in prayer. The old grandfather tottered silently up and 
 down for a time, and at last remained standing before the door 
 leaning on a vine-stem, with his head bent down, as if he 
 were looking into a grave. The maiden stood in the stable, 
 gazing long and wistfully into the eyes of John's cow, and 
 gently stroking its head, as if consoling it under the approach- 
 ing misfortune. 
 
 A gloomy silence brooded over both houses, unbroken save 
 by the occasional lowing of the ox. Trien soon approached the 
 grandfather, silently, but with a beseeching and inquiring look. 
 The old man awoke out of his painful reverie, and seizing his 
 heavy staff, said — 
 
 " Do not lose courage, Trien ; God will aid us in this dread- 
 ful extremity. Come, the time is up, let us go and meet the 
 poor recruits." 
 
 Trien followed the grandfather over a footpath which ran 
 past the house and led to the village. Though driven on by a 
 burning impatience, her steps were slow and heavy. The old 
 turned round, and, when he saw her sunken head and 
 
iO TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 pallid countenance, he took her hand sympathizingly, and 
 Raid — 
 
 " Poor child I how dearly yon must love our John. He Is 
 not your brother, and yet you are more alarmed than we. 
 Keep up your spirits, Trien, dear ; you do not yet know what 
 God has determined." 
 
 " I am so terrified I " she sighed, visibly trembling, and 
 looking through the wood in the direction of the town. 
 
 " Terrified I " repeated the old man, while he exertecl hii 
 eyes to discover the cause of her terror. 
 
 " Tes, yes," said Trien, covering her eyes with her apron, 
 " it is all over, and we are unfortunate — the lot ha« fallen on 
 him I" 
 
 " But how can you know Ihat i You make me tremble too," 
 •aid the old man anxiously. 
 
 Trien pointed wHh her finger beyond the trees, and replied, 
 " There, behind the wood — ^listen I" 
 
 "I hear nothing. Come, let us make haste; it must be 
 the recruits — so much the better." 
 
 " God 1" cried the maiden, " I hear a sound — so sad and 
 pitiful, it sounds in my ears like a deep and heavy sigh." 
 
 Perplexed and anxious, the old man looked at the girl for 
 a time, while she seemed to listen to a distant sound. He 
 also listened attentively in order to catch the noise as it came 
 over the quiet heath. A friendly smile lighted up his coun- 
 tenance as he said — 
 
 " Foolish little thing 1 it is the wind sweeping through the 
 fcr-wood." 
 
 " No, no 1 " she replied ; " further, further, behind the 
 wood. Do you not hear a wailing sound ? " 
 
 After some moments' attention, the old man rejoined — 
 
 " Now I understand what you mean ; it is Farmer Claei'f 
 dog which IB howling over some one dead. The farmer'! 
 
THE RECRtJrr. 11 
 
 wife, who had consumption, mnst have died last night. May 
 God receive her soul I " 
 
 The girl, whose mental tension and excitement had made 
 her regard the howling as foreboding some calamity, acknow- 
 ledged her error, and, quickening her pace, hastened after the 
 old man, in silence and in tears. At last he said — 
 
 " K r/ou are so inconsolable, Trien, what shall his mothe/ 
 and I, his grandfather, say ? With hard toil have we brought 
 him up, and loved him as the apple of our eyes. Now we are 
 old and feeble, and he in his turn should work for us. And ah I 
 if God has not sent his good angel to direct his hand, then 
 must he be a soldier, and leave us in our necessity." 
 
 These words made Trien's tears break out afresh, and with 
 an attempt at consolation she replied — 
 
 " That matters little, father — I have strong arms ; and as 
 yon are no longer able, I myself will go behind the oxen, and 
 do all the heavy work. But he — but John, poor fellow I To 
 hear nothing but cursing and swearing, to be beaten and im- 
 prisoned, and pine away from sheer vexation of mind, like the 
 unfortunate Pauw Stuyck, who was tortured to death in four 
 months ; and never to see one of all those who loved him 
 on earth, neither you nor his mother, nor his little brother, 
 nor — any one, save wicked and dissolute soldiers 1 " 
 
 " Oh 1 do not speak lo, Trien," said the old man with a 
 choking voice, " your words make me sad. Why lament so 
 bitterly ? You grieve and tremble as if there were no doubt 
 of hifl being unfortunate, while I, on the contrary, have a feel- 
 ing that he will draw a lucky number ; I have confidence in 
 the goodness of God." 
 
 Insensibly the maiden smiled through her tears, but so full 
 was her mind of sad forebodings, that she could not speak. 
 Both walked on in silence cill they reached the village. 
 Here, OP the road which led to Brechts, were assembled a 
 
15 TXLEB OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 great nnmber of people, clustered in little knotk all foil of 
 impatience to leam the result of the lot-dvawing. ft wai 
 easy to distinguish those whose sod, brother, or lover had 
 gone to Brechts. Here and there one might see a mother 
 with her apron to her eyes; a father, who endeavoured in 
 vain to conceal the anxiety too visibly imprinted on his coun- 
 tenance ; a maiden, with pale face and bashful look, going 
 from one knot to another, as if haunted by some secret fear. 
 
 Many others had collected there out of mere curiosity, and 
 spoke and jested with a loud voice. The old smith, who in 
 former times had been one of Napoleon's dragoons, was loud 
 in his praise of a soldier's life, and was seconded by the 
 miller's drunken son, who, after serving eleven months, 
 had returned to waste his paternal property in riot and de- 
 bauchery. The smith did it with a good intention, for he 
 wished by his fine description to console his anxious friends, 
 and kept always repeating — 
 
 " Every day soup and meat, plenty of money, good beer, 
 pretty girls, dancing, leaping, and fighting. There 's a life 
 for yon 1 yon have no notion what a jolly life it is." 
 
 But his words had quite a contrary effect, for they made 
 the tears of the mothers flow faster, and gave fresh cause of 
 grief to many hearts. 
 
 Trien could restrain herself no longer ; in this jesting speech 
 there was one word especially which had wounded her deeply. 
 "With an angry and threatening mien she went up to the 
 jester, and said — 
 
 "Shame on you, abandoned man! Is it necjessary that 
 they should all be drunkards like you, forsooth, or dissolute 
 fellows like that loose vagabond there, who has learned no- 
 thing else among soldiers but to lead a bad life, and bring hii 
 parents with sorrow to the grave?" 
 
 The miller's son went passionately up to the bold girl,, Md 
 
THE KICRUIT. 18 
 
 would have attacked her rndelj, had not BOine one just at tliat 
 moment exclaimed — 
 
 " There they are I there they are I " 
 
 In the distance, the recruits might be seen emergiug out of 
 a wood upon the highway, shouting and singing as they ap- 
 proached. Some were joyfully throwing their hats and caps 
 high into the air, and all together had the appearance of a 
 troop of drunkards returning from a feast. But it was impos- 
 sible to see which of them were merry and sang, and which 
 were sad and silent. 
 
 As soon as the recruits had gained the highway, their 
 relations and friends hastened from all sides to meet them. 
 The old grandfather could not go so quickly as the others, 
 though Trien now led him by the hand, and dragged him on. 
 At last the maiden could restrain her impatience no longer 
 when she saw mothers and young women embracing some 
 young peasants with loud rejoicing, and, letting go the old 
 man's hand, she ran forward as fast as she could. Suddenly 
 she halted in the middle of the road, as if deprived of motion 
 by some unknown power ; then tottering to the roadside, she 
 leant her head on a tree and wept bitterly. 
 
 The old man overtook her and asked, " Is John not among 
 them, that you remain standing there, Trien?" 
 
 " God, it will be my death I" she cried. " See yonder, 
 father, he comes behind the others, with sunken head and 
 pale face. He is half dead already, poor, poor fellow I " 
 
 "Perhaps it is from excess of joy, Trien?" 
 
 ** How fortunate you are," she cried, " in not seeing more 
 clearly 1" 
 
 Meanwhile John approachsd the place where his grand- 
 father stood, and went slowly up to him. 
 
 Trien did not go to meet him, biL buried her ^^^ in hef 
 hands, and sobbed audibly. 
 
14 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 The youth seized the old man's hand, and showing him a 
 number, said with a choking voice — 
 
 " Father, the lot has fallen upon me." 
 
 Then turning to the maiden, he sighed, and a flood of 
 tears gushed from his eyes. 
 
 " Trien I Trien ! " was all he could utter. 
 
 The old man was too much overpowered to be able either 
 to speak or think ; the tears rolled slowly down the furrows 
 of his face, while he stood silent and stupified, with his eyei 
 fixed on the ground. 
 
 For a time the deepest silence reigned, till John exclaimed 
 with a despairing voice — 
 
 " Oh, my poor mother I my poor mother I " 
 
 Scarcely were these words uttered than a wonderful change 
 teemed to take place in the maiden. She was a noble and 
 courageous girl. While there was uncertainty, she had given 
 free vent to her tears ; but with the certainty of misfortune, 
 her heart found the needful energy, and now, when an elevat- 
 ing sense of duty awoke her out of her grief, a strength which 
 was peculiar to her beautiful character returned to her soul. 
 She raised her head, and drying her tears, spoke calmly and 
 collectedly. 
 
 " John, my friend, God has so willed it, and who can strive 
 against Him ? You have still a year with us ; perhaps some 
 way may cast up. Let me go, / will tell your mother ; if 
 another should tell her the dreadful news, it might be her 
 death." 
 
 With these wonis, she hastened into the fir-wood and dii- 
 appeared. The old man and the unfortunate youth kept the 
 usual path to the village. They heard songs, and shouts, 
 and hurrahs, but were too deeply sunk in grief to heed 
 them. 
 
 As they approached their poor dwelling, Tri^i^ 
 
THE RECRUIT. 1$ 
 
 by both the women and the little brother, came ont to meet 
 them weeping. 
 
 The young man gave Trien a look of the deepest gratitude, 
 for he could well perceive from the countenance of his mother 
 that the noble girl had roused in the heart of the sorrowing 
 widow a feeling of hope. He was encouraged when he saw 
 this, and, repressing his grief, he hastened towards her with 
 open arms. 
 
 At first there was violent emotion, deep sorrow, and many 
 tears ; but despau* yielded tc calmer feelings, and by degreei 
 peace retomei into the widows' hnti. 
 
1% TALES OF FLEMISH LItm. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The Kduf of departure is come. Yonder, before the hTJti^ 
 itands a fine young man — his staff on his shoulder, and a 
 bundle on his back. His eyes, once so quick and lively, now 
 move slowly and heavily, his face is calm, and everything 
 seems to indicate in him a tranquil and collected mind; but 
 hiB heart beats quick, and his breast heaves with repressed 
 emotion. 
 
 His mother holds one of hv hands in hers, and overwhelms 
 him with the tenderest expreiwrions of love ; tne poor woman 
 sheds no tear, and her lips tremble under the restraint which 
 she puts on herself to conceal her grief. She smiles on her 
 son to console him ; but this forced and melancholy smile is 
 sadder than the bitterest lamentation. 
 
 The other widow is endeavouring to console the little boy, 
 and make him believe that John will soon come back again ; 
 Dut the melancholy feelings with which, during the past year, 
 his parents had looked forward to this day, had taught him to 
 regard the departure as a dreadful calamity — and nothing 
 could comfort him. 
 
 The grandfather and Trien are within doors, making the 
 last preparations for the journey ; they have cut a great hole 
 in a loaf of bread and filled it with butter ; carrying this with 
 them^ they go out and stand beside the young man. 
 
 The stable is open, the ox turns its head and looks with a 
 
THB BECRITIT. 17 
 
 sad expression towards its master, nttering at intervals a low 
 
 and melancholy sound. One might have supposed that the 
 beast knew what was going on. 
 
 All is ready, and he is about to depart. Already he hhS 
 firmly pressed his mother's hand, and advanced a step ; but 
 he pauses a moment longer to cast a last look of affection 
 around him — on the humble cot where his cradle stood — the 
 heath, and the wood where he had wandered when a child — 
 and on the barren fields, which, as a young man, he had so often 
 made fruitful by his labour. Then by turns his glance falls 
 on all the objects which he loved, even on the ox, his trusty 
 friend during many a hard day's toil ; he covers his face with 
 his hand, to conceal the tears which roll over his cheeks, and 
 sighs inaudibly, " Farewell I " 
 
 Now he raises his head, shakes back the long hair from his 
 brow, and walks forth with a determined air. 
 
 All follow him ; for they will not leave him yet. A little 
 farther on, there hangs under the linden-tree, at the cross 
 roads, an image of the Virgin. Trien had hung it up there 
 on a beautiful May evening, and John had made a bench for 
 the knees at the foot of the tree. At this sacred spot, where 
 they daily kneeled and prayed, their trembling lips were to 
 pronounce an anxious adieu. 
 
 The linden-tree may now be seen in the distance — the spot 
 which is to witness their fatal separation. The young man 
 slackens his pace, while his mother, in the midst of tender 
 caresses, thus addresses him — 
 
 " John, my son, do not forget what I have told you ; at all 
 times have God before your eyes, and never omit to say your 
 praters before lying down at night. So long as you do this, 
 your heart will remain pure ; but should it happen that you 
 forget it Dn any occasion, then think next day on me — on your 
 mother, and again may you retun to the right path, and bt 
 « m 
 
18 TALB8 OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 good ; for he who thinks on his mother and his God is stronf 
 •gainst all evil, my dear child." 
 
 " I will always, always think on you, mother," replied the 
 jonng man in a low tone ; " and if I am sad, and lose heart, 
 then shall the thought of you support and console me — for 
 I feel too wel. that I shall be unhappy ; I love you aJ too 
 much." 
 
 " And, then, do not swear, my son, and lead a profligate 
 life. You will go to church regularly, will you not ? And 
 as often as possible, you will let us know how you are? 
 And ever keep in mind, that the most trifling news from 
 her child, makes a mother's heart glad. Oh I every day 
 will I pray to your guardian angel, that he may not forsake 
 you." 
 
 The sweet tone of his mother's voice moved the young man 
 deeply ; he did not venture to look at her, so overpowering an 
 emotion did her beaming maternal glance raise in him at this 
 solemn hour ; he listened to bar with sunken head. His only 
 reply was now and then a firmer pressure of the hand, or a 
 deeper sigh, while, " Mother, dear mother ! " were the only 
 words he could utter. 
 
 Silently they approach the cross road. The old man going 
 on the other side of the youth, said to him, with an earnest 
 voice — 
 
 " John, my son, you will do your duty, will you not, with- 
 out murmuring, and with pleasure? You will obey your 
 superiors ; and if injustice is done you, bear it in silence ? Be 
 courteous and obliging to all ; show good- will towards every 
 one, and what is given you to do, do thoroughly. Then will 
 God aid you, and your superiors and comrades love you." 
 
 Trien, her mother, and the boy, are already kneeling on the 
 grass under the linden-tree, beside the bench, and are engaged 
 in prayer. John has no time to reply to his grandfather'! ex* 
 
THE SECBUIT. 1 
 
 hortatioBs; his mother leads him to the benoh<-«]I kneel 
 down and pray with uplifted hands. 
 
 The wind sounds gently among the firs; the spring sun 
 beams mildly on the sandy highway — the birds oTerhead sing 
 a joyful song — all is calm and solemn, and the pious whisper- 
 ings of the praying family ascend audibly through the linden 
 branches. 
 
 It is over ; all stand up, and every eye is filled with tears. 
 The mother embraces her son with bitter lamentation, and 
 though the others stand ready to say the melancholy farewell, 
 she will not let her dear firstborn go : again and again she 
 kisses away the tears &om his cheeks, and utters unintelligible 
 words of love and sorrow. 
 
 At last she sits down on the little bench exhausted and 
 fainting, but still weeping. 
 
 John hastily embraces his grandfather and Trien's mother ; 
 with kindly force separates himself from his little brother, who 
 clung crying to his legs ; once more presses his mother to his 
 breast, kisses her brow, and with a final adieu, hastens towards 
 the village without venturing to look round, till he has turned 
 the corner of the wood, and is out of sight of his relations. 
 
 It was with difficulty that Trien, carrying the bread under 
 her arm, was able to follow and overtake him. 
 
 For a long time both young people stood beside one another 
 without speaking ; their hearts beat quickly ; a dark blush of 
 modesty suffused their brow and cheeks — they did not venture 
 to look at each other. Great hour I in which two human 
 souls tremble in each other's presence, with the conscious- 
 ness that a long-cherished and holy secret is about to be 
 revealed. 
 
 John took Trien's hand shyly and timidly, as if to touch 
 it were a crime, and let it fall again as if it burnt him. 
 
 After a pause, during which perfect silence reigned, he 
 
iO TALES OF FLEMISH LZFB. 
 
 took her hand again, and, in a tone nnlike his oidinirfi 
 
 sighed — 
 
 " Trien, will you not forget me?" 
 
 A flood of tears was the maiden*s only reply. 
 
 "Will you wait till John comes back from soldiering?** 
 said the young man again. "May he take with him that 
 one consolation at least, that he may not die of grief?" 
 
 The maiden raised her large blue eyes, and gazed on him 
 with a long sad look, penetrating his soul like a ray of fire, 
 and filling his heart with a blessedness hitherto unknown to 
 him. 
 
 He continues to stand there unconsciously : how it happens 
 he knows not, but his burning lips have touched the young 
 girl's brow. As if terrified, he draws back and leans upon 
 an oak. There before him beams the maiden's countenance 
 with the fire of modesty and of happiness ; he lays his hand 
 upon his heart, for he feels as if it would break in pieces, so 
 violent is its beating. Yet an indescribable smile plays upon 
 his face, his eyes sparkle with a manly glow, proudly and 
 confidently he raises his head ; a single glance from ^'^ be- 
 loved seems to have infused into him a giant's strength and 
 courage. 
 
 Behind the wood a well-known voice is heard ; some one 
 approaches singing a merry song. It is Charles, who is also 
 to be a soldier, and is now on his way to the village. 
 
 Trien makes great efforts to hide her confusion. The sur- 
 prise awakes her out of her dreams ; she casts a hasty look 
 on her friend, and urges him to go, that Charles may not 
 overtake him, and that no strange eye may perceive what haa 
 taken place between them. 
 
 But Charles advances rapidly to join his fellow-traveller. 
 Trien perceives it, and says hastily — 
 
 "John, when yet are gone I will care for your mother. 
 
THX BECBT7IT. tl 
 
 gprandfatlier, and Kttle brother ; I will go behind the plongh, 
 as it is proper I should do, and care for the ox that it come 
 to no harm. I am strong and healthy, and will manage so 
 that on your return you will find everything as you left it." 
 
 "Everything?" repeated the young man, looking deeply 
 into her eyes, " everything?" 
 
 " Yes, everything ; and I will not go to any merry-makingi 
 BO long as you are away, for without you I can have no plea- 
 sure in them. But — you, too, must not drink, nor take up 
 with pretty girls, as that profligate smith talks about, for were 
 I to learn that, I would soon lie in the churchyard " — 
 
 Just at this moment Charles slaps John's shoulder with bii 
 heavy hand, while he sings, with a tone of mock sadneai — 
 
 ** Alaa, my lore, I now from thee muit part^ 
 Most to th« wars— ah, how it tears my h6Ut 1 
 Farewell ! — forget me not I " 
 
 The young girl blushed deeply. John, perceiving her per- 
 plexity, replied to his comrade's jest in a careless tone, and 
 leizing him by the arm, proceeded with him to the village, 
 while Trien walked silently behind. 
 
 At last they reach the village. Before the " Crown " stand 
 three young fellows with knapsacks on their backs, waiting 
 for John and Charles. 
 
 Every one is kissing parents and friends. Trien alone 
 kisses nobody ; but in the secret glance which she exchanged 
 with John as she gave him the bread, lies an affecting atter- 
 .ince of the soul. 
 
 The recruits set out towards the city. 
 
 Trien leaves the village without shedding a tear ; but, be- 
 hind the fir-wood, her heart is too fiill. With her apron to 
 her eyes she returns to the hut, where all would be empty but 
 for memory, which filU up the gap earned by the departort 
 of the Bon and the lover. 
 
AUtg or VLBMISB Lorm. 
 
 OHAPTBB IIL 
 
 On a dear day is Angnst, Trien left the village on her waj 
 home, in high Bpirits ; she seemed in great haste, and happi- 
 ness was painted on her smiling countenance ; light were her 
 footsteps in the dnsty sand of the highway, and now and then 
 some unintelligible sounds escaped from her panting breast aa 
 she talked with herself. 
 
 In one hand, she held two great sheets of writing-paper, 
 and m the other, a prepared quill, and a little bottle of ink, 
 which the parish-clerk had made her a present of. 
 
 On the way, pretty Kate, the wooden-shoemaker's daughter, 
 came singing out of a side-path, with a bundle of clover on 
 her head, and compelled her friend to stop, by calling out — 
 
 " Ho there, Trien 1 where are you running with the paper? 
 Why such haste ? Is there a fire anywhere ? Tell me, how 
 goes it with your John ?" 
 
 "With our John?" replied Trien, "tfta/ the Lord God 
 alone knows, Katie dear. Since he went away, we have heard 
 fipom him only thrice, that he is in good health. It is now 
 half a year since a comrade from Tumheutz left a message 
 from him to us at the * Crown.' But it must be a difficult 
 thing to send word, for he is somewhere beyond Maestricht, 
 and it isn't every day that an acquaintance oomet from lo 
 great a distance to our quarter." 
 
 " Can ho not write, then, Trien ?" 
 
THE BECBUIT. IS 
 
 ** He used to he able to do so ; for wten we were little, 
 «nd went together to school in the parish-clerk's house, ha 
 once carried oflf the prize for his writing. But I daresay he 
 has forgotten it all, like me." 
 
 " What are you doing with the paper, then ?" 
 
 " Why, Kate, two months ago I sought out my old writing- 
 book, and have been learning it all over anew ; and I wish to 
 see now whether I can write a letter. Whether it will suc- 
 ceed or not, I cannot tell ; have you ever written a letter in 
 your life, Kate?" 
 
 " No ; but I have heard many letters read ; for my brother, 
 Dries, who dwells in the city, writes almost every month to 
 us." 
 
 " What kind of a thing is a letter ? What is in it ? Is it 
 just the same as if you were speaking to some one ?" 
 
 " Save ye, Trien I that would be a fine thing, indeed I It 
 is always full of compliments and big words, which you could 
 scarcely understand." 
 
 " Ah I Kate, how shall I ever manage it rightly ? But if 
 I were to write like this, for example — * John, we are anxious, 
 because we do not know how you are. If you do not send us 
 news quickly, your mother will fall ill,' and so forth ; he will 
 understand that, won't he ?" 
 
 " Yes, you simple little heart ; but that is no letter ; every 
 body speaks that way — those who have been taught, as well 
 as those who have not. Wait a moment — ay, this is the way 
 it always begins — * Much-honoured parents, — Trembling, I 
 take the pen into my hand to— to' — now, I can't find out 
 what comes next." 
 
 "To— write I" 
 
 " Oh, you know more about it than 1 1 You think me very 
 ■tupid. That is bad of you, Trien." 
 
 " Bat, Kate, what can you be thinking about ? If he takei 
 
14 TALES pF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 the pen into his hand, he doesn't do it to spread a piece of 
 bread and butter. I can't help laughing at you. I do not 
 understand why your brother Dries always trembles when he 
 begins a letter. Writing must surely be very difficult to him. 
 It is a bad thing, too ; for when one trembles, one never writes 
 well." 
 
 " No, that is not it ; but Dries follows his own ways in the 
 city, and is always wanting money, and father is so angry with 
 him, and that's why he trembles. But tell me, Trien, how 
 is your cow ?" 
 
 " Pretty well, now. She has suffered much, poor thing ; 
 but she has come through it safely, and is almost herself again. 
 We have sold the calf to a peasant from Wechel-ter-zande. 
 It was a mottled calf — a dear little thing 1 " 
 
 Meanwhile the girls had moved a few paces, each in her 
 own direction. 
 
 " Well, a kind greeting to your family, Trien," cried Kate, 
 as she walked away ; " see that you manage your letter pro- 
 perly ; and send John our compliments." 
 
 " Adieu till Sunday, after church ; then I shall tell you 
 how I have got on with it. Kind remembrances to your 
 sister." 
 
 Kate's voice already sounded in the fir-wood ; merrily and 
 clearly she sang the burden of a well-known May song — 
 
 •• See ! with jnpeaths and flowers adom'd, 
 Tlie Tillag^Siay-pole, pianted high. 
 And the boys and peasant girli 
 Dancing round it merrily. 
 
 Up. maidens ! seize the hour, 
 Up I and join the gleeful throng ; 
 Tooth oomes but once, and when it go«i^ 
 Qo with it dance and song." 
 
 Trien stood dreaming till the beautiful voice of her friend 
 4lad away behind the wood. Then she bounded along the nwd, 
 
nns BBCRUiT. 95 
 
 half skipping, half walking, and soon reached her dwell* 
 ing. 
 
 Here sat both widows at the table, and waited impatiently 
 for Trien's return. The old grandfather, who had taken cold, 
 lay in bed, and pushed his head through the curtains, that 
 with eye and ear at least, he might be present at the great 
 work in which they were engaged. 
 
 So soon as the girl made her appearance, the women hastily 
 cleared off everything that lay on the table, and wiped it clean 
 with the comer of their aprons. 
 
 " Come here, Trien, seat yourself on grandfather's chair, it 
 is more convenient." 
 
 The girl seated herself silently at the table, spread out the 
 paper, and then stuck the end of the pen thoughtfully in her 
 mouth. 
 
 Meanwhile the women and the grandfather looked at her 
 with the liveliest curiosity. The little brother had spread out 
 both arms on the table, and fixed his gaze on her mouth and 
 eyes, watching what she would do with the pen. But Trien 
 rose from her seat as silent as they, took a little coffee-cup 
 from the shelf, poured the ink out of the bottle into it, and 
 set it on the table, where she kept turning the paper this 
 way and that nine or ten times. 
 
 At last she dipped the pen in the ink, and disposed herself 
 to write. After a few moments, she raised her head, and 
 asked — 
 
 " Now, tell me, what am I to write?" 
 
 Both widows looked inquiringly at one another, and then 
 to the sick grandfather, who had pushed out his head far be- 
 yond the curtain, and kept his eyes fixed on Trien's hand. 
 
 "Why, write that we are all well," said the old man, 
 coughing ; " a letter always begins so." 
 
 The maiden smiled, and said — 
 
M TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 " Ah, that were fine, to be sure I That we are all well, and 
 yen have been lying ill in bed this fortnight ! " 
 
 " But you can say that at the end of the letter, Trien, all 
 the same." 
 
 "No, child, do you know what you must do ?" said John's 
 iHOther, " You must first ask how he is, and after you have 
 written that, we shall add all the other things." 
 
 " No, child," said the other widow ; " write down first that 
 you take the pen in your hand to inquire after his health. 
 That is the way the letter of Peter- John's Tist began, whicn 
 I heard read at the miller's last night." 
 
 " Yes, that is what Kate the wooden-shoemaker's daughter 
 said too. But I'll not do it for all that — it is far too child- 
 ish," replied the maiden, impatiently. " John knows, with- 
 out being told, that I can't write with my feet." 
 
 " In the first place," said the grandfather, " set down his 
 name at the top of the paper." 
 
 " What name ? Braems ? " 
 
 "No, no— John!" 
 
 " You are right, grandfather," replied the girl. " Go away, 
 Pawken, take your arms off the table. And you, mother, pray 
 sit bacK a bit, else you will jog me." 
 
 She put the pen to the paper, and, while seeking for the 
 place at which she should begin to write, she spelt, in a low 
 tone, the name of her absent friend. 
 
 Suddenly John's mother rose, and, seizing the girl's hand, 
 said — 
 
 " Wait a little, Trien. You do not mean to say, surely, 
 that John is not good ? That is so short a way of beginning j 
 would it not be better to set down, Beloved son, or, Dear 
 ehildt" 
 
 Trien scarcely heard her; for she was busy licking the 
 paper, and half angrily exclaimed — 
 
THE BECBUIT. IT 
 
 " Look there I that comeg of it all. A great blot on the 
 paper ; and no licking will do any good — it will not go OTit 
 I must take the other sheet.'' 
 
 " Now, Trien, what do you say to it ? Beloved son — that 
 sounds much better, don't you think?" 
 
 "No, I will not put down that," grumbled Trien, in a 
 ilightly irritated tone. " Can I write to John as if I were hii 
 mother?" 
 
 " Well, what will you write, then ?" 
 
 The maiden blushed all over, while she replied — 
 
 " Let us write. Dear friend. Does that not sound well ?" 
 
 " No, no, I'll not have that," said the mother. " I would 
 rather have John, short as it is." 
 
 " Beloved JoAn-— will that do?" 
 
 "Ay, ay, that's right I" replied the others all at once, as if 
 overjoyed at the solution of the heavy problem. 
 
 " Now, keep off from the table all of you," cried Trien ; 
 " and keep Pawk away, that he may not shake me." 
 
 She now began the work. Immediately after, pure drops of 
 perspiration stood upon her brow ; she held her breath, and her 
 countenance glowed. Soon after, she heaved a deep sigh as 
 if she felt a great burden lifted from her, and said joyfully — 
 
 " Ah, it is the most difficult of letters that B, But there 
 it stands now, with its thick head." 
 
 Both women stood up and looked with great admiration at 
 the letter, which was as big as a finger-joint at least. 
 
 *• Well, that is clever I " exclaimed John's mother ; " the 
 thing looks like a wallet, and it stands for Beloved John ! 
 Well, well, writing is a fine thing ; one would almost think 
 it was witchcraft." 
 
 " Come, let me get on," said Trien courageously. '* I 
 shall manage it famously now ; if only the pen would noi 
 
t8 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 Trien now laboured on, perspiring and groaning, TIm 
 grandfather panted and coughed ; the women were silent, and 
 did not venture to stir ; the little brother busied himself dip- 
 ping his fingers in the ink, and bepainting his little arms with 
 black spots. 
 
 After a time, the first line was full of great letters, and tho 
 girl paused a moment. 
 
 "Well, Trien, how far are you now?" asked John'i 
 mother. "You must read us what you have got on the 
 paper, there." 
 
 " Do not be so very impatient," said Trien ; " nothing 
 more stands there yet than. Beloved John, All goes on well. 
 Just look how the sweat breaks out on me I I'd rather 
 muck the stable ; you seem to think, surely, that writing is no 
 labour. — Pawken, let alone the ink, you rascal, else you will 
 upset the cup." 
 
 " Come now, go on, girl," said the grandfather, " otherwite 
 the letter will not be written till next week." 
 
 "Yes, that's true enough," replied Trien; "but tell me 
 what I shall put down next." 
 
 " In the first place, and before anything else, inquire after 
 his health." 
 
 She wrote on again for a time, wiped out two or three in« 
 correct letters with her finger, annoyed herself very much with 
 eflforts to get hold of the hair which had found its way into 
 the slit of the pen, scolded the parish-clerk because the ink 
 was so thick, and then read, with a loud voice, " Beloved John, 
 how is it with your health /" 
 
 " That is as it should be," said the mother. " Now, write 
 that we are all well — both ourselves and the cattle — and that 
 we wish him good-day." 
 
 Trien reflected for a moment, and then went on with hat 
 writing. As soon as she was ready, she read — 
 
THE BEGEurr. If 
 
 ** Chdheprmsedy we are aU in good health, and the ox and 
 
 Uie cow likewise^ except grandfather, who is til ; and we aU 
 together wish you good-day" 
 
 " Heavens I " cried her mother, " Trien, child, where hare 
 you learned all that? The parish-clerk himself" — 
 
 " Do not confuse me," interrupted Trien, " and make me 
 forget something. I feel now that all will go capitally." 
 
 For half an hour the deepest silence reigned. The work 
 seemed to go on more easily, for Trien smiled at times while 
 writing. Pawken alone annoyed her, for he was now dipping 
 his whole hand in the ink, and his arm was black all over. 
 She had pushed the cup to the other side of the table several 
 times ; but the little fellow was so bent upon playing with the 
 ink, that nothing could take him away from it. 
 
 Spite of that, the two first pages were now full to the edge. 
 At the request of the women, Trien now read what she had set 
 down, with a certain self-satisfaction, and it was as follows : — 
 
 " * Beloved John, — How is it with your health ? God be 
 praised, we are all in good health, and the ox and the cow 
 likewise, except grandfather, who is ill ; and we all together 
 wish you good-day. It is now six months since we heard 
 from you. Send us word, then, whether you are still in life. 
 It is not right of you so to forget us — us, who are so fond of 
 you that your mother speaks of you all day long, and that I 
 dream of you every night — dreaming that you are unhappy, 
 and that I hear sounding in my ears without ceasing " Trien I 
 Trien I " so that I start up in my sleep and leap out of bed. 
 And the ox, poor thing I is always looking out of its stall and 
 heaving sighs, which it would almost make you shed tears to 
 hear. And that none of us know anything at all about you 
 18 a gi'eat cause of grief to us, and you ought to have pity on 
 us, John, for it will make your poor mother quite ill. Poor 
 woman! if she only hears your name, a spasm seizes her 
 
30 TALES OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 throat, and slie begins to weep, so that it almo«t breftki XDf 
 heart to see her * " — 
 
 While she was reading these lines, the eyes of the listeners 
 gradually filled with tears ; at the sad tones of the last words, 
 they could no longer restrain their emotion, and the maiden 
 was interrupted by loud sobs and groans. The grandfather 
 had laid his head on the bedstead to conceal his tears ; John's 
 mother, too deeply affected to be able to repress her feelings, 
 sprang up and fell speechless on the young girl's neck, who 
 beheld with surprise the effect of her writing. 
 
 "Trien, TrienI where did you find these words?" cried 
 the other widow. " They go like a knife through my heart ; 
 and yet they are very beautifol I" 
 
 " Ah I it is the simple truth," sighed John's mother ; ** it is 
 better that he should know what I have suffered in my heart 
 Bead on farther, Trien dear ; it quite astonishes me that yon 
 can write so well — there never was the like of it. Your hands 
 are much too good, child, to milk cows or till the land j but 
 God lets many strange things happen in the world." 
 
 Pleased with the praise she received, Trien said with » 
 self-satisfied smile — 
 
 " I will cope with any one in writing. Now, at last, hav** 
 I discovered the proper way of writing a letter. But listec 
 still, for there is more yet : — 
 
 " * Ah, John, if you but knew all, you would not neglect to 
 send us news. The clover has failed on account of the severe 
 frost, and because the seed was bad ; but the sainfcin smiles 
 at you when you look at it, as mellow as butter. And the 
 grain has suffered a little from the drought; nevertheless, 
 our dear heavenly Father has blessed us with beautiful buck- 
 wheat, and a large crop of early potatoes. And the joiner is 
 married to a girl from Pulderbosch who squints, but she has 
 brought a little dowry with her. John Sos, the butcher, fel] 
 
THB SECBUIT. . SI 
 
 from the brewer's roof on our old smith's back, and the smith 
 
 lies at the point of death, poor fellow/ " Trien paused, 
 
 and looked up at her audience. 
 
 "Is that all?" asked the mother, disappointed. "Will 
 you not tell him that the cow has calved?" 
 
 " yes, I forgot that. See, there it is already — * Our 
 
 cow has calved; all went well, and the calf is sold.'" 
 
 "Will you say nothing about our rabbits, then, Trien?" 
 asked the grandfather. 
 
 After it was written, the maiden read — 
 
 " * Grandfather has made a rabbit-warren in the stable ; 
 they are as fat as badgers ; but the biggest buck shall not be 
 killed till you come back, John, and then we shall have a 
 glorious feast.'" 
 
 All burst into a hearty laugh ; the little fellow, who saw 
 everybody happy, and was himself somewhat moved by the 
 word feast^ clapped his hands. Unfortunately, however, he 
 struck the coffee-cup so violently that it rolled over the table, 
 and the ink was poured over the beautiful letter like a black 
 flood. Laughter disappeared from every countenance ; they 
 looked at one another astounded and silent, and held up their 
 hands in despair, while Pawken, who was afraid of a beating, 
 was howling and screaming by anticipation. A considerable 
 time was spent in overwhelming .the child with reproofs, and 
 in bitter lamentations over the mishap, till at last it occurred 
 to some one to say — 
 
 " Heaven I what is to be done now?" 
 
 " Come, come," said Trien in a decided tone, " the mishap 
 is not so bad, after all. I had some inclination to write the 
 letter over again at any rate, for at first it did not go so well 
 ms I wished — the letters were too big, and the writing crooked. 
 Now I shall do it much better — I feel in spirits to attempt it. 
 Just let me run as fast as I can into the village for paper and 
 
59 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 ink) and to get my pen made again, for it has l)ecome fiur too 
 soft." 
 
 " Then go quickly, child," was the reply. " You have the 
 five-franc piece you got for the calf; get the parish-clerk to 
 change it, for we must send at least eighteen-pence & our 
 poor John. — Pawken I get out of the house, and don't show 
 face till evening, if possible." 
 
 Trien hastened out of the door on her way to the village, 
 with a pleased expression on her face. The victory she had 
 gained, the conviction that she could henceforth write to John, 
 and above all, a kind of pride she felt in her accomplishments, 
 filled her heart with a secret pleasure. 
 
 At the linden-tree, by the cross-roads, she saw the letter- 
 carrier at a distance approaching. This made her stand 
 still, and her heart beat quick with expectation ; for as this 
 road led nowhere but to the mud-huts, and the uninhabited 
 heath and wood beyond, she had no doubt that the postman 
 brought some news from John. And in fact, as he approached, 
 he took a letter out of his pocket, and said smiling — 
 
 " Trieny, I have got something here for you, which comes 
 all the way from Venloo; but there is thirty-five cents to 
 pay." 
 
 "Thirty-five cents I" murmured Trien, as she took the 
 letter with a trembling hand, and dreamily gazed at the super- 
 scription. 
 
 '' Yes, yes," said the letter-carrier, " it is written there on 
 the outside. Am I likely to cheat you for such a trifle?" 
 
 "Can you change this?" asked Trien, giving him the five- 
 franc piece. 
 
 The letter-carrier changed the piece of money for her, 
 deducting the postage, then greeted the maiden in a friendly 
 way, and returned to the village. 
 
 Trien ran joyfully home. But unable to resist her imj^ 
 
THE BECBUIT. SB 
 
 tienoe, she tore open the letter, and was not a little surprised 
 to ice another fall out of the envelope. She lifted it up. A 
 modest blush overspread her brow and face, while a smile 
 played round her lips, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure. 
 On this letter there was written, in large letters, " For Trten 
 alone" For Trien I here, in this bit of paper, John's soul 
 was shut up ; his voice spoke out of it to her — to her alone I 
 It was a secret between John and her I 
 
 At once moved and perplexed, she stood for a moment look- 
 ing to the ground : a flood of thoughts flowed through her 
 head, till the distant lowing of the ox recalled her to herself 
 and she remembered that it was not right to stay away so 
 long. She hid the second letter in her bosom, and hastened 
 to the hut, where she surprised the two widows, who were 
 waiting for her return, with the joyful exclamation, " A letter 
 from John ! a letter from John I " 
 
 Both came to meet her with joyful surprise, and the good 
 old women almost skipped with delight. The grandfather 
 bent himself so far forward to see the letter, that he almost 
 fell out of bed. 
 
 In a few hasty words, Trien told them how she had met the 
 letter-carrier by the way, and how he had asked thirty-five 
 cents ; but she was interrupted by the others, who kept calling 
 oat : " Oh, Trien, read it I read it, Trien I" 
 
 Trien seated herself at the table, and began to spell out th« 
 letter with a loud voice ; and as the writing was not very dis- 
 tinct, she had to do so with every word, and had to repeat 
 many of them before she could bring out any sense. She 
 read as follows : — 
 
 " My very dear Parents, — I take the pen into my hand 
 in order to inquire into the state of your precious health, 
 and I hope to hear from you soon also. I have got sore eyes, 
 and am at present in the hospital ; and I am very anxiou% 
 
14 YALtSB OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 dear parents, and somewhat afraid, because so many oomradoi 
 have become blind from the same disease." 
 
 Trien could read no more : she let her head sink on the 
 ill-starred paper, while the women and the grandfather shed 
 bitter tears, and bewailed their misfortune with loud sobs. 
 
 " God I God I — my poor child I my poor child I my 
 poor child I" cried the mother, raising her hands to heaven, 
 and walking about the room in despair. " Blind I blind I" 
 
 The maiden raised her head again, and said through her 
 tears — " For Heaven's sake do not make it worse than it is 
 — it is bad enough already. Let me go on ; perhaps it is not 
 so bad as we suppose. Be still, and listen. 
 
 " But tell mother not to be anxious, for I am already a little 
 better, and I hope to recover, if it please God. The worst 
 thing of all is want of food, for we are on half rations in the 
 hospital. We could take in one mouthful the allowance oi 
 bread and meat for a whole day ; and in addition to that we 
 have a dish of Ratatul* without salt and pepper, and that if 
 all. When the heart is sound, one may live on that. But, 
 dear parents, if it is in your power, send me a little money. 
 We are wretched enough here, sitting all day in the dark, 
 and mourning, for we can't bear the light. Many compli- 
 ments to grandfather, and Trien, and her mother, and Paw* 
 ken, and I wish you all health and long life. 
 
 " Kobe, the son of Tistje the crofter, has been made a cor- 
 poral. The rats in the barracks have bitten a great hole in 
 my knapsack, and they have set down a new knapsack to 
 my account, and it costs seven francs and seventeen centimes. 
 Were it not for this, I should have no debt. All my 
 superiors like me ; and the sergeant, who is a Walloon from 
 Liege, is pleased with me also. 
 
 * Mataiutt or BaUUndl, % Walloon word, ia » kind ol Map, ov ngoot, nuda fA Mnfi 
 
THB BJPCBUIT. S5 
 
 ** Charles, the farmer's son, has written this letter for me, 
 and he is in the hospital too, with sore eyes ; but you must 
 not let his father know it, for he is almost well again. The 
 other friends from our village are still in good health. We 
 send you, beloved parents, our respectful greetings. Your 
 dutiful son." 
 
 After she had read it, Trien held the comer of her apron 
 to her eyes, and mourned in silence; the grandfather had 
 sunk behind the bed-curtains ; the two widows sat weeping. 
 
 For a long time a painful silence reigned, only interrupted 
 now and then by sighs and sobs, till Trien rose, and taking a 
 sickle from the wall, went to the door and said — 
 
 " Our grief would soon have made me forget our poor cow. 
 I go to fetch sainfoin. Try, in the meantime, to pick up a 
 little courage, and think on what we should do." 
 
 No one answered. The maiden took a wheelbarrow from 
 before the door, and wheeled it past the house. Behind an 
 oak-tree, and concealed by the brushwood, she stopped and sat 
 down on the barrow. With trembling hands, she put aside 
 her neckerchief, and took out the letter. When she had 
 opened it, she spelt out aloud what follows, while tears more 
 than once bedim med her eyes, and she had almost fainted. 
 
 " This letter, too, is written by Charles, but I have told 
 him word for word what he should set down. 
 
 " Trien, — I have not ventured to write it to my mother, 
 because the news is too terrible. Trien, I am blind — blind 
 for my whole life. Both eyes are gone. It does not grieve 
 me so much that I have lost my sight, as that I can see you 
 no more on earth, nor mother, nor grandfather, nor any ot 
 those who love me ; and that this will be my death, I feel too 
 well. 
 
 "Trien, since I grew blind I always see you before my 
 •yea, and it in that alone which keeps me alive; but now I 
 
M TALBf OF VLEMIBH UWE. 
 
 may no longer think of that, nor you either. Ah, my ddtf 
 fnend, yon may go to merry-makings now as you used to do ; 
 do not stay away from them on my account, but enjoy yourself 
 while you are young. For were you to suffer for my sake, 
 then should I die an earlier death. 
 
 " Trien, I have written this to you alone, that you may 
 acquaint my poor mother with it by degrees. For Heaven'i 
 Bake, do it gently, Trien I — Your unhappy John, till death.'* 
 
 Scarcely had the girl read, with the greatest effort, the 
 closing words of the letter, when her face became as pale as 
 death, her arms sank powerless by her side, her eyes closed, 
 and her head fell slowly back on the wheelbarrow. There 
 she lay unconscious, in a deathlike swoon. 
 
 The sultry breeze from the heath lazily stirred the oak 
 twigs overhead, and the quivering leaves threw their shadow 
 on the maiden's pale brow ; the honey-bee buzzed and hummed 
 round her head ; high up towards the heavens, the skylark 
 soared with its song ; far away into the solitude was heard the 
 ceaseless chirping of the crickets — and yet all was still and 
 silent. Nothing awoke the maiden out of her death -like 
 slumber. 
 
 The sun advanced gradually in its path, till a warm beam 
 penetrated the foliage, and fell on her face. The unhappy 
 girl slowly opened her eyes, and the blood began to flow again 
 through her veins. She raised her head and looked round 
 with a confused expression, unable to understand where she 
 was. The letter, which still lay open at her feet, recalled 
 the fearful calamity to her mind. She picked it up, and, 
 folding it carefully, put it into her bosom, and bent her head 
 in deep reflection. 
 
 After some time she rose, anA wheeling the barrow hastily 
 to a little field, half tore and half cut the sainfoin. In less 
 than a minute the barrow was fdlly laden. With as much 
 
THE SECBUrr. 17 
 
 impidity slio retnmed home, threw down the fodder before the 
 sow, and then entering the house, said abruptly — 
 
 " To-morrow, at daybreak, I go to John." 
 
 " Oh, child I " cried her mother, " it is at the other end of 
 the country. What are you thinking of? You will not reach 
 it in a year I" 
 
 " I go to John, I tell you," replied the girl decidedly, " and 
 I shall find him out were it three hundred miles from here. 
 Our parish-clerk will tell me the way." 
 
 John's mother went up to her with folded hands and with 
 supplicating mien, and sighed — 
 
 " Ah, Trien, dear angel I will you really do that for my 
 child? I will bless you till my dying day!" 
 
 " Do it I" cried Trien, " do it 1 The king himself will not 
 prevent me. I will see John, and console him, or perish in 
 the attempt." 
 
 ** Oh I a thousand thousand thanks, Trien !" eicolaimed tht 
 r, And clasped the maiden to her breaft 
 
VSALBS OF FLEMISH UMWk 
 
 OHAPTEB IV. 
 
 It 11 just seyen o'clock in the morning ; bat tlie heat ii 
 great notwithstanding, for the sun glows brightly in the deep 
 blue sky. 
 
 See, yonder on the highway, not far from the beautiftil river 
 Meuse, a peasant girl is walking forward vigorously. Her 
 dress shows that she is a stranger here : for such plaited caps 
 ornamented with lace, and such straw hats, are not worn by 
 the women of Limburg. She walks barefoot, carrying her shoeji 
 in her hand. The perspiration drops from her brow ; and 
 though weary even to fainting, she directs her look with in- 
 expressible joy upon a distant church-tower ; for there lies the 
 city Venloo, the termination of her long journey. 
 
 Poor Trien I for four days now she has walked steadily on, 
 asking her way, and suffering pain and fatigue. She has al- 
 lowed herself short repose and little food ; but God and her 
 strong nature have aided her. She has found it — the place 
 where her unhappy friend lies suffering and languishing far 
 from his friends and home. All her grief is forgotten ; her 
 heart leaps with joy and beats with impatience. Had she 
 wings, she would fly like lightning to those turrets, from whose 
 roofe the sun is reflected as from a mirror. Increasing her 
 speed, the young peasant girl pushed on, till she came close 
 tipoQ the entrenchmentR of the city of Venloo. She then 
 
THE RECBUIT. «9 
 
 qniclfy put on lier shoes, brashed off the dust a little, ar- 
 ranged her dress, and entered the open gate with a stoiit 
 heart. 
 
 After she had advanced a few steps between the outer ram- 
 parts, she observed a soldier with a musket in his hand walk- 
 ing up and down before a little house. While still at some 
 distance, she smiled in a friendly way to the sentinel ; but he 
 looked at her with perfect indifference. Spite of this, how- 
 ever, she approached boldly, and asked, with an agreeable 
 smile — 
 
 " Friend, can you tell me where I can find John Braems ? 
 ^e is here among the soldiers somewhere." 
 
 The sentinel was a Walloon, from about Liege, 
 
 " Can't understand," he grumbled, and wheeled round to 
 call the corporal. 
 
 The latter walked out of the guard-house, and came kindly 
 np to the maiden, who courtesied politely, and inquired — 
 
 ** Mr. Corporal, can you tell me, if you will be so good, 
 where John Braems is to be found ?" 
 
 The corporal looked amazed, like one who is disappointed 
 in his expectations, and, turning to the guard-house, he called 
 oat in the Hainault dialect — 
 
 " Ho, Fleming I come here. Here's a chance of earning a 
 pot of beer." 
 
 A young soldier sprang down from the wooden board on 
 which he was sitting and came out, still rubbing a heavy 
 sleep from his eyes, and looking rather cross ; but as soon ai 
 he saw the girl, his expression became more friendly. 
 
 " Now, then, Mieken," he asked, " what do you want?" 
 
 " I have come here to see John Braems. Can you tell me 
 wnere he is to be found ?" 
 
 " John Braems I I have never heard the name." 
 
 " But he is a soldier among the Belgians, like younell" 
 
40 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 ^ Yes, that may be ; bnt does he serve in the oaralij or 
 the infantry ?" 
 
 ** What do yon mean, friend ?" 
 
 "Is he in the horse or foot?" 
 
 " I don't know that ; but he is a soldier in the Kifles. Are . 
 they not in the city ?** 
 
 " There I — no wonder I didn't know him ; we are ol the 
 ninth." 
 
 During this conversation, the corporal, and three or four 
 soldiers beside the sentinel, had approached the girl. Trien 
 could not understand why they peered into her face in so strange 
 a way, laughing and jesting in the Walloon dialect. She be- 
 gan, however, to feel ashamed, and said to the Fleming, im- 
 ploringly — 
 
 ** Ah, friend ! be so good as to show me the way ; I am in 
 such great haste." 
 
 The obliging soldier answered quickly — 
 
 " GK) through the gate, strike into the first street on the 
 right, then to the left — then once more to the left, and after 
 that to the right again, till you come to a chapel ; you leave 
 this on your left^ and turn to the right, behind the big house, 
 where you will see a shop ; when you have gone a consider- 
 able way ftirther, then take to your left again, and this will 
 bring you to the market-place ; ask there for the barracks of 
 the second Bifles, and any child will show you where it is to be 
 found." 
 
 Trien was almost out of her senses ; her head whirled with 
 all the lefts and rights which she had endeavoured to fix in 
 her mind. She could make nothing of it, however, and waa 
 about to beg a clearer explanation, when, suddenly, the senti- 
 nel shouted as loud as he could — 
 
 ""AuxarmesI" 
 
 Every one ran hither and thither, and hastened to the gnaid- 
 
THE RECBUIT. 41 
 
 toTue to get their arms; while the soldier said hastilj to tho 
 terrified girl — 
 
 " Oflf with you I off with you !— run, or we shall be put in- 
 to the lock-up. The town-governor is coming." 
 
 The maiden did not wait to be told twice ; for at the city 
 gate she saw an officer on horseback, who looked to her like 
 a king, and had a great moustache. Angry, because he had 
 surprised the guard while speaking with a young woman, he 
 looked at the poor peasant girl as if he would eat her, but rod© 
 past without saying anything ; but she heard with trembling 
 how he scolded the soldiers, without being able to understand 
 what had caused such violent anger. 
 
 She hastened into the city, and at last found the market- 
 place. Here and there she saw soldiers in various costumes ; 
 but the occurrence with the guard had made her prudent. 
 She now addressed herself to a citizen's wife— 
 
 " Do you know Flemish, friend?" 
 
 "Dutch? Yes." 
 
 " Will you be so good as tell me where the Rifles lie?" 
 
 " Certainly. You must turn round the comer there, and 
 go straight on to the end of the street ; there you will find the 
 riflemen's barracks." 
 
 " A thousand thanks I " said Trien, setting off in the direc- 
 tion pointed out. She easily enough recognised the barrack 
 when she reached it, both on account of the many soldiers 
 going out and in, and the noise of the drums inside. 
 
 Smiling with joy, she went straight up to the gate with the 
 intention of entering, but the sentinel called out in a gruff tone — 
 
 " Halt 1 back I — there is no admission here." 
 
 And when the girl still ventured to advance a step or two^ 
 he pushed her back with his hand. 
 
 ** Ah, friend I I wish very, very much to speak with an •©- 
 qnidntanee who is a soldier here ; what must I do ?" 
 
tf TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 "In what "battalion, and in what company te he?" asked 
 the sentinel. 
 
 " Ah I I can't tell that," she replied in a disheartened 
 tone. 
 
 ** Wait for half an hour," rejoined the sentinel ; " the sig- 
 nal for soup is just about to be given, and immediately after 
 is the call to parade. Then you will see every man in the 
 barrack march out, and if you have good eyes, may single 
 out your friend. Go, meanwhile, and drink a glass of beer in 
 the * Falcon,' hard by, and leave me, for I see the adjutant 
 looking at us." 
 
 The sentinel now let the perplexed girl stand there un- 
 heeded, struck his right hand forcibly on the butt-end of his 
 musket, threw back his head, and marched up and down like 
 a proud soldier without casting another glance at poor Trien. 
 
 She remained for a moment sunk in deep thought, and 
 tortured herself to find out how it could be a misdeed to show 
 a stranger the way. Her grief and vexation began to overpower 
 her. Impatient as she was, however, half an hour seemed to 
 her not too long to wait, and she accordingly determined to 
 stand near the barrack-gate when the Kifles were marching 
 out, and take such great care that not one should escape her 
 eye. She would see and recognise Johnl But with this 
 charming thought, her countenance was suddenly overcast; 
 for it all at once occurred to her that it was impossible that a 
 blind man could march with the rest of the soldiers. Still, 
 what could she know about it? Everything here was so 
 Bingular and extraordinary to her. In her despair, she fol- 
 lowed the sentiners advice, and slowly went towards the 
 " Falcon." Arrived in the tavern, she called for a glass of 
 beer, and sat down, weary and ashamed, at a table in the 
 comer. 
 
 In the tavern room there were eight or ten soldiers itand- 
 
THB RECRUIT. 49 
 
 tug beride the bar, and gossiping in a rougli and loud way of 
 
 things connected with the " service." 
 
 When the maiden entered, they had all turned towards her, 
 and exchanged their remarks, at the same time exchanging 
 a smile. As they all spoke French or Walloon, however, 
 Trien did not understand what they said about her, and 
 although, the impudent glances of the soldiers annoyed her, 
 she smiled notwithstanding, and said — " Good-day to you all, 
 friends." 
 
 These soldiers seemed to her to be fine, gallant fellows, 
 with the exception of one, who was older than the others, and 
 assumed a certain superiority over them. He wore coarse 
 gloves of chamois leather ; the buttons of his waistcoat shone 
 like gold ; the military cap hung over his left ear, while his 
 magnificent moustache was made to stand up with black wax. 
 He stood with the upper part of his body bent back, and his 
 hand planted on his side, like a perpetual challenge. This 
 haughty warrior must be provost of the regiment, or fencing- 
 master at least, thought Trien. 
 
 It was not his exterior and his bearing which made the girl 
 form a bad opinion of him ; but it was the shameless way in 
 which he compelled her to hold down her eyes before his im- 
 pudent gaze, and his appearing to make jests on her in a loud 
 coarse tone, which annoyed her. Nor did she hide what she 
 felt, for the proud rifleman could easily see from her face that 
 she had no friendly feelings towards him. 
 
 While both parties were thus looking at each other, the 
 hostess brought a glass of beer to the maiden. A young 
 Boldier, with a mild expression and friendly eyes, approached 
 her, put forward his glass, and said in the dialect of the 
 Kempenland — 
 
 " Mieken, let us touch glasses. You are certainly from t]i* 
 Antwerp country." 
 
4ft TALES OF FLEMI8H LIFB. 
 
 ** No, comrade, I am from the St. Antonie district, from 
 Schilde or Magerhalle, whichever you please." 
 
 " And I am a young man from Wechel-ter-zande, so we 
 are neighbours." 
 
 Joy lighted up the maiden's countenance, and she gave the 
 young soldier as affectionate a look as if she had found a 
 brother in him. 
 
 Meanwhile, the other riflemen also had advanced to the 
 table, some sitting down upon it. The soldier with the 
 bruflhed-up moustache sat down so close to Trien, that he 
 almost touched her. 
 
 Trien could not bear his mocking and confident air, and 
 trembled as if afraid. She then seized the hand of her 
 countryman, and begged in the friendliest way — 
 
 " Oh, my good friend, you must sit by me, if you will be 
 00 good, for I am afraid of the Walloons. What does he 
 suppose that I am?" 
 
 " Bah, bah I" replied the other, "he is an empty braggart. 
 Let him only dare to touch you, and I will bring my fist 
 down on his moustache, were he a hundred times fencing- 
 master." 
 
 Encouraged by these words, Trien turned to the mocking 
 fellow, and said confidently — 
 
 " Mr. Soldier, I would beg you to sit along a bit. What 
 do yon imagine? what do you take me for?" 
 
 The fencing-master burst into a loud laugh, shoving hia 
 stool back a little at the same time however, while he made 
 ▼arious jesting remarks, which the maiden fortunately did not 
 understand, 
 
 ** Tell me, friend," said Trien to her protector, " what it 
 yonr name, if I may be so bold as to ask ?" 
 
 "SusCaers." 
 
 ^ Sub Caen! Ah, well, how wonderful I A fortnight ago 
 
BXCBUIT. ii 
 
 we sold your father a calf — a pretty mottled calf. I have ftfll 
 ■ome of the money in my pocket." 
 
 " Ay I and what is my father about ? Is he Fell ?" 
 
 " Quite well — a man like a tree. I remember now he told 
 ns that you also were in the anuy. Do you know our 
 John?" 
 
 "What is his second name?" 
 
 "Braems." 
 
 " Heavens I as if I didn't know John Braems I "We 
 were in the same company, and we were great cronies till he 
 took weak eyes." 
 
 Deeply affected, the maiden now seized him with both hands, 
 ind said, with a deep breath — 
 
 " Ah, friend I how grateful am I to my heavenly Father 
 that He brought me into this tavern. You will show me 
 where I can find John, will you not ? The young men from 
 our quarter are all good-hearted fellows." 
 
 " Certainly. I shall take you to the hospital. You know, 
 I suppose, that he is blind?" 
 
 " Alas, yes," sighed Trien ; " but it is the hand of God, and 
 cannot be helped now. Many are the tears we have shed over 
 the thought of his calamity." 
 
 The soldiers had seen with a kind of envy the sudden in- 
 timacy and mutual confidence which had sprung up between 
 the Kempener and the young maid. The fenciug-master, 
 above all, slid backwards and forwards on his stool, and made 
 all kinds of demonstrations. In the meantime, he had gradu- 
 ally come quite close to the girl again, and even chucked her 
 under the chin in a familiar way, as if she cared in the least 
 for him. 
 
 The Fleming started up and threatened him ; but Trien, 
 whose countenance burned with indignation, stood up, and 
 with the flat of her hand struck the fencing-master in the fao« 
 
m TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 with sucA right good- will, that he did not know whether hli 
 head was off or on.* 
 
 As soon as he had recovered from his confusion, the tavem 
 became a fearful scene of battle. He seized a jug, and would 
 have broken the girl's head with it, had not the young Kem- 
 pener, who was a stronger man, seized him by the throat 
 and wrenched it out of his hand. The other comrades sprang 
 forwai'd to separate the combatants, calling out that the sabre 
 alone, and not the fist, could decide a soldier's quarrel. Trien, 
 in the greatest anxiety and trembling with fear, is compelled 
 to listen to a multitude of coarse and violent words, while the 
 soldiers struggling with one another tumble about the room 
 and the hostess is screaming out that she will fetch the watch. 
 Suddenly, however, a sound of drums is heard proceeding 
 from the barracks : — 
 
 " Soup I soup 1 " cried those who took no part in the con- 
 test, and leaving the others, hastened out of the tavern. 
 
 The fencing-master still poured forth threats, but at last 
 went out, saying to the Kempener as he passed — 
 
 " A ching heures sol terrain ! edj vindrai vos quer{e"\ 
 
 " Be it so, braggart I " replied the challenged youth, with a 
 laugh of mockery. 
 
 "Ah, Sus, what anxiety have I suffered !'* sighed Trien. 
 "Is it all settled now?" 
 
 " Settled I I must this evening fight a duel with that 
 Bword- eater." 
 
 "0 Heavens! and all on my account 1" cried the maiden, 
 pale and trembling. 
 
 *' Do not annoy yourself about that, child ; it is only a mat- 
 ter for laughter. It will end in our going to drink together. 
 That is the way the Walloon takes of getting a little gin 
 
 • This rather rough mode of self-defence is pretty customary among the peasant gW; 
 if th« Kampeiiland, and is regarded among them as a point of honour. 
 t Witt»M : ** At fiv* o'dodc on bh« fighting-ground. I will seek you than.'' 
 
Tm BECBurr. 4ff 
 
 5f he can get it into the bargain. Such things happen 
 twice a week with that fellow, and it is known by everybody. 
 Come q-iickly, and I shall take you to the hospital where 
 John Braems is." 
 
 Trien paid her beer and left the tavern with the soldier. 
 He took her through several streets, talking all the way, and 
 then left her saying, while he pointed with his finger — 
 
 " Do you see the soldier yonder, sitting on a bench before 
 the door of that large building ? That building is the In- 
 firmary. You must speak to the soldier and he will let you in, 
 if it is possible to gain admission. A safe return home to you, 
 and many greetings to my father, if you chance to see him." 
 
 " A thousand thousand thanks, my friend," replied Trien, 
 as she left him and proceeded on her way to the hospital. 
 
 So soon as the maiden found herself alone, a feeling of de- 
 spondency took possession of her, and she could scarcely muster 
 courage to speak to the soldier on the bench. As she came 
 nearer, however, a joyful smile lighted up her face, for she 
 thought she recognised him. And, in fact, when yet some 
 paces from him, she called him by his name, for it was Crofter 
 Tistje's son, Kobe, who had been made a corporal, as John had 
 written, and who now sat here on the bench in that capacity. 
 
 So soon as he saw Trien, he sprang joyfully up, and has- 
 tened to her with pleasure and surprise. 
 
 " What 1 Trien dear, is this you ? Heavens 1 how glad I 
 am to see you here I How goes everything in our village ? 
 Has my mother recovered ? How is Verbaet's daughter Loken ? 
 Do they know yonder that I am a corporal now ? And what 
 did Loken say when she heard it?" 
 
 " All is well," replied Trien. " Your mother was at church 
 laat Sunday ; she has got rid of the fever, and one can scarcely 
 see that she has been ill. I myself told Loken, in patting^ 
 that yon had been promoted." 
 
iV TALES OF FLEMISH LIFl. 
 
 •* Well, and did she not smile with pleajsnre ?" 
 
 " No, she blushed up to her very hair ; but she was so d^ 
 lighted that she could not say a word : I could see that ia 
 her eyes." 
 
 Kobe the corporal slowly hung his head, and looked to the 
 ground — the expression of his features was suddenly altered : 
 he, too, felt his face redden, and his heart beat fast. His native 
 village, with its heath and fields ; the modest glance of his 
 beloved ; his mother's affectionate smile ; the Sabbath enjoy- 
 ment, after a long week of toil ; the songs under the linden 
 trees ; the prattle of the tame magpies ; the barking of the 
 house-dog ; the rustling of the fir- wood ; — all came before hit 
 eyes firesh and living, all sounded in his ears with irresistible 
 sweetness, and he was lost in the enchanting contemplation 
 of the life for which he longed. 
 
 "What have I said then, Kobe, that vexes you?" asked 
 Trien gently. 
 
 " Ah, Trieny dear, I do not know. There came before my 
 eyes all at once our village, and so clearly, that I saw the very 
 sun shining on the church-tower. My father was busy raking 
 the stubble out of the field ; my mother stood beside him, and 
 I heard them speaking about me. I had quite forgotten my- 
 ielf — but now it is over." 
 
 "Come, Kobe," said Trien, "lead me to John as quickly 
 as you can — he will be so glad to see me." 
 
 "You know, then, his misfortune?" 
 
 " Alas I yes ; I come to talk with him, and comfort him, 
 poor fellow ! Do not let me stand here any longer, but lead 
 me to him at once." 
 
 " Tnen dear, how sorry I am for you 1" sighed Kobe, truly 
 grieved. 
 
 "And why?" cried Trien. "Ah, Kobe, you make m» 
 Ha* anything happened ?" 
 
THE BECBUIT. 49 
 
 •* Unfortnnate Trien ! *' he replied. " No one is admitted t« 
 die blind and diseased ; it is forbidden under a severe penalty." 
 
 The poor girl uttered a painful shriek, and covering her ^^ 
 frith her apron, she wept and bewailed her bad fortune. 
 
 " Alas 1 alas I four days have I walked and suffered, and 
 after all cannot see him. From this place I do not go alive j 
 of that you may be certain." 
 
 " Trien, you must not make such a noise in the street," 
 Baid Kobe ; " otherwise people will collect round you to gape 
 and stare. Be quiet, if you can." 
 
 The maiden dried her tears, with a mingled expression of 
 courage and despair, and exclaimed — 
 
 " If I have to break into this house as a thief, and were a 
 sabre to pierce my heart, I will see him, and speak with him 
 — ^let them prevent me if they can." 
 
 " Listen, Trien dear," said the corporal gently ; " I may 
 perhaps lose my place by it, but I will help you, for all that. 
 Keep quiet, and act as if you knew nothing. The sergeant 
 is just going with the report to the governor ; the doctor has 
 been there already ; and the director is unwell, and will not 
 come into the sick- ward. When the sergeant is gone, I will 
 bring you quietly into the blind-room. But, Trien, if I am 
 put in the lock-up, and lose my rank, then remember to tell 
 Loken and mother that it was owing to friendship and pity, 
 and not from any misconduct." 
 
 " Be sure of that, Kobe," replied the girl, with moist eyes ; 
 ** I will be grateful to you all my life long ; let me only do 
 what I wish now, and Loken shall write you a letter when I 
 get home again." 
 
 " Ah, she can't write, Trien," sighed the corporal. 
 
 " But / can," she rejoined ; " and I will do it for her ; and 
 I will set down such delightful things that you wil actaally 
 leap with joy." 
 
fO TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 * Do you see, Trien, I do not stand liere as sentinel ; I MB 
 PlantoTiy and am forbidden to speak with any one. Como^ 
 sit down on that bench, and take no notice of anything, till 
 the sergeant has passed out. I shall say that you are my 
 sister, otherwise he will thwart our plans. Let us talk a 'bit| 
 meanwhile, of our friends at home. Is Ned, the brewer's son, 
 married yet to farmer Dierikx's dairy-maid? Is the filly, 
 which we sold to the landlord at the * Crown,' grown a fine 
 horse?" 
 
 They sat down on the bench, purposely at some distance 
 from each other, and began to chat about the absent. 
 
 Within the hospital, there was a room set apart for those 
 with diseased eyes, its windows securely covered with shut- 
 ters of green paper, so that not a ray of light could enter. To 
 those who could see, it was a horrible place ; for a shade of 
 light, gloomier than the deepest black, threw a painful colour- 
 ing over everything, oppressing the heart of the spectator 
 with mingled sadness and fear. It could be called neither 
 light Dor darkness ; and it was necessary to accustom one's- 
 Belf to the green and deathlike day, before any object could 
 be distinguished. In addition, there reigned throughout 
 this abode of affliction the stillness of death, only broken 
 from time to time by a cry of pain, when the eyes of some 
 poor patient were being burnt with caustic. Along the 
 walls on wooden benches sat the blind and diseased, like 
 a row of spectres, motionless and silent in the darkness. 
 Each had on a large green shade, which so entirely covered 
 the brow and face, that the features could not be distin- 
 guished. 
 
 In the furthest comer sat John Braems with sunken head, 
 iadly dreaming of things which he loved, and should never 
 9M again. Under the green shade, a quiet smile played rooiid 
 
THE BECBUIT. 51 
 
 his mouth, while his lips moved, as if he were conversing with 
 some invisible beings. He had just conjured up the image of 
 his darling friend, and made her whisper in his ear once 
 more the modest confession of her love, when an almost 
 inaudible noise was suddenly heard upon the stairs. He 
 seemed to hear his name mentioned. All trembling, he 
 sprang from his seat, as if moved by some invisible hand, and 
 sighed involuntarily, " Trien I Trienl" 
 
 The door was opened from without, and the maiden, accom- 
 panied by the corporal, stood on the threshold. Trien shud- 
 dered as she looked into the dark chamber, and saw rows of 
 ■pectre-like shadows all masked with green shades. She drew 
 back with a cry of alarm ; but John Braems had recognised 
 her voice, and advanced with outstretched hands, groping 
 his way towards her. She perceived her unfortunate friend, 
 and hastening up to him, fell weeping on his neck. For a 
 time nothing was heard but "Trienl" "John I" uttered in 
 tones of love, sympathy, and sorrow. The maiden lay weep- 
 ing on the young man's breast, and seemed at last to have 
 fainted with her emotion ; for her head lay on one side, and 
 her hands hung powerless from her lover's shoulders. 
 
 Meanwhile the rest of the blind had collected in a circle 
 round the girl, and were feeling her, as if they too might per- 
 chance recognise some friend. Their touches awoke her out 
 of hei forge tfulness, and drawing back, half afraid, she said 
 with alarm — 
 
 " Heavens ! John dear, what is all this ? Tell them to 
 let me alone, otherwise I can't stay here." 
 
 * Don't be afraid, Trien," replied John; "it is nothing. 
 The blind see with their fingers. They are feeling your 
 clothes; and find out in that way from what quarter yoa 
 come. They mean no harm." 
 
 " Ah, poor fellows I " sighed Trien, " fdnce that i« the rB» 
 
5t TALES OF FLEMISH LDS. 
 
 son, I forgive them with all my heart ; but I don't like h 
 much. Let us go into that dark comer and sit down on the 
 bench, John ; I have so much to say to you." 
 
 With these words, she led her friend to the bench, and sat 
 down beside him, holding his hands in hers. 
 
 The conversation which now began must have been very 
 moving, though almost inaudible; for joy, sorrow, smiles, 
 and tears, often succeeded each other on Trien's face; and 
 from time to time, one might see her press John's hands with 
 deep feeling. She was, without doubt, endeavouring to in- 
 fuse the balsam of consolation into the unfortunate man's 
 heart, for the few sounds of her voice which one could catch 
 were as tender and impressively sweet as the sweetest tones 
 of some love-song. John had pushed the shade higher up on 
 his brow, and on his countenance there was visible a peculiar 
 expression of dreamy attention, and at the same time of sad- 
 ness and despair, like one listening out of the abyss of suffer- 
 ing to words which cannot make him forget his sorrow, 
 though they may delude him for a moment with imaginary 
 happiness. 
 
 The blind stood round them in silence, and listened atten- 
 tively to catch what they were saying, and pick up some of 
 those consolatory sounds. The corporal remained outside 
 the door, marching up and down, and every now and then 
 putting his head into the room to see if Trien was ready to 
 leave. Suddenly he grew pale, and intense fear was depicted 
 on his face, — he saw the sergeant ascending the stairs. 
 Without making any remark, he opened the door and ad- 
 mitted him into the blind-room, following him with sunkcL 
 head, and a look of conscious guilt, like a malefactor who 
 awaits his sentence. Scarcely had the sergeant perceived the 
 girl, when he broke out into a storm of angry words, and at 
 last taming to the corporal, said — 
 
mi. RECSUIT. ftS 
 
 "Ha! and bo you have admitted a stranger — and a wo- 
 man too ! I'll not be long of relieving you of your duties, 
 my good fellow, and getting fourteen days from the Govemoi 
 for you. It will not be my fault, I can tell you, if you retain 
 your corporal's dress." 
 
 Trien rose and said imploringly to the enraged sergeant — 
 
 " Oh, sir, be pitiful I I alone am to blame, for having pre- 
 vailed upon him with my tears to admit me. Do him no 
 harm for having been so kind-hearted" — 
 
 The sergeant shook his head impatiently, and prevented 
 her from adding more. 
 
 "What has all that to do with the matter?" he inter- 
 rupted. " I know my duty, and what I have to do ; and you, 
 Mieken, out at once, and that quickly too I " 
 
 The maiden was grieved and surprised when she heard this 
 order ; he seemed to be in earnest, however, and she went all 
 trembling up to him, and entreated — 
 
 " Ah I gi-ant me, I beseech you, only one half hour I I 
 will often pray to God for you, and kiss your hand with joy." 
 
 " Come, come, make an end of this stupid game," snarled 
 the sergeant ; " not one minute longer I" 
 
 " But oh, sir," cried the distracted Trien, " I have come on 
 toot all the way from the other end of the land to bring com- 
 fort to our unfortunate John, poor fellow, and you will not, 
 surely, drive me out. I have scarcely spoken with him 
 yet." 
 
 "Are you going, or are you not?" said the sergeant, add- 
 mg a few coarse threats, which made her tremble. 
 
 The tears gushed out of the maiden's eyes ; she raised her 
 folded hands to the sergeant, and sobbed out — 
 
 " For God's sake, friend, only one quarter of an hour 1 Do 
 not kill mel Have compassion on a poor blind man; it 
 may happen to you too. Would it not tear your hftart then^ 
 
M TALES OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 if your mother or your sister were to be hunted away Iflt© a 
 dog ? Ah, sir 1 take pity on us ; all my life long I will lor© 
 you for it." 
 
 John and the other blind men, who were all angry at the ser- 
 geant's severity, urged the maiden's petition, and the whole 
 room was in confusion, as if the blind were rebelling against 
 their inexorable overseer. This only enraged him the more ; he 
 threatened to put all on bread and water, and suddenly seizing 
 Trien by the arm, was about to drag her forcibly out of the 
 room. She, however, perceived his intention, and tearing 
 herself loose, ran weeping to John, whom she embraced, 
 with loud lamentations. As deeply grieved as she, but yet 
 convinced that nothing could prevent their separation, the 
 young man tried to console her, and hastily said to her a mul- 
 titude of things which had been forgotten during their quiet 
 conversation. The sergeant, however, was not slow in follow- 
 ing her, and had again laid hold of her arm. He attempted 
 to tear her from John, but the sorrowing girl kept her arms 
 locked round her blind friend like an iron band, and resisted 
 the sergeant's violence with determination; whereupon he 
 called out to Kobe, who was standing in perplexity at the 
 door — 
 
 " Corporal, what are you doing standing there ? Come 
 here ; I command you to turn that peasant wcman out of the 
 door, or you will pay dearly for it. Do you hesitate ?" 
 
 Kobe approached the girl, and, taking her arm, said — 
 
 " Trien dear, I am very sorry ; but it can't be helped. 3o 
 out peaceably, otherwise they will throw you down stairs. 
 Such is the order ; the sergeant must do what his duty com*- 
 mands." 
 
 Trien separated herself from her friend, and holding up her 
 bead with quiet dignity, she advanced to the sergeant, and 
 •aid-- 
 
THE RECBUIT. W 
 
 "Mr. Overseer, I will go; but, friend, forgive m© and 
 Kobe also ; it will be well done, and God will certainly re- 
 ward yoa. You have a heart in you as well as others ; and all 
 men in this world are brothers. You will be so good as to 
 forget, Mr. Sergeant, will you not ? I will remember you in 
 my prayers." 
 
 The wrath of the sergeant was appeased when he saw hia 
 commands humbly obeyed; the sweet voice and expressive 
 blue eyes of the maiden also had touched his heart, and he 
 replied, in a more kindly tone — 
 
 " Now, then, only go out without further delay ; and if the 
 fault is concealed, I shall say nothing about it, and forgive it 
 out of compassion for you." 
 
 " Ah, you kind man ! " cried Trien ; " I knew it ; you 
 speak Flemish, like ourse-lvpa ''-go in a moment — only one 
 farewell I" 
 
 She once aore cmoraced the unhappy blind man, who 
 speechlessly received her farewell kiss — murmured in his ear 
 a few consoling words, and then walked to the door weeping 
 and sobbing. There she turned her head, and uttering a 
 piercing cry, endeavoured to return, struggling with the 
 sergeant, who, however, now held her fast. The truth 
 was, she had seen that her unfortunate friend had fallen to 
 the ground, and lay as if lifeless, with his head upon the 
 bench, and the sight of this excited her to such a degree that 
 she trembled with anxiety and grief, and struggled wildly 
 with the sergeant to free herself. He dragged her out, how- 
 ever, and shut the door behind him. 
 
 Exhausted, powerless, and almost dying with despair — 
 obedient as a martyr, and almost unconscious — she walked 
 down stairs and into the open court, between the sergeant 
 and the corporal. Here, she let herself be pushed and 
 dragged along; for her feet refrised the motion which wai 
 
of TALES OF FLEMISH LIFl. 
 
 to distance her from John. She did not speak a word ; iha 
 qniet tears which streamed over her cheeks was the only sign 
 of her sorrow. 
 
 At the threshold of one of the doors which opened into the 
 front court, stood a richly-dressed lady, with noble features. 
 She beheld the weeping girl from a distance, and seemed 
 desirous to know what had happened. The nearer they ap- 
 proached her on their way to the gate, the more strongly did 
 her countenance express a deep concern and sympathy, 
 
 Trien observed it, and a ray of hope entered her breast. It 
 did not escape Kobe, for he whispered to her — 
 
 " That is the wife of the governor of the hospital ; and oh, 
 so good and kind I She is from Antwerp." 
 
 The girl now made haste, as if she were eager to reach the 
 gate ; but as she approached the richly-clad lady, she turned 
 round and threw herself on her knees before her with out- 
 stretched arms, crying out — 
 
 " Ah, lady, help I — pity, for a poor blind man 1" 
 
 The lady seemed surprised and perplexed by this unex- 
 pected appeal. For a short time, she looked at the young 
 peasant girl, who held her beautiful blue eyes fixed upon her 
 as if in earnest supplication, at the same time smiling hope- 
 fully through her tears, as if already thanking her for a bene- 
 fit received. She took Trien by both hands, raised her up, 
 and said, with a friendly voice — 
 
 " Poor girl I Come in, my dear child I what is it that 
 troubles you?" 
 
 With these words, and without looking at the sergeant, 
 who put his hand politely to his forehead, she led Trien into 
 the house, and pushed forward a chair for her to sit upoa. 
 
 In the room, she found an officer of the Rifles, who stood 
 before a desk writing. He raised his eyes from his work, and 
 looked at the weeping maid curiouslj' and sympathiiinglj, 
 
THB RECBVIT. #f 
 
 but waited, withont making any observation, to get an ex- 
 planation of the matter. 
 
 The lady — she was the officer's wife — again took Trien'i 
 
 hand, and said — 
 
 " Come, come, my girl, be comforted ; no harm shall hap- 
 pen to you. Tell me what terrifies yon so much ; if it be 
 possible, I will help you." 
 
 " Ah, lady I " sighed Trien, while she kissed warmly her 
 protector's hand. " God will bless you for your kindness. I 
 am a poor peasant girl from between St. Antonis and Mager- 
 halle in the Kempenland. The lot fell upon our John, and he 
 had to be a soldier. Four days ago he wrote to his mother, 
 saying that he had sore eyes ; but to me privately he wrote 
 that he was blind for his whole life. I lay for two hours as if 
 dead, under an oak-tree. I did not venture to tell his mother 
 the truth, for fear she should die of grief. On the next day, 
 early in the morning, I set out barefoot, without knowing the 
 road, to walk from our village to Venloo. I asked my way ; 
 often wandered from it, and made long roundabouts ; sufiered 
 shame and pain enough ; walked night and day, with scarcely 
 any food or drink, till the blood dropt from my feet. After 
 I had suffered three days, like a stray sheep, I arrived here. 
 A young man from our village, who is corporal, let me into 
 the hospital out of compassion. I saw our John with his eyes 
 all gone, and was just comforting him, when the sergeant came 
 and drove me out. Now I shall not see John again ; I muBt 
 leave him, poor fellow, without consolation ; and oh lady I I 
 cannot, cannot do that. Pray think, if you will be so good, 
 what I have endured to come here ; and have compassion with 
 the innocent lamb who wastes and pines away with grief yon- 
 der in the dark room." 
 
 *^Uh^ your brother ? " asked the officer behind th* 
 
99 TALES OP FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 The maiden hung her head to conceal the blush which gol- 
 ftised her countenance at this question. 
 
 After a short silence, she raised her eyes and said — 
 
 " Sir, I am not his sister ; but from childhood we have 
 dwelt under the same roof ; his parents are mine ; he loves 
 my mother ; his grandfatner hB» carried me before I could 
 walk ; labour, gains, joy, and sorrow, all, — we have had i» 
 common," 
 
 After a pause, she again looked down, and said in a lowei 
 tone — 
 
 " Since he has met with this misfortune, I too feel that I 
 am not his sister I " 
 
 Moved by the girl's words, the officer had left the desk, and 
 gradually approached Trien. 
 
 "Poor child!" sighed the lady; "you must drive the 
 thought out of your mind, and try to console yourself. You 
 cannot continue to love a blind man'?" 
 
 Trien trembled, for this wounded her deeply. 
 
 " Forsake him I " she cried ; " forget him because he is to 
 be for life blind and miserable 1 Oh, lady ! be so good as 
 not to say that again ; it cuts my heart like a knife." 
 
 A fresh stream of tears flowed from her eyes. 
 
 The officer exchanged some words in French with his wife. 
 He told her that a ministerial order had come which gave the 
 colonels power to send the blind soldiers to their homes, with 
 unlimited leave of absence — there to wait for a final dis- 
 charge from service. Although this measure was not to be 
 brought into operation for some weeks, he was yet ready 
 to make an attempt with the colonel to get an excep- 
 tion made in favour of the peasant girl's unhappy friend, 
 and to procure him his leave of absence on that very day. 
 His wife urged him to execute this plan. Trien did not 
 understand what they said, but she could perceive that 
 
THE SECRUIT. 99 
 
 her protector was urging her husband to some gc-:d deed, 
 
 •nd the half- consoled girl nodded her head beseechingly, m* 
 if she would thereby encourage him to his benevolent under- 
 taking. 
 
 The officer turned to her, and asked — 
 
 "Would you be glad if your friend returned home with 
 you?" 
 
 An indescribable expression of mingled joy and anxiety 
 lighted up Trien's countenance. Her great wide-opened eyes 
 seemed to wish to draw more words out of the officer's mouth. 
 At last her feelings found vent — 
 
 " Be glad 1 be happy I " she cried. " The very question 
 almost makes me mad. Oh, sir, sir, do not delude me with 
 such a hope I I would creep in the dust before you, and kiss 
 your feet with gratitude." 
 
 The officer quickly seized his cap, buckled on his sabre, 
 and went out with the words — 
 
 " Keep up your spirits, my girl I Perhaps I shall succeed. 
 At any rate, you shall see John again to-morrow, I'll take 
 care of that." 
 
 Some unintelligible sounds of thankfulness followed the 
 officer to the front court, and then Trien began earnestly to 
 thank her benefactress ; but the lady did not give her time to 
 speak out all the feeling with which her heart overflowed. 
 She went to the kitchen, and returned with a maid, who 
 placed a little table before Trien with meat, bread, and beer, 
 and said to her — 
 
 " Eat and drink, my girl I from my heart I give it." 
 
 " Ah I I know that well, my lady," sighed Trien ; " but 
 A jW have I deserved so much kindness ? You act as if you 
 were my mother. May God reward you I" 
 
 " Is it long since you ate anything?" asked the lady. 
 
 •* I have eaten nothing since three o'clock this 3iamin|^,'' 
 
¥> TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 Baid Trien, enjoying the food with genuine appetite. I haT» 
 walked seven hours ; but now I thank the mercifiil God in all 
 my grief, that He has made you so good, my lady." 
 
 For a long time Trien evinced her gratitude, and for long the 
 noble-minded lady consoled her with sweet and sisterly words, 
 for the oflBcer did not return for two hours. By this time 
 Trien had related the whole history of her life, and spoken with 
 deep attachment of the beautiful and much-loved Kempen- 
 land, where soul and body are pure as the air of the sandy plain, 
 where the odour of simplicity and honesty breathes round every 
 feeling of the soul — just as the ever-blooming flowers of the 
 heath are bathed every morning in rich and balmy vapours. 
 The lady found an inward pleasure in this peasant maiden, 
 whose artless talk betokened an intelligent mind, and richly 
 gifted heart. More than once had Trien stirred her soul and 
 made her eyes sparkle with emotion. 
 
 While she was sitting there waiting, and talking of a 
 country life, the officer had returned, and gone up into the 
 blind-room with the sergeant. After staying some time there, 
 he had come down again into the court, accompanied by 
 John, who, with knapsack on back and staff in hand, was 
 led by the sergeant to the door of the officer's house. Here 
 the latter took the blind man's hand, and said to him as he 
 opened the door — 
 
 " Trien is within ; she waits for you." 
 
 John drew a paper from his breast-pocket, and holding it 
 np above his head, cried with a joyful shout — 
 
 " Trien, dear Trien I I may go home with you. I need b« 
 a soldier no more ; here is my discharge I " 
 
 " What he says is true," observed the officer, who perceived 
 that Trien did not dare to believe it. 
 
 Meanwhfle, John entered the room with outstretched arms ; 
 but Trien did not run to meet him. The poor girl, OT«r- 
 
THE RECSUIT. #1 
 
 powered by thia unexpected kindness, sank from her chaii 
 upon her knees, and crept in that attitnde to her benefactress, 
 who eat at a little distance from her on a sofa. With out- 
 spread arms and many tears, and gazing with gratitude into 
 her eyes, the maiden said — 
 
 " Oh, my lady ! if you do not go to heaven, who then can 
 hope for blessedness? I cannot speak I Ah I my heart ii 
 breaking — I shall die of joy I Thanks I thanks!" 
 
 In fact, she let her head sink powerless into the lady's lap, 
 and embraced her knees in silence. All of a sudden she 
 awoke out of this deep emotion, sprang up, and threw herself 
 with loud expressions of joy, in which nothing but the young 
 man's name could be distinguished, into the arms of the 
 blind soldier. 
 
 After they had quite exhausted their expressions of joy and 
 gratitude, Trien and John left the hospital, accompanied by 
 the good wishes of their benefactors. 
 
 It was a strange and interesting sight to see, walking 
 through the streets of Venloo, this blooming peasant girl 
 leading the blind soldier by the hand. The passers-by stood 
 still to look at them — attracted, not so much by the appear- 
 ance of the unfortunate youth with his knapsack on his back 
 and the green shade over his eyes, as by the inexplicable ex- 
 pression of pride and joy which gave to the young girl's 
 countenance an expression at once noble and wondrously 
 beautiful. The good Trien was so happy, so proud at the 
 unexpected result of her self-sacrifice and determination, that 
 she stepped forward with elated head and exulting mien, far 
 too happy to cast down her eyes before the curious looki of 
 Lhe wondering citizens. 
 
 8he was in great haste to leave the city, and urged Horn 
 
VI TALKS OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 blind man to walk quickly. The unlooked-for success had 
 surprised and astounded her . even yet she could scarcely 
 believe it, and felt at intervals an anxious shudder creep ovei 
 her, with the fear that \t was still possible for some one to 
 tear her friend from her. 
 
 At Hst she gained the city gate ; she saw the free fields 
 stretching away towards the distant horizon, and over these 
 ky the way to her village. Now for the first time a loud 
 cry of joy burst from her lips ; she turned her eyes thank- 
 ftilly towards heaven, and exclaimed with a sweet rapture— 
 
 ^ Kow, Johxi, oome ; now we are free V 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was still oppressively hot, thongh the shadows of the 
 trees were now considerably lengthened. Over heath and 
 field still hovered the transparent summer air: no breeze 
 whispered among the foliage ; the birds sat panting and still 
 among the motionless leaves ; every voice of nature was silent ; 
 80 far as the eye could reach, neither man nor beast was 
 visible ; the earth seemed to have fallen asleep with weariness. 
 
 By the side of a solitary road, overhung by the branches ot 
 some young oaks, lay a soldier asleep, with his head on his 
 ■mapsack. His feet were bare, and his shoes lay on the 
 ground near him. A young peasant girl sat by his side, with 
 her anxious look fixed on him, while with a birch twig she 
 drove the flies &om his face and feet, and maintained the 
 deepest silence. 
 
 The soldier lay on a bed of wild thyme, which emitted its 
 sweet odours round him, while the blue-bell bent its little 
 cups over his brow; lower down, beside his feet, the azure 
 gentian raised to him its beautiful petals. He must have 
 already slept long, for his companion looked uneasily to- 
 wards the sun, as if she would ipeasure by the progress 
 of heaven's torch how far the day was spent. Perhaps 
 her sadness had another cause. In truth, she was vexed to 
 perceive that the sun had turned round the comer of the 
 oak wood, and was already casting some of iti beami in foil 
 
64 TALES OF FLEMISH UFE. 
 
 glow on thd vody of the sleeper. Her annoyance increased. 
 She rose, and endeavoured to bend the young oak branchei 
 and bind them together, to form a thicker shade overhead is 
 protect the soldier's repose ; but she soon gave up this, as the 
 sun seemed to fall on the roadside almost horizontally. Ad- 
 vancing softly, and with the greatest caution, she crept into the 
 bush and cut off two long straight twigs, and placing herself 
 before the soldier and looking at the sun as if making a cal- 
 culation, she stuck both sticks beside him in the earth. She 
 next took her apron, and hung it like a broad wall of shade 
 before his face, and then sat down again with an expression 
 of satisfaction. For a considerable time she looked at him 
 as he slept, and watched his breathing, as if she would count 
 the very pulsations of his heart. She could not see his eyes, 
 for a green shade concealed them. 
 
 At last the soldier moved, groped anxiously round him, and 
 stretching out his hands, called out with a voice of alarm — 
 
 "Trien! TrienI where are you?" 
 
 The maiden took his hand — 
 
 "Here I am, John. Compose yourselfl You are trem- 
 bling; what is the matter?" 
 
 " Oh I I dreamt that you had left me," replied the youn^ 
 man, sitting up. " Heavens I what a fearful dream I Th^ 
 cold sweat still breaks from me when I think of it." 
 
 "What could make you think such a thing as that?" ob» 
 served the girl with a kind of good-humoured indignation. 
 " Only, it is so much the better that you hare dreamt it, John ; 
 it is a sure sign that I shall not leave you, — dreams always 
 go by contraries." 
 
 " It is true, dearest," said the soldier, pressing her hands. 
 " God will reward you in heaven for all this." 
 
 Meanwhile, Trien had unbuckled the straps of the knap- 
 isoky and taken oat a piece of bread and meat. She cut ths 
 
THE REcsurr. 6ft 
 
 bread into little bits, laid them on the thyme, and then 
 covered them with meat ; at the same time saying aflfection- 
 ately — 
 
 " How are you now, John ? Are you rested ? Has your 
 sleep refreshed you ?" 
 
 " I am no longer weary, Trien dear ; but, 1 ^o not know 
 how it is, that hateful dream makes me quite melancholy." 
 
 " Oh, that will soon go away, John ; it comes from sleeping 
 on the hard ground. Will you eat something?" 
 
 " Yes, Trien, I feel hungry." 
 
 The girl put the bits of bread and meat one after the other 
 into his hand. While he silently took the proffered food, she 
 remarked a peculiar expression of dejection and trouble on his 
 face. Believing, however, that the uneasy sleep was the only 
 cause of this apparent melancholy, she made no attempt to 
 enliven his spirits, but so soon as she had given him the last 
 bit of bread, she drew on his stockings and shoes, and pre- 
 pared to resume their journey. The soldier picked up the 
 knapsack, but the girl took it from him. 
 
 " No, no, Trien," he said, " let me carry it now, I entreat 
 you : you weary yourself too much. It is not proper, besides, 
 that a young girl should walk with a knapsack on her back ; 
 it must already look singular enough to see a peasant maid 
 travelling with a blind soldier. What will people think of it ?" 
 
 " Why should people's opinions trouble us, John ? You, 
 who can't see, suffer a hundred times more fatigue than I do, 
 for you are always making false steps. Besides, you are far 
 from being well and strong yet. The knapsack is nothing 
 to me." 
 
 So saying, she took it again upon her back, and being now 
 ready to set out, led the soldier into the middle of the road, 
 putting a staff into his hand and fastening the other end on 
 her shoulder, that the blind man might walk Becurely in hef 
 iBofciriept. When setting out, ihe laid— 
 
M TALES OF FLEMI8H Un. 
 
 •* Should I walk too quickly, dear John, you must tell xub. 
 And let us talk a little as we go ; it will shorten the way." 
 
 As she received no answer, she turned round, but without 
 ■topping, and said to her companion — 
 
 "John, you should not hang your head in that way ; it 
 fetigues your chest." 
 
 The young man silently raised his head ; but After a few 
 steps, let it sink again. He was evidently lost in earnest 
 thought: 80 Trien saw; but although anxiety was expressed 
 in her features, she said in a clear cheerful tone as if she 
 would rouse him out of his despondency — 
 
 " Oh, John, to-morrow evening we shall be home ! That 
 will be glorious 1 Your poor mother thinks that you are stiU 
 pining away in the dark sick-room. How happy she will be 
 and with what joy she will embrace you again I And Paw- 
 ken, who shed so many tears when you went away to be a 
 soldier, how he will leap and dance I — and my mother, and 
 grandfather ! I seem to see them all coming out with open 
 arms to meet you. And the ox, poor beast I when it hears 
 you, will be as happy as the rest; for I could see every 
 day in his eyes that he had not forgotten you. And then 
 grandfather will kill the fat buck, and we shall all feast and 
 rejoice together like kings. Ah, I wish that I were sitting 
 there now I " 
 
 While chatting away in this style, she often looked round 
 at the blind man, who walked behind holding by the leading 
 stick, in order to see the effect of her words on his face. A 
 faint smile was the only change she perceived on it; but 
 this indication of pleasure, slight as it was, encouraged her, 
 and though her companion had made no reply, she proceeded— 
 
 " And when we once find ourselves at home Again, John, 
 I will stay by you, and never leave you. I will buy songs, 
 and learn them by heart, to sing them to jou in the eyemiif 
 
THX BECBUn. %1 
 
 by the fireside ; when I am working in the fields, yon will 
 always be beside me, and we shall talk together during <rar 
 work ; and what you can't see, I shall let you feel with your 
 hands, and in that way you shall know just as well as I how 
 the crops are getting on — you shall see them grow in your 
 mind. I will take you to church, too ; and on Sunday even- 
 ings drink a can of beer with you at the * Crown,' that you 
 may have a chat with your old friends. Everything will be 
 just as if you were not blind. What do you say to all that? 
 Is it not all very delightful to think of?" 
 
 A few tears fell from under the green shade which covered 
 the soldier's eyes, and rolled like rain-drops upon the road. 
 He replied in a melancholy tone — 
 
 " Trien dear, your voice is so sweet that it makes my heart 
 tremble with a kind of sadness. When I listen to your beau- 
 tifal talking, I feel as if my guardian angel were walking on 
 before me : I see you standing in front of me ; you have 
 wings, and your body is as bright as the sun. I believe it is 
 our dear heavenly Father who lets me see with my poor blind 
 eyes how you are to be afterwards rewarded in heaven for 
 your inconceivable goodness." 
 
 " Ah, John, you must not speak in that singular way," re- 
 plied Trien ; " I desire only one reward for my labour, and 
 that is to see you less melancholy. You were much more 
 cheerful yesterday." 
 
 The blind man drew back the stick, and taking the msiden'f 
 hand that he might walk beside her, said — 
 
 " Trien, yesterday I was merry, because I was thinking of 
 my return home. But since this morning, and especially 
 since I slept yonder, I perceive how matters really stand. 
 Something disturbs my heart which I will not hide from yon 
 — God himself would punish me were I to repay yov lf»vf 
 with selfishness." 
 
99 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 ** Well, Jolin, what has come into your head now Ton 
 make me so anxious that I can scarcely walk on. Tell me 
 what grieves you so ; it must just be some fancy or other." 
 
 " Let us talk quietly and calmly over the matter, Trion," 
 replied the young man, with a choking voice. "You are 
 strong, pretty, and good of heart, and can do every kind of 
 work ; and is it proper that you should let your young life bo 
 wasted and lost out of love and pity for an unfortunate blind 
 man ? And then, when our parents lie in the churchyard, 
 you will be old, alone, and destitute, and all for my sake." 
 
 The maiden, moved by the sad tones of his voice, wept bit- 
 terly, though the young man did not perceive it. 
 
 " Trien, even on my deathbed shall I think of that blessed 
 moment by the linden- tree, when we took farewell of one an- 
 other. I understood what your darling blue eyes then said, 
 and it has made me happy in my sufferings. Even when the 
 loctor was burning my eyes with the caustic so that I 
 jscreamed with agony, you stood before me with the same 
 blush upon your brow, and I still felt your hand tremble in 
 mine. Ah I if the all-merciful God had left me but one eye 
 to work for our daily bread, I would have fallen on my knees 
 before you, Trien, to entreat that we should be united for life ; 
 and I would have worked myself to death to reward you for 
 your kindness in granting my entreaty. But now, that is all 
 over." 
 
 " But, for God's sake, John," cried the girl, full of despair, 
 ** what are you talking of? Do you say all this to tortore 
 me ? I do not understand you. What in the world then da 
 yon wish?" 
 
 " Sorrow — and death I" sighed the youth. 
 
 " Death I " cried Trien with vexation. " Do you think 1 
 will let you die ? What do you mean ? Speak more clearly 
 I Oftn't bear these mysterions words. I unll go no forthar 
 
THE RECRUIT. 69 
 
 Sit down here for a little, that these hateful thcugbts may be 
 driven out of your head." 
 
 She led the blind man to the roadside, and taking oflf the 
 knapsack, sat down with him on the thin grass, and said — 
 
 " Now, then, John, let me hear what you have got to say ; 
 and speak right out what you mean." 
 
 " Ah, dear Trien, you know what I mean ; you will cast 
 away your youth for my sake. Can I then desire that you 
 should waste your whole life out of compassion for me ? The 
 very thought tears my heart in pieces. If you wish me to 
 have an easy mind and be cheerful, then promise that you 
 will be henceforth nothing more to me than a sister ; that you 
 will go to merry-makings as formerly, and be friendly to other 
 young men." 
 
 Trien interrupted him with sobs and tears — 
 
 " John, John I how is it possible that you can be so cruel ? 
 You cut my heart in two like a butcher. All the reward for 
 my kindness is, * Go, seek other young men.' How have I 
 deserved that, or what have I done wrong?" 
 
 John sought for the maiden's hand, and when he had 
 grasped it, said with a melancholy voice — 
 
 " Ah, Trien, you will not understand me. Had I still six 
 eyes I would let them all be burnt out just that I might love 
 you, if I could do so without bringing you sorrow. And yet 
 blindness is a calamity the bitterness of which no one can con- 
 ceive BO long as he has the light. But God would assuredly 
 punish me were I to use your life for my own advantage." 
 
 " And were I to follow your hateful advice, I suppose you 
 would forget me too ?" 
 
 " Forget I " replied the blind man. " It is always night 
 around me. My whole life long I must think and dream. On 
 whom and on what ? Only on your goodness, and on what 
 yoor eyes said when we parted yonder." 
 
f TALB8 OF rLBMXSH UTB. 
 
 " And even if yon gained yonr wish, yoa would itfll 
 tinne to love Trien, then, wonld yon?" 
 
 " Always, always — till death I" 
 
 The maiden wiped the tears from her eyes. A totally dif- 
 ferent expression now took possession of her features, and 
 with joyful pride and a cheerftd heart, she rejoined — 
 
 "And / in the meantime should forsake you? Go to 
 merry-makings with other young men, while you sat all week 
 long in your house, at the comer of the hearth, forsaken and 
 alone, mourning and thinking of me ? John, how could you 
 even imagine such a thing? Were it not yow, I should cer- 
 tainly be very angry. Do yon think, then, that I have no 
 heart, and would let you pine and waste away alone with 
 nobody to care for you ? No, no ; you loved me dearly when 
 you still had your two fine black eyes ; and I will still love 
 you when you have lost them, poor fellow ! Speak to me 
 no more of other young men — it vexes me ; for it sounds as 
 if yon cared no more about me ; and the very thought of that 
 makes the tears roll over my cheeks." 
 
 John pressed the maiden's hand with mute and wondering 
 gratitude ; and, after a pause, said with a sigh — 
 
 "Trien, you are an angel upon earth. I feel that you 
 alone can make me forget what God has taken from me ; bat 
 it cannot, cannot be." 
 
 " Yes," she replied ; " I understand you now : you wonld 
 say that I should enter the order of St. Anna, and be an old 
 maid for life. It shall not be so. I mean to make a happy 
 marriage, and that before the winter com is sown, I tell you." 
 
 " Marry I " murmured the soldier, secretly disquieted ; "oh, 
 Trien, now is my heart at rest. God grant that your husband 
 love you as you deserve. You wUl be married, then ? With 
 whom ? Is it a friend in our village ?" 
 
 "John, have you loit your aensei?" cried the giii, witk 
 
VBE SXCBX7IT. f 1 
 
 •ach emphasis that it re-echoed in the fir- wood behind. •* I 
 lay that I shall marry, and you ask whom. Why, youV* 
 
 " Heavens ! Me I— a poor blind man I" 
 
 " Yes, you ; him who would give six eyes to dare to lore 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, thanks, thanks, Trien, for your inexpressible good- 
 ness. May God bless you for a love so great ; but" — 
 
 Trien laid her hand on his mouth and arrested the hut, say- 
 ing at the same time — 
 
 " Silence ; you spoke so earnestly just then, that my heart 
 leapt in my breast when I heard you. Say no more ; let me 
 speak now. If Trien had become blind through some mis- 
 fortune, would you have driven the poor forlorn sheep from 
 you ? And if she still continued to love you in her affliction, 
 would you have given her a deathblow by looking after other 
 girls ? Answer me." 
 
 " I may not answer." 
 
 " You must, John ; and answer directly, too." 
 
 " Ah, well, Trien, I would have done as you do now : bnt 
 it cannot be, dearest : what would people say of »n«.'" 
 
 " It shall be," said the maiden with decision. " Promise it 
 here, on my right hand, that God may see it, and that it may 
 be ratified in heaven, till the priest shall unite us in the 
 church." 
 
 When the soldier heard this, he covered his face with both 
 hands, and let his head sink slowly on the maiden's breast, 
 overpowered and speechless with emotion. 
 
 "People I" exclaimed Trien with animation. "He who 
 does rightly need not be ashamed of himself before any man. 
 And when I go to church with you, and take your hand before 
 the altar, then shall I hold my head proudly, and think that 
 €k)d alone knows what is good and what is bad. And when 
 I have once done it, I shall soon show what one can acoom- 
 
TS TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 plish where there is a stout heart and strong arms. Yon 
 shall want for nothing, John dear ; Trien will take care of 
 that ; and she will remain with you, and comfort and cheer 
 you till death separates us. And so shall we live with our 
 mothers and grandfather and Pawken in peace and happiness 
 as we used to do. Is it not delightful to think of all this ?" 
 
 With tears in his eyes, the blind soldier kissed her hands. 
 He still murmured a few words of unwillingness to accept her 
 affectionate sacrifice; but she spoke in an imperative tone— 
 
 " John, we cannot sit here any longer ; we must go. It will 
 be dark before we reach the farm-house where I slept four days 
 ago. Eise and push on a little further with a cheerful heart. 
 No more of this ; what is said is said. Let us talk now of 
 other things." 
 
 She took the knapsack on her back, gave John the end of 
 the staff as before, and both trudged cm over the heath in 
 filMioe, but with joyful hearts. 
 
mscKunr. ?1 
 
 CHAPTEB VL 
 
 Oh the following morning by daybreak, Trien waa again 
 m her way, with the knapsack on her back and the blind 
 joldier behind her. 
 
 The grass by the road-side, and the herbs on the heath, 
 glistened in the early rays of the sun as if they had been 
 strewed with diamonds ; while the tops of the firs, moistened 
 with dew, seemed all arrayed in silver. The eastern heavens 
 were lighted np with a golden and purple glow ; and away to- 
 wards the distant copse, the night-vapours rose and floated 
 between earth and sky. The birds were awake, and filled 
 the air with their songs ; the bees hummed busily round the 
 wild thyme, while beetles and butterflies flew cheerfully 
 about. All nature smiled at the dawn of beautiful day: 
 everything proclaimed the advent of light. 
 
 The good maiden, too, found herself in a pleasing though 
 unconscious harmony with nature. From time to time she 
 sang in lively tones snatches from various ballads, to give 
 utterance to the joy which she felt ; while the soldier walked 
 on silently, but with a pleased expression which showed a 
 heart at rest. 
 
 " How comes it, Trien dear," he said, after some time, ** thai 
 yon are so happy ? It must be owing to the beautiful weather 
 furely. I cannot lee it, but I hear the merry long of th« 
 
74 TALBf OF FLEMI8H UWE, 
 
 birds welcoming the daj, and the joyfhl hum of the beef «l 
 
 my feet." 
 
 " No, John, that is not the reason," she replied ; " come 
 closer and I shall tell you what it is — something which will 
 make you wonder. It is only a dream, to be sure, and I had 
 almost forgotten it ; but this fine fresh air has revived me, 
 and it has all come to mind again. It is a pleasant thing to 
 dream, is it not, John ?" 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 " Yes ; I mean when the dreams are beautiful. I do not 
 know when I have been so happy as last night when asleep, 
 and I would not give my dream for twenty crown-pieces, and 
 that is a tremendous lot of money. It is vexing, John, that 
 dreams are not true." 
 
 " What dream have you had, then, Trien, that was so very 
 beautiful?" 
 
 ** You, too, are concerned in it, John ; that you may well 
 suppose. Ah, it was so delightful I only listen : The farmer's 
 wife— may God reward her for it, good woman 1 — had showa 
 me into a Kttle bedroom for the night. When I found myself 
 alone, I knelt and prayed before the image of the Virgin which 
 stood on the little house-altar. I do not know how long I knelt, 
 but when I rose my head whirled round, and I almost lost the 
 power of knowing where I was or what I was — so at least it 
 seemed to me. The moon had in the meantime risen, and 
 shone so brightly through the little window, that my room 
 seemed all glorified with such a flood of light, that I could 
 scarcely recognise it to be the same place. I laid my brow 
 upon the window-pane to cool my head, and then threw my- 
 self half-dressed on the bed, that I might be ready early on 
 the following morning. But still I could not sleep, for the 
 moon seemed always right before my eyes ; and I tormented 
 myself to find out the man with the bundle of stickg in itr 
 
Whether I fell asleep at last is more than I can tell ; but K 
 
 mnst have been so, for only hear what happened to me next. 
 All of a sudden, the moon changed into a month and bind 
 eyes of wonderful beauty ; then a ruddy hue like that of a 
 ripe apple came over it, and it looked at me with so friendly 
 a smile, that I was quite enchanted. I have never in my life 
 seen a woman so beautiful, and so like an angel in heaven j 
 for if there were such a one on earth, everybody would cer- 
 tainly kneel down and worship her. I am quite sure of that ; 
 but listen to what followed. Gradually there grew out of the 
 moon arms and legs, and a long robe adorned with great 
 golden blossoms; and on its head there appeared a silver 
 crown of seven bright stars. And now it was no longer the 
 moon, but a woman who bore in her arms a little child more 
 beautiful than the little cherubs in heaven. And, oh, John I 
 it was our dear Lady out of the little room at home, who had 
 become alive, and had our blessed Lord in her arms ; and He 
 smiled and beckoned to me. But there is more and better 
 yet. How she came there I do not know, but I saw her 
 next sitting on a chair outside the window, and you too saw 
 her with your blind eyes ; for we fell down together on our 
 knees, and stretched out our arms from behind the window, 
 as if calling upon the Holy Mother to come to us. Then she 
 came gently, gently down, always nearer and nearer, and right 
 through the window into the room. She said something to 
 her child, Jesus, and the child touched your eyes with hi» 
 finger, and you, John, exclaimed, quite mad with joy, * I see I 
 I see I * I, poor thing, was so overpowered by it all, that I 
 sprang up in my sleep and fell out of bed ; and oh, John, it 
 waa not true. I had only dreamt ; for the moon, with the 
 man in it, still shone in the sky, and the image of the Virgin 
 still stood calmly on the little altar in the comer of thQ room. 
 Ii not thai ^ charming dreiua ?' 
 
Ti TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 She was silent, and waited for a reply. After a short paiUM, 
 the young man said — 
 
 " Trien, how beautifully you can tell a story. My Leart 
 beat with pleasure while you were speaking ; I seemed to see 
 it all happen. And when you said that our Lord touched my 
 eyes, I felt something which 1 cannot describe ; and I saw oui 
 dear Lady so clearly and distinctly, that I could draw on tho 
 sand the golden flowers which sparkled on her robe." 
 
 " What kind of flowers did you see, John ?" 
 
 " Large roses." 
 
 " And so did I ; that is strange." 
 
 " And lilies, like those which stood in the brewer's garden 
 last year." 
 
 " I saw roses and lilies too. But how is that possible ? It 
 quite puzzles me." 
 
 " Ah, dearest," sighed John ; " do not deceive yourself with 
 a false hope. * Dreams are bubbles,' says the proverb ; it is 
 only a little comfort which God has sent to cheer us on our 
 way." 
 
 " Never mind," said Trien joyfully ; " since last night, I 
 leem to love the Virgin-Mother more than ever ; and when 
 we are at home, I shall go to the sexton's daughter, Marion, 
 and beg some silver paper, in order to make just such a silver 
 erown with seven stars, as I saw last night, to put on the 
 Image under the linden- tree ; and if we are ever able to do it, 
 we shall dress it in a robe adorned with golden flowers besides. 
 Let us now make speed, before the sun rises higher ; and take 
 hold of the stick, John, for the footpath is growing narrow and 
 nigged. I think we must have wandered out of our way 
 when I was telling my dream." 
 
 " Trien dear, take great care to keep the right way, for my 
 knees begin to grow weary already. I don't think I shall be 
 able to manage ten hours to-day." 
 
THE BECBUIT. ¥7 
 
 «* Do not vex yourself, John," she replied, walking mow 
 slowly ; " on a flat heath like this one can't go far wrong ; 
 and I see yonder in the distance, the two towers, Moll and 
 Baelen, as we were told this morning." 
 
 " How far distant are they ?" 
 
 " An hour and a half yet. Can you manage so far this 
 morning?" 
 
 " Yes, if we take a refit now and then by the way." 
 
 " You must tell when you are tired. We shall not speak, 
 for it will make you feel sooner fatigued." 
 
 The sun meanwhile had risen high, and began to pour its 
 burning light over the heath like a stream of fire. The air 
 was so sultry, that it was with difficulty our travellers could 
 breathe, and the perspiration poured from their faces. Ex- 
 hausted though he was, the soldier would not allow himself to 
 complain of fatigue, but continued to walk bravely on behind 
 his guide. He had broken the long silence only once, with 
 the observation that his eyes pained him excessively, as if the 
 burning rays had increased the inflammation. 
 
 After she had kept steadily on for an hour or more, Trien 
 suddenly stood still. Surprised at the unexpected pause, he 
 said — 
 
 " Trien, what is the matter ? Why do you stop all at once 
 in that way?" 
 
 " Well, John," she replied in a grieved tone, " here is a 
 pretty business. Heaven knows how far we have wandered 
 from the right road, and now there stands right before us, and 
 running quite across the whole heath, a broad stream, and not 
 a bridge of any kind to be seen." 
 
 " That is very vexing," sighed John ; " for I am already 
 quite worn out. Is the water deep, Trien ?" 
 
 *^0h, no; it is a broad shallow stream; I can see th« 
 
TS TALES OF FLEMISH LDTB. 
 
 bottom qnite well, and it would not take me aboTe the 
 to wade across it." 
 
 ** Let ns venture it, Trien ; and then we shall be laved 
 
 going round." 
 
 ** But it is impossible, John ; for the banks are so high that 
 you could go neither up nor down. But come, come, let as 
 make a virtue of necessity." 
 
 She led her blind companion to the edge of the brook, and, 
 first throwing the knapsack across, stepped down into the water; 
 the young man heard her, and asked what she was going to do. 
 
 " Throw your arms round my neck, and take fast hold," she 
 replied ; and drawing the soldier towards her, she compelled 
 him, spite of his objections, to obey her kindly order ; then 
 carrying the heavy burden through the water to the opposite 
 side, she said — 
 
 " John, there stands a willow-bush on the bank, take hold 
 of it and help yourself up, and I shall assist you." 
 
 He did as she told him, and gained the firm ground with- 
 out any difficulty. Trien immediately joined him, shaking 
 the water out of her clothes as she approached. 
 
 " Ah, Trien 1 " said the blind man, " you are goodness and 
 love itself. How it grieves me to think that I can never re- 
 ward you for so much pity and kindness." 
 
 " Now, JohD," she interrupted, " is it worth while to waste 
 a word on such a trifle as my carrying you through the water ? 
 That is nothing ; the sun will dry my clothes in a very short 
 time. Try to go a little further at a slow pace, for in half 
 an hour we shall reach the first tower, and that is Moll, as 
 we were told. There we shall rest ourselves a little." 
 
 " Is the water of this brook pure ?" he asked. 
 
 "As clear as crystal," she answered; "are you thirsty? 
 Wait a moment — I can't get more than one wetting — and I 
 •hall get you a hearty draught of it." 
 
9BE XECSUIT. 79 
 
 While speaking, she had nntied the camp-kettle from the 
 knapsack, bnt the soldier said — 
 
 ** No, Trien, I do not wish water to drink. My eyes pain 
 me excessively ; and I think if yon were to give me water on . 
 • napkin to wash them with, it wonld refresh them a little." 
 
 She stepped down into the brook, and having filled the little 
 vessel with the pnrest water, went np to the blind man, and, 
 drawing a white linen cloth from her bosom, said to him — 
 
 " Sit down, and let me wash your eyes ; for yon conld not 
 do it yourself without wetting your clothes." 
 
 The soldier sat down on the grass with his back towards 
 the sun, while Trien took the shade from his head and bathed 
 his closed eyes with the wet cloth. And when he told her that 
 this washing revived and refreshed him very much, she kept 
 laving his face and brow copiously, till he held her hand and told 
 \er to stop. As she stepped a little aside to pick up the shade, 
 the blind man suddenly sprang on his feet, with a singular 
 cry, and stood trembling and stretching out his hands towards 
 his companion, while unintelligible sounds escaped from his 
 lips — 
 
 "Heavens, John! what is the matter with you?" cried 
 Trien, running to him with alarm. 
 
 With an air of perplexity and confusion, he pushed her 
 gently back, saying — 
 
 " Trien, Trien, go back again to the same spot, I beseech 
 yon I" 
 
 Astonished at the tone of his voice and the incomprehensible 
 joy depicted in his countenance, the girl did what he desired, 
 and placed herself some steps from him. He opened his dead 
 eyes, and, with outstretched arms, exclaimed — 
 
 " Trien, Trien 1 1 saw you I My left eye is not quite gone." 
 
 As if struck by lightning, the poor girl trembled all owtt^ 
 •ad with tottering stept approached the so1die]>— 
 
90 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 " No, no, Jolin, it cannot be 1 Do not kill me with joy. 
 This bright sunlight must have deceived you, poor fel- 
 low!" 
 
 . " I saw you," exclaimed the soldier almost mad with joy, 
 " like a black mass. You passed before my eyes like a shadow. 
 My left eye is not quite gone, I tell you. Oh, Trien dear, it 
 is your dream of last night." 
 
 Trien uttered a cry as piercing as if it had escaped from 
 some one in agony, and falling on her knees, with trembling 
 and uplifted hands she offered up to God a calm and silent 
 but deep and earnest thanksgiving. The soldier saw her in 
 indistinct and shadowy outline, and knelt likewise beside the 
 praying girl. She was so lost, however, in devout adoration, 
 that she did not perceive him, and knelt for a long time ab- 
 sorbed and motionless. At last, calmed by her devotion, she 
 turned her head and saw her friend also on his knees. 
 
 " John, John I did you see what I did ?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "I saw it I— I saw it I" 
 
 " Oh, our dear Lady 1 " sighed Trien, while a torrent of 
 tears now first burst from her eyes. "This is thy doing, 
 holy Mother of God. I will never forget it ; but every year 
 make a pilgrimage barefoot to worship thee at Scherpen- 
 heuvel." 
 
 After this earnest declaration, strength seemed all at once 
 to leave her ; she threw her arm round the soldier's neck, and, 
 leaning her head on his breast, wept in silence. The young 
 man's emotion was equally great ; words failed him to express 
 the mingled feelings which overflowed his heart. A whole 
 ftiture of gratitude, of love and joy, had opened itself to hia 
 view, and uplifted his soul with the enchanting prospect of a 
 osefii. and happy life. At last, Trien raised her head, and, 
 every now and then uttering expressions of joy, she bound the 
 ■hade over the soldier's eyes; and taking the knapsack on her 
 
THE BECBITIT* 
 
 back, and the young man by the hand, both Bet out agrnta 
 with light steps to finish their day's journey. 
 
 " Oh, John dear," said Trien, " I don't know how it is, but 
 I conld dance and leap with joy ; now, I could walk twenty 
 hours longer without feeling tired." 
 
 " It is the same with me," replied the soldier ; " I feel as 
 if I could fly. Oh, dearest Trien, if my left eye were to grow 
 quite well again, what happiness I what joy I My heart feeli 
 oppressed when I think of it." 
 
 " Grow quite well I to be sure it will. Our dear Lady will 
 take care of that. Do you not see that it is the hand of Qod ? 
 My dream last night." 
 
 " Trieny dear, Trieny dear," he cried, while he tremblingly 
 pressed her hand ; " ah, if it were to turn out so, how beauti- 
 ful should our life on earth then be I We should then marry, 
 as you have so kindly promised, and I should work like a 
 slave — but oh, with what life and happiness I — while you, 
 my dearest wife, should have nothing to do but take care of 
 yourself and" — 
 
 " Not so, John," she interrupted, smiling ; " do you imagine 
 I could live in idleness ? I would show you other things, I 
 can tell you." 
 
 " It is all the same," he said ; " you should do only what 
 you chose to do, and nothing more. And our parents, Trien, 
 how happy should we make their last days by our care and 
 love ! I would tear down the partition between the two huts 
 and make one house of them, that all might live together. It 
 would be quite a heaven of love and joy." 
 
 " Oh, how beautiful 1 " sighed Trien with emotion ; " the 
 partition must be taken down at once ; and then grandfather, 
 and our mothers, and Pawken, and you and I, and our cow 
 too, shall be always together. What a life! Oh, what s 
 life I" 
 
n TALIS OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 Trien clapped her hands with joy, like a child. 
 
 ** And then," continued John, " we fann too little land just 
 BOW to giye ns enough to do, and enable us to make progress. 
 I shall drive a trade with fir-cones, besides, and gradually add 
 wood and bundles of twigs. Then we must look a little to 
 the future ; if" — 
 
 He said no more, for the maiden had covered her face with 
 her hands, and he heard her sobbing. 
 
 " Why do my words trouble you so ?" he asked. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, speak no more of all these beautiful 
 things. I feel as if my heart would break with joy at the 
 thought of it all. John, I am so happy, that I shall go out of 
 my senses if you go on talking about the paradise that awaits 
 us on earth." 
 
 " And I too, Trien, But I cannot be silent for all that ; 
 my heart overflows. Let me go on, and do you speak also ; 
 and so we shall be at Moll without knowing it, so light and 
 easy will the way appear; and there we are to rest, you 
 know." 
 
 The soldier began anew to unfold his fine plans, and en- 
 chanted the maiden with his pictures of a blessed future in 
 which both lived their whole life through by anticipation, and 
 enjoyed pleasures in prospect. 
 
 At last, they reached their resting-place. Trien gave John 
 the kna{%ack, and both entered the village hand in hand. 
 
KBominri. 
 
 CHAPTEB VIL 
 
 Late in the aHemoon, Trien, accompanied by her friend, 
 might be seen wandering over the heath on the farther ride 
 of Casterlee, where they had crossed the Nethe. Both were 
 rilent and mnch depressed, but neither had courage to disclose 
 to the other what each feared ; on the contrary, the few wordi 
 which they exchanged were attempts to appear as cheerful as 
 possible. Notwithstanding this, however, they felt that they 
 had been cherishing a delusion, and their hearts were filled 
 with sorrow. Since they had resumed their journey, Trien 
 had already washed the soldier's eyes five or six times ; Bhe 
 did not pass a brook, indeed, without trying whether it pos- 
 sessed the wonder-working power of the stream on the heath. 
 Alas I her loving solicitude became for herself and for the un- 
 happy John a source of disappointment and despair. 
 
 Whether it was that the soldier had deceived himself 
 when he imagined that he saw Trien, or that the cold water 
 and the rubbing had increased the inflammation, he saw no 
 longer, however much he strained his eyes to discern ihe out- 
 Jne of his companion's form. He could not even bear the 
 light, and closed his eyes with intense pain whenever Trien 
 took the shade from his head. Accordingly, the terrible 
 conviction took possession of both their minds, that they had 
 been the victims of a vain delurion, and that the blindness 
 was total and incurable. A last ray of hope, to be san, in 
 
84 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 the form of a happy uncertainty, still lived in the bottom ol 
 their hearts ; but it was able to light up their quiet despair 
 with only a passing gleam, which by contrast with the sad 
 reality served only to make their sorrow greater. 
 
 They were sad and spiritless also on another account. 
 Since the morning they had walked for eight hours, and were 
 excessively fatigued ; the soldier, indeed, felt quite exhausted 
 and powerless, and often stumbled as he crept along. Un- 
 consciously and heedlessly he tottered on behind Trien, still 
 holding the stick, with his body bent forward and his limbs 
 relaxed and lifeless. His feet were blistered, and had he not al- 
 most lost consciousness he would have felt warm drops of blood 
 oozing out of his right heel into his shoe. Trien was no less 
 weary ; but she pushed steadily on notwithstanding, without 
 saying anything — even without looking back at her com- 
 panion. The poor girl was too dejected to speak. Her heart 
 was now bereft of consolation ; her hopes had vanished, her 
 glimpse of happiness faded away. An inexpressible joy had 
 almost deprived her of her senses as she built up for herself 
 and family such a glorious future, and now when undeceived 
 her grief was all the deeper ; and courageous as she was, she 
 felt quite overpowered, and bent like a slave under the yoke 
 of an intense depression. What could she say to her friend 
 to raise him out of his despair? Should she speak of his eyes 
 and of hope, and belie her own feelings ? She could not do 
 so ; it would have fallen on her own heart as well as his like 
 bitter mockery. She therefore walked on silently and heavily, 
 sunk in melancholy thoughts, and scarcely conscious of her 
 own condition. 
 
 When they had walked folly half an hour in this way, the 
 soldier suddenly stopped, and breathing with difficulty, said — 
 
 " Stop, Trien 1 I am able for no more." 
 
 ^ I am quite worn out too," replied the girl without looking 
 
THE BECBUrr. $5 
 
 round ; " we shall rest a little, and then sleep to-night in the 
 Tillage yonder." 
 
 " stop, then ! " said the blind man imploringly. 
 
 " We are quite near a country-house ; only twenty steps 
 farther, John, and we come to a beautiful beech-grove, and 
 there we can sit in the shade." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake go quickly, Trien !" 
 
 Taking him by the hand she led him to the grove, and 
 seated him with his back towards it. The young man fell 
 like lead upon the grass, and sat with his head drooping on 
 his breast. 
 
 Behind the spot where the soldier and his companion were 
 seated, and in the centre of the beech-grove, there was an 
 arbour. In it a man sat reading. He must have been very 
 old, for deep wrinkles fiirrowed his countenance, and the scanty 
 hairs which like a crown adorned his head were as white as 
 snow. A frock-coat buttoned to the throat and an honorary 
 badge on his breast gave him the appearance of a retired 
 officer. 
 
 When he heard the noise which the two travellers made 
 behind him, he turned, and saw through the foliage of the 
 arbour a soldier and a peasant girl with a knapsack on her 
 back. The sight of this surprised him at first ; but he thought 
 that it must be a sister who was conducting her brother 
 home, and was carrying his burden out of affection. He 
 wondered, nevertheless, at this simple token of love, and 
 smiled with friendly sympathy as he looked at them while 
 resting on the bank. 
 
 Trien, meanwhile, had sat down beside the blind man, and 
 said to him — "John, you are so quiet and melancholy I 
 What is the matter with you? You are weary — ^is that 
 the reason ? Tour fatigue will soon pass away, and yoa will 
 feel quite fresh again.'' 
 
8€ TALIf OF FLBHISH UTl. 
 
 As she receiyed no answer, she continued in an encourage 
 ing tone — 
 
 ** Keep up your spirits, John, and think that we shall be 
 home to-morrow. It has taken twenty hours to come from 
 Venloo hither: three hours more, and we are in our own 
 Tillage. K we rise early to-morrow, we can get over it all 
 just like a pleasure-walk. We have still great cause to he 
 contented, for it is really a great piece of good fortune that I 
 was pemiitted to bring you home from among the soldiers. 
 And as to the rest, I shall take care that you do not have 
 much to vex you in the course of your life, John dear. — ^Why 
 do you not speak?" 
 
 The young man made an effort to draw breath, and then 
 •aid with a sigh — 
 
 " My heart beats, and my eyei bum like fire ; let me rest, 
 Trien." 
 
 Some minutes passed in unbroken silence : gradually Trien 
 began to think that it was grief more than fatigue which so 
 oppressed her companion. So, with a noble effort, she re- 
 pressed her own sorrow in order to pour consolation into the 
 blind man's heart, and said cheerfully — 
 
 " But John, you are still certain that you saw me ? That 
 makes me believe that there must still be life in your *eft 
 eye, although you are quite blind again in the meantime; 
 that must just be caused by the heat, which has inflamed 
 your eyes more than usual. Only have patience till we are 
 at home ; we shall then sell some new grain, and fetch the 
 doctor from Wyneghem. There is no fear of his being able 
 to cure you, f j? he has worked many wonders, even on men 
 who for several days were thought to be dead. Only think, 
 John, to-morrow we shall see your mother, and grandfather, 
 and Pawken, and then I shall lead you round all your friendi 
 to tee how they are. Then, when you have rested well, jam 
 
THE BECBUIT. $7 
 
 eyes will not pain you any longer, and there is no doubt but 
 you will see a little again. And then we shall pray together 
 under the linden-tree, in order to thank our dear Lady for her 
 compassion ; for you may be quite sure, John, that she has 
 
 heard me, and will What is that ? I see blood on your 
 
 stockings I And you have said nothing about it, poor fellow ! " 
 
 She hastily drew off his shoe and stocking, and wiped away 
 the blood with her white neckerchief. She was then just 
 about to tell him that the bruise was not serious ; but scarcely 
 had she raised her eyes to his face, when she trembled like an 
 aspen leaf, saying at the same time in an anxious tone— 
 
 " John dear, what is the matter with you ? You are so 
 pale." 
 
 The young man sighed almost inaudibly — 
 
 " I cannot tell ; my heart is breaking. I feel as if I were 
 dying." 
 
 He trembled violently, his head sank powerless on his 
 shoulder, and his arms fell lifeless by his side. 
 
 Trien screamed with anxiety and alarm, while she laid her 
 hands on his pallid cheeks, and endeavoured to raise him up, 
 calling out in despair — 
 
 " John 1 John ! Poor, poor fellow I he is dead I Water ! 
 water I Helpl helpl" 
 
 With these words she sprang up, looked wildly rouud her, 
 and ran from one side to another to see if she could find 
 water. She then suddenly perceived an open gate, which was 
 the entrance to a gentleman's house ; and uttering a cry of 
 joy, she ran towards it at full speed to beg assistance. As 
 she approached the house by the winding path of the flower- 
 garden, she saw two men come out of it and approach her. 
 The one was an old gentleman with snow-white hair, and « 
 countenance commanding respect ; the other, though likewise 
 i^vanced in years, seemed still to retain the strength of yout)v 
 
88 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 A broad scar, like a sabre-cut, ran down tbe face of the latter 
 from the brow over the mouth and chin, giving a severo 
 character to his features. He carried a jug, two bottles, and 
 Bome linen. He must have been the old gentleman's servant, 
 for he followed him at a little distance without speaking. 
 
 " Oh, sir," said Trien in a tone of despair, " give me some 
 water or vinegar ! yonder, behind the grove, lies a poor blind 
 lad in a faint. For God's sake, sir, have pity ! do a good 
 work and go with me I Oh, if you would be so good I " 
 
 The old man smiled compassionately, and taking the 
 maiden's hand, replied calmly — 
 
 " Be calm, my child ; it is nothing. We are on the way 
 to cure him. You need not be anxious, it is nothing but an 
 ordinary faint. Your companion has exerted himself too 
 much. Come along, and dry your tears." 
 
 Trien scarcely understood what he said ; it seemed to her 
 so wonderful that help should be at hand, when no one had 
 told at the gentleman's house what had occurred, that in her 
 simplicity she thought that she again discovered the kind in- 
 terposition of the Virgin Mother. With mingled joy and 
 surprise she gazed at the old man's friendly and consolatory 
 face, which smiled on her protectingly. 
 
 " You are a brave girl, my daughter, to show such affec- 
 tion for a poor soldier," he said, as he walked hastily on. 
 " From what place have you come with him ? From Ven- 
 loo?" 
 
 ** Yes, from Venloo, sir ; it is very far from this." 
 
 " And have you carried that knapsack on your back all the 
 way?" 
 
 " Ah, su*," she sighed, quietly weeping, " the poor fellow 
 is blind and tannot walk easily, not being able to see the 
 road. We were in haste, and I am strong and health y 
 God I see, there he lies, as pale as death I" 
 
THE RECBUIT. 9$ 
 
 A fresli torrent of tears burst from her eyes, and folding 
 her hands as if in prayer, she exclaimed in an anxious and 
 beseeching tone — " He will not die yet, sir?'* 
 
 With a smile the old man shook his head, and approached 
 the lad. The servant set the bottles on the ground, and 
 without waiting for an order, raised the soldier's head with 
 one hand while he untied his neckcloth with the other and 
 put aside the clothes which covered his breast. Meanwhile, 
 the old gentleman bathed the sick man's face and hands. 
 Tri«i knelt beside them, and beheld with tears the care and 
 kindness with which the two strangers treated her unhappy 
 friend. 
 
 She soon perceived that these men were accustomed to tend 
 the sick, and had no doubt that the old gentleman was a 
 physician. This thought consoled her, and raised her spirits. 
 A mingled feeling of gratitude and anxious anticipation found 
 expression on her countenance in a peculiar smile which 
 glimmered through her tears. Her surprise increased when 
 ■he heard the following words : — 
 
 " Major," said the attendant, " this is just as it waa at 
 Sabijana de Alba in Spain. It makes me quite melancholy 
 to think of it." 
 
 "Our poor friend Captaui Steens, you mean?" replied the 
 gentleman with a sigh. " The faint is deep ! Give me the 
 bottle." 
 
 " Yes, I seem to see it still : the Captain lay just so, at the 
 foot of a citron- tree ; but he left his body at Vittoria, poor 
 fellow! That was a slashing, and stabbing, and shooting, 
 and mangling I Many a one we picked up, and many a 
 wound we dressed that day. I was all blood from top to too, 
 and you too. Major." 
 
 ^^ The heart begins to beat again : he will come to himadl 
 immediately," said the physician. 
 
W9 TALIS OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 The attendant raised the young man's eyelids wilih hig 
 finger, and said — 
 
 " He is blind — the soldier's old disease ; we know the pes- 
 tilence well. But look at the left eye, Major, it seems to me 
 not quite gone." 
 
 A cry of joy burst fix)m the maiden^s heart. She had 
 watched for the return of life to her friend's pale face, and 
 had perceived with beating heart a gentle colour suffusing 
 itself over his cheeks. Now he moved. The moment he 
 came to himself, the blind man touched the clothes of the two 
 strangers who had been assisting him, and said anxiously — 
 
 " Where am I ? what has happened to me ?" And stretch- 
 ing his hand farther round him, exclaimed in a tone of alarm 
 — " Trien 1 Trien ! where are you?" 
 
 The girl seized his hands, and said exultingly — 
 
 " Oh, John, thank God that you are here I It is a great 
 good fortune ; good men are beside you. They say, too, that 
 your left eye is not quite dead." 
 
 " Whoever you are, may our Lord God bless you for your 
 goodness 1" said the lad. 
 
 " Comrade," interrupted the attendant, " we shall try 
 whether we can stand now. Only have courage, and you 
 will manage it easily." 
 
 He seized the soldier under the left arm, while the old 
 gentleman supported him on the other side, and thus they 
 raised the blind man to his feet. Under the belief that tne 
 attention of the two strangers would end here, Trien smiled 
 sweetly, and said, with a bright and cheerful look — 
 
 " Gentlemen, I am a poor peasant girl, and our John, too, 
 is not rich ; but be assured we shall our whole life long think 
 of you in our prayers, and bless you for your kindness. Give 
 yourselves no more trouble, pray ; let him sit on the grass to 
 rest himself and I s all wrap cloths round his wounded feet 
 
TBB SECSXJIT. f 1 
 
 We mnst then go to tlie village, where we shall spend the 
 night. May God send you health and happiness on earth 
 and afterwards eternal bliss in heaven I " 
 
 " No, no, not so," replied the old man,; " follow me. You 
 are stout-hearted both of you, but I do not wish you to fatigue 
 yourselves on your journey home. The young soldier shall 
 not go farther till he has regained his strength. We shall see 
 wnether I can do anything to reward your noble self-sacaifice, 
 my child." 
 
 "We have still some bottles of old Spanish wine left," 
 added the attendant, " which might restore a dead man to 
 life and health. That is all the medicine he needs. Only 
 wait a little, my daughter ; in an hour you will scarcely know 
 him again." 
 
 " Ah, sirs," stammered the girl, " do as your Christian 
 hearts tell you. I can scarcely speak, I feel your kindness so 
 deeply. A thousand, thousand thanks, good, dear men I" 
 
 Supported on both sides, by master and servant, John tot- 
 tered on with slow steps. When they came into the garden, 
 Trien went by the servant's side, and whispered — 
 
 " Tell me, friend, is your master a doctor ?" 
 
 " Doctor I " replied the servant ; " he was Chirurgien Major 
 under Napoleon. We have cut off more legs and arms than 
 could lie here on this path, and that is not few." 
 
 " Can he cure diseased eyes also, friend ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; and a great deal better, I can tell you, than 
 the surgeons of the present day. There are very few, alas I 
 now alive of the brave comrades of the Peninsula, else many 
 would be going about who had to thank him for their eye- 
 sight." 
 
 " Ah, good man I you must beg him, very humbly, to look 
 ftt our John's eyes ; perhaps he may cure them I God knows." 
 
 ^ Keep your mind at ease, my daughter \ he will do that 
 
91 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFK. 
 
 with pleasure. He loves soldiers. Jolm will not go from 
 this yery soon." 
 
 " And if yon can do anything in the matter, or put in a 
 good word, I shall be very thankful to you." 
 
 " Yon need not ask me to do that ; I shall not fail to do so. 
 * Where a soldier, there a comrade,' says the proverb. Do 
 yon see, he is somewhat better already; I am giving him 
 scarcely any support." 
 
 They stepped over the threshold, and entered a beautifully 
 furnished room. The old gentleman led the blind youth to a 
 broad arm-chair, and made him sit down with his back to the 
 light. He then gave a key to the servant, which he received 
 with manifest pleasure, and quickly left the room, returning 
 almost immediately with a bottle and some glasses. As he 
 passed, he whispered in the maiden's ear — 
 
 " It is the wine which would raise the dead. You shall lee 
 the miracle immediately." 
 
 Trien did not rightly catch what he said, and with intensw 
 curiosity she looked at the old gentleman, who was now put- 
 ting a glass of a clear red liquid to the young man's lips. 
 
 " Drink this — and take a hearty draught," he said ; " it 
 will refresh you." 
 
 " Heavens I what is that?" cried the blind man with a«to- 
 nishment, some moments after he had taken the drink ; " how 
 it warms me within I Thanks, thanks. I am hungry now." 
 
 " Gently, comrade ; not so fast," said the old man ; " we 
 shall now dress your feet, and then examine your eyes. Come, 
 daughter — I had almost forgotten you, my dear child — sit 
 down on this chair, and, Charles, give the girl a glass of 
 wine." 
 
 While the servant was engaged with Trien, and was prais- 
 ing to her the wonder-working qualities of the Spanish wine, 
 tbe old man had bound up the youth's feet He now washed 
 
tH£ RECBtJIT. 93 
 
 iui eyes with a liquid, and anointed them with a white salve. 
 When he had done this, he went to the window and let the 
 curtains down, to soften the light ; and then approaching the 
 soldier again, he said — 
 
 "Friend, open your eyes, and try whether yon can dis- 
 tinguish anything." 
 
 John opened his eyes, and remained for a time silent ; al- 
 though the old gentleman asked him frequently whether he 
 perceived anything. He seemed to be seeking an object with 
 his dead eyes. 
 
 Suddenly he uttered a loud cry, and, rising from his chair, 
 went with outstretched arms towards Trien, who had sprung 
 from her seat, and, trembling with feverish hope, watched him 
 as he approached. She would have rushed into his arms, but 
 the servant held her back. 
 
 The blind man advanced, and held out his hand to her with 
 an uncertain motion, saying at the same time, with a low and 
 trembling voice — 
 
 " Trien, Trien, I am not blind I It is true this time ; I 
 shall once more see mother, grandfather, and Pawken. Yes, 
 I see that you have your red neckerchief on." 
 
 The maiden embraced him, uttering unintelligible words, 
 which sounded more like lamentations than expressions of joy. 
 The old gentleman, however, took the young man from her, 
 and made her sit down again calmly on the chair. He then 
 immediately tied the shade before the soldier's eyes, saying — 
 
 " You said that you saw that your friend had a red necker* 
 chief on. It seems to me impossible that you could distinguish 
 the colour ; you are surely deceiving yourself." 
 
 " I see nothing but a gray shadow," replied the soldier ; 
 " but when growing blind, I observed that red seemed much 
 blacker in the dark than other colours ; and in this way I 
 know that her neckerchief is red." 
 
911 TAT'TB't 07 FLEMISH IXE*E» 
 
 "So I ihouglit,'' the old gentleman remarlced, **We 
 shall now go prudently and carefully to work. Charles, 
 take our comrade into the kitchen, and let him have a 
 little bread and meat — ^half rations only, no more at pre- 
 sent — ^then lead him into the back room, that he may go 
 to bed and rest. Tell the maid-servant to bring some 
 food for the girl at the same time." 
 
 So soon as the servant had left the room with the soldier, 
 Trien fell at the old man's feet with loud sobs, and embrac- 
 ed his knees speechlessly, moistening them with her teai-s. 
 He endeavoured to raise her up, but she resisted him, and, 
 turning her bright blue eyes upon his face, she exclaimed — 
 
 ** Oh, sir, sir, God will reward you for having shown such 
 kindness to poor peasant people. I cannot say all I feel; but 
 I would willingly die ten years before my time, if it would 
 procure for you a longer life. And because you mean to cure 
 our John's eyes, angel of God that you are ! we shall pray 
 every day for you, and make a pilgrimage besides, dear sir 1" 
 
 The old gentleman raised the girl from the ground, and 
 addressing to her kind and comforting words, he led her 
 to the table, where the maid-servant had already placed a 
 refreshment. 
 
 Either from over-fatigue or emotion, Trien could eat 
 very little; she paused in a few moments, and then gazed 
 at her benefactor with an earnest, calm, and grateful look 
 He was seated near her, and was trying to induce her to 
 eat; but when he perceived that she would take no more, 
 he took her hand and said — 
 
 "Now, tell me from what place you come, and how it 
 happens that you are travelling alone with a blind soldier, 
 and whether you have parents, and where they dwell ? " 
 
 "With a natural and simple eloquence, the young girl be- 
 gan to tell him about the mud-huts, the lot-drawing, the old 
 
TBB BECBUIT. fi 
 
 mother, the grandfather, Pawken, and the separation. When 
 ■he came to tell him, however, all that she had suffered in her 
 efforts to find her blind friend in Venloo ; how she had nearly 
 fainted for joy when the officer gave her permission to take 
 the unhappy man home with her ; how she dreamt of our dear 
 Lady, in the little room of the farm-house, and all that they 
 had said to one another by the way ; then the old man was 
 overpowered by deep emotion, and now and then wiped a tear 
 •f sympathy from his eye. The sweet tones of the maiden's 
 Toice had an irresistible effect upon him, and he wondered at 
 her rare self-sacrifice and love. She concealed nothing from 
 him, but told him, honestly and openly, all her plans — her 
 marriage with the blind man, and all which she had promised 
 to him and expected to be able to fulfil, with a view to sweeten 
 his bitter lot ; she even told him what John had promised to 
 do for her, if through God's goodness he regained his sight. 
 
 The affecting tale had lasted for a considerable time, and 
 the old man had listened attentively without interrupting her. 
 When the girl had concluded, with an expression of deep 
 gratitude to him, and seemed waiting for some remark, he 
 •aid nothing for some time, but sat with downcast eyes, sunk 
 in deep reflection. In a few minutes he raised his head — 
 
 " You have done rightly, my daughter," he said. " You 
 are a virtuous, noble-minded girl I So, your dream of future 
 life wag, that by working day and night you would get on 
 happily together. Your ambition was to mitigate the misery 
 of blindness to your friend — his to reward you for your great 
 love ; and the desire of both of you to make the last days of 
 your aged parents peaceful and happy ? It is well ; God has 
 heard your prayers. He it is who has led you hither, and 
 has commissioned me to do a good work. I will devote all 
 my experience to the cure of your friend's left eye, and I 
 hsYo good grounds to believe that I shall be lacceesfuL jka 
 
wo TALES OF FLiSMISH LIFB. 
 
 to other things, keep yonr mind at ease. Your noble dreaa 
 shall be realized. To-night you sleep here. To-morrcjir W9 
 shall see what is to be done. Meanwhile you may take re- 
 pose, or walk in the garden, and if you wish anything, yoa 
 have only to ask it from the maid-servant, or my attendant ; 
 they are good people who will be eager to serve you. I 
 shall now leave you till the evening." 
 
 Trien gazed after the old man as he left the room, unable 
 to utter a word in reply. After a time, she went out, and 
 wandered about the garden with a cheerful mind, thinking 
 on the occurrences of the day, and on what the old gentleman 
 had said to her. 
 
 Next forenoon a carriage left the garden-gate of the country 
 house. On the foremost seat sat the servant with the great 
 scar on his face, whistling a merry air, and cracking a 
 large whip. On the back-seat sat the young man, with 
 the green shade over his eyes, and beside him, the now light- 
 hearted Trien. She quietly pressed his hand, and whispered 
 in his ear — 
 
 " Oh, John, we are happy — ^very happy, are we not? My 
 beautiful dream is now come true. Oh, how joyftil will your 
 mother be now I And you, too, will soon be quite well again, 
 for the old gentleman has assured us of it. How will they 
 all wonder too, when they see us drive up in a beautiful car- 
 riage, like barons I" 
 
 " We shall go by Gierle and Wechel-ter-Zande," said the 
 servant, " and so to Zoersel. Then you must show me the 
 way ; and now off we go." 
 
 He gave the horse the rein, calling out — 
 
 " Hopla, Marengo, forward ! march ! " 
 
 The dust of the highway rose like a cloud, and the carriag* 
 disappeared among the houses of the villa^ 
 
ns XBCBOR. 
 
 CHAPTEB VIIL 
 
 One d*y as I was wandering in perfect solitude oyer the 
 heath, with my soul open to the poetic impresses of nature, a 
 itorm arose in the west. 
 
 It is a wonderful, a fearful thing, to find one's-self on a hot 
 summer's day on an open plain, when lurid, lightning-laden 
 vapours are slowly gathering into thunder-clouds in the limit- 
 less heaven. One would think that nature had been suddenly 
 smitten with a mortal agony ; the sun pales, and emits feeble 
 rays ; the air grows sultry ; the birds fly home — and every 
 animal skulks away with terror ; the bees shoot like arrows 
 through the air to reach their hives ; every leaf is at rest, and 
 the wind holds its breath for a time ; the little herbs cloie 
 their leaves and blossoms, and all Nature waits m still antici- 
 pation of some awful event. An indescribable feeling of 
 mingled wonder, pain, and reverence, weighs upon the poet'i 
 heart ; and, in the midst of the universal fear, his soul alone 
 exults because it is given to him to behold this terrible wonder 
 of nature in its full majesty. 
 
 But soon the clouds rush confusedly together ; what has 
 lain for hours calmly in the sky now gathers in wild career, 
 and bursts into a storm. The hurricane rages and roars as if 
 lashed into fury by the hand of the Almighty ; it tears from 
 the fir- woods a low howl of agony ; whirls aloft clouds of sand 
 and leaves, and breaks to pieces or uproots the solitary and 
 
fi TALES OF FLEUIgR LZTI. 
 
 unsheltered trees. Then comes the thnnder and diowiis erwy 
 other sound with its mighty voice ; through the spacious air 
 the lightning shoots its flaming arrows ; the heath seems to 
 be on fire with the fiery serpents which are sweeping oyer its 
 breast ; torrents of water pour down upon the earth, and, in 
 the intervals of the thunder's roar, the monotonous dull plash 
 of the falling rain is heard. 
 
 On this day my soul was stirred to poetic contemplations ; 
 I had beheld with more than ordinary pleasure the grand spec- 
 tacle of this fever of nature, till the frequent flashes of light- 
 ning reminded me that I must do what every Hving creature 
 had already done — seek shelter, and hide my head in humility 
 before the wonders of the Creator. Not far from the spot 
 where I was, stood a farm-house, alone upon the heath, like an 
 oasis in the desert surrounded by green fields and fresh woods. 
 
 Scarcely had the rain begun to pour down like another 
 deluge, when I entered the door of the farm-house and asked 
 permission to shelter myself under its roof. I foimd the inhabi- 
 tants kneeling in prayer surrounded by the deepest silence. 
 The farmer was the only one whom my entrance disturbed, 
 and, as soon as he had pointed to a chair with a friendly smile, 
 with bended head and folded hands he resumed his prayer. 
 I know not how it was, but though the storm, as being a 
 useful natural phenomenon, did not affect me with that mys- 
 terious terror which made these people tremble, it yet seemed 
 to me so beautiful, so touching, and so heavenly — ^this calm 
 family devotion, that an irresistible feeling constrained me to 
 unite with these simple peasants in adoration of that God whose 
 voice, high above us, resounded through the sky. I un- 
 covered, and, with folded hands, I likewise knelt and prayed. 
 It did my soul good to find once more this pure emotion of 
 my childhood, as if the withering breath of the disenchanting 
 vorld had never touched my heart 
 
jyter a time, the storm began to pass awaj. The mhabit- 
 ants of the cottage, however, did not cease to pray, and thus 
 left me time to look at them all attentively, as a& observer of 
 human nature, and above all an author, loves to do. 
 
 There was an aged grandfather who might have reached 
 his ninetieth year or more, for his head and hands trembled 
 continually as if he had an ague-fever. Beside him were two 
 women, also advanced in years ; further off, a powerful-look- 
 ing man, who had lost his right eye, which rolled like a white 
 ball under his black eyebrow, while the left sparkled with a 
 genial kindliness and vivacity. By his side sat a young woman 
 with a child on her lap, and at her feet a little boy and girl of 
 seven or eight years ; and at the extreme end of the table, a 
 fine-looking young man, with blooming countenance and 
 bright-blue eyes. 
 
 On a signal given by the one-eyed man, all rose. The 
 grandfather went with tottering steps to the comer of the 
 hearth and sat down, while the others directed their atten- 
 tion to me, requesting me to use their house as shelter while 
 the storm lasted — for it still rained heavily. In a short time, 
 I was on quite intimate terms with these good people, and 
 chatted with them like a long-known friend. In the after- 
 noon, I shared with them the nutritious rye-bread, and drank 
 the coffee of welcome. And as I had nothing better to do at 
 that time than to listen to the pleasant stories which the man 
 with the one eye and his wife told me, I did not leave the 
 form-house till the following morning. 
 
 What I have related to you in this history, dear readers, I 
 heard that night in that lonely farm-house, which formerly 
 consisted of two mud-huts, but has now become a fine home- 
 stead, with four cows and two horses. John Biaems and 
 Trien, his noble-hearted wife, work for each other as they had 
 Towed to do. And God has blessed their love ; three chil- 
 
100 TALES OF FLEIUSH LIFB. 
 
 dren play around them, and lighten their daily toil with theb 
 affectionate caresses. 
 
 All are still alive ; the grandfather, though with one foot 
 in the grave, still smokes his little pipe by the fireside ; both 
 mothers are happy in the happiness of their children, and are 
 still active in looking after the cattle and helping in the honse- 
 work. Pawken, a fine-looking youth, now takes care of the 
 horses and plough, and works for his brother ; but next Easter 
 he is to marry the younger sister of the wooden shoemaker's 
 Kate. 
 
 Every evening the whole family prays for the old doctor ; 
 for it was he who restored John's sight, and it was he who, by 
 his benevolent aid, converted the mud-huts into & substantial 
 farm-house. 
 
 May Gk)d grant to the Generous and the Grateful a loi^ 
 Mbd happy life here below I 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDONCK. 
 
 INTBODUCTION. 
 
 Im a village between Hoogstraten and Calmpthout, in tht 
 Antwerp Kempen, dwelt Peer Gansendonck, mine host of th« 
 Bt. Sebastian. 
 
 I first became acquainted with him in 1830, when I was a 
 soldier : at that time, however, I knew nothing more of him 
 than that peasants and common soldiers were his aversion, and 
 that he had a very weak side for officers. I remember ho 
 was excessively angry with the burgomaster because he had 
 received the captain of the company into his house, while the 
 other three officers were the guests respectively of the baro% 
 the notary, and the doctor ; leaving poor Peer Gansendonck no 
 more important personage to entertain than your most humble 
 servant the sergeant-major. 
 
 I was in the habit of filling up my idle hours with the 
 manufacture of pretty toys of all kinds for little Lisa, mine 
 host's daughter, a child of five. She was a delicate girl, and 
 ■eeaed slowly pining away ; but there wm something so lovelj 
 
lOi TALES OF FLEIOSH UFM, 
 
 in Ker angel-eyes, sometliing so pure in her marble featureii 
 and so sweetly plaintive in her small voice, that I fonnd a 
 kind of pleasure in comforting and delighting the sickly little 
 lamb with games, and songs, and tales. 
 
 How bitterly did little Lisa weep, how fast flowed the tears 
 over her cheeks, when the drums beat a last farewell, and her 
 kind friend the sergeant-major, with knapsack on back, stood 
 yonder in marching order, about to leave her for ever I But 
 such sorrows pass quickly from a child's soul. From that 
 time little Lisa never occupied my thoughts ; and she, with- 
 out doubt, had entirely forgotten me. 
 
 A short time ago my wanderings led me through the 
 Kempen, and again I found myself in the same village. 
 
 I entered it without the slightest anticipation. Scarcely, 
 however, had I observed the church, the houses, and the trees, 
 than a smile of surprise overspread my face, and my breast 
 heaved with a pleasing emotion. It was the old sign over 
 the inn door which in an especial manner affected me. Ovw* 
 powered, I hung my head, and stood for a while motionless fa# 
 enjoy the flood of youthful memories which, like a warm 
 beneficent stream, flowed through my brain. 
 
 How strong and impressible must be our soul in youth, 
 making as it does all the circumstances of our earlier years an 
 eternal possession, and surrounding them with a sacred halo 
 of love ! People, trees, houses, words — everything, living or 
 lifeless, becomes a part of our own being ; on every object we 
 hang some memory, beautiful and sweet as youth itself. Our 
 soul overflows with power — it beams the fire and lightning of 
 its own life over all creation ; and while we exult with unre- 
 strained feelings at the happiness which awaits us as children 
 or youths, everything in nature sings and rejoices in nnison 
 with us. 
 
 Ah I how I love the meadows, the Ume-treei, the fium* 
 
MINE HOBT GANSENDOKCK. 108 
 
 home, tlie church, and all the other objects which greeted me 
 when the roses of youth and the lilies of the purity and poetry 
 of life adorned my head 1 You have enjoyed what I enjoyed 
 then ; I saw them luxuriate in green, blossom and smile in 
 the sunshine, when I was light of heart, and was entering too 
 confidently on the unknown path of human destiny. They 
 are the old companions of my play — my familiar friends : each 
 object has some charming tale to tell me ; they speak the utter- 
 ance of my heart, and the finest chords of my soul respond to 
 their call with all the life of youth. And with a calm and 
 holy emotion, I thank God that He has permitted the sweet 
 wells of memory to spring fresh in the jaded heart of world- 
 weary man. 
 
 Standing before the tavern door, I was charmed back into 
 other and better times. Again I saw my comrades and 
 officers ; the distant drum rolled in my ear ; I heard the loud 
 word of command ; the soldier's farewell song died away be- 
 yond the houses, and the trumpet resounded among the trees. 
 But more vividly than all the rest, little Lisa's calm angel 
 form seemed to smile to me out of the past. 
 
 The thotfcght of man hastens more swiftly through the world 
 of ideas than the lightning through space. For about ono 
 minute only had I yielded myself to these emotions, and al- 
 ready five beautiftd months of my life had passed before my 
 eyes. 
 
 With high anticipation and cheerful countenance, I entered 
 the inn door. I would see Lisa. She could not recognise 
 me, I well knew, for the child must be a beautiful woman 
 now ; the sight of her^ however, I thought, would give me 
 pleasure. But in the days when she first charmed me she wai 
 a sickly child, and perhaps, long ere this, she lies in the quiet 
 churchyard. Away with such hateful thoughts, with wbioh 
 eold reason would destroy these warm memoriee I 
 
101 TALES OF FLEMISH LDHL 
 
 Bnt now sad and strange is eyerything to me here in tib 
 
 St. Sebastian! Everything is altered, people and things, 
 "Where is mine host ? where is little Lisa ? where the folding 
 table, on which I and my companions so often played for a 
 
 can of beer? All are gone I Poor little Lisa! I see the 
 
 comer of the window where yon nsed to lie with yonr head 
 on your mother's lap, and where I nsed to make you so happy 
 with a carriage made of cards drawn by four cockchafers, and 
 where your languid look seemed to me a prayer of thankful- 
 ness for my kindness. 
 
 I had entirely forgotten everything, never suspecting that 
 I should ever revisit these scenes. But now forms and voices 
 rise around me ; I see, I hear everything again ; everything 
 is again young and smiling — even my heart, which returns 
 into harmony with these well-known and beloved objects. 
 
 Sweet little Lisa ! who would have thought, when I was 
 delighting your little soul with childish tales, that I should 
 one day narrate your history to my fellow-countrymen ? 
 
 Life is like one of those gigantic streams of America, whicL 
 for a long distance rolls calmly down between smiling bankm 
 then suddenly precipitates itself from some high rock, am^ 
 with noisy waves rolls on in its stormy and destructive cours< , 
 Man is a straw which floats upon the stream : the calm pro 
 gress between blooming banks is youth ; human society is tho 
 roaring waterfall and the turbid current, in which the indi- 
 vidual is swept along like a straw. He slips, he falls, rises 
 and sinks again ; is tortured, bruised, broken, worn to death. 
 Who can tell on what ooast the poor straw will be thrown ? 
 
nan BOAT aANSEMDOXOK. 101 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 ' Vothlng wlib wmtthlBii 
 Hakfli nothing of somtttblnf.'' 
 
 Baab Gansendonck was a peculiar man. Althongk 
 ■prong from the humblest villagers, he had early fancied that 
 he was made of quite other stuff than the rest of peasants ; 
 that he alone knew more than a whole host of learned mem ; 
 that the affairs of the community had fallen into confusion^ 
 and were fast retrograding, merely because he was not burgo- 
 master : and many other things of this kind. 
 
 And yet the poor man could neither read nor write, amd 
 had forgotten nothing because he had nothing to forget. But 
 he had plenty of money. 
 
 In this respect at least he was like many people of distinc- 
 tion, whose intellect lies in a chest at the back of the cajrtle, 
 or whose wisdom is lent out at five per cent, and, with the in- 
 terest, comes fresh into their head every year. The inhabit- 
 ants of the village, feeling themselves daily insulted by thii 
 ridiculous fancy on the part of mine host, had gradually ac- 
 quired a deep hatred of him, and nicknamed him '^ Swagger- 
 ing Jack." 
 
 The landlord of the St. Sebastian wa« a widower, and had 
 only one child, a daughter of eighteen or nineteen. She wai 
 ft slender and pale-faced girl; but with a countenance w 
 tender and refined, and a nature so lovely and iweet, that 
 •he Attracted the eyei of many a young man. Her fktlMff 
 
IOC TALES OF FLKMISH Ltn. 
 
 in his follj considered ber far too good, too refined, and tot 
 beautiful to marry a peasant's son. He bad sent ber for 
 ■ome years to an educational institution to learn Frencb and 
 fine manners, as became ber bigb destiny. Happily Lisa, 
 or Liescben, as tbe peasants called ber, returned as simple as 
 sbe went. Tbe seeds of vanity and levity, it is true, bad 
 been sown in ber mind, tbougb bappily in small measure; 
 but tbe natural purity of ber beart did not permit tbe dan- 
 gerous seed to take root and grow up, wbile ber maiden inno- 
 cence gave a cbarm even to tbe indications wbicb occasionally 
 appeared of tbe training sbe bad received, and indeed mad« 
 everytbing in ber loveable. As usual, sbe bad received only 
 a balf education : sbe understood Frencb pretty well, but spoke 
 it very imperfectly. On tbe otker band, sbe could embroider 
 very prettily, make beautiful slippers and cusbions, knit with 
 beads, cut out flowers in paper, say a very cbarming good-day, 
 courtesy and bow, dance very artistically, and bad many otber 
 fancy accomplisbments, wbicb suited ber father's peasant 
 bome as well as, according to tbe proverb, a lace collar does 
 a cow's neck. 
 
 From cbildbood it bad been understood tbat Lisa was to 
 marry Cbarles tbe brewer's son, one of tbe finest-looking young 
 men far and wide. For a villager, be was wealthy and well 
 educated, for be bad attended tbe gymnasium at Hoogstraten 
 for some years. Study, meanwhile, bad little altered him : ho 
 loved as much as ever the unrestrained freedom of country life ; 
 was as merry as a bird ; drank and sang with everybody, but 
 always in moderation and with propriety ; was full of genia] 
 life, and conducted himself towards bis acquaintances like a 
 right steady friend and comrade. On account of tbe early 
 death of his father, be bad left the gymnasium to help bis 
 mother in conducting tbe brewery; and tbe old woman 
 thanked Gk>d daily that He had sdren ber lo good a loii to 
 
man host aAnsENDONCK. IQf 
 
 her; for a more mdnstrions aod regaiar jotmg 
 eonld nowhere be found. 
 
 Only m Lisa's presence did Charles lose his customary ease, 
 and sink into vague poetic dreams. When sitting by the be- 
 loved girl he became little better than a child, found pleasure in 
 the most insignificant of her occupations, and adapted himself 
 to her smallest wishes with a kind of religious obedience : she 
 was so tender, so weak, so beautiful, — -and his bride. He, the 
 vigorous and manly youth, treated this gentle being with such 
 jealous attention and anxious care, that one might have thought 
 he had been intrusted with the life of a fadhig flower. 
 
 For five or six months Host Gansendonck had offered no 
 objections to his daughter becoming Charles's wife. His 
 pride, to be sure, was not satisfied with it; still, a rich 
 brewer's son was no mere peasant, at any rate, he thought. 
 Besides, he did not wish to break his long-given promise, and 
 accordingly agreed that preparations should be made for the 
 approaching nuptials. 
 
 Everything was going well with the young people, when our 
 host's unmarried brother died of a fever and left a fine property 
 behind him, which soon after became added, in the shape of 
 hard cash, to other money-sacks in the strong room of the St. 
 Sebastian. Peer Gansendonck shared the belief of many people, 
 that the intellect, the worth and excellence of a man, is to be 
 measured by his wealth ; and although he knew no English, 
 he had yet stumbled on the elevated and peculiarly English 
 notion implied in the question, " How many pounds sterling 
 is he worth?" ITie reply is irresistible in the words of the 
 M Flemish rhyme — 
 
 Ib dtunb gold 
 What Tirtae lies! 
 Makes yotmg the old, 
 Til* orook«d stnigbt^ 
 
TALIS OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 It stands to reason, then, that with such a notion of life 
 his pride, or I should rather say his insanity, was likely to 
 increase with his wealth. He now considered himself as good 
 at least as the baron of the village, for he imagined that he 
 was worth quite as many pounds as the noble proprietor. 
 
 From this day forward our host's brains became more dis- 
 erdered than ever, and he considered himself the first man in 
 the country. He often dreamt all night that he was of a 
 noble race; and even by day, flattering thoughts passed 
 through his head perpetually. In order to bring his fancied 
 excellence to a sober test, he laboured at times to bring out 
 the precise difference between himself and a nobleman, but 
 *ould never find any. He was conscious, to be sure, that he 
 was, too old to learn French, or alter his way of life entirely 
 and enter into higher circles of society ; at the same time, if 
 he could not do that, he was determined that his daughter at 
 least should look higher, and marry the first baron who came 
 in her way. What a charming prospect for Peer Gansen- 
 donck I Before he died he should have the pleasure of hear- 
 ing his daughter addressed as My Lady Baroness 1 Nay, he 
 himself would actually be the grandfather of little barons 1 
 
 On this account Charles the brewer's attachment to Lisa 
 began to give him serious uneasiness ; and indeed he looked 
 upon the fine young fellow as standing in the way of his 
 daughter's prospects. Already, in Lisa's presence, he had more 
 than once uttered words of depreciation about Charles, and on 
 one occasion said things which hurt the poor child's feeling! 
 so much, that for the first time in her life she boldly contra- 
 dicted him, and then for full two hours shed bitter tears. 
 
 After this, he gave up all direct opposition to the brewer's 
 love, but he determined to postpone the marriage till Lisa 
 should of her own accord open her eyes, and see that Charlei 
 WM only a coarse peasant like the rest 
 
HOST GAHaSNDONGX. 109 
 
 OHAPTBB IL 
 
 ' Whose braftd I «ai 
 HlsaongliiDc." 
 
 Jm the coartyard of the St. Sebastian, the domestics and 
 lay-labourers had been busy with their usual occupations 
 lince daybreak. Trees the dairymaid stood at the trough 
 irashing turnips for the cattle ; in the open bam was heard 
 <he measured beat of the flail, and the stable-boy sang a rude 
 long while currying the horses. 
 
 One man alone walked idly up and down smoking his pipe^ 
 4nd stopping now and then to observe the others at work. 
 He was clothed like a day-labourer, and wore a jerkin and 
 wooden shoes. Although his face when at rest expressed a 
 lazy indifference, there looked from his eyes a certain shrewd- 
 ness and cunning. For the rest, one could easily see from his 
 plump cheeks and red nose that he was in the habit of sitting 
 at a good table, and knew the way to the cellar. 
 
 The dairymaid stopped washing her turnips, and went to- 
 wards the barn, where the threshers were spreading soma 
 fresh sheaves, and took advantage of the opportunity to have 
 a little chat. The man with the pipe was by. 
 
 " Kobe I Kobe I " cried the dairymaid to him, ** you at least 
 have drawn a lucky number. Here we are, working ourselvei 
 to death from morning to night, and instead of reward get a 
 scolding for our pains when all is done. You have the wind 
 behind you : you walk about at your ease smoking your pipe, 
 
110 TALM OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 are tlie landlord's friend, and get the best food that's goingi 
 You must confess that your bread has fallen in honey." 
 
 Kob^ smiled roguishly, and answered — 
 
 " To have is to have, and to get is the art : fortune haa 
 wings and flies, and he who catches her has her." 
 
 " To flatter is to lie, and a fawning fellow is little better 
 than a knave," muttered one of the day-workers sharply. 
 
 " Words are not knives," laughed Kobe. " Everybody in 
 the world is bound to do good to his father's son ; and he who 
 finds anything let him pick it up." 
 
 " I would be ashamed of myself," cried the enraged worker. 
 "There is no great art in cutting thongs out of another's 
 -eather, and a sucking pig grows fat without working I" 
 
 " It makes one dog angry to see another go into the kit- 
 then," said Kobe jestingly. " Dishes, that are not alike, make 
 bad brothers, and it is better to be envied than pitied. And 
 since one must sit down in this world, I had rather sit on 
 cushions than on thorns." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you shark, and remember that it is on 
 our sweat that you fatten ! " 
 
 " Tisty, Tisty, why so sharp with me ? You can't bear to 
 see the sun shining on my pond. Do you not know the pro- 
 verb, * He who envies another tears his own heart, and wastes 
 his time'? KI were anything less, would you be anything 
 more? Am I proud? do I ever do an ill-natured thing? 
 On the contrary, when the landlord is coming, I smuggle 
 oflf many a good can of beer into the cellar for you. Yon are 
 seeking where nobody has lost, Tisty." 
 
 " Yes, yes, we know the worth of your benevolence. Yon 
 are like the minister who blessed everybody, bnt himself 
 first." 
 
 " He was quite right, and I too. He who serves the altsf 
 HOBt live by the altar." 
 
MDfE HOST OAHSBHDOROK. Ill 
 
 ** Quite true," cried another worker. "Kobd is a good 
 fellow, and I wish I were in his shoes ; then should I too earm 
 my bread while blowing smoke to the crows. * A full belly 
 if a heart at ease.' " 
 
 " Ay, thick-paunch, sleepy-feet I A full stomach, an empty 
 head." 
 
 " Let them talk on, Kobd. It is not every one that has ft 
 lucky star ; and / say that you are a very clever fellow." 
 
 " I have no more cleverness than the mushroom yonder cm 
 the cherry-tree," said Kobe, with feigned modesty. 
 
 All looked surprised at a great fungus which grew between 
 the largest branches of a cherry-tree, and then as quickly 
 turned to Kobe to receive as usual some waggish interpreta- 
 tion. 
 
 " ho ! " cried the dairymaid, " no more cleverness than 
 the mushroom yonder! Then you must be a fearful block- 
 head." 
 
 " It does not follow, Mieken. What says the proverb ? — 
 * Work is for blockheads.' I don't work, do I ?" 
 
 "But what has the mushroom to do with that?" 
 
 " Why, you see it is a riddle : the fine large cherry-tree if 
 our landlord." 
 
 " you fawning fellow 1" cried the dairymaid. 
 
 " And I," continued Kob^, " am the poor, humble mush 
 room." 
 
 " Hypocrite I" muttered the irritated day-worker. 
 
 " If you could but guess it, you would then know what 
 little dogs must do if they would eat with big ones out of the 
 same dish without being bitten." 
 
 It was Kobe's intention to puzzle them still longer with his 
 double meanings; Init he heard the landlord's voice in the 
 house, and said to the workers, at the same time resuming 
 hiipipe — 
 
ill TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 **Let the men go on with their threshing, good peopla. 
 Our good kind landlord comes to see how the work goes on. 
 
 " We shall get our breakfast now, and no small uproar will 
 there be," cried the dairymaid, running to the trough to re- 
 commence her work. 
 
 " If he snaps at me again, and insults me bj calling m& 
 Lazy-bones and Looby, I'll bring the flail down on his pate," 
 said one of the day- workers angrily. 
 
 " When the mug fights with the stone, the first knock snapi 
 the mug in two," said Kobe jestingly. 
 
 "What matters it to me?" remarked a second workman. 
 " I laugh at his scolding, and let him rage on in peace." 
 
 " That is the best way," interrupted Kobe ; "just keep 
 your ears wide open, and it will go in at one and come out 
 at the other. Our host must have something for his money ; 
 give him what he has a right to, and do what he tells you." 
 
 " Do what he tells us ! And what if one can't do it ?" 
 
 " Then still give him what he has a right to, and don't do 
 it ; or, what is better, say nothing, but hold your tongue, just 
 as if you heard nothing of all his blowing and blustering ; — 
 think that silence Is the best policy." 
 
 " Men are men / laugh at his brutal way of treating me ! 
 Just lot him begin, and I will show my teeth for once. He 
 has no right to treat me like a beast, though I be only a day- 
 labourer." 
 
 " It is quite true what you say, and yet you do not quit© 
 hit the nail on the head," remarked Kobe. "Every one 
 must know his place in the world. What says the proverb? 
 — * If an anvil, bear like an anvil ; if a hammer, strike like a 
 hammer.' Besides, a little word, though good in itself^ often 
 brings trouble ; and if you wish the thing put in a stronger 
 light, consider that you can't catch flies with vinegar, or haref 
 with drams." 
 
MINE HOST OANSENDONCK. lit 
 
 *KoMI Kob^l" called a Toioe fix)m witliin, with manifest 
 Impatience. 
 
 "Only see what a hypocritical face he is putting on nowl** 
 laid another thresher jestingly. 
 
 " That is precisely the art which yon will not learn," re- 
 plied Kob^ ; and immediately turning towards the house, ho 
 ahouted out in a humble tone — 
 
 "I am coming I I am coming, my dear host. Don't be 
 angry, I come on wings. Here I am already I " 
 
 " He earns his bread by acting the lap-dog 1 " muttered the 
 angry day-labourer contemptuously. " I would rather thresh 
 all my life. He is one of those washed in all waters." 
 
 " He has served ten long years to learn to play the inno- 
 cent in the play, and get his bread for nothing. After one 
 has become a gentleman's servant, one's hands don't grow 
 hard with labour. But what a clever riddle he gave us I Do 
 you understand it?" 
 
 " Oh, it is easy to explain," replied the first ; " he means 
 that he sits and feeds on our landlord's neck, as the fungui 
 does on the cherry-tree. Come, come, let us go on with oar 
 Ikreihinff." 
 
114 VALBf OF FLBMUH Xm. 
 
 OHAPTEB IIL 
 
 ' Graat ery, bollittle wo«L" 
 
 '^ Kow, then, Kob^" said mine host Gansendonck to lik 
 Berrant, " how do I look with my new cap ?" 
 
 Eobd stepped two paces back, and, rubbing his eyes like 
 iome one who must prepare himself to wonder at something 
 incredible, he exclaimed — 
 
 '* mine host I tell me at once, and truly, whether yon 
 are really yourself. I thought I saw the lord Baron standing 
 before me. But, heavens I how can it be ? Hold your head 
 ap a little. Baas, Baas, turn round ; walk forward a little, 
 Baafl, that I may make quite sure. Why, you see, you are 
 as like the lord Baron as one drop of water is like" — 
 
 " Eobd I " intemipted Baas, with assumed seriousness, 
 ''yon mean to flatter me; and I have a particular aversion 
 to that." 
 
 ** I know well that you dislike it, sir," replied he. 
 
 " There are few men who have less pride than I ; though 
 some, out of mere envy, say that I am haughty, because, for- 
 •ooth, I cannot endure peasants." 
 
 " You are quite right. Baas. But I still have some doubts 
 whether you are not really the Baron." 
 
 Peer Gansendonck's eyes beamed with pleasure ; throwing 
 Us head baek, and standing in a proud attitude, ha loohed 
 
mxnB HOST OAMSENDONCK* 116 
 
 witb a benignant smile at EobS, who contiuned jo make all 
 sorts of gestures expressive of wonder. He had not, indeed, 
 quite told his master a falsehood. In outward appearance— 
 not taking the absurdly stupid face into consideration — Peer 
 was very like the Baron. And no wonder, as for several 
 months he had worn imitations of the Baron's clothes, though 
 the fact generally escaped observation, as the latter lived on 
 his estate in a free and easy way, and generally wore a very 
 ordinary dress. 
 
 Some weeks before this conversation, however, the Baron 
 had taken a fancy — who does not at times ? A very beau- 
 tiful water-dog had died, and he had got a cap made of its 
 ■kin. This fine cap took such entire possession of poor Peer's 
 mind, that he had no rest till he got a similar one made in 
 the city ; and now, with its thousand curls, it was adorning 
 the head of mine host of the St. Sebastian, who could not 
 sufficiently admire himself in the mirror since he had heard 
 the flattering remarks of his servant. 
 
 At last, he prepared to go out, and said — 
 
 " Kob^, take a staff, and let us walk through the village." 
 
 ** Yes, Baas," replied the servant, following at his master's 
 heels with an assumed aspect of grave humility. 
 
 On the broad path which ran between the lines of houses, 
 they met many villagers who gave a friendly hat to mine 
 host; but burst into laughter as soon as he had passed. 
 Many of the inhabitants also came running out of their houses, 
 curious to see and wonder at Baas's hairy cap. Our host 
 greeted no one at first, but walked forward in a stately way, 
 with uplifted head and slow steps, keeping steadily on at a 
 uniform pace, as the Baron was accustomed to do. Eobd 
 walked silently behind his master, with a face of mock inno- 
 eence, following all his turnings and windings as aooaratefy 
 •ad fidthfuUy as a dog. 
 
116 TALES OF FLEMISH LITl. 
 
 Eyeiything went well till they reached the smithy. Some 
 young folks stood there talking together, and so soon as they 
 observed Baas approaching, they began to laugh so loudly 
 that it resounded through the whole street. Sus, the smith'i 
 son, who was well known as a jesting fellow, walked up and 
 down before the smithy with head thrown back and measured 
 steps, and imitated mine host Gansendonck so excellently, 
 that he almost burst with vexation. As he passed, he directed 
 a look of anger towards the young smith, putting so severe an 
 expression into his eyes that they almost cracked with the 
 effort. The smith replied with a defiant and mocking laugh, 
 so that mine host, boiling over with wrath, found his only 
 refuge in passing rapidly on, and then struck into a by-path to 
 escape the general observation, muttering to himself as he went. 
 
 "Swaggering Jack I Swaggering Jack I" they shouted 
 after him. 
 
 "Now, Kobd, what do you say to the pack of boors?" 
 he asked, when his wrath was somewhat allayed. " They 
 would dare to despise me I — ^make sport of me \ — a man like 
 me I" 
 
 " Ay, Baas, flies bite a horse, and yet a horse is a great 
 beast." 
 
 " But I will know how to get at them, the clowns I Just 
 let them wait a little ; they shall pay dear to me for this I 
 Hills cannot come near each other, but men can." 
 
 " True, Baas ; forbearance is no acquittance." 
 
 " I should be a perfect fool if I allowed my horses to be 
 shod by the ill-mannered clowns, or let them do my other 
 work." 
 
 " To be sure. Baas ; to be too good is to be half a fooL" 
 
 ^ And not one of my people shall ever again set foot in hii 
 ■mithy." 
 
 **No,Baai." 
 
KnfE HOST 0AN8END0HCX. 117 
 
 ** Then wll the mocking fellow be sorry enough, and bito 
 his nails with vexation." 
 
 " Without doubt, Baas." 
 
 " It is my belief, Kobe, that that rascally smith is paid by 
 some one to persecute and annoy me. The watchman thinlai 
 that it was he who last May-night wrote something on my 
 iign." 
 
 ** ^The sign of the Stiver Ass* do you mean, Baas?" 
 
 " It is not necessary to repeat the cursed insolence, iB it ?" 
 
 "No, Baas." 
 
 ** Between ourselves, you must give him a sound thrashing 
 when nobody sees you, and then give him my compli- 
 ments." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Will you do it?" 
 
 " Give him your compliments ? oh, to be sure." 
 
 " No ; give him a sound thraishing, I mean." 
 
 " If you would see me come home without either arms or 
 legs I I am not very strong, Baas ; and the smith is not a cat 
 to be caught without gloves." 
 
 ** And are you actually afraid of the cowardly braggart? I 
 would be ashamed of myself." 
 
 " It is not pleasant work fighting with one who is weary of 
 his life. * Better a timid Jack than a dead Jack,' says the 
 proverb." 
 
 " Kobe, Kobe, I believe you will never die of courage." 
 
 " I hope not, sir." 
 
 While they talked in this style, mine host's rage began 
 gradually to die away. With many faults, he had still one 
 good quality — although he quickly flew into a passion, he ai 
 quickly forgot the injury he had received. 
 
 He had now come to a plantation, and passing behind it 
 through his own fields, he found objects of every kind on which 
 
118 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 to rent his exaggerated notions of the rights of property, maii 
 make him scold and rail at God and all the world. Hers 
 a cow had strayed from the road upon his land; there a 
 goat had eaten the foliage from some of his young trees ; and 
 further on, he believed that he perceived the footsteps of 
 hunters, and the tracks of their dogs. This last discovery 
 roused him to such fury, that he stamped his feet. He had 
 erected high posts on all parts of his fields, with the inscrip- 
 tion — " Hunting prohibited ; " and, spite of that, some on» 
 had actually been bold enough to intrude, and contemptuouslj 
 trample under foot his rights in his own property. A storm 
 of vituperation burst from him, and, in his rage, he struck a 
 beech-stem with his fist. 
 
 Kobe stood behind a little, and thought of his dinner. He 
 knew that they were to have a hare that day, and imagining 
 to himself that the cook might possibly spoil the sauce, he 
 likewise stamped his feet in apparent sympathy with his 
 master. Meanwhile he never gave any other answer than, 
 " Yes, Baas," and " No, Baas," without paying any attention 
 to what his master was saying. 
 
 All of a sudden. Peer Gansendonck heard a voice shouting, 
 in a loud and mocking tone, " Swaggering Jack I Swaggering 
 Jack!" 
 
 Foaming with rage, he looked round, but saw no one ex- 
 cept his servant, who was looking intently on the ground, and 
 movmg his lips as if engaged in the act of eating. 
 
 " What 1 villain, was it you?" cried Baas wrathfuUy. 
 
 "Yes, it is I," replied Kobe; "but. Lord preserve nsl 
 what has come over you, Baas?" 
 
 " I ask you booby, if it was you who spoke then ?" 
 
 ** Did you not hear me. Baas ?" 
 
 The enraged Gansendonck tore the staff out of his han^ 
 uid was about to beat him with it ; but aa soon as Kobd pef- 
 
MINE HOST OANSENDONCK. lit 
 
 oeired tkat things were taking a serious turn, he sprang baok| 
 md, witk uplifted arms, cried out — 
 
 " Alas, alas I now is our good landlord quite out cf hig 
 senses I " 
 
 "Swaggering Jackl Swaggering Jack I" again Bcreamed 
 ■ome one from behind Peer. 
 
 He now for the first time perceived that a magpie was 
 perched among the branches of the beech, and kept repeating 
 the opprobrious epithet. 
 
 " Kobe, Kobe," he cried, " run and fetch my rifle. It ig 
 the smith's magpie ; the cursed brute must die I " But the 
 bird left the tree and flew home. 
 
 Kob^ burst out into such violent laughter, that he sank on 
 the grass, and rolled there helplessly for a considerable time. 
 
 " Stop ! " screamed Baas, " stop, or I shall drive you from 
 my house. Stop laughing, I tell you." 
 
 "I can't, sir; I can't." 
 
 " Stand up." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I will forgive your unmannerly conduct on one conditioii ; 
 and that is, that you kill the smith's magpie." 
 
 "With what. Baas?" 
 
 " With poison." 
 
 " Certainly, Baas, if it will eat it." 
 
 " If not, then shoot it dead." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 " Come, let us go. But, hallo, what is that I see there in 
 my fir- wood ? One may as well not be a proprietor at all, if 
 one is to be plundered by whoever pleases in this fashion." 
 
 With these words, he hastened on, accompanied by hli 
 attendant, railing stormily as he went. 
 
 He had seen from a distance a poor woman and two chil- 
 dren busy breaking the withered brandU^s of the firs, and lying 
 
IK^ TALES OF FLEMISH LCTB. 
 
 them into large bundles. Althongh an ancient cnstom pe^ 
 mitted the poor to gather withered branches in the fir-woods, 
 Baas Gansendonck would never permit it. The dry wood 
 was as much his possession as the green, he said, and no one 
 was to dare to touch his property. Besides, it was only a 
 poor woman, and he had therefore no resistance or insolence 
 to fear. This inspired him with courage, and gave him an 
 opportunity of wreaking his whole wrath without the dread of 
 retaliation. 
 
 Seizing the poor woman by the shoulder, he cried out — 
 
 " Shameless thief, begone I Off to the village with me — ^to 
 the police I To the lock-up, you pilferer I" 
 
 The trembling woman let fall the wood she had collected, 
 and was so overpowered by the suddenness of the attack and 
 the violence of Baas's threats, that she lost the power of 
 speech, and began to weep ; while both the little children 
 -clung to their mother's clothes, and filled the plantation with 
 their terrified cries. 
 
 Kobe shook his head with vexation ; the expression of 
 careless indifference had left his face, and a feeling of compas- 
 sion for the poor woman had evidently taken possession of 
 him. 
 
 "Here, you idle good-for-nothing I " exclaimed Baas to 
 him ; " stretch out your hands and take this brood of thievei 
 to the police." 
 
 " Dear man I I will never do it again," said the woman 
 imploringly. " Think of my poor children ; they will die of 
 terror." 
 
 " Silence, vagabond I " thundered Baas ; " I will teach yon 
 to rob and steal." 
 
 Kob^ took hold of the woman's arm with assumed anger, 
 and shook her with seeming violence ; but at the fame tinM 
 whispered in her ear — 
 
lOHS H08T GANSENDONCK. Ill 
 
 " Fall on y>ar knees, and say, * Gracious aiJ " 
 
 The woman fell down on her knees before Baas Ganflen- 
 donck, and, stretching out her arms, said — 
 
 "Ah, gracious sir I gracious sir I pardnn me, I beseech 
 you. do so, for the sake of my poor little children, I be- 
 feech you I" 
 
 Some secret influence seemed now to be at work in mine 
 host ; he stood back a little from the woman, and looked at her 
 in a dreamy way, and with a mild, friendly expression. Yet he 
 did not bid her stand up. Some one on her knees before him 
 with uplifted hands, and praying for mercy I Was it possible ? 
 Oh, it was kingly. 
 
 After he had enjoyed for a time this intense pleasure, he 
 raised the poor woman from the ground, and wiped a tear of 
 emotion from his eyes, saying at the same time — 
 
 " Poor mother I I have been too hasty. It is all past now. 
 Take up your bundle again ; you are a good woman. In 
 future, you may break the withered wood in all my planta- 
 tions ; and if a little bit of green should now and then find its 
 way into your bundle, I shall say nothing. Compose your- 
 self ; I grant you my full pardon and favour." 
 
 With great surprise, the woman gazed alternately at these 
 two peculiar men who stood before her ; Baas with his patro- 
 nizing countenance, and the servant, who was making violent 
 efforts to keep himself from laughing. 
 
 " Yes, good mother," repeated Baas, " permission is granted 
 you to gather wood in all my plantations." As he said this, 
 he moved his hand round in a circle, as if the whole parish 
 belonged to him. 
 
 The poor woman moved back a few paces to pick up her 
 bundle, and sighed, as she said with gratitude — 
 
 " God bless you for your kindness, my lord Baron I" 
 
 Mine host Gansendonck felt a thrill of delight ran thioui^ 
 
119 TALB0 OF FLEMI8H ZJFE* 
 
 liifl frame, and his countenance lighted up as if iiradiotod bj 
 the sun of happiness. 
 
 "Woman, woman 1" he cried, "come hither. What ii 
 that you said ? I did not understand you." 
 
 "I said that I thanked you a thousand times, my lord 
 Baron." 
 
 Baas Gansendonck put his hand in his pocket, and, draw- 
 ing out a silver coin, handed it to the woman, saying, with 
 tears in his eyes — 
 
 " There, good mother ; make a happy day of it ; and in 
 winter, come every Saturday to the St. Sebastian, and you 
 will get wood and bread in abundance. Now you may go 
 home." 
 
 With these words, he left the woman and the plantation. 
 He wept, and the tears rolled over his cheeks. Kob^, who 
 perceived it, also wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jerkin. 
 
 " It ifl a singular thing," at last sighed Baas, " that I can 
 fee no one in suffering but it goes to my heart at once." 
 
 " It is the same with me. Baas." 
 
 " Did you hear it, Kobe ? The good woman took me &r 
 the Baron." 
 
 " With good reason, Baas." 
 
 " Be silent for a little, good Kob^ ; and let ns go slowly 
 
 " Certainly, Baas." 
 
 With the greatest submission, Kob^ followed in his master's 
 fix)tsteps, and both went dreamily on. Mine host thought of 
 the beautiful names by which the woman had addressed him 
 •—Kobe, of hare and wine-sauce. 
 
 Three hunters meanwhile had come out of an oak-wood, 
 and stood at a little distance laughing and joking at mine 
 host and his attendant. They were three young gentlemen, 
 drened in elegant hunting suits, and with rifles in their handir 
 
MINE HOST OANSENDONCKo ISt 
 
 One of tbem seemed to know the host of the St. SebMtUii 
 well ; for he was relating to his companions by what a sin- 
 gnlar demon of pride the man was possessed, and spoke at tht 
 game time in warm language of his daughter Lisa 
 
 " Come, come," he cried at last, " we are fatigued with oar 
 sport ; let us have some amusement. Follow me ; we shall 
 go to the St. Sebastian and empty a bottle. But remember 
 to address him with great respect, and compliment him 
 largely — ^the more absurdly the better." 
 
 After saying this, he and his companions leapt the dry 
 ditch before them, and he hastened to Baas a little in ad- 
 vance, bowing low as he approached, and greeting him in the 
 most courtly style. Peer Gansendonck took his fur-cap in 
 both hands and made great eiBforts to imitate the actions of 
 the young gentleman. The two other hunters took no part 
 in these compliments, but, sheltering themselves behind the 
 attendant, made violent efforts to restrain their laughter. 
 
 " Now, Herr Adolph, my friend," said mine host, " how 
 goes it with your papa ? Still stout and thriving, I hope. He 
 never pays us a visit, now that he lives in the city. But, 
 * Out of sight, out of mind,' says the proverb." 
 
 Adolph took one of his laughing friends by the hand, and 
 drew him forcibly towards Baas. 
 
 " Herr von Gansendonck," he said solemnly, " I have the 
 honour to present to you the young Herr Baron Victor of 
 Bruinkasteel ; but you must excuse his malady, it is a nervoui 
 affection — the remains of an attack of convulsions; he can 
 see no stranger without bursting into laughter." 
 
 Victor could restrain himself no longer ; he threw back hii 
 bead, stamped his feet, and laughed till he was black and blue, 
 
 " You are spoiling the sport," whispered Adolph to him , 
 ** stop, otherwise he will perceive it." 
 
 ^ Ai yon please, Herr von Bruinkasteel," said mino hofk 
 
iS4 TALES OF FLEMISH LITB. 
 
 ^ ' Better be blithe with little than sad with nothing,' as the/ 
 ■ay." 
 
 Taking his friend a second time by the hand, Adolph repeated 
 the presentation. 
 
 " Herr von Bruinkasteel has the honour not to know me," 
 said mine host with a bow. 
 
 " Indeed," replied Victor, " I have the hononr not to be 
 known to yon." 
 
 '* The honour is not great, gracious sir," said Baas, agaia 
 bowing. " The Herr means, I suppose, to spend the hunting 
 season at our friend Adolph's little country-seat?" 
 
 " Yes, at your service, Herr von Gansendonck." 
 
 " His father has bought the hunting-box from us," said 
 Adolph. " Herr von Bruinkasteel will be your neighbour 
 every winter after this, and will probably be a frequent visitor 
 at your house, Herr von Gansendonck." 
 
 " But Adolph, my friend, why does the other gentleman 
 Stand behind Kobe, there ? Is he afraid of me ?" 
 
 " He is very shy, Herr von Gansendonck. What can one 
 make of it ? It is the unspotted innocence of youth. But, 
 Herr von Gansendonck, you possess a fine shooting-ground ; 
 yon too are a huntsman, I perceive." 
 
 ^ I am a great amateur, am I not, Kob^ ?" 
 
 ** Ay, Baas, of hares ; and I too ;-— only they must not be 
 overdone," he added in a lower tone. 
 
 " What did you mutter there ?" cried mine host with anger, 
 to show the gentlemen that he governed his household as a 
 great man ought. " What did you mutter there, you shame- 
 less clown ?" 
 
 ** I ask if you do not think it is time to go home, Baas ; and 
 I was just saying so to myself: fishing and huntlDg makt 
 hungry stomachi." 
 
imrE HOST OAMSENDOMCK. 195 
 
 " When a sucking pig dreams, it dreams of husks. It ii 
 your part to be silent ; be so good as to remember thaV* 
 
 " Very well, Baas ; to think and say nothing, does harm to 
 nobody." 
 
 " Not a word more, I command you." 
 
 "No, Baas." 
 
 " Will the gentlemen do me the honour to drink an early 
 glass of wine in my house ?" asked Peer Gansendonck, again 
 addressing the strangers. 
 
 " It was our iutention, sir, to visit you for that purpose." 
 
 ** Indeed I come along then ; you shall have wine worth 
 speaking of. Is it not so, Kobe ? You tasted it once in your 
 life. If you do not lick your lips after it, gentlemen, then 
 call me peasant.'* 
 
 " That is quite true. Baas," replied the servant. 
 
 Mine host now strode majestically on, talking in a friendly 
 way with Adolph, whose two companions hung back a little 
 to give free scope to their fun. Kobe looked at everything 
 with a singular and undefinable expression, and would hav« 
 laughed too, had his head not been so full of the spiced hare 
 that he almost took a spasm in his stomach with thinking 
 of it 
 
 GDow J the company moved towardi the St. SebMrtiaiL 
 
IM VALBI or FLEMIMH 
 
 OHAPTEB IV. 
 
 * Bring not tbe wolf into th« 
 
 It was a glorious morning. The sun shone in the easton 
 orizon, glowing like burning gold, and shooting dense massei 
 of dazzling radiance through sky and air. Its sparkling 
 beams penetrated half-playfully the window of the St. Sebas- 
 tian, and fell with a roseate light on a young girl's brow. 
 
 Lisa Gansendonck sat at a table by the window. She wag 
 dreaming ; for her long dark eyelashes hung over her eyes, 
 and a gentle smile played round her mouth, while now and 
 then a slight blush on her pale cheek betokened some secret 
 emotion of the heart. Suddenly she raised her head ; her 
 eyes sparkled, and she smiled as if some pleasing idea had 
 struck her. 
 
 She took up a French paper from Antwerp, which lay open 
 jefare her, and after reading a few lines, laid it down again, 
 nd relapsea mto her former reverie. 
 
 How charming she looked as she sat there, like a lovely 
 dream, surrounded by the deepest silence and with the warmest 
 ray of the morning sun upon her I — pale and tender, young 
 and lovely, like a white rose half-blown. 
 
 Sounds tender and tremulous, like the dying breath of 
 a distant harp, escaped her lips, as with a sigh she mur- 
 mured — 
 
 ^ Oh how happy one must be in the citj I Snoh a ball I 
 
mNB HOST OANSENDOHCi:. 1S7 
 
 AH the rich dresses,, diamonds, flowers in the hair, and olothei 
 ■0 costly that one might bny half a village with them ; every- 
 thing dazzling with gold and light I and then the fine man- 
 ners I and the beantiful conversation I Oh, if I conid but see 
 it once, were it only through a window I " 
 
 After she had dwelt long upon this subject in her thoughts, 
 the charming idea of a city ball seemed to leave her at last ; 
 and standing up, she approached a mirror, where she looked 
 at herself attentively, arranging a fold in her dress here and 
 there, or smoothing down her beautiful black hair till it shona 
 with more dazzling brilliancy than ever. Her dress was very 
 simple, and one would have found nothing to blame in her 
 ornaments had not the smell of the byre, the smoked walls of 
 the inn, and the tin cans on the shelf, proclaimed from every 
 side that young Lisa was not in her place. 
 
 Her black silk gown was plain, and had only a single 
 flounce ; her neckerchief was of a rose-colour, and both suited 
 her pale face beautifally. Her head was uncovered, and her 
 hair lay simply down in front, and was tied up behind like a 
 little coronet. 
 
 After she had spent some time at the mirror, she returned 
 to the table, and sitting down, began half-idly to embroider 
 a lace collar, while her wandering looks betokened that her 
 thoughts were busy with something far removed from her 
 work. Immediately after, she said in an almost inaudible 
 tone — 
 
 " The hunting season has begun ; the gentlemen will leave 
 the city again. Father says I must be friendly to them. He 
 will take me to town to purchase a silk hat for me. I am 
 not to sit with downcast eyes. I am to laugh and look the 
 the gentlemen in the face when they speak to me. What 
 does father mean by it ? I don't know what good purpoee it 
 ooold serve, he says to but then Charles ? It seems to 
 
Its TALES OF FLEMISH LZFl. 
 
 bo disagreeable to bim when I change mj dress frequently, 
 aud it annoys bim when strangers talk too mnch with me. 
 Vrbat am I to do ? Father will have it so ; and I cannot be 
 unkind to the people who come about. Y*»t I will not rex 
 Charles either." 
 
 Just at this moment, her father's voice was heard at the 
 door ; looking through the window, she saw him bowing and 
 showing great politeness to three young gentlemen in hunting 
 clothes. A deep blush overspread her brow. Was pleasure or 
 perplexity the cause of it ? She once more smoothed down 
 her hair, and remained sitting as if she had heard nothing. 
 
 Mine host entered with his company, and in a fond and 
 complacent tone, said — 
 
 " See, gentlemen, here is my daughter ! What say you to 
 such a pretty flower as that ? She is well educated, and knows 
 French, gentlemen ; between my Lisa and a peasant girl, 
 there is as great a difference as between a cow and a whed- 
 barrow." 
 
 Kobe burst into a loud laugh, 
 
 "You scoundrel I" cried mine host in a fury; "what aw 
 you laughing at ? Get along with you, you villain I " 
 
 "Very well. Baas I" 
 
 Kobe sat down at the hearth comer, and with intense plea- 
 sure inhaled the smell of the hare, whose rich steamy odou? 
 found its way into the room from a back kitchen. Mean- 
 while he gazed into the fire, and seemed or feigned to become 
 quite unconscious of everything that was going on around 
 him. 
 
 While Lisa was engaged in exchanging some French po- 
 litenesses with the gentlemen, mine host Gansendonck had 
 betaken himself to the cellar, and returned with a bottle and 
 glasses, which he placed on the table before his daughter. 
 
 "Seat yourselves, se^at yourselves, gentlemen," he iaid| 
 
MIHE HOST GANSENDONCX. 139 
 
 ** we will drink Lisa's health. She shall pledge you. Ah I 
 yon are speaking French with her, are yon ? Singular fact, 
 that I always hear French spoken with so much pleasure ; I 
 could listen to it the whole day long ; it always sounds to me 
 as if some one were singing a song." 
 
 He took Victor by the arm, and forced him down besidr 
 Lisa. 
 
 " Not so much ceremony, Herr von Bruinkasteel," he cried ; 
 " pray act as if you were in your own house." 
 
 Lisa's beautiful, gentle face had at the first glance inspired 
 two of the young hunters with a kind of respect ; they sat on 
 the opposite side of the table, and looked in silence at the 
 simple girl, who evidently exerted herself to be as agreeable 
 as possible, while her bashfulness and timidity made her brow 
 glow as if with fire. Victor von Bruinkasteel, however, was 
 far from being so respectful or reserved. He began boldly to 
 flatter the young maiden, praising her beauty, her embroidery, 
 and her French ; but was at the same time so skilful in dis- 
 posing his words, and mingling his flatteries with the rest of 
 his conversation, that all appearance of anything forced or un- 
 becoming was taken awav ; and Lisa dreamily listened to his 
 talk as if it were a sweetly-sounding song. 
 
 Mine host, whose hopes rose higher with every word, and 
 who cherished a predilection for Herr Victor, nibbed his hands 
 with pleasure, while he said to himself : — 
 
 " No one knows how a penny-piece can roll, and everything 
 if possible, except falling upwards. It would make a beauti- 
 ful pair, it would. — Now, then, gentlemen 1 drink another 
 glass. Your health, Herr von Bruinkasteel I Go on speak- 
 ing French ; you do not need to trouble yourself about me ; 
 I see in your eyes what you would say." 
 
 The young hunters seemed to enjoy themselves amazingly. 
 Liea's French, to be sore, was not the beet | but in bar mtnaik 
 
130 TALEB OF FLEMI8H ZJFB. 
 
 everything gounded so charming and beautiful. The perpetual 
 blush upon her cheeks had something in it so graceftd and 
 attractive ; and there was something so fresh and loveabl© 
 about her whole nature, that the very tones of her voice 
 alone roused a sweet feeling in the heart, 
 
 Victor, an experienced gallant, had soon discovered the 
 weak side of Lisa's virgin soul. He spoke to her of the newest 
 fashions, of beautiful dress, of city life ; described festivals 
 and balls in glowing colours ; and knew so well how to engage 
 her attention, that the poor girl became almost unconscious 
 of everything around her. Gradually he grew so bold as to 
 •eize Lisa's hand, while speaking, in a seemingly casual way. 
 
 Now, for the first time, the poor girl seemed to awake out 
 of her dream. Trembling she withdrew her hand, pushed 
 back her chair, and looked at her father with an anxious and 
 inquiring expression. He, however, delighted above measure, 
 looked at her reproachfully, and nodded to her to keep her 
 seat. Lisa's modest withdrawal of her hand took Victor by 
 surprise, and he turned aside his face to conceal his confusion* 
 He now perceived that the servant, who had sat down by the 
 comer of the hearth, was on his feet, and had his eyes fixed 
 on him with a threatening expression, mingled at the same 
 time with a bitter and sarcastic smile. 
 
 Turning to mine host, he said with some annoyance— 
 " What has that looby to say here, that he stares and laughi 
 at me so impudently ?" 
 
 " He anything to gay ! " screamed Baas, ** you shall soon 
 see that." 
 
 "Kob^l" 
 
 " What do you want, Baas ?" 
 
 " Is it possible that you looked at Herr von Bruinkasteel 
 in a disagreeable way ? Did you dare to laugh at him, joa 
 earthworm?" 
 
lOHB HOST GAN8END0NCK. 181 
 
 ** I langhed as a dog does who Las eaten mustard. I haw 
 burnt my hand, Baas." 
 
 " Foh I you are too awkward to dance before the deTil. 
 
 Qet out of the house at once." 
 
 " Very well, Baas." 
 
 Kobe then left the room with glow steps, taking off his cap 
 awkwardly and sheepishly as he went, as if he had been in- 
 capable of observing anything. 
 
 Soon after, Victor's impudence was forgotten the yocng 
 gentlemen talked French with Lisa agreeably, while mine 
 host encouraged them to visit his daughter often, by telling 
 them that a bottle of the best wine was always at their service. 
 Victor's French talk, frivolous though it was, seemed to please 
 Lisa, and she quietly made the observation to herself, that 
 such fine discourse was a thousand times more delightful than 
 the ordinary every-day conversation of the peasants. 
 
 At this point, a young man opened the back-door, and en- 
 tered the room, accompanied by Kobe. 
 
 " A glass of beer, Kobe, and draw one for yourself at the 
 same time," he said with a manly voice. 
 
 He was a vigorous youth, and wore a smock-frock of fine 
 blue linen, a silken neckerchief, and a cap of otter's skin. 
 His fine and well-formed face was deeply sun-burnt; his 
 broad hands bore the marks of daily toil, while his large bine 
 eyes, full of fire and life, gave the impression of one whose 
 mind and heart were as richly endowed as his body. 
 
 At his entrance, Lisa stood up and smiled to him such a 
 kind and friendly welcome, that two of the hunters looked at 
 him with surprise ; the third, Adolph, knew him of old. 
 Mine host muttered some grumbling words, and put on a sour 
 expression as if Charles the brewer's presence was particularly 
 disagreeable to him at the present time ; he even stamped 
 hii foot irritably, and made no effort to conceal his vexation. 
 
139 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE.' 
 
 The young man affected not to observe anything nnnsiial, 
 but kept bis eyes fixed on Lisa's, as if be would ask ber some- 
 thing ; she smiled to him still more kindly and openly than 
 before ; and now, for the first time since the strangers had en- 
 tered, her face assumed an expression of freedom and satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 "Fatberl" said Lisa. 
 
 " That boor's word again I " cried Baas. 
 
 " Papa," resumed Lisa, correcting herself, " Papa, is Charlef 
 not to drink a glass of wine with us?" 
 
 " He may get a wine-glass out of the cupboard himself" 
 was the rude reply. 
 
 ** Thank you, mine host Gansendonck," said Charles with 
 a bitter smile. " I do not like wine in the morning." 
 
 " No, I daresay not ; drink your beloved beer 1 That is 
 the way to get thick brains," said Baas jestingly, and smiling 
 complacently like one who thought he had said a good thing. 
 
 Charles was accustomed to Gansendonck's coarse way of 
 talking, and so thought no more of it now than on any other 
 occasion. He was about to sit down by the fire opposite 
 Kobe, but Lisa called out — " Charles, here is a chair 1 come 
 and sit beside me, and chat a little with us I " 
 
 Peer Gansendonck looked at his daughter with an irritated 
 countenance, and bit his lips with impatience. This did not 
 prevent Charles accepting Lisa's friendly invitation, however, 
 although he perceived very clearly the insulting and con- 
 temptuous conduct of her father. 
 
 " You will have capital sport this year, gentlemen," he 
 said in the Flemish tongue, sitting down beside Adolph; 
 " there is abundance of hares and partridges." 
 
 " So I believe," replied Adolph, " but we have not suc- 
 ceeded in shooting anything this morning ; the dogs hay* iM 
 nose to-day." 
 
UHE HOST GAKSENDONOK. IBS 
 
 ** I tKonglit io," said mine tost, in a mocking tone, " I 
 thonght he would put a clog on the wheels with his eyep- 
 lasting Flemish I Now, you will hear of nothing hnt dogs, 
 cows, horses, and potatoes. Just let him talk away, Herr 
 ▼on Bruinkasteel, and do you go on speaking French with 
 our Lisa. I have such pleasure in hearing it — I cannot tell 
 you how much pleasure." 
 
 Charles smiled and turned his eyes towards Victor with a 
 free and manly look. The latter seemed all at once deprived 
 of his light smooth talk, and showed evident signs of disincli- 
 nation to continue his flattering conversation with Lisa in the 
 presence of Charles. An interval of painful silence followed. 
 With a kind of despair, mine host saw that Herr von Bruin- 
 kasteel felt annoyed. He cast a reproachful look at Charles 
 and said — 
 
 " Herr Victor, do not mind him ; it is only our hrewer, and 
 an acquaintance of our family ; hut he has nothing to say 
 here, though he fancies he has drawn Number One. Go on, 
 Herr von Bruinkasteel I I should like my daughter to be on 
 good terms with you, and smile and enjoy herself, if yon will 
 have the goodness to speak with her. If the brewer means 
 to make wry faces at it, he may go out and do it on the 
 street." 
 
 Encouraged by these words, and perhaps with the intention 
 of annoying the young brewer, Victor turned to Lisa, and, 
 while talking, looked at her with that tender glance which 
 some men allow themselves in fashionable society, when they 
 have not the highest opinion of a lady's honour. Charles grew 
 pale, trembled, and ground his teeth violently ; and though 
 he immediately restrained this expression of sorrow and anger, 
 it did not escape notice. Victor was alarmed when he saw 
 it. He was not afraid, but notwithstanding it made so deep 
 an impression on his mind, that pleasantly and merriment 
 
184 TALCS OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 lost all their Best. Mine host, on the contrary, was mor» 
 fdrions than ever, and stamped his feet, at the same time 
 mattering to himself. Lisa, again, who thought that it was 
 her father's harsh words only, which had pained the yonng 
 man, looked to the ground, and was on the point of bursting 
 into tears. Charles sat calmly on his chair, somewhat pale 
 and trembling, it is true, but in outward appearance suffi- 
 ciently composed. 
 
 Suddenly Victor rose, and, taking his rifle, said to his com- 
 panions — 
 
 " Come, let us continue our sport. — Miss Lisa, I hope, will 
 pardon me if I have unwittingly said anything which was dis- 
 agreeable to her." 
 
 "What I what I" cried her father; "everything which 
 you have said has been beautiful, and could not have been 
 better ; and I hope, sir, that she has not seen and heard yon 
 for the last time." 
 
 " Miss Lisa perhaps thinks otherwise ; though my intention 
 has been to show her all respect and kindness." 
 
 When he saw that his daughter made no reply, mine ho«t 
 continued with some irritation — 
 
 " How now, what does this stupid boor's-play mean ? Lisa, 
 why do you sit there like a * Kate touch mo not ?* Answer the 
 gentleman, and quickly too ! " 
 
 Lisa rose, and said in Flemish, and in a cold but polite 
 tone — 
 
 " Herr von Bruinkasteel, you will not take it ill if I have 
 been a little absent. Your conversation has been very agree- 
 able to me, and if you should again do us the honour to visit 
 our house, you shall always be welcome." 
 
 "That's right I that's right I" cried Baas, striking his 
 hands together. " Ah I Herr von Bruinkasteel, she is a jewel 
 oC a girL You do not know her yet ; she can nng like a 
 
MINE HOST OANSENDOMCK. 186 
 
 ughtingale. Will you not take your seat again? I ghaQ 
 fetch another bottle." 
 
 "No; we must away; the day is passing. We thank 
 yon for your kind reception." 
 
 " I shall go a bit of the way with you, if the gentlemen 
 have no objection," said Baas. " I have a little plantation 
 off the highway which I wish to look at. * The master's eye 
 makes the horse fat/ says the proverb." 
 
 The young gentlemen all declared that Herr von Gansen- 
 donck's society would give them the greatest pleasure. They 
 then left the house together, talking in the politest way im- 
 aginable, with Kobe at their heels. 
 
 So soon as the young people found themselves alone, Lisa 
 Baid in a kindly way — " Charles, you must not vex yourself 
 on account of the coarse way my father talks ; you know he 
 does not mean anything by it." 
 
 The young man shook his head, and replied— 
 
 " It is not that, Lisa, which pains me." 
 
 "What, then?" asked the maiden with surprise. 
 
 " I feel it difficult to explain to you what I mean, Lisa. 
 Your pure unspotted soul would not understand it. It ii 
 better to say nothing about it." 
 
 " No, Charles ; you must let me know what you mean." 
 
 " Well then, the truth is, I do not like to see young gal- 
 lants come out of the city to make a display of their flat un- 
 meaning compliments and phrases before you. Somethmg 
 improper may easily arise from all this; and in any case, 
 their fine French manners and tender glances of the eye show 
 that they do not approach you with that respect which is due 
 to a lady." 
 
 Impatience, and perhaps a slight irritation, were depicted 
 on the young girl's face. 
 
 " Ton are wrong, Charley" she said ; " the gec^tlemen Va,r9 
 
186 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 said nothing improper to me. On the contrary, when I listes 
 to their conversation, I learn how one must talk and act, if 
 one would not pass for a mere peasant girl." 
 
 At this, Charles hung his head in silence, and sighed an- 
 xiously — " Yes, I know it," continued Lisa ; " you hate city 
 men and city manners ; but whatever you may think about 
 these things, it is not my part surely to act unkindly towards 
 the gentlemen who visit my father. You are veiy wrong, 
 too, Charles, in wishing to make me hate people who deserve 
 esteem more than any others." 
 
 The young girl had spoken these words with considerable 
 irritability. Charles sat in silence, and looked into her eyes 
 with a strange expression. Lisa felt that he was not a little 
 distressed, though she could not understand how it should 
 happen that what she had said could annoy him so much. 
 She took his hand affectionately, and continued — 
 
 " But, Charles, I do not understand you ; what, then, ate I 
 to do ? If you were in my place, how would you act when 
 strange gentlemen came and spoke with you ?" 
 
 " Feeling can alone determine that, Lisa," replied he, shak- 
 ing his head. " I do not know what io advise you ; but if, 
 for example, they were such manufacturers of compliments 
 and pretty things as the visitors who have jufet left, I should 
 answer them, it is true, politely, but I would not permit three 
 of them to plant themselves round me, and blow their empty 
 phrases into my ears." 
 
 " But then my father, who compels me to do it?" said Lisa 
 perplexed. 
 
 ** One finds a hundred reasons for standing up, if one tviU 
 not sit still." 
 
 "Then I have not acted properly in your eyes?" said the 
 poor girl, sobbing and shedding tears. " I have not condacl^d 
 mywlf rightly?" 
 
MOVE HOST OANSENDONCi:. ItT 
 
 The youth drew his chair nearer to Lisa, and answered Id 
 a snpplicating tone — 
 
 " Lisa, forgive me. You must be indulgent to me ; it ii 
 not my fault that I love you so much. My heart quite over- 
 powers me ; I have no command over it. You are fair and 
 unspotted as a lily : I tremble at the thought of a word of 
 double meaning being uttered in your presence— of a breath 
 of impurity touching you. I love you with a deep and anxious 
 reverence : is it then surprising that the forward looks of these 
 young fellows should alarm me ? Oh, Lisa, you think that 
 my feeling towards them is blameworthy. Perhaps it is so ; 
 but oh, my best friend, could you but know what agony shooti 
 through my soul when I see their light conduct, and what 
 sorrow it prepares for me, you would have compassion on my 
 too great love. You would forgive these fears, and console 
 me in my anxiety." 
 
 These words, which he uttered in a low tone, had a deep 
 effect on the girl. She replied kindly, with tears in her 
 eyes — 
 
 " Ah, Charies, I do not know what kind of fears you may 
 have ; but let them be what they will, since it vexes you, 
 this shall not occur again. In future, when gentlemen come, 
 I shall rise and go into another room." 
 
 "No, no, Lisa, I do not mean that," said Charles, half 
 ashamed of the consequences of what he had said- " Be 
 polite and friendly with every one, as is becoming, as well 
 as with the gentlemen who have just left. You have not 
 rightly understood me, dearest. Act as before; but think 
 that certain things pain me ; do not forget, when placed in 
 these circumstances with visitors, that your father is some- 
 times deceived, and is regulated by the estimate you put on 
 yourself, in telling you what you should do. I know the 
 parity of your heart, Lisa ; it is all the same to me wlio 
 
188 TALES OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 eomes heie, but I wish that yon shonld always be treated re- 
 spectfully ; the smallest slight — the very appearance of dis- 
 respect — pains me most deeply." 
 
 " But, Charles, you have heard that Herr Adolph and his 
 friends will be often here ; I must listen to their conversation 
 if I stay in the room. Will you be offended and annoyed 
 every time that occurs?" 
 
 Charles blushed, and immediately reproached himself for 
 the remarks which he had permitted himself to make ; while 
 at the same time he admired the simplicity and goodness of 
 heart of his betrothed. Taking her hand, he replied, with a 
 smile — 
 
 " Lisa, I am a fool. Will you grant me a favour?" 
 
 ** Certainly, Charles." 
 
 " Well, then, in sober earnestness, will you forgive this 
 humour of mine ? In fact, it would annoy me now, were you 
 to alter your conduct in the least. Why should I even desire 
 it, when your father is master here, and would constrain you 
 to act as he wished, whether it was agreeable to you or not?" 
 
 " Now, you are good, Charles," replied Lisa. " I must still 
 continue to be friendly with these strangers — is it not so? 
 My father is master here. Besides, you are in the wrong ir 
 the other way too. Herr von Bruinkasteel talked with me 
 for a long time, to be sure, but all he said was very proper ; 
 and I know, for my own part, that I listened to him with 
 great pleasure." 
 
 Charles again felt a weight upon his heart ; but he repressed 
 the rising feeling, and answered — 
 
 " Let us forget, dearest, what has happened. I bring you 
 good news. My mother has at last consented to enlarge our 
 house considerably ; the alterations will begin n«s:t Monday. 
 You shall have a fine room for your own use, handsomely 
 ftimished* Our house shall have an entrai»ce of its own; 
 
MINE HOST OANBENDOHCK. 139 
 
 and a ooacb-bonse for a little carriage. So, Ll«a, yon 
 
 will not have to go through the brewery, or Bit at the com- 
 mon fire. You will lead a quiet and peaceful life, and get 
 everything your heart can wish. Does that not give you 
 pleasure, dearest?" 
 
 "You are too good, Charles, and I am thankful in my 
 heart for so much love and friendship ; but I believe father 
 has something better to propose to you, which will probably 
 please you too. He is very desirous that we should rent the 
 farm-house which stands empty behind the castle. The 
 thought appears to me not a bad one. Then we should have 
 no occasion to mix with the peasant people, and could gradu- 
 ally make the acquaintance of respectable families." 
 
 " But, Lisa," interrupted the young man, rather impatiently ; 
 " how is it possible that you can think of such a thing ? / 
 leave my mother I She is a widow, and has no one in the 
 world except me. And even were it not so, I would not 
 do it ; from childhood upwards I have worked, and I must 
 continue to do so, for my own pleasure and health, for my 
 mother's welfare — for you, Lisa, to make your life easier and 
 happier ; and that I may have the feeling that the fruits of 
 my labour are contributing to your happiness." 
 
 "Oh, that is not necessary," sighed Lisa; "our parents 
 already possess sufficient money and property." 
 
 " And then, Lisa, we stand now in the foremost place among 
 those of our own station. Your father is one of the largest 
 proprietors in the whole district, and our brewery stands 
 second to none. Shall I, then, consent to act the upstart 
 purse-proud millionnaire — humble myself to procure the 
 friendship of proud people, and allow myself to despise my 
 former companions, like one who would fain play the fine 
 gentleman? No, Lisa, that might flatter many a one's self* 
 bve — it would make me feel mean and miserable. It ii 
 
TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 better to be respected and loved by peasants, than hiire peoplt 
 of rank look askance and laugh at you." 
 
 Lisa was about to reply to Charles's warm speech, but juat 
 at that moment Kobe opened the door with visible haste, and 
 advancing to the young man, said quickly — 
 
 "Charles, have you a desire to quarrel for a couple of 
 hours with our respected landlord ? — No ? Well, then, make 
 haste off, for he is furious at you. You must have trode on 
 his toes most cruelly. If you do not go, he will turn the 
 house upside down." 
 
 " Charles I " said Lisa anxiously, pressing his hand, " go, 
 till my father's anger is past. This afternoon he will have 
 forgotten all about it." 
 
 The young brewer shook his head, and, with a troubled 
 look, took leave of his betrothed, and hastened out of the 
 house by the back-door. 
 
 Kob6 followed, and said, as he parted from him — 
 
 " Fear nothing, Charles ; I will keep an eye on the sails, 
 and give you a hint if I see the vessel going out of the right 
 track. There's a screw loose about our Baas. But do you 
 keep your mind at ease — the humour will soon pass. The 
 weathercock on the steeple turns with every breath of wind, 
 like a fool ; but for all that it ahows what kind of weatker wi 
 upt gmug to have.'' 
 
HOST OAXaSHDOHOB. 141 
 
 CHAPTEB T. 
 
 HoBonr ii womanli ^orj ; 
 Beauty but a tender flowtt.* 
 
 Two months had passed. Early one morning three or km 
 young peasants stood in the smithy and chatted of varioui 
 things. Sus held a piece of iion in the fire with one hand, 
 and worked the bellows mih the other, slowly enjoying his 
 pipe the while. 
 
 " Well, who has heard the news?" cried one of the young 
 men. " Lisa Gansendonck is going to marry a Baron." 
 
 " ho I " laughed the smith ; " next year Easter falls oh a 
 Friday. Go and sell your wares at another market." 
 
 " Yes, but it is true ; she is to marry the young fellow who 
 has been staying these six weeks in the St. Sebastian." 
 
 " The ox will calve if all goes well," cried Sus. 
 
 " You do not believe it? Swaggering Jack himself told it 
 to the notary." 
 
 " Then I believe it less than ever." 
 
 "Do you know what I think? Baas Gansendonck is 
 brewing bitter beer for himself. Strange reports are already 
 abroad about young Lisa. Folk speak of her as the Jews of 
 pork." 
 
 "Swaggering Jack only gets what he deserves, and the 
 light-beaded girl too. * He who plays with the cat must bide 
 scratching,' says the proverb." 
 
 ** And the unfortunate Charles I — ^he is a fool to be rexed 
 
142 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 about it I'd see her to the deuce first, with her fine Hen 
 Baron." 
 
 " There comes Charles himself/' said one of the peasants 
 who stood at the door. " Even at this distance, one can 
 easily see that he is out of spirits. He haugs his head on nis 
 breast as if he were searching for a needle. He looks as if he 
 had already ordered his coffin." 
 
 All turned their heads and looked towards Charles, who 
 was coming along slowly and carelessly, with downcast eyee 
 and dreamy look. 
 
 Bus brought his hammer down upon the anvil with a tre- 
 mendous blow, and muttered to himself, as if some great 
 ▼exation had suddenly had the effect of paralysing his voice. 
 
 "What is the matter with you ?" asked the others. 
 
 "When I see Charles, my blood boils," cried Sus. "I 
 would bind myself not to taste a drop of beer for a whole 
 year, if I could just come down once on Swaggering Jack's 
 back — so. Ah, the proud booby I He will bring his daughter 
 into disgrace through his silly fancies — he knows that well 
 enough ; though indeed the light-minded girl deserves no bet- 
 ter. But when I see him make my good friend Charles pine 
 away with grief in this fashion, hunting him into the grave — a 
 young fellow like a tree, well-to-do, clever, and good-hearted, 
 worth more than a hundred such Swaggering Jacks and 
 fashionable fops — it makes me almost mad. Why, you see, I 
 wish no man harm ; but if Gansendonck should break his 
 neck accidentally some of these days, I should say it was 
 well done, and a judgment of God I " 
 
 " Keep your mind at ease, Sus. Pride goes before a faU. 
 If the ant gets wings, it soon dies." 
 
 "Don't be too free with your threats, Sus. Swaggering 
 Jack has said that he will never rest till he has yon in the 
 lock-ap.' 
 
MXHB HOST OAN8ENDONCK. 148 
 
 •* Pah t I care no more for the boasting fool than if he were 
 painted on the wall." 
 
 '* Bnt could yon not persnade Charles to let her go for wh*t 
 aheis worth?" 
 
 " Ah, there no medicine will work a cure ; the more they 
 treat him like a fool in the St. Sebastian, the more vexing it 
 is. They make him believe there that the cat lays eggs ; he 
 is quite out of his senses, I think. There is no more spirit in 
 him. If one speaks to him about it, the tears come into his 
 eyes ; he turns away, says good-bye, and you see no more of 
 him till the next day." 
 
 " Can Kobd then not make his master understand, that if * 
 crow will fly with swans' feathers, it is sure to fall and be 
 drowned in the sea?" 
 
 '* Why, Baas and his servant are of the same stamp ; two 
 wet sacks won't dry one another." 
 
 ** Be quiet, Sus ; here he is. I think he is coming to the 
 smithy." 
 
 Charles advanced, and greeted the peasants with a forced 
 smile. Without saying a word, he went to the working-bench, 
 and kept turning the screw in a dreamy way, or carelessly 
 taking up some tool, while the young peasants looked at him 
 with curiosity and compassion. 
 
 In truth, a ceaseless suffering must have been gnawing at 
 the young man's heart — so altered was he in a short time. 
 His face was pale and ashy ; his eyes wandered from object 
 to object with a dull, lifeless expression, or stared in a fixed 
 and peculiar manner at some trifling object ; his cheeks were 
 sunk and haggard. His whole appearance betokened indif- 
 ference and negligence ; his clothes were scarcely clean, and 
 his hair fell uncombed upon his neck. 
 
 " Now, Charles," cried Sus, " here you come again like the 
 ■weet mmshine, without uttering a word. Gome, come, throw 
 
144 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 hateful thoughts over the hedge, and think that you aw « 
 better man than those who are the cause of your griet Make 
 the sign of the cross and have done with it, and then drink a 
 good draught of beer. Vex yourself as you may, you will not 
 drive sense into Swaggering Jack's pate. And of his dainty 
 daughter you will make nothing but a" — 
 
 Charies trembled, and his wild look made the word stick 
 in Sns's throat. 
 
 " Yes," he continued, " I know well that I must not open 
 the cask. Kill poor patients first, and then push the medi- 
 cine after them into the grave. But it does not do to suiSfer 
 too long from foolish fancies. Do you know what Swagger- 
 ing Jack has said ? Ma'mselle Lisa is going to marry Herr 
 von Bruinkasteel before notary and priest." 
 
 " Rather him than me," said another. " He will have a 
 precious piece in her — a vagabond peasant girl, who sees no 
 other way of saving her virtue." 
 
 Charles had grasped the stock of the screw convulsively, 
 and directed a fierce look at the speakers. 
 
 "Lisa," he said with a hollow voice, "is innocent and 
 pure. You slander her, you speak unjustly." 
 
 After speaking these few words, he turned and slowly left 
 the smithy, without paying any attention to his friend Sus, 
 who had again addressed him. He went unsteadily across 
 the road, and struck into a footpath which led through the 
 fields. On the way he spoke aloud to himself, at one time 
 standing still and stamping his feet, at another hartening on 
 with increased speed ; and so he dreamily wandered on, till 
 he found himself a considerable distance from the village, 
 and suddenly heard his name called at the comer of a fir- 
 wood. There he saw Kobe sitting on the stile, with a bottle 
 In one hand and a bit of meat in the other ; a rifle lay near 
 bim« 
 
IfIHE HOST GANSENDONCK. lid 
 
 "Ha, Kob^I" cried the young man with pleasure; " wliM 
 are you doing here?" 
 
 "A new whim of our respected landlord," he replied. 
 " Whenever he can want me, he packs me oflf here to act as a 
 kind of wood-bailiff. I sit here and take care that the trees 
 don't fly away." 
 
 " Come a bit with me," said Charles. 
 
 "I have just finished my dinner," he replied, rising. 
 •* Look, Charles, that is a fine rifle. The cock is so rusty, 
 that one could not pull it were he to yoke a horse to it ; and 
 the barrel has been loaded for twenty years and three months. 
 Like master, like weapon." 
 
 "Come, Kobe," replied the brewer, "tell me something 
 which may ease my mind a little. How goes it at home ?" 
 
 " 1 don't know on what side I shall attack the rotten apple. 
 In that quarter everything goes wrong. Mine host does not 
 know what to do for joy : he dreams aloud of barons and 
 castles. He is at the notary's thrice a day.'* 
 
 "Why, what does that mean?" asked Charles, alarmed. 
 
 " He says Lisa is to be married in a short time to Herr von 
 Bruinkasteel." 
 
 The brewer grew pale, and looked sadly and anxiously $i 
 his companion. 
 
 " So he says," continued Kobe. " But the young Baron 
 knows nothing about it, and thinks of everything but that." 
 
 "And Lisa?" 
 
 " Kor Lisa either." 
 
 "Ah I" sighed Charles, as if a load had fallen from hit 
 heart. " This matter pains me deeply." 
 
 " Were I you, I would see into the matter at once : let 
 weeds grow too long, and they will eat up the finest com. 
 You never come to the St. Sebastian but when Herr von 
 Bruinkasteel is gone out ; and there you sit fot half * d^f 
 
1 46 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 bemoaning yourself in a way that would draw pity from 
 a stone. Lisa inquires into the cause of your distress, and 
 you make her understand that you are ill, and she belieyes 
 you." 
 
 " But, Kob^, what can I do ? When I give the slightest 
 hint of the truth, she at once bursts into tears. She does not 
 understand me." 
 
 " Woman's tears are cheap ; I would not place much im- 
 portance on them. If the calf is drowned, 'tis of no ubo 
 emptying the well. A dog makes short work of a sausage." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" muttered Charles with 
 alarm. " Do you suspect Lisa? Do you fear that she" — 
 
 " If I knew that a hair of my head thought any evil of 
 Lisa, I would tear it out. The poor thing fanc^s that all 
 this fooling and French talking are fine manners. And if at 
 any time, out of love for you, she dismisses the Baron rather 
 coldly, then down comes mine host upon her and compels her 
 to treat him kindly. Herr von Bniinkasteel must surely be 
 an excellent man I Mine host throws Lisa into his arms ten 
 times a week 1 " 
 
 "What I into his arms?" cried Charles fiercely. 
 
 " That is only a mode of speech," continued Kob^ ; " if you 
 do not understand me, so much the better." 
 
 "What shall I do?" cried Charles, stamping his feet in 
 liespair. 
 
 " It does not lie concealed under the earth, Charles. Were 
 it my affair, I should go boldly through with the matter ; 
 better a window broken than the house destroyed." 
 
 "What dc you mean, for Heaven's sake? Speak more 
 clearly." 
 
 *' Why, — quarrel with Herr Victor. If there were to be a 
 regular commotion, it would at least bring about a change ; 
 and the bad generally becomes better when it changes." 
 
mXE HOST OANSENDOMCK. 147 
 
 •* If he would only give me an opportunity," cried Charles ; 
 **but everything he says is so cunningly calculated, that I 
 cannot take hold of it and chastise him, even if I were burst- 
 ing with revenge." 
 
 " Come, come, be who wishes to find, need not seek long. 
 Tread on his foot unintentionally ; his shoes, you know, aro 
 none of the thickest. That will set the game agoing." 
 
 " Ah, Kobe, what would Lisa say to that ? Shall I dam- 
 age her reputation by an act from which one would infer that 
 I suspected something amiss?" 
 
 " You dear innocent I and do you think Lisa is not already 
 in the people's mouths ? The most dreadftil things are said 
 of her daily. The whole thing hangs on the church bell-rope, 
 and everybody hangs something on that." 
 
 " By Heaven I she is innocent, and yet every one accuses 
 her of acting badly I** 
 
 " Charles, Charles, you have no more blood in your heart 1 
 You see the evil growing daily, and bow your head to it like 
 a feeble child. You see everything combining to bring your 
 innocent bride to ruin — Victor's seducing conversation, her 
 father's insane pride, and her own liking for everything that 
 smacks of city life. Nobody can rescue her but you ; and you 
 are like a guardian angel who sleeps while the devil is laying 
 a trap for the soul. By your timid compliance you expose 
 Lisa helpless and unaided to this threatening danger. If she 
 unhappily stumbles, who is to blame? Heaven helps those 
 who help themselves ; have some spirit, act, be a man I Says 
 not the proverb, * While they look about to find the way, the 
 wolf carries off the lamb'?" 
 
 After a pause Charles replied — 
 
 " Alas, alas I everything alarms me. What can I do ? The 
 moment Lisa looks at me, my courage is all gone. Kob^ 
 my heart is rick ; I must bear with patience my bitter lot" 
 
148 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 ^^ Defend her at least from the slander and insolt of tht 
 
 Baron." 
 
 " Insult I Has he insulted her ?" 
 
 " Do you know what Herr von Bniinkasteel jestingly said 
 to his comrades the day before yesterday ? Adolph's game- 
 keeper was present at the time." 
 
 He approached the brewer, and whispered some worda in 
 his ear. 
 
 " You lie I you lie I" cried Charles, throwing his companion 
 from him. " He did not say that." 
 
 " As you please, Charles," grumbled Kobe ; " it is all the 
 same to me. I lie, and the gamekeeper lies ; it is not true, 
 it cannot be. Herr von Bniinkasteel loves Lisa far too much 
 to say anything of the kind I " 
 
 Charles had grasped a iBr-stem for support; his breast 
 heaved violently, he breathed hoarsely, and his eyes sparkled 
 with a singular glow under his knitted eyebrows. What 
 Kobe had whispered to him must have inflicted a deep wound, 
 for he stood there trembling like a reed, and furious as a 
 roused lion. Suddenly he closed his fist, and approaching 
 his companion like a man insane, said — 
 
 " Ha I Is it a murder you would have me commit, devil?" 
 
 Kobe retired a few paces in terror, and stammered out — 
 
 " Charles, is it in jest or earnest that you put on a face 
 like famine ? I have done you no harm. If you would pre- 
 fer to see my back, you have only to say so ; with a * good- 
 day ' everything is over, and each goes his own way." 
 
 " Stay where you are I " exclaimed the brewer. 
 
 " Then open your hands," replied Kob^. " I don't like to 
 Bee closed fists." 
 
 Charles looked to the earth again, and stood for a long 
 time motionless, without looking at his companion. At Uft 
 he raised his head, and asked with a tremulous voioe— 
 
MINE HOST GAN8END0NCK. 149 
 
 **KoW, is Victor von Brainkasteel at present in the St. 
 Sebastian?" 
 
 " Yes — but," cried he anxioisly, "yon are not to go there, 
 Charles ; I will not permit you, were I to wrestle with you 
 till every bone in my body was broken. I do not understand 
 you ; you are, as the proverb says, now too wise and now too 
 stupid, but always queer and crooked. You would do fine 
 things at the St. Sebastian just now 1 You are like a mad 
 bull." 
 
 Without paying any attention to Kobe's remarks, Charles 
 turned round and struck hastily into a path which led towards 
 Baas Gansendonck's dwelling. Kobe threw down his rifle, 
 and springing forward, planted himself in front of him, and 
 held him back by main force. 
 
 "Let me go I" said Charles, while he looked at Kobd with 
 a bitter laugh ; " you shall not hinder me. Why will you 
 compel me to do you harm?" 
 
 The coldness with which he said these words astonished 
 KobS not a little ; he did not let him free, however, but asked 
 him — 
 
 "Will you promise me to be patient, and to keep your 
 hands in your pockets?" 
 
 " I mean to do harm to nobody," said the young brewetv 
 
 "What is your intention, then?" 
 
 " To follow your advice, Kob^ ; call them to acoount about 
 everything, and speak out openly what lies so heavily on my 
 heart. Fear nothing, Kobe ; I do not forget that I have a 
 mother." 
 
 " Aha I your senses are restored, I see. You could give a 
 lectire to the weathercock on the church-tower now I You 
 do not dissemble, do you ? Well, then, I shall go with you. 
 Be cool and firm, Charles; bold speech is half the battle. 
 Make some stir, show your teeth, and read gospel truth to 
 
100 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 mine noit for once in ais life ; lie is not likely to take a fever 
 from excess of courage, I assure you. Heaven knows, if yon 
 take the proper way with him, whether he may not request 
 the Baron to pass by his door henceforth I After pain comes 
 pleasure I I think I see the fiddler sitting on the roof already." 
 
 Both of them went along the path with measured steps. 
 By the way, Kobe opened up a consoling prospect to the 
 young man, and encouraged him gently, at the same time 
 counselling him to be collected and determined, and not to 
 heed Lisa's tears this time, till he had quite attained the object 
 he had in view. As they approached the St. Sebastian, he left 
 his melancholy companion with the remark, that it was still 
 too early for him to return home — ^he must still play the wood- 
 bailiff^or an hour. Charles pressed his hand gratefully, and 
 promised to follow his advice. 
 
 So soon as the young man found himself alone, he felt 
 as if a bandage were taken from his eyes ; he saw clearly 
 how matters stood, and what he ought to do. He resolved 
 to demand from Baas Gansendonck an explanation of his 
 conduct, and to convince him — whether he took it well or ill 
 — ^that his folly not only damaged Lisa's good name, but even 
 seriously endangered her honour. As he approached the 
 house, the young man's countenance expressed calmness and 
 determination. 
 
 So soon as he had reached the back-door of the St. Sebas- 
 tian, however, this resolution was suddenly altered. For 
 within, the seductive voice of the Baron was heard singing a 
 french romance, whose tone and music breathed love and 
 tenderness. 
 
 When Charles heard the song, he stood trembHng, and 
 listened witlr feverish attention to the words — 
 
 * Ponrqaoi, t«ndre EUm, toujoon TOOi 
 A mm Mrin daignai root randn." 
 
^ MINE HOST GANSENDONCK. 151 
 
 The brewer's hands were violently conynlsed; a fisarfbl 
 •koTm began to rage in his tortnred sonl. 
 
 " Ayez moios de rigaenr ; 
 Si mon amour tous toacbfl^ 
 Qu'un mot de votre boache 
 Oooronne mon ardeor." 
 
 Lisa's voice timidly mingled itself with the Baron's: she 
 too sang the tender words. 
 
 The blood boiled impetuously in the youth's veins; his 
 eyes sparkled, he gnashed his teeth, and as the closing verses 
 of the romance fell from Lisa and the Baron, like a consum- 
 ing fire upon his heart, his very hair stood on end— 
 
 "PitU ! mon trouble est extttai»— 
 Ah I ditea ' Je Toua aime I' 
 JeToosaime!" 
 
 "Bravo! bravo I" cried mine host, clapping his hands. 
 "Ah, how beautiful I" 
 
 A heavy groan escaped from the young man's bosom, as he 
 just at that moment entered th« room. At his appearance, 
 all sprang from their seats with alarm or surprise ; Lisa 
 uttered a shrill cry of pain, and imploringly held out her 
 arms towards Charles ; the Baron assumed a proud and in- 
 quiring look, while mine host stamped his feet with impatience, 
 and muttered some insulting language. 
 
 For a time, Charles stood as if unconscious, his hand resting 
 on a chair ; he trembled so violently that his knees almost 
 knocked together under the weight of his body ; his counte- 
 nance was as pale as death ; his cheeks and brow seemed 
 convulsed. His whole appearance must have been some- 
 thing frightful, for the Baron, courageous as he was, grew 
 pale likewise, and retreated a few paces to get out of the 
 reach of the raging brewer. Mine host alone treated the 
 thing mockingly, and looked at Charles with a contemptuous 
 laugh. Suddenly tne young man threw a fierce look at tiie 
 
159 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 Baron, fiill of hate and revenge. The latter felt bimielf in- 
 sulted by it, and exclaimed haughtily — 
 
 *' Well I what means all this child's-play here ? Do you 
 know who I am ? I beg you to put an end to that insulting 
 stare." 
 
 Furiously the brewer seized the chair, and was about to 
 raise it to fell the Baron to the earth, when Lisa threw herself 
 on his neck, screaming and weeping bitterly. She looked at 
 him so imploringly and so affectionately, and called him by 
 such sweet names, that he at once let the chair fall as if 
 deprived of power, and said with a deep sigh — 
 
 " Oh, thanks, thanks, Lisa I You have saved me. Had 
 it not been you, the deed would have been done." 
 
 The maiden still continued to hold both hands, and to calm 
 and console him with words of affection ; she perceived clearly, 
 from his whole aspect, that wrath still blazed furiously in his 
 heart, and exerted herself to allay his passion. 
 
 Meanwhile the Baron approached the door, and was about 
 to leave the house, but mine host called out — 
 
 "How now, my lord, are you afraid of a mad boor? 
 Stay where you are — ^my servants will turn him out of the 
 house." 
 
 "I fear no mad boor in the whole world," replied the 
 Baron, " but it does not become me to enter into a contest 
 with a mad boor." 
 
 At these insulting words, Charles tore himself from his be- 
 loved, and hastened towards the door, to follow the Baron 
 into the street ; but mine host seized him, and exclaimed in 
 a violent passion — 
 
 " Hold, fellow I you would insult both of us now ! This 
 lasts too long. What! you would hunt people out of my 
 house, and play the landlord here ! Throw chairs at the Herr 
 Baron von Bruinkasteei t What prevents me sending for tb* 
 
MINE HOST aANSENDONCK. 15S 
 
 police ? Come, I will tell you things whicli i+ is unnecessary 
 my daughter should hear ; and so we shall bring matters to 
 a conclusion once for all. If not, I shall show you who is 
 master here." 
 
 A bitter smile played round Charles's lips as he followed 
 mine host into another room. The latter bolted the door, 
 and then, with a threatening look, stood silently before the 
 brewer, who was evidently making great exertions to restrain 
 his anger and be composed, as was necessary in this long 
 desired conversation, if he would attain his end. 
 
 " Make as many faces as you please," said mine host ; " I 
 laugh at your absurd whims. Come, tell me quickly, who 
 ^ves you permission to come to my house and act in this 
 boorish way to everybody ? But perhaps it is your intention 
 to purchase my daughter?" 
 
 " Do not rouse me, for Heaven's sake I Just give me 
 liberty to speak, and I will come to an explanation with you ; 
 and if you do not choose to understand me, I shall leave your 
 house and never cross your threshold again." 
 
 " Well then, go on, for I am curious to hear what you 
 have got to say ; I know quite well what song you will sing ; 
 but I assure you, you will get nothing by it — you knock at 
 a deaf man's door." 
 
 "My father once befriended you, and rescued you from ruin. 
 You gave a promise to him when on his deathbed, that Lisa 
 should be my wife. You have encouraged our love." 
 
 " Times change, and so do men." 
 
 "And now that you have inherited a bit of dirt— dirt, 
 that is called gold, you will not only break your sacred 
 word like an ingrate, but you stain the reputation of my 
 betrothed. For the vain hope of a rank, which you can never 
 attain, you sell her good name, drag her hDUOur through the 
 mire, and " — 
 
154 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFI. 
 
 " ho I what tone is this to take ? and to whom do yoa 
 think you are speaking?" 
 
 " — and me you are killing with grief and despair. Not 
 because you will rob me of Lisa ; no I that you cannot do, 
 for she loves me. But can a man suffer a greater agony of 
 soul than to see his beloved, his bride, ruined before his eyes 
 — to see her stained with all the frivolity and wantonness 
 which a city breeds ? To be compelled to lead her to the 
 altar, clothed with the rent garment of a violated purity." 
 
 "Where have you picked up this stuff? To the devil 
 with all that. I am master, and what I do is well done ; do 
 you imagine that you have a better head than Baas Gan- 
 sendonck ?" 
 
 " Oh I blind man 1 you compel your daughter to listen to 
 the Baron's poisonous words. Every one of his flattering lies 
 is another stain on her pure soul. You force her into destruc- 
 tion, and should she fall, ah I then, the father has dug the 
 grave in which the honour of his child is to be buried. What 
 do you expect ? That she will marry Herr von Bruinkasteel ? 
 It is impossible. Even were there no father and relations 
 to prevent him, he himself would reject a woman who was 
 already dishonoured, in his eyes, by your indecent invitations 
 and his own base designs." 
 
 " Go on," said Baas Gansendonck mockingly ; " I did not 
 know you had so many notes to your song. She is not to 
 marry the Baron, say you ? We shall see that. If you be- 
 have yourself well in the interval, you may come to the 
 wedding. Drive love out of your head, Charles ; that is 
 the best thing you can do ; otherwise, you may choke with 
 it ! Stay away from our house in a friendly way — for you 
 see the Baron is here almost all day long, and you only run 
 between his legs. He is not the man to have anything to 
 do with peasants." 
 
XDnS HOST GANSENDONCK. 166 
 
 ** Then my mortal agony has no power oyer yon ? He is 
 to come here as formerly, to flatter her, to betray her with 
 shameful words, to sing of wantonness and passion, and fill 
 my Lisa's heart with a poison which will infect her whole 
 nature?" 
 
 " Poison I what kind of language is this ? Because you, 
 forsooth, cannot rival him I That is the way boors always 
 speak of city people ; they burst with envy when they see 
 any one who has good manners and is accomplished. But 
 ease your heart, my good friend — go on, but it will do you no 
 good. The Baron shall visit here as formerly, and Lisa shall 
 become a fine lady. And if you were to split your head in 
 two about it, it will be of no more assistance to you than a 
 fly in your brewing-vat. I have a right to do what I please 
 with my house and daughter, and no one has a right to in- 
 trude — you as little as another." 
 
 "The right 1" cried Charles with a bitter laugh. "The 
 right to ruin your child's honour I To expose her, pure and 
 innocent as she is, to the defamation of every tongue 1 To 
 make her the object of universal contempt and universal 
 mockery, as the wanton paramour of a dissolute young man I 
 No, you have not the right. Lisa is mine. If her father 
 will force her down into the mire of shame, I will rescue her 
 triumphantly. I had forgotten my duty — but now I see it. 
 Your Baron shall never return. Lisa shall be cared for against 
 your will. No, I respect your unhappy ambition no more." 
 
 "Is that all you have got to say?" asked Baas with the 
 greatest indifference. " Then I just inform you, that I forbid 
 you my house ; and if you venture to come here again, I will 
 get you turned out of doors by my servants and the police." 
 
 " An inn is open to every man." 
 
 " There are rooms enough in my house where the Baroa 
 •an 8)^ak with my daughter " 
 
15$ TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 Exhausted and dejected, the young man satLK into a ohahr, 
 let his head sink on his breast, and remained speechless with 
 his eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 " Come, come," said mine host, " hold up your head, rour 
 grief will soon be healed. Go home and keep away from 
 the St. Sebastian, without troubling yourself more about Lisa. 
 On that condition we shall still be good friends. I will forget 
 your pride and your strange humours. Good sense, though 
 long of coming, is still wisdom. Well, are you going?" 
 
 Charles rose. His countenance had undergone a complete 
 change. The excitement, in which he had been, had disap- 
 peared ; the feverish impulse to do something had exhausted 
 itself. The fruitlessness of his expostulations and defiances 
 had robbed him of all courage. With folded hands and an 
 imploring look, he approached Baas, and with tears in his 
 eyes, said — 
 
 " Gansendonck I have compassion on me and on Lisa I 
 Be assured, I must die. By the memory of my father, I con- 
 jure you to open your eyes, and give me your daughter to wife 
 before her reputation is quite blasted. I will make her happy, 
 love her, care for her, and work for her like a slave. I will 
 love and honour you like a son, and obey you like a hired 
 servant." 
 
 When mine host saw Charles humble himself before him, 
 he felt some compassion for him, and replied — 
 
 " Charles, I will not say that you are not a good young man, 
 and that my Lisa would not have a good husband in you." 
 
 " Oh, Baas 1 for God's sake," entreated the young man, 
 looking into his eyes full of hope ; " for God's sake, pity me, 
 and give me Lisa I I will falfil your smallest wishes with 
 childlike submission — sell the brewery, dwell in a fine house, 
 even abjure the rank of peasant, and alter m^ whole way ol 
 ]ifr»" 
 
KNE HOST aANSENDOHCK. iSt 
 
 ** It cannot be, dear Charles ; it is too late." 
 
 " And if you were to know assuredly that it would be my 
 death, what then?" 
 
 " I should be very sorry to hear it ; but I cannot force yon 
 to remain in life." 
 
 " Oh, Gansendonck I " cried the youth, falling on his knees 
 and stretching out his arms, "give me some hope — do not, 
 do not kill me." 
 
 Mine host raised him, and said — "Have you lost your 
 senses, Charles ? I can do no more. Think for a moment how 
 matters stand. To-morrow we dine at the hunting-box with 
 the Baron. He gives a feast in honour of Lisa." 
 
 " She I she ! my Lisa, at the hunting-box with the Baron ? 
 Oh, you will ruin her honour for ever, irretrievably. There 
 is not a single lady in his house." 
 
 "She is to become acquainted with the hunting-chateau 
 of her future husband." 
 
 " So, then, all hope has vanished. For her, dishonour — ^for 
 me, the grave 1" cried the brewer in despair, while he covered 
 his eyes with both hands, and a flood of tears rolled down his 
 face. 
 
 " I pity you, Charles," said Baas, coldly ; " Lisa is about 
 to become * my lady l' It is written above, and it shall be 
 accomplished." 
 
 He took the sorrowing Charles gently by the shoulder, and 
 pushed him towards the door, saying — 
 
 " Come, this has lasted long enough, and no good comes of 
 it. Go home ; and never speak with Lisa again." 
 
 Charles let himself be taken out without uttering a word, 
 and as if all strength had left his body. He let his head sink 
 upon his breast, and his tears fell upon the ground. Passing 
 through the room where Lisa sat, he paused for a moment and 
 gave one last look — an eternal farewell. 
 
158 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFS. 
 
 The maiden, who for a long time had listened with interne 
 anxiety to the unintelligible sounds which had proceeded from 
 the adjoining room, was waiting with fearful anticipation and 
 alarm till the door should open. 
 
 Her betrothed now appeared before her, weeping and silent, 
 like a patient sacrifice which was being led to the altar. She 
 uttered a loud shriek, and, running to the young man, threw 
 her arms round his neck, forcibly tearing him from the door. 
 Charles looked at her kindly, but with such a strange and 
 troubled smile, that the expression of his countenance forced 
 from her another cry of agony. 
 
 With threatening words Baas Gansendonck tore his daugh- 
 ter's arms from Charles's neck, and showing the young mas 
 oat of the house, shut the door behind him. 
 
HOST OAKSBNDOMOB* lit 
 
 CHAPTEB VL 
 
 *■ llM oelf-oonceited fool is a laughlogHstoek t« alL* 
 
 Mine liost Gansendonck ran up and down bis room like a 
 fool; Bet the mirror down before him, that be might be able 
 to see his legs, and went now backwards, now forwards, lost 
 in self-admiration. He was in his shirt sleeves, and bad a 
 new pair of trousers on, adorned with stripes. On a chair by 
 the wall lay a pair of yellow gloves, a white waistcoat, and a 
 shirt front with lace frills. Kobe stood in the middle of the 
 room, and had a folded neckcloth over his arm. He looked at 
 Baas calmly ; only, from time to time, an almost inexplicable 
 smile of mingled pity and restlessness played round his month. 
 
 " Now, Kobe," said mine host with delight, " what do you 
 think ? Don't they fit admirably ? " 
 
 "I don't understand these matters," said Kob^, rather 
 annoyed. 
 
 " Why, you can see surely whether I look well or ill?" 
 
 " I would rather see you without straps to your trousers 
 than with legs as stiff as broomsticks." 
 
 Gansendonck heard this bold remark with considerable sur- 
 prise ; and, looking fiercely at his servant, exclaimed — 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? Do you begin to show your 
 horns ? Do you think that I pay and feed you to say disagree- 
 able things ? Come, let me hear. Do lliey fit me well or 
 notr 
 
160 TALES OF FLEMISH UFl. 
 
 "Yes, Baas." 
 
 "What? * Yes, Baas I' " screamed Gansendonck, stamping 
 his feet. " I ask you whether they fit me well or not ?" 
 
 " They could not fit you better, Baas." 
 
 " You are a thickhead I Do you wish your reckoning made 
 up, and yourself packed off to seek another service ? Or are 
 you not well enough off here, you scoundrel ? You wish per- 
 haps better bread than home-made? So it is that a man 
 leaves clover for weeds ; but there is truth in the proverb, 
 when it says, * Give an ass oats, and he leaves them for 
 thistles.' " 
 
 Kob6 said imploringly, with a hypocritical or genuine 
 anxiety, it would be hard to say which — 
 
 " Ah, Baas I I have the colic, and don't know what I say. 
 You must pardon me. Your trousers fit so admirably, that 
 one would think they were painted on your legs." 
 
 " Oh, so you have the colic?" said mine host, sympathiz- 
 ingly. " Open the little cupboard yonder, and take a little 
 wormwood brandy. What is bitter in the mouth does the 
 heart good." 
 
 " Oh, Baas ; you are so good, Baas I" said Kobe, going to 
 the cupboard. 
 
 " Give me my neckerchief now ; but carefully, so as not to 
 crease it.'^ 
 
 While he proceeded slowly with his dressing, he said, half 
 musingly — 
 
 " Ah, Kobe, how the boors will gape when they see me 
 pass with a white waistcoat, lace ruffles, and yellow gloves I 
 Heaven knows, they have never seen such a thing in their 
 lives before. I very slily asked Herr von Bruinkasteel how 
 fine gentlemen dressed when invited to dinner, and within four 
 days I had procured a supply of what I wanted. One can do 
 more than conjure with money— one can work miracles with 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDOMCK. 161 
 
 gold. And Lisa, too, will attract the people's eyes quite ai 
 much, with six flounces on her silk dress." 
 
 " Six, Baas I why, my lady at the castle never wears mow 
 than five, even on a Sunday." ^ 
 
 " K Lisa would do what I wish, she would wear ten. He 
 who has may use, and he who can pay may buy. You should 
 •ee her, were it only for once, appear before the peasants as 
 * my lady' ought, Kobe, with a satin hat adorned with flowers, 
 like those that blossom at the castle in winter." 
 
 "Camellias, Baas?" 
 
 " Yes, camellias. Just conceive, Kobe ; they had ornament- 
 ed her hat with imitations of com and buckwheat I But I 
 quickly ordered the peasant-emblems to be torn off. Give me 
 my waistcoat ; but do not let your hands come too near it." 
 
 " That is an art I have not learned. Baas." 
 
 " Blockhead I I mean, take it up with your handkerchief." 
 
 "Very well. Baas." 
 
 " Tell me, Kobe, do you fully realize to yourself me sitting 
 ftt the table in the chateau ? Lisa between me and the Baron. 
 Do you hear what pretty compliments we pay to each other, 
 and what fine things we say ? And then drinking all sorts of 
 foreign wine, and eating game prepared with sauces, whose 
 very names the devil himself could not remember ; in golden 
 dishes, too, with silver spoons I " 
 
 ** Oh, Baas, say no more, if you will be so good ! I feel «• 
 hungry as a dog with the very thought of it all." 
 
 " And you have good reason too, Kobe. But I do not wish 
 to be happy while others are not. There is still half a hare 
 which was left yesterday — ^you can feast upon that ; and take 
 two glasses of ale in addition." 
 
 " You are very kind. Baas." 
 
 " And in the afternoon, you may come to the hunting-box 
 to lee if I have any orders for you." 
 
a TALBf OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 " Tell me, Kobd, is Lisa dressed ?" 
 
 **I don't know. When I fetched fresh water, not loBf 
 igo, she was still sitting at the table." 
 
 ** What clothes had she on ?" 
 
 " Her ordinary Sunday clothes, I think." 
 
 " Did she tell you that I showed the brewer to the door 
 yesterday?" 
 
 " I saw that she was very desponding, Baas. But I never 
 inquire into matters which do not concern me. He is a fool 
 who burns his finger in another man's pot." 
 
 " You are right there, Kobe ; but I am master, and may 
 tell you all about it, if it pleases me to do so. Could you be- 
 lieve it ? she has still so great a love for that mad Charles as 
 to refase to go to dine at the hunting-box, because she saw the 
 milksop shed tears as he went out of the house. I have had 
 to talk with her the whole night to overcome her obstinacy." 
 
 " Has she at last consented to go, then?" 
 
 " What I she has no right to say yes or no in the matter— 
 I am master here." 
 
 " True, Baas." 
 
 " Why, what do you think ? she has had the impudence to 
 ■ay she will not marry the Baron." 
 
 "Sol" 
 
 " Yes ; and that she will remain unmarried all her life, if 
 she cannot get that awkward Charles for a husband. She 
 would look very fine sitting there in the dirty brewery, beside 
 the kitchen pot, with a spinning-wheel before her I And if 
 she wished to go to town at any time, she could mount the 
 beer-cart, eh, Kob^?" 
 
 " Yes, Baas." 
 
 " Come, give me my gloves, T am ready. But now to see 
 after Lisa : perhaps she has still some fancies that requiro to \m 
 
Mim Hoer gansendonck. 16S 
 
 iriyen out of her. Yesterday evening, at any rate, she refused 
 to have anything to do with the six flounces which were at- 
 tached to her new dress. Like it or not like it, she shall 
 clothe herself as I think best." 
 
 Lisa was sitting at the window of the front room. There 
 was a sad and anxions expression on her pale face ; she held 
 a needle in one hand and a piece of embroidery in the other, 
 but her thoughts evidently wandered far from her work, for 
 the sat idle and motionless. 
 
 "What does this mean?" cried mine host, with no small 
 annoyance. " Here am I, dressed from head to foot, while you 
 sit there as if nothing were going on at all." 
 
 " I am ready, father," replied Lisa, in a tone at once kind 
 and cold. 
 
 " There again ; * Father I' * father I' Do you wiah me to 
 jump out of my skin ?" 
 
 " I am ready, papa," she repeated. 
 
 " Stand np," said Baas Gansendonck, with a stem counte- 
 nance. " What dress is that you have on ?" 
 
 " My Sunday dress, papa." 
 
 " Go quickly, and put on your new clothes, and your hat 
 with the flowers." 
 
 Lisa hung her head ; but made no reply. 
 
 " How now, how long is this to last?" screamed Gansen- 
 donck. " Will you speak, or will you not ?" 
 
 "Ah, papal" entreated Lisa, "do not force me to put on 
 ■uch clothes. The dress and the hat do not suit our station. 
 I have not courage to go through the village with them. You 
 insist that I should accompany you to the chateau, though I 
 have begged on my knees to be left at home. Well then, 
 I consent to go, since it must be so ; but, for Heaven's sake 
 let me go in my usual Sunday clothes." 
 
 ^ With a peasant's hood on ! and vrith only on« flounce ob 
 
164 TALES OF FLEMIBH Lin. 
 
 your dress I" said mine host Gansendonck, contemptnouily. 
 " You will look very beautiful with such a dress, sitting at a 
 table with golden dishes and silver spoons 1 Come, come, 
 make no more words about it. On with your new dress and 
 your hat. I will have it so/' 
 
 " Yon may do what you think proper, papa I" sighed Lisa, 
 hanging her head with a look of deep vexation. " You may 
 rail at me, punish me, but that new dress I will not put on — 
 that hat I will not wear." 
 
 From the corner of the fireplace, Kobe nodded his head 
 approvingly. Mine host turned sharply to his servant, and 
 said with fury in his face and voice — 
 
 " How now, what say you to a daughter who dares to 
 speak so to her father?" 
 
 " Possibly she is right. Baas." 
 
 " What do you say ? you too ? Have you plotted together 
 to make me burst with vexation ? I will teach you manners, 
 you ungrateful scoundrel I To-morrow you pack off." 
 
 " But, my dear host, you don't understand me," replied 
 Kobe with an assumed fear. " I mean to say, Lisa might be 
 right — if she were not wrong." 
 
 " Ha ! then be good enough to speak more plainly another 
 time." 
 
 "Yes, Baas." 
 
 " And you, Lisa, make haste I Whether it pleases you or 
 not, you shall obey me, even if I have to dress you by main 
 force." 
 
 The poor girl burst into tears, but this only annoyed her 
 father more — for he muttered passionately to himself and 
 knocked the chairs about. 
 
 " Better still 1 " he cried. " Cry away there for an hour oi 
 two, and then you will be a beautiful object, with a pair d 
 eyM as red as a white rabbit's ! I will not permit you to 
 
mME HOST GANSENDONCX. 16< 
 
 ■hed a tear, I tell you — ^for it is merely a trick to he allowed 
 to stay at home." 
 
 Lisa said nothiug, but wept on. 
 
 " Come," said Baas with impatience, " if it cannot be other- 
 wise, dress yourself as you please ; but stop crying, I beseech 
 you. For Heaven's sake, Lisa, make an end of it." 
 
 She rose and went down stairs without saying a word, to 
 prepare for the visit. 
 
 She had scarcely left the room when Herr von Bruinkasteel 
 entered, and said to Gansendonck — 
 
 " Why are you so long of coming, Herr von Gansendonck? 
 I was beginning to fear that something had occurred to pre- 
 vent you. We have been expecting you this hour." 
 
 " It is Lisa's fault," replied mine host ; " I had ordered a 
 new dress and satin hat for her; I don't know what hag 
 put it into her head, but she refuses to put on any of her new 
 clothes." 
 
 " She is quite right, my dear Herr von Gansendonck. She 
 is pretty enough without them." 
 
 " Fine clothes won't make her look worse, my dear Herr 
 Victor." 
 
 Lisa returned and greeted the Baron with a quiet friendli- 
 ness. One could read her misery in her eyes ; and it could 
 easily be seen that she had been weeping. She wore her 
 ordinary silk dress, with the simple border, and had a clean 
 and very fine lace hood over her head. She took her father's 
 arm, purposely to avoid walking with the Baron ; but mine 
 host took away his arm, and kept at a little distance from 
 her, as if he would compel the Baron to offer his. Herr 
 Victor affected not to perceive it. Perhaps he thought that 
 it was unbecoming for him, as well as for her, to go arm 
 in arm through the village. After some polite words, aa 
 (o who ihould go first out, they left the house, mine hoift 
 
16$ TALES OF FLEMISH LOTU 
 
 making a Tiitae of necessity and giving his ann to his dangk* 
 ter. On the way, he said sharply — 
 
 " Do yon see now, yon self-willed girl, that if yon had pnt 
 on yonr beautiful new dress and fine hat with the flowers, the 
 Baron would have given you his arm ? Now he will not do 
 it ; yon are too poorly dressed — that is what comes of it all." 
 
 It was necessary to pass the brewery. There, behind the 
 stable-wall, Lisa saw Charles standing. With folded arms 
 and sunken head, he looked at her sorrowfully, but without 
 manifesting either vexation or surprise. One could read in 
 his countenance nothing but exhaustion, dejection, and calm 
 despair. Lisa uttered an exclamation of surprise, and tearing 
 herself from her father, ran to Charles, and took his hands 
 tremblingly in hers, addressing to him a few confused but 
 affectionate and consolatory words. Gansendonck hastily ap- 
 proachfd the two lovers, and looking fiercely at the brewer, 
 dragged his daughter forward. 
 
 Silently and ^1 of melancholy forebodings, Lisa went U 
 tfaa hxmtiiig-box of Heir von BroinkasteeL 
 
HOST OANBENDOHOl. 147 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 ** Pride i» the sonroe of aU eTfl.* 
 
 Late in the afternoon, Charles might be seen standing 
 among some high copse, leaning his back on a birch-tree. 
 There before him, on the other side of the ditch, lay the 
 hnnting-box of Herr Ton Bruinkasteel. 
 
 The young man had stood long in this solitary spot ; he 
 did not himself know how or why he had come there. As 
 he sauntered carelessly through the fields, his soul full of 
 horrible fancies, his heart had led him to this place, where he 
 was to drain a cup of sorrow more bitter than any he had yet 
 tasted. There he stood now, like an insensible statue, with 
 his eyes fixed immovably on the Baron's dwelling ; and the 
 only sign of life which was visible, was from time to time a 
 Bmile of despair, or a trembling of his limbs. His soul was 
 <m the rack, and his self-torturing imagination penetrated 
 through the walls, on the other side of which he knew Lisa 
 wafi sitting. He saw her by the Baron's side, and heard his 
 expressions of love and his seductive flatteries; he caught 
 him in the act of directing fond glances to his bride ; and 
 saw Baas Gansendonck frowning down his daughter's modesty, 
 and then— the weak Lisa knew no longer what to do. She 
 let the Baron take her hand, and did not resent with in- 
 digpciation those immodest glances of the shameless wanton, 
 themselves sufficient to stain the purity of a virgin soul. 
 
 Poor Charles ! inflicting a thousand wounds on hit heart| 
 
168 TALES OF FLEMISH UFR. 
 
 and compelling his oyer-excited fancy to revel in its own 
 norrible pictures, that he might drain the cup of sorrow to th« 
 very dregs I 
 
 After he had given himself up for a long time to these ter- 
 rible thoughts, he gradually became quite unconscious of out 
 ward objects, and fell into a deep reverie. The mental tension 
 from which he had been suffering was relaxed ; his face now 
 had only the calm expression of weariness, and, with sunken 
 head and half-shut eyes, he gazed intently on the ground. — 
 Suddenly the distant tones of a harp struck his ear, accom- 
 panied with the almost inaudible sound of a man's voice. 
 Unintelligible as the song was at such a distance, it had a 
 powerful effect on the young man's soul. Trembling like a 
 leafj and vengeance depicted in every feature, he sprang up as 
 if a snake had bitten him. His eyes shot fire, he ground hii 
 teeth, and convulsively clenched his fist. He knew the ac- 
 cursed song ; that morning already he had heard it like a voice 
 from hell speaking to Lisa its wanton and shameless senti- 
 ment. Those debasing words which Lisa had sung with that 
 traitorous noble, still burned agonizingly in his heart. In 
 his despair, the young man broke the oak branches in pieces, 
 and muttered horrible things. The tones of the song became 
 clearer. — "«/« vous aimel" resounded through the oak-trees; 
 and sung by the Baron with such fire, with such earnest feel- 
 ing, that it was impossible that it could be directed to any 
 one but Lisa. Quite beside himself and scarcely knowing what 
 he did, Charles ran through the ditch, and clambering up the 
 other side, disappeared among the thick foliage of some 
 hazel-bushes which lined a broad path. Carefully concealing 
 himself he crept like a wild beast through the bushes till he 
 had reached a dark arbour. There were here two beech-trees 
 at a short distance from each other, and their branches had 
 been carefully intertwined, so as to form a deep shade over- 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDONCK. l$f 
 
 head. Although the last rays of the sun were still falling on 
 one side of the trees, and a few leaves here and there lay like 
 gleaming points of light among the deep green of the rest, 
 this retreat was dark and gloomy. The young man slipped 
 across the avenue, and approached the house and the room in 
 which the Baron and his guests were sitting. Three or four 
 paces from a window of this room, stood several large shrubs, 
 whose blossoms in summer must have filled the whole house 
 with their delicious odours. In this place of concealment 
 stood Charles, and saw from it into the room where the Baron's 
 party was assembled. 
 
 How his heart beat and his blood boiled ! He could 
 observe everything and hear everything, for the calm air 
 without and the gaiety within united to render everything 
 audible. — It appeared as if one of the company was forcing 
 Lisa to do something against her will. It was the Baron, who 
 drew her with gentle force to the piano, while her father pushed 
 her on without any consideration for her feelings, at the same 
 time saying half- angrily — " Lisa I Lisa I your obstinacy will 
 make me leap out of my skin yet. What you have done once 
 to-day already, you can surely do again. The gentlemen beg 
 you very kindly to sing that little song once more, and yon 
 are so disobliging as to refuse. You have no occasion to 
 hide your voice, girl 1 it can afford to let itself be heard." 
 
 The Baron again entreated her ; the father angrily com- 
 manded, and Lisa obeyed. She began to sing with the piano 
 accompaniment, and along with the Baron— 
 
 "Pltlfi 1 mon trouble est extrtme— 
 Ah 1 dites ' Je toob aime !' 
 JcTouBaime!" 
 
 —The branches of the shrubs moved restlessly, as if the 
 wind had stirred them. — 
 Mine host Gansendonck almost lost his senses with exult* 
 
170 TALES OF FLEMISH UFK. 
 
 tion. His face beamed and grew red with self-complaoency. 
 He kept rubbing his hands, and spoke so freely, boldly, and 89 
 unceasingly, that a stranger would have taken him for the 
 owner of the castle. Standing beside the piano, he nodded 
 his head and kept wrong time with hin heavy foot, calling 
 out to his daughter in the pauses — 
 
 "Louder — quicker I Ah I that is good. Bravo!" 
 
 Adolph and his companions, and even Victor himself made 
 fiin of him, but he did not perceive it. He considered their 
 loud laughter, on the contrary, a sign of good feeling and friend- 
 liness on their part. Scarcely was the song finished when 
 Adolph ran his fingers over the notes, and then began a quick 
 waltz ; and of so alluring a kind, that mine host, as soon as he 
 heard it, felt a great desire to dance, and, in fact, had erected 
 himself on his tiptoes, as if he meant to hop round the room. 
 
 " A dance I a dance I" he cried. " Our Lisa is a capital 
 dancer. One would think she was actually gliding along the 
 moment she raises her feet." 
 
 The poor girl, who had already been compelled to sing 
 much against her will, began to move as far from the piano 
 as possible, that she might escape her father's order this time. 
 But he led her back into the middle of the room, and gave 
 the Baron an inviting nod. 
 
 Briskly and joyfriUy he sprang forward, and throwing his 
 arms round the girl, forcibly whirled her along five or six steps. 
 
 — ^From among the shrubs, there issued a.deep groan, pain- 
 ful and horrible, like the last sigh of a dying lion ; within, all 
 were too much occupied to pay any attention to this voice of 
 anger and sorrow. — 
 
 As Lisa resolutely refused to dance, and let herself be 
 dragged along without making any effort herself, Herr Victor 
 had to give it up. He begged pardon of the blushing girl 
 with a profusion of fine phrases, and neither her visible annoj- 
 
MZHB HOST GANBEin>ONCK. 171 
 
 nor her refusal seemed to make any impression npon 
 him. The light-headed young man seemed to be merely 
 amusing himself ; to all appearance he saw in Lisa nothing 
 but a pretty innocent young girl, with whom he could plea- 
 santly pass the time. Had a deeper feeling attracted him 
 towards her, one would have expected to see him hurt or 
 annoyed by her coldness ; but he seemed not to heed it in the 
 least. With a slight bow, he offered Lisa his arm, which 
 she dared not refuse, and then said to the others — " Come, let 
 Ufl have a walk in the garden till the lights are brought in I 
 Do not take it ill, friends, that I act the cavalier to Miss Lisa." 
 
 All left the room and the house, and betook themselves to the 
 shadiest parts of the garden. Many ways presented themselves 
 to them. The Baron led Lisa towards a bed of dahlias, while 
 Adolph and his companions immediately struck into another 
 path. With terror and anxiety, the young girl saw her father 
 likewise taking a different road. She threw an imploring look 
 towards him, and would have left the Baron ; but Baas Gan- 
 Bendonck ordered her, with assumed anger, to follow her com- 
 panion, and then ran laughing to Adolph, as if he had done 
 Bomething very fine. Lisa trembled ; her maiden conscience 
 told her she was doing wrong in walking alone through solitary 
 paths arm in arm with the Baron. Meanwhile, he said nothing 
 unbecoming, and at the other end of the path she met her 
 fother again. Would it not be a coarse and awkward thing 
 to let the Baron stand, and run away from him like an ill-bred 
 peasant girl? With these thoughts, she accompanied the 
 young man without resistance — giving him, however, nothing 
 but monosyllabic and confused replies. Immediately after, 
 they all disappeared down a deeply-shaded and winding path. 
 
 The unhappy Charles was in a fever of excitement, and 
 Buffered inexpressible torture. More than twenty times al- 
 iMidy had the revenge which burned so fiercely m hii Ipoeon 
 
TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 urgeii him to spring out of his hiding-place and strike down tlit 
 seducer ; but then the image of his mother on her knees j re- 
 sented itself to him. And thus driven hither and thither — on 
 the one hand by his rising revenge, and on the other by the warn- 
 ing feeling of filial love — rage, grief, despair, and duty roused 
 a tempest of tumultuous feeling in his soul. Such a madness, 
 indeed, had taken possession of him, that his very breath felt 
 like a glowing flame upon his face. Suddenly he heard, only 
 a few paces from him, the Baron's insinuating voice, and saw 
 Lisa walking with hold of his arm with a calm and melan- 
 choly countenance. Both struck into the path that led to- 
 wards the shrubbery, and then passed down the dark avenue. 
 
 When only a few paces from the spot where Charles stood 
 watching their movements with repressed breath and intense 
 anxiety, Lisa perceived the gloomy solitude which they were ap- 
 proaching. She requested the Baron to take her back to her 
 father ; but he only held her all the more tightly by the arm, 
 and laughed at her fear to go with him through the avenue. 
 When she felt that he insisted on her accompanying him, she 
 trembled like a leaf, and grew pale with alarm. The noble- 
 man, however, paid no attention to it ; perhaps he believed it 
 was only affectation, and even began to drag her towards the 
 avenue with a mixture of jest and force, and partly succeeded 
 in his object. 
 
 " Father I father 1 " cried Lisa quickly with a piercing cry oi 
 alarm. More quickly still, she uttered another and more 
 terrible cry ; for before she could say a word, two powerful 
 hands were laid on the Baron's shoulder, and he was hurled 
 to the ground. 
 
 Kaging, the Baron rose, tore a dahlia- pole from the ground, 
 and rushed upon Charles, who stood waiting his attack, his 
 brea«t heaving with revenge and fury. The Baron succeeded 
 in striking Charles such a blow upon the head, that the blood 
 
MINB HOST OANSENDONCK. 178 
 
 fao down liis face; and this was tbe signal for a violent 
 straggle. Charles seized his enemy by the legs, lifted him 
 into the air, and threw him to the ground like a stone. Not- 
 withstanding this, the Baron offered a stout resistance to the 
 young man, till the latter, lifting him in his arms, threw him 
 ft third time on the ground, and planting his knee on his 
 breast, beat him violently about the face. 
 
 Lisa had stood for a moment screaming, till she saw the 
 first drops of blood ; she had then taken flight, and had fallen 
 to the ground in a swoon a short distance off. Her cries for 
 help, however, had fortunately been heard by the guests, 
 and even by the servants, and had filled them with alarm. 
 They all now arrived on the scene of combat ixom various 
 directions, and tore the young man from the Baron's body. 
 Adolph ordered the servants to arrest him, and five or six of 
 them went up to him and took him by the arm, while he 
 looked at his enemy whom he had handled so severely with a 
 wild confused expression, and a half-unconscious smile. 
 
 Gansendonck, now tearing his hair wildly, thinking that hia 
 daughter had been murdered, hastened towards her. 
 
 Adolph and his friend assisted Herr von Bruinkasteel to 
 rise. He was sadly disfigured in face and person ; still he 
 had strength enough left to express his indignation passion- 
 ately, when he saw the brewer standing before him. 
 
 " Villain ! " he cried, " I could have you beat to death by 
 my servants ; but the scaffold will avenge me on my assassin. 
 Lock him up in the cellar; and you, Stephen, run for the 
 gendarmes I" 
 
 The servants were about to drag the young man along, m 
 order to execute their master's order ; but so soon as he per- 
 ceived their intention, he tore himself loose from them, knocked 
 down one who tried to intercept his progress, and dashing 
 through the water, vanished round a corner of the fir-wood. 
 
If 4 TALKS OF FLEMISH LOHk 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 «• Smooth water ruiu deepu" 
 
 Oh the morning of tlie following day, Lisa Gansendonc« 
 ■at behind the window-curtain in a side-room of the St. Se- 
 bastian. The excessive paleness of her face, and the flush 
 upon her cheeks, showed that she was exhausted with weep- 
 ing. 
 
 Wearied though Lisa was with anxiety and grie^ her 
 features yet indicated a restless excitement of mind, and her 
 convulsive movements betrayed the secret tumult of her soul. 
 It was as if some overpowering terror or agonizing expecta- 
 tion oppressed her heart, for now and then she looked anxiously 
 through the window, and kept her eyes fixed on the road with 
 visible fear, till some passer-by stood still and looked up at the 
 house. Then although she could not be seen from without, 
 she instinctively drew back her head, and a deep blush over- 
 spread her face. She looked down ashamed, as if she would 
 fain flee from the accusing glances of the people ; and then sat 
 for a long time in the deepest silence, only again to approach 
 the window and look into the street with a painful curiosity. 
 
 What was she expecting ? She herself did not know ; but 
 her conscience gnawed like a worm at her heart. Charles's 
 form hovered continually before her, and called loudly out to 
 her that she was the guilty cause of all the agony which hif 
 too fbcd heart had endured. Her excited and texrifiod ii 
 
KIKE HOtT OAMSKNDOKCK. 17S 
 
 gination seemed to hear all that the villagers said abont her ; 
 aod now, for the first time, she saw clearly that her reputation 
 was gone, and that Charles would with good reason cast her 
 from him for ever. Therefore it was that she trembled and 
 blushed before the looks of the passers-by ; for she saw in 
 their faces that they spoke of the event of yesterday, and that 
 mockery, contempt, and anger accompanied their remarks. 
 Yes, she had even seen some peasants shake their fists 
 threateningly at the house, as if they had sworn to take re- 
 venge for the disgrace which had been cast on the whole 
 village by Gansendonck's daughter. 
 
 While Lisa sat in the side-room, drinking deep draughts of 
 the cup of shame and remorse, Kobe crouched quietly and 
 alone by the inn hearth. He held his pipe in his hand, but 
 did not smoke. He appeared to be full of anxiety, and lost 
 in deep reflection, and a very unusual expression was depicted 
 on his face. One could read in it condemnation, sternness, 
 and even indignation; his lips moved as if speaking, and 
 his eyes sparkled with vexation and anger. 
 
 Suddenly he thought he heard Baas Gansendonck's voice. 
 A smile of compassion played round his mouth for a moment, 
 but as quickly disappeared, and gave place to his former 
 anxious and troubled look. 
 
 So soon as mine host approached the back door of the house, 
 Kob^ heard him blustering and railing at some people who 
 had evidently been abusing him, but could not make out who 
 or what had put him in such a fury ; and indeed it seemed 
 all one to Kobe, for without disturbing himself, he sat by 
 the hearth comer, calmly awaiting his master's entrance. 
 In less than a minute mine host came tumbling rather than 
 walking into the house, stamping his feet like a maniac, and 
 striking the chairs right and left with his stafi^ as if they 
 had insnlted hixn. 
 
17i TALES OF FLEMISH LXFB. 
 
 " This is going too far I yes, too far indeed I " he exclaimecL 
 " What I a man like me 1 What I they will dare even to 
 shake their fists at me in the open street I Call after me I 
 insult me I dare even to reproach me I — call me villain I ass ! 
 Think of that, Kobe I Must they not be possessed by the 
 devil ? The shameless boors actually ran after me out of the 
 smithy, shouting, *A scandal! a scandal!' Had I not re- 
 strained myself, just because I did not wish to defile my hands 
 on the rabble, I would have broken two or three of their 
 heads. But Sus shall pay for all these lubberly scoundreli 
 at once. I HI teach him to throw mud at Baas Gansendonck I 
 We shall see if I can't make him laugh on the wrong side of 
 his mouth ; if it were to cost half my wealth, I'll make him 
 pay terribly for this. I shall call in the gendarmes ; and if 
 any one ventures even to make a face at me, I shall summon 
 the whole village to court. I have money enough to manage 
 that, thank Heaven ; and Herr von Bruinkasteel, who is a 
 friend of the Attorney-general, will know how to give them a 
 few weeks in the lock-up. Then, perhaps, they will learn 
 manners, and find out whom they have to deal with, the 
 clowns! This thing must have an end. Since they have 
 insulted me so barefacedly, I will have no more pity, but let 
 them feel what Baas Gansendonck can do. Now that this has 
 once occurred, there's an end to everything like mercy I" 
 
 The raging Baas would apparently have raved on for a 
 long time in this abusive style, had not breath failed him. 
 Panting with his exertion, he threw himself on a chair, and 
 looked with surprise and irritation at the indifierent way in 
 which Kobe looked into the fire, as if he had heard nothing, 
 his face expressive only of annoyance. 
 
 " What do you mean by sitting idly and stupidly there," 
 cried Baas, "like one who could not count three ? An idle life ii 
 the ruin of yon, Kobe I I don't know how it is, but you art 
 
MUTE HOST GANSENDONCIU 177 
 
 growing as lazy and stnpid as a pig. Now, this is not agree- 
 able to me. My servant must have some spirit in him, and 
 not remain as cold as ice when I am angry I" 
 
 Kob^ looked at his master with an expression of sadnesi 
 and pity. 
 
 "Ah, you have the colic again, have you?" cried Gansen- 
 donck. " It pains me very deeply to hear it. Do you think 
 the St. Sebastian is an hospital? You shall not have the 
 colic, I tell you ; you must eat less, you glutton I How now, 
 do you mean to speak or not ?" 
 
 " I would speak with pleasure," replied Kobe, " if I did not 
 know that, at the very first word, you would make me shut my 
 mouth, and then break out as usual and sing a long litany." 
 
 " Ha I what way of talking is this ? You had better say 
 at once that I am a babbler j do not beat about the bush ; 
 everybody must now have a hit at Baas Gansendonck's back, 
 it seems. You had better take up a stone and throw it at him 
 who feeds you." 
 
 " There, you see I " said Kobe, with a smile of annoyance ; 
 ** I have said only six words, and already you have mounted 
 your high horse. I will avoid saying any harm of you. Baas ; 
 but you must grant that it would be an active spider that could 
 epin a web across your mouth." 
 
 " I am master here, and may have all the talk to myself if 
 I please." 
 
 ** Indeed, Baas I then let me be silent, were it to choke me." 
 
 " Silent I no, that I will not. You shall speak. I am 
 cnrious to see what good can possibly come out of such a 
 blockhead." 
 
 " Smooth water runs deep. Baas." 
 
 " How now — explain ; but do not speak too long ; and bear 
 in mind especially that I do not pay my servant to be in- 
 ftnioted by him/' 
 
TALES OP FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 ••There is a proverb, Baas, which says, *The wise man 
 goes to take counsel of the fool, and finds truth there,* " 
 
 " Now, then, let me hear what advice the fool can give to 
 the wise man. If you will speak rationally, I will perhaps 
 listen to you a little.'* 
 
 The servant turned his chair in front cf his master, and 
 ■aid, with a free and bold bearing — 
 
 "Baas, during these two months, things have happened 
 here which even a stupid servant cannot see without feeling 
 his blood boil." 
 
 "I believe you; but it shall not last long, Kob^; the 
 gendarmes are not paid to catch flies." 
 
 " As for me. Baas, I am a good-for-nothing idler, I confess ; 
 but my heart is good. I would do much to rescue our brave 
 little Lisa out of misfortune, if I had the power ; and I do 
 not forget. Baas, that you, with all your pride, have been kind 
 to me." 
 
 " That is true, Kobe," said Baas, a little moved. " I am 
 glad to hear that you are grateful to me. But what is the 
 particular object of all this seriousness?" 
 
 " Do not put the cart before the horse. Baas. I shall draw 
 the painful thread soon enough." 
 
 " Make it short, or I shall run out of the house." 
 
 " Now, then, if you will but listen to me for a moment : 
 Lisa has been long betrothed to Charles, who is a good young 
 man, spite of this imprudent act." 
 
 "A good young man!" screamed Baas; "how can you 
 call him a good young man, who, like an assassin, attacked 
 Herr von Bruinkasteel in his own house ?" 
 
 " The best horse will make a false step." 
 
 " So I you call that making a false step, do you ? He is 
 a good young man, is he ? That word will cost you dear. 
 There ii an end to your living here ; this very day pa,qk ofL** 
 
mNB HOST OANSENDONCK. 17f 
 
 ** As yon please, Baas ; my things are already packed," re- 
 plied Kobe drily. " But before I go, you must hear what lies 
 on my heart ; you must hear it, were I to chase you into the 
 fields, or the street, or even into your own bedroom. It is my 
 duty, and the only thanks I can give you for your kindness. 
 Your expelling me from the house does not surprise me in the 
 least ; truth finds harbour nowhere." 
 
 Mine host beat his feet impatiently on the ground ; but he 
 said nothing, for the earnest and self-possessed tone of his ser- 
 vant surprised and overpowered him. 
 
 " Our Lisa," continued Kobe, " would have been happy 
 with Charles ; but you. Baas, have brought the fox to your 
 own geese — invited a frivolous young man into your house, 
 and encouraged him to utter his pernicious sentiments in your 
 daughter's ears, to talk to her of a feigned passion, and sing 
 love-songs which run right in the face of all that is delicate 
 and honourable." 
 
 ** It is false," muttered Baas. 
 
 " It has been your wish that he should speak French with 
 your daughter ; and could you know what he said without un- 
 derstanding a word of the language?" 
 
 " And you, you thick-skulled booby, do you understand it so 
 marvellously well as to dare to give your opinion so impu- 
 dently?" 
 
 " I understood enough to perceive that the devils of wan- 
 tonness and mockery were both at work. What has been the 
 result of all your imprudence ? The honour of your daughter 
 stained — if not in fact, at least in the thoughts of the people 
 — ^to such an extent that she can never again entirely regain 
 her character. Charles, the only man who honestly loved 
 her, and could have made her happy, dies of grief and despair ; 
 and his poor old mother is laid on a bed of sickness through 
 sorrow for the sufiferings of her only son. And you, Baas, jcm 
 
180 TALES OF FLEMISH LEVI. 
 
 are detested and despised by everybody ; all say that yon art 
 the guilty cause of Charles's death, your daughter's shamei, 
 and your own misfortune." 
 
 " Yes, when one wishes the dog dead, it is easy to get up 
 the cry that he is mad ; but what has all this to do with the 
 matter?" screamed Baas in his fury. " It has nothing to do 
 with it ; I shall do what I please. And you, you shameless 
 scoundrel I will get what you deserve for putting your nose 
 into a business that does not concern you." 
 
 " It matters little to me whether my words please you or 
 not ; they are the last which I shall speak in the St. Sebas- 
 tian." 
 
 Baas Gansendonck, spite of his threats, was evidently ex- 
 cessively fond of his servant, and was very unwilling that he 
 should leave him ; for the moment the latter had announced 
 his intention to leave his service, mine host's anger was sud- 
 denly allayed, and he listened to him without interruption, 
 
 Kobe therefore continued — 
 
 " What is to come of all this? Is one to say with the pro- 
 verb, * The pitcher goes long to the well, but is broken at 
 last' ? No ; your daughter's chastity will protect her from 
 any deeper shame. The Baron will grow weary of Lisa's 
 society, and seek other pastime ; Lisa will remain where she 
 is, avoided in future by every right-thinking person ; you will 
 be the people's butt ; and all will rejoice at your disappoint- 
 ment and confusion," 
 
 " But, Kobe, who can please everybody ? He who builds 
 in the street has many critics. I do not understand your stu- 
 pidity ; or do yon not know how matters actually stand ? The 
 Baron means to marry Lisa ; there is not the slightest doubt 
 about that — a child might see it ; and then shall all the ill 
 tongues in the village, and you with them, stand gaping, their 
 •yet wide open, like a heap of owls in the funshine. Yei| 
 
MINE HOST OANSENDONCi:. 181 
 
 were I not gore of that, the people might have some reajson oc 
 their side ; though, in any case, they need not trouble their 
 heads about it, for I am master in my own house." 
 
 " So I the Baron will marry Lisa, will he ? That would 
 be all very well, and you would have a fine feather in your 
 cap. Baas. But tviU and ought are different words. Will you 
 let me ask you a question ?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Has the Baron spoken to you of marriage yet ?" 
 
 " That is not necessary." 
 
 " Indeed ! Then have you inquired what his intentioiii 
 are?" 
 
 " That is not necessary either." 
 
 " Has the Baron spoken to Lisa of marriage ?" 
 
 " What a childish question, Kobe I He would require to 
 ask Lisa for her consent, forsooth, when he knows that I alone 
 am master here, and that it is I who must determine ; that 
 would never do." 
 
 " No I But perhaps you are not aware that the Baron 
 laughed at you and your daughter, when the doctor asked 
 him in the churchyard, in the presence of more than ten 
 people, whether he intended to marry Lisa ? " 
 
 ** What is that you say — Herr von Bruinkasteel laughed at 
 me?" 
 
 ** He asked the doctor whether he could believe that he, a 
 Baron, would marry a girl out of a country tavern ; and when 
 some one said that you had already spoken with the notary 
 about the marriage-contract, he exclaimed, * The daughter is 
 a fine girl ; but the father is a completely-developed fool, and 
 should have been in bedlam long ago.' " 
 
 The moment Kob^ said this. Baas sprang up from hia seat 
 as if some one had suddenly trod on his toes. 
 
 "What do yon say there?" he exclaimed, with a threaten* 
 
182 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 ing mien. "/ should have been in bedlam? Wtat baa 
 come over yon ? Have you lost your senses entirely ? It if 
 true, after all, * A mad dog bites even bis own master.' " 
 
 " I am only repeating to you what ten men beard as well 
 as myself. Believe it or not, as you please. Baas. What is 
 the use of " — 
 
 " Yes, say it all out. What is the use of spectacles, if the 
 owl will not see ? I can't understand why I do not pitch yoB 
 out of doors." 
 
 " What is the use of the light to him who keeps his eyes 
 fast shut?" continued Kob^. " The Baron made some other 
 observations on your character, beside that." 
 
 " No, no ; it is not true, cannot be true. You believe like 
 a simpleton all the slanders which people retail, who are burst- 
 ing with envy because I have more money than they, and be- 
 cause they foresee that Lisa will be a fine lady, to the vexa- 
 tion of every one who grudges her the good fortune." 
 
 " When the blind man dreams that he sees, he sees only 
 what he wishes to see," sighed Kobe. "For your wound 
 there is no salve, Baas ; therefore I cannot help you ; and 
 80 I say with the proverb, * As you brew, you must bake. 
 Act as it pleases you, and marry your daughter to-morrow." 
 
 " Everything you have told me is only the invention of en- 
 vious people, and nothing more." 
 
 " The doctor does not envy you, Baas ; he is a quiet, pru- 
 dent man — perhaps the only one in the village now who con- 
 tinues friendly to you He himself urged me to open your 
 eyes, even against your will, to the danger to which you were 
 exposing yourself." 
 
 " But the doctor has been deceived too, Kobe ; they have 
 told him lies of all sorts. It can't be otherwise, I tell you. 
 It would be a fine story, to be sure, if the Baron were not ia 
 manyLisal" 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDONCK* ItS 
 
 •* Yon can't be sure of your chickens till the eggs are liaid. 
 Baas." 
 
 " I am as certain of being right as I am of knowing my 
 father's name." 
 
 " You are riding the horse before you are in the saddle. I 
 tell you, Baas, the Baron makes sport of you, and laughs at 
 you, and accounts you a blockhead at best. I tell you, you 
 are blind I I pity you and Lisa from my heart. I leave this 
 early to-morrow morning, that I may not see the end of the 
 melancholy story ; and if you would but open your ears. Baas, 
 I would give you a parting advice as my farewell — very valu- 
 able advice." 
 
 "As your farewell? We shall see about that. Let me 
 hear your precious counsel in the meantime." 
 
 "Why, you see. Baas, the credulous are easily betrayed. 
 Were I in your place, I should know this very day precisely 
 how I stood. I should go straight to the hunting-box, see 
 Herr von Bruinkasteel, and ask him what his intentions are 
 with regard to Lisa. Fine words and evasive phrases should 
 have no effect upon me. I should meet everything with the 
 plain, decisive question — * Do you mean to marry her or not?' 
 I should compel him to deal openly with me, and give once 
 for all a clear and decisive answer. If he refused, which ia 
 very probable, I should then forbid him ever to address an- 
 other word to Lisa ; on the contrary, I should bring things 
 back into the old track — clear myself with Charles, call him 
 back and hasten his marriage with Lisa. That is the only 
 way left you of warding off great suffering and great shame." 
 
 " Well, then, if Herr von Bruinkasteel does not speak with 
 me soon about the marriage, I shall be bold enough to ques- 
 tion him ; but there is no haste." 
 
 " No haste I From hand to mouth is hazardous work. Thii 
 ▼isry day you ought to know what the Baron's intentions are." 
 
184 TALES OF FLEMISH LiFB. 
 
 " Well, well," cried Baas, " this very afternoon I shall go 
 to the hunting-box, and demand from the Baron a final ex- 
 planation. But I know quite well already what his answer 
 will be." 
 
 " I wish you spoke the truth, Baas ; but I fear you baked 
 dough in your New-year's cake." 
 
 " What I that I spoke the truth?" 
 
 " Yes, if it were only for this once." 
 
 " The world has turned upside down," sighed Baas, with 
 no little irritation ; " the servant treats his master as a fool, 
 and I must swallow it too I Play with the ass and he flings 
 his tail in your face. But wait a little, my revenge is at 
 hand. This very afternoon I shall go to the hunting-box. 
 And what will you say, you impudent scoundrel, when I bring 
 back the reply that the Baron means to marry Lisa?" 
 
 " That you alone have sense. Baas, and that every other 
 person, myself not excepted, is an empty blockhead. But 
 what will you say. Baas, if Herr von Bruinkasteel laughs at 
 you?" 
 
 " It is impossible, I tell you." 
 
 " But if it should be so, what then?" 
 
 "i)^ if! If the sky should fall, we should all be dead 
 men." 
 
 " I repeat my question, Baas. If the Baron laughs at you, 
 what then?" 
 
 " Ha 1 Baron or not Baron, I shall show him who I am, 
 and '— 
 
 A loud and terrible scream of agony made the word die on 
 his tongue. Both sprang up, alarmed and anxious, and has- 
 tened to the room in which Lisa was. 
 
 The maiden stood at the window, and looked into the street. 
 She must have seen something fearful, for her lips were con- 
 Talied, and her teeth were pressed convulsively together. Her 
 
IDNE HOST OANSENIK>NCK, 185 
 
 fltralned eyes seemed as if they would leap ont of her head, 
 and she trembled in every limb. Baas Gansendonck had 
 Bcarcely entered the room, when a cry of agony more pierc- 
 ing than the first resounded through it ; and Lisa, throwing 
 up her arms, fell back lifeless on the floor. Baas knelt down 
 beside her, crying for help. 
 
 Kobe went to the window and looked out. He, too, grew 
 pale and trembled ; tears burst from his eyes ; and he was so 
 overwhelmed by what he saw, that he did not hear his mas- 
 ter's call for assistance : for, going along the road which led 
 to the city, Charles might be seen between two gendarmes, 
 with his hands bound at his back. An old woman tottered 
 weeping behind him, and dropped her burning tears in the 
 footsteps of her unhappy son. Sus, the smith, tore his hair, 
 and stormed with rage and grief; and behind there followed 
 a troop of peasant men and women, with downcast eyes and 
 sorrowful faces. More than one handkerchief was in requisi- 
 tion to dry the tears of pity which flowed from many an eye. 
 One would have supposed that it was a funeral processioii ao- 
 oompauying some beloved friend to the grave. 
 
lit VALES OF FLEMISH Ilfl. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 *D ttw MH Is too happy. It is sure to go on the ice and break a l«g.* 
 
 Baas Gansendonck, following his servant's advice, set Cfrt 
 Immediately after dinner to inquire into the Baron's intentions. 
 As he did not wish to pass the smithy, he left his house by 
 the back-door, and struck into a by-path which led through 
 fir-woods, and over a lonely field, to the hunting-box of Herr 
 von Bminkasteel. 
 
 No melancholy was visible in the countenance of mine host 
 Gansendonck, although his daughter had lain in a violent 
 fever since morning. On the contrary, it expressed an assured 
 self-complacency ; and every now and then he smiled — a smile 
 as bright and cheerful as if he had gained some great victory. 
 From the movements of his features, and their varying ex- 
 pression, one could easily see that his mind was occupied with 
 nothing but pleasing fancies, and that he was heedlessly 
 letting his thoughts flow down the stream of hope and delu- 
 sion. He had for a long time muttered to himself in a low 
 tone, and betrayed his inner feelings only by his gestTU-es and 
 expressions ; but at last his imagination became too powerful 
 for him, his voice became gradually louder, and he spoke 
 aloud — 
 
 ** Oh 1 they all conspire against me, and believe, forsooth, 
 that I will yield one foot to their stupid outcry I Baas Gan- 
 sendonck will soon show them what he is and what he can 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDONCK. 187 
 
 do. Some men might say, * Better to have frieuda than 
 enemies ; ' bnt I say, ' Better to be envied than pitied. Every- 
 body's Mend is everybody's fool.' The Baron will not marry 
 Lisa? And he has this very day sent his servants twice to 
 inquire how she is I If I can see anything at all, there is no 
 room for doubt here. Has he not himself often said to me 
 that Lisa is much too good and too refined to be the wife of a 
 coarse peasant ? Has he not added, too, * She must make a 
 better marriage, and render some man happy who can under- 
 stand her worth' ? To me it all seems clear enough. I dare 
 say the rascally boors imagine that a Baron manages these 
 matters like them, and without farther ado says, * Betty, shall 
 we be married?' No ; that is not the way such things are 
 managed in high life. How ? Herr von Bruinkasteel refuse 
 to marry Lisa ? I bet five acres that he will fall on my necK 
 the moment I begin to speak of her. Herr von Bruinkasteel 
 not marry Lisa 1 not marry her I As if I had not perceived 
 why he was always so kind to me, and treated me with such 
 politeness that everybody noticed it I And it always was 
 * Herr von Gansendonck ' here, and * Friend Gansendonck * 
 there. And then the hares which he sent 1 and the partridges 
 he brought I And Lisa never eats game either ; from which it 
 is clear that he meant to curry favour with me. Why ? cer- 
 tainly not for the sake of my beautiful eyes. No, no, he only 
 wished to smooth his way before taking the great final step. 
 I shall make the thing easy for him ; he shall be very merry 
 5ver it." 
 
 Mine host rubbed his hands in his great self-complacency, 
 and was silent for a time, apparently only the better to enjoy 
 his sweet fancies. Suddenly he burst out into a loud laugh 
 and said — 
 
 ** Aha I I think I see them all standing in the village, with 
 as long as my walking-stick. There walks the Barop 
 
188 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 with Lisa on his arm— clothed so gorgeously, that the peasant! 
 have to shut their eyes before the splendour I Four servants, 
 their hats all covered with gold and silver lace, follow him ; 
 and a little behind, the coach and four I I, Peer Gansen- 
 donck, I — walk by the side of Heir Baron von Bruinkasteel, 
 with head elate, and look at the slanderous and envious crea- 
 tures as it beseems a Baron's father-in-law to look at the oom- 
 mon herd. Then we walk on in state till we reach the church ; 
 fine carpets and cushions are all prepared for our use ; the 
 organ plays till the window-panes rattle ; the * I do ' is pro- 
 nounced before the altar, and Lisa is off with her husband, 
 dashing and clattering through the village by special post, so 
 that sparks fly out of the stones. Next morning, at least 
 twenty peasants lie a-bed with vexation and envy. Mean- 
 while, I sell or let the St. Sebastian, and when my son-in-law 
 returns with my daughter, I remove to the Castle. Baas 
 G^ansendonck — ^that is, Herr von Gansendonck — has feathered 
 ais nest indeed : he never does anything afterwards but order, 
 eat, hunt, and take the air on horseback. But while I am 
 thinking of all these glorious things, I am running my nose 
 right on the door of the hunting-box I" 
 
 So Baying, mine host pulled the bell. After waiting for a 
 time, a servant came to the door, and said while opening it — 
 
 " Oh, good-day, Baas I You come, I suppose, to visit his 
 lordship?" 
 
 " I do, fellow," said mine host in a tone of superiority. 
 
 " He is not at home." 
 
 "What I not at home?" 
 
 " That is, he will see nobody." 
 
 " What I he will not see me f That were fine, to be sure 1 
 He is in bed, perhaps?" 
 
 " No, but he will receive no one. You may gueag why : ft 
 black eye, and a face all scarred " — 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDOHCX. l89 
 
 ^What of that? He does not need to conceal his face 
 firom me ; we are intimate enough, the Herr Baron and I, to 
 admit of my seeing him although he is confined to bed. I 
 shall go in ; his order is not meant to apply to me." 
 
 " Come in, then, if you will," said the servant with a cun- 
 ning smile. " Follow me, I shall announce you." 
 
 " That is quite unnecessary," said Baas ; " forms between 
 JIB are superfluous." 
 
 The attendant led him into an ante- chamber, and compelled 
 him, spite of his expostulation, to sit down and wait the 
 Baron's reply. More than half an hour had already elapsed, 
 and the servant had not yet returned. Mine host's choler 
 gradually rose, and he muttered to himself — 
 
 "This fellow means to make sport of me, I see. Very 
 good ; I shall take a note of it. He shall not get gray hairs 
 in our service : he must pack 1 This conduct will get him a 
 reprimand as it is. . . . Were I to listen till I was deaf, I be- 
 lieve I should hear nothing moving in the whole house I Is 
 it possible that the fellow has pretended to' forget that he has 
 left me waiting here ? He could not carry his boorishness so 
 far surely! At all events, I cannot sit here till morning. 
 Aha I there I hear the villain I He laughs. With whon) 
 does he laugh, I wonder?" 
 
 " Baas Gansendonck," said the servant, opening the door, 
 " please to follow me. The Herr Baron has the goodness to 
 receive you ; had it not been for my good word, you should 
 have had to go home again without doing your errand." 
 
 "What is that you say, you ill-mannered rascal?" cried 
 Baas, with irritation. " Do you know whom you are speak- 
 ing to ? I am Herr Gansendonck." 
 
 " And I am Jack Miermans, at your service," replied the 
 servant coldly and contemptuously. 
 
 " I shall know where to find you some other time, fellow 1" 
 
190 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB, 
 
 said mine host, as be went up stairs. " You shall know what 
 it is to have kept me waiting half an hour in an ante-room. 
 Pack up as quickly as you please ; you shall not stay much 
 longer here to make sport of men like me." 
 
 Without replying to the threat, the servant opened the door 
 of the drawing-room, and called out with a loud voice — 
 
 " Mine host from the St. Sebastian," and immediately ran 
 down stairs, letting the enraged Gansendonck stand where he 
 was. 
 
 Herr von Bruinkasteel sat at the upper end of the room, 
 leaning with his elbow on the table. His left eye was covered 
 with a bandage, and his brow and cheeks bore marks of the 
 Btruggle of the preceding night. The object, however, which 
 most of all attracted Gansendonck's attention as he entered, 
 was the Baron's splendid Turkish dressing-gown. The varie- 
 gated velvet-like dress arrested his eyes so powerfully that, 
 with a smile of surprise, he exclaimed, before even greeting 
 the Baron — 
 
 "Heavens, Herr Baron I what a beautiful dressing-gown 
 you have on I " 
 
 " Good-day, Herr Gansendonck I" said the Baron, without 
 paying any attention to him. " You are desirous, I suppose, 
 to learn how it goes with me. I thank you for your kind- 
 
 " Do not be offended, Herr Baron ; but before I inquire 
 after your health, I should like much to know where you bad 
 that dressing-gown made — I cannot get it out of my eyes." 
 
 " Do not make me smile, Herr Gansendonck ; it pains my 
 face very much." 
 
 " I am tt^t joking, Herr Baron ; no, no, I am in solema 
 earnest." 
 
 '^Yoar question is a singular one. This dressing-gowi 
 WM pozchased in Paris.'' 
 
MINE HOST QANSEMDONCK. Ifl 
 
 ** At Paris? That is very vexing, Baron." 
 
 "Why BO?" 
 
 "I should have ordered one to be made precisely tht 
 same." 
 
 " It cost two hundred francs." 
 
 ** Never mind that." 
 
 •* It would not he suitable for you, Herr Gansendonck." 
 
 " Not suitable I If I can pay for it, it will become me 
 well enough, I should suppose. But leaving that subject, 
 how is it with your health, Herr von Bruinkasteel ?" 
 
 ** Yon see — a black eye, and a body literally covered with 
 bruises." 
 
 " The villain has been captured by the gendarmes, and is 
 on his way to the city now. You will make him pay for his 
 brutal attack as he ought ?" 
 
 "Certainly, he must be punished. He has waylaid me 
 with malice prepense, and attacked me on my own property. 
 A heavy punishment is attached to such crimes ; still, I do 
 not wish that the law should be enforced with the utmost 
 rigour ; for in that case he could not escape with less than 
 five years' imprisonment. His old mother was with me this 
 morning, beseeching and imploring me to have mercy. I am 
 sorry for the poor woman." 
 
 " Sorry I " cried Baas, with irritation and surprise ; " sony 
 for such a wretch I" 
 
 " Though the son be a fool, in what respect is the old 
 mother to be blamed ?" 
 
 " She should have brought up her son better. The low 
 scoundrel will get only what he deserves. And what would 
 the peasants think, if they found they could treat men like ns 
 as if they were our equals ? No, no, respect, honour, subjec- 
 tion, must all be kept up. Already they are carrying their 
 beads too high. Were I in your place, I should spare IM 
 
Iff TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 money to make the brewer, and the whole village with IcAn^ 
 suffer for this." 
 
 " Well that is my affair." 
 
 " I know that well, Hen Baron. Every one is master in 
 his own concerns." 
 
 This direction of the conversation was apparently disagree- 
 able to the Baron ; for he looked aside, and sat for a moment 
 without saying a word. Mine host, who was also at a loss for 
 something to say, looked round the room with a perplexed air 
 in search of something which might naturally introduce the 
 subject of his daughter's marriage. He scraped his feet and 
 cleared his throat several times ; but nothing would come. 
 
 " And our poor Lisa I " said the Baron at last ; " the sight 
 of the brewer's capture must have shocked her very much. I 
 dan easily understand it ; she has loved him since she was a 
 child." 
 
 Mine host seemed to awake out of a dream the moment 
 Lisa's name sounded in his ears. He thought that now the 
 Fay was smoothed for carrying out his plans, and accordingly 
 replied with a smile — 
 
 "She love him, do you say. Baron? No, no; it was a 
 premature calf-love, as people call it ; but that is all past long 
 since. I showed the brewer to the door, and bolted it behind 
 him. You think, I daresay. Baron, and with good reason, that 
 the coarse beer-cask would fain have married our Lisa?" 
 
 " There are other people. Baas, who were able to perceive 
 their mutual affection." 
 
 A beam of joy lighted up mine host's eyes ; and, leaping 
 from his seat, he said, with a stupid, cunning smile — 
 
 " Oh, I know what you are after. A shrewd man can 
 •a«ily tell where the cow lies when he sees its tail." 
 
 ** A clever comparison." 
 
 ^ Ii it not so, Baron ? Ko, I should think I am not » 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDONCK. 198 
 
 BtQpid. But let US take the cow by the horns ; there is no 
 need of roundabouts between us." 
 
 The Baron looked at Baas with a suppressed smile. 
 
 " Then does the Herr Baron think seriously of marriage?" 
 asked Gansendonck confidently. 
 
 " From what quarter have you learned that ? I have con- 
 cealed it even from my own friends." 
 
 " I know all about it, Baron ; ha I ha I I have more in 
 my pocket than you suppose." 
 
 " Indeed I why, you must be a fortune-teller ; or you only 
 guess it : you hit the nail on the head, however." 
 
 " Well, then. Baron," said Baas, rubbing his hands, " we 
 shall make short work of all that remains to be done. You 
 gee, I shall make a sacrifice ; I shall give my Lisa a dowry 
 of thirty thousand francs in money and property. When I 
 die, she will get thirty thousand more. I shall sell the inn, 
 that I may cut the society of awkward boors for ever — and I 
 shall live in the castle with you. So in that way, you will 
 in fact get the sixty thousand from the first." 
 
 At these words, he rose, offered the Baron his hand, and 
 »aid — 
 
 " You see, my friend, I do not make many difficulties. Now, 
 Herr von Bniinkasteel, let us shake hands on this marriage. 
 — Why do you draw back your hand ?" 
 
 "*0n this marriage!' On what marriage?" asked the 
 Baron. 
 
 " Come, take your father-in-law's hand, and within fourteen 
 days the banns will be proclaimed I Do not be shamefaced, 
 Baron ; we are not children now. Give me your hand, and 
 the matter is settled." 
 
 The Baron burst into a loud laugh. At the sight of this, 
 oonstemation and anxiety were depicted on mine host'f 
 
194 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 "Why do yon langli, Herr von Bniinkasteel?" be aslred hk 
 perplexity. " Perhaps from joy ?" 
 
 "Whatl Herr Gansendonck," exclaimed the Baron, so 
 ■oon as he could control himself, " are you out of your senses ? 
 or what is the matter with you ?" 
 
 " Have yon not said yourself that you mean to be mar- 
 ried?" 
 
 " Yes, with a lady in Paris ! She is not so beautiful as 
 your Lisa ; but she is a countess, and the possessor of an old 
 and distinguished name." 
 
 This cut Baas to the quick ; he trembled from top to toe ; 
 and said, in imploring accents — 
 
 " Herr Baron, no jestmg ; pray, if you will be so good I yon 
 intend to marry my Lisa, do you not? I know you are fond 
 of a laugh, and like a joke of all things ; but consider, Baron, 
 that girls like our Lisa are not to be found everywhere. Beau- 
 tiful as a flower in the field, well educated, amiable, of good 
 birth, with thirty thousand francs down, and as much in ex- 
 pectation : all this surely is not to be laughed at ; and I do 
 not know a single countess who offers so many attractions. A 
 good opportunity flies over the sea with the stork, and one 
 never knows when it will return." 
 
 " Poor Gansendonck I " said the Baron ; " I pity you I Ten 
 certainly cannot have your five senses I There must be a 
 screw loose in your head somewhere." 
 
 "What ! what I " exclaimed Baas, somewhat excited ; — " but 
 I will control myself ; it is perhaps only a jest. Our misun- 
 derstanding must have an end, however. I ask you directly, 
 Herr von Bruinkasteel, will you marry my daughter, or will 
 you not ? Have the goodness to give me a short and clear 
 answer." 
 
 " It is dn impossible for me to marry Lisa, Baas, as it is for 
 yoQ to many the morning-star !" 
 
IDNB HOST 6AN8END0MCK. If 5 
 
 •*And why bo, then?" cried Baas, now at length raging; 
 ** why so ? Perhaps you are too good for us ? The Gansen- 
 doncks, let me tell you, are respectable people, sir ; they have 
 many a pretty bit of land under the blue sky. Say, in a 
 word, will you marry my daughter,. or will you not?" 
 
 " Your question is ridiculous ; but I shall answer it — No I 
 I shall marry Lisa neither to-day nor to-morrow, nor ever » 
 And now, leave me, with your amusing madness I" 
 
 Trembling with rage, and red as a turkey-cock with shame 
 and wrath, mine host stamped his feet on the carpet. 
 
 " So my question is ridiculous, is it ? I am a fool, am I ? 
 You will not marry Lisa I We shall see about that I Jus- 
 tice is for every man — for me as well as for a Baron I And 
 if it were to cost me half my wealth, I shall find a way to 
 force you. What I you will force yourself into my house with 
 hypocritical face, tell my daughter a heap of lies, bring her 
 good name into disrepute, make sport of me ! — and then dare 
 to say, * I will not marry her ; I will marry a countess I ' It 
 will not do. Baron. No one shall trifle thus with Baas Gan- 
 sendonck. After what happened yesterday, you dare no longer 
 refuse me. You must repair my daughter's honour, or I shall 
 bring you to law, and push the suit even to Brussels. You 
 must marry her ; and if you do not immediately say * Yes,* I 
 forbid you ever again to set foot across my threshold." 
 
 During this outbreak, the Baron had looked at Baas with a 
 quiet smile of pity, and with great calmness. But as the lat- 
 ter began to threaten, the sudden flush on his face indicated 
 anger or indignation. 
 
 " Herr Gans'indonck," he said, " out of respect for myself 
 I ought to pull the bell and order my servants to turn you out 
 of my house ; but honestly, I pity your insanity. If yon 
 please, I shall once for all clearly and decidedly reply to all 
 you have said, and can say. In what has occurred, lies a 
 
IH TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 lesson for yon as well as for me. We shall both do well to 
 make good use of it." 
 
 "I wish to know," interrupted Baas, "whether yon will 
 marry Lisa or not?" 
 
 " Have you no ears, that yon ask me the same question so 
 often ? Attend, Herr Gansendouck, to what I am going to 
 say ; and do not interrupt me, otherwise my servants will 
 bring our interview to an abrupt termination." 
 
 " I am listening, I am listening," muttered Baas, grinding 
 his teeth " If I should die, I shall not speak a word till my 
 turn comes." 
 
 " You accuse me of forcing myself into your house," re- 
 sumed the Baron ; " and yet you are quite aware that you 
 yourself invited me, and forced the acquaintance of your 
 daughter on me. What have I done, then, which was not 
 done with your full concurrence? Nothing. On the con- 
 trary, you considered that I did not treat your daughter with 
 sufficient boldness. Now, you desire that I should marry 
 her. So it was a trap you were laying for me, and you had 
 your secret designs in it all I Judge yourself whether I ought 
 not to look with abhorrence on such detestable plans. I came 
 to Lisa because her society was agreeable to me, and because 
 a genuine feeling of friendship attracted me to her. If this 
 inteicDurse, by which I meant to honour you, has had a sad 
 end for us all, it has arisen from neglecting the proverb, * Keep 
 with your like.' We have both acted imprudently, and are 
 both punished. I was, to my great disgrace, almost beaten to 
 death by a peasant ; you have become the jest of the village, 
 and now see crumbling into ruins all the air-cafitles which 
 you have been building. Better confess at the gallows than 
 never. T know that I did wrong in visiting a country inn, 
 and acting as if I were your equal ; and now I see clearly 
 that if Lisa had not had a strong defence in her own pure 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDONCK. 197 
 
 nature, my conversation and behayioiir would liave done much 
 to ruin her beautiful character." 
 
 "What ifl that you say?" interrupted Baas. "Have yon 
 ever uttered anything immoral to my daughter, you seducer?" 
 
 " I laugh at your folly," continued the Baron coldly ; " and 
 will still for a moment forget who it is who dares speak so to 
 me. I have said nothing to your daughter but what is re- 
 garded among the higher classes as mere compliments of the 
 day — things which are peculiar to the French language, and 
 do little harm, perhaps, to people who from youth up have 
 heard nothing else, but which corrupt the heart and morals 
 in a lower rank of life, because there they are received aa 
 truth, and rouse passion, empty compliments though they be. 
 Therein have I erred. It is the only fault — the only mistake 
 which any one can charge me with ; but which you certainly 
 ^annot accuse me of, for you have made me do and say even 
 more than I myself desired. You have just threatened to for- 
 bid me your house; that is not necessary. I had already 
 determined to put to good use the lesson I had been taught, 
 and never again to visit you as a friend, but henceforth to 
 conduct myself towards every peasant as beseems my rank." 
 
 "Peasant!" exclaimed Baas with impatience, "I am no 
 peasant I My name is Gansendonck. What resemblance ii 
 there between a peasant and me ? Tell me." 
 
 " Unhappily for you.^ no great outward resemblance," replied 
 the Baron. " Your pride has misled you ; now, you are neither 
 fish nor flesh — noither peasant nor gentleman ; you will your 
 whole life long meet with nothing but enmity and mockery 
 on the one hand, and contempt and pity on the other. You 
 should be ashamed of despising your own condition so focl- 
 ishly. A peasant is the most useful man on earth ; and if he 
 only be an honest and honourable man, who fulfils bis duty 
 in his position, he deserves above eveiy other to be respected 
 
Its TALBg OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 and beloved. Do you know who degrade the condition of « 
 peasant ? Persons like you, who imagine that a man exaltn 
 himself by looking with disdain upon his brother — who think 
 that they are no longer peasants if only they speak of peasant* 
 with contempt, and that it is sufficient to hang eagle's feathers 
 on their body in order to be an eagle." 
 
 "Have I now listened long enough?" cried Baas, leaping 
 np, " or do you imagine, Herr Baron, that I have come here 
 to let myself be dragged through the mud in this way, with- 
 out answering a word ?" 
 
 " One word more," rejoined the Baron ; " I will give you a 
 good advice, Herr Gansendonck. Write over your bedroom 
 door the proverb — ^ Shoemaker j keep by your last* Dresa 
 like other peasants, speak and act like people of your own 
 rank. Seek some good peasant's son for your daughter's 
 husband, smoke your pipe and drink your beer in friendship 
 with the villagers, and give yourself no more trouble to appear 
 what you are not. Consider, that if an ass wears a lion's 
 hide, its ears peep through. And now go home in peace with 
 this lesson ; you will thank me for it some future day. If 
 you think, however, that you must still say something, speak, 
 and I shall now listen." 
 
 Mine host sprang up from his chair, and crossing his armi 
 upon his breast to repress his rage, said — 
 
 "Oh, you imagine that you can deceive me with your 
 assumed coldness and apish tricks I No, no, it shall not end 
 so. We shall see whether there is no law in the country to 
 compel you, Herr Baron I I shall go to your father in the 
 city, and tell him how you have stained the honour of my 
 house. And even if I have to write to the countess in Paris, 
 whose name you conceal through fear, I will do it, put a stop 
 to your marriage, and inform the whole world what a vilt 
 traitor you are." 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDONCK. Iff 
 
 "Is that all yon have to say?" asked the Baron with snp- 
 pressed anger. 
 
 "Will you marry Lisa, or will yon not?" screamed Baas, 
 shaking his fists threateningly. 
 
 The Baron put ont his hand and pnlled the bell twice 
 violently. In a moment the steps of approaching servants 
 were heard upon the stairs. Baas Gansendonck trembled 
 with rage and shame. The door opened, and the servants 
 appeared in the room. 
 
 " Did not the Herr Baron ring?" asked all at once, per- 
 plexed. 
 
 " Accompany Herr Gansendonck to the door," he ordered, 
 with as much coolness as he conld command. 
 
 "Whatl you will cast me ont of your house I" screamed 
 Baas, choking with fury. " You shall pay dearly for that, 
 tyrant I traitor I seducer!" — 
 
 The Baron gave the attendants a sign, stood up, and left 
 the apartment through a side door. 
 
 Mine host Gansendonck looked thunderstruck, and seemed 
 not to know whether to rail or weep; while the servants 
 pushed him gently but irresistibly towards the door, heedless 
 of his exclamations. Before he had got a clear conception of 
 what was going on, he found himself in the open air, and saw 
 the door of the hunting-box shut behind him. 
 
 For a time he walked straight on dreamily, like a blind 
 man, till he struck his head against a tree, and was roused 
 to consciousness by the blow. Then he strode on rapidly, 
 giving vent to his vexation and wrath by abusing the Baron 
 mercilessly. He paused at the corner of a wood to think ; 
 after ten minutes of the most painful reflection, he began 
 to beat himself with his fists, and strike his brow with lis 
 open hand, at every blow exclaiming — 
 
 " Ass that you are I dare yon show face at home, yea owl f 
 
900 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 The whip is too good for yon, you stupid clod I This wiH 
 teach you to hunt after barons and fine gentlemen ! Yes, go 
 and put on a white waistcoat and yellow gloves I A fool's 
 cap would suit you better. Simple and stupid enough to be 
 drowned in a windmill I Hide yourself — creep into the earth 
 for shame, you thick-headed boor I — thick-headed boor I — 
 thick-headed boorl" 
 
 At last, after he had exhausted his vexation on himself, the 
 tears gushed from his eyes ; and weeping and sighing, ashamed 
 and grieved, he walked on towards his dwelling. 
 
 Suddenly he perceived at a distance his servant hastening 
 to meet him, and shouting out unintelligible words with great 
 apparent excitement — 
 
 " Baas, Baas I come quickly I" cried Kob^ as he approached 
 his master. " Our poor Lisa lies in the agonies of death." 
 
 " God I " sighed Baas Gansendonck. " Everything over- 
 whelms me at once, and every one forsakes me 1 — You too, 
 Kobe I" 
 
 " Forgive and forget," said Kob^, with deep compassion. 
 " You are unfortunate ; I will stay by you so long as I can 
 be of use. But come, come quickly I " 
 
 Both hastened towards the village with rapid stridei| and 
 witli ftnxioui and torrowing hearta. 
 
HOST OANSENDOMGB* 101 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 - Shame is the daughter of prltei" 
 
 The winter is past. Already the trees and herbs begin to 
 anfold their tender green in the mild sunshine ; the birds are 
 building their nests, and have begun their sweet May songs ; 
 CTerything exults in its young energy — everything smiles 
 hopefully towards the future, as if a gray cloud could never 
 again darken the beautiful blue sky. 
 
 In a side-room of the St. Sebastian, a sick girl was reclin- 
 ing, her head supported upon pillows. Poor Lisa ! a worm 
 was gnawing at her heart, and wearing her life away ! 
 Yonder she sits, motionless, and yet panting with exhaustion ; 
 the slightest movement is a painful effort to her. Her coun- 
 tenance is pale, and transparent as glass ; but upon each of 
 her wasted cheeks a hectic flush glows faintly — a sad sign I 
 Sunk in a deep reverie, her thin fingers carelessly strip some 
 daisies of their leaves — little flowers which have been gathered 
 to please her, as one would please a child. She lets them 
 fall to the ground, her head sinks back powerless upon the 
 cushion, her glassy eye gazes heavenwards, into the infinite ; 
 already her soul mingles itself with the Eternal. 
 
 At a little distance behind the maiden, and near the win- 
 dow, sat poor Baas Gansendonck, his arms folded on his breast. 
 His sunken head, his half-closed eyes fixed intently on Um 
 
TALES OF FLEMISH LDHk 
 
 gfronnd) and his melancholj features, expressed repentance, 
 shame, and bitter sorrow. 
 
 Of what nature were the thoughts of the unhappy father, 
 who saw his only child wasting away, a martyr to his folly ? 
 Did he know that his pride was the executioner who had 
 brought the innocent sacrifice to the altar ? Be that as it may, 
 he, too, evidently concealed in his heart a torturing sriake ; 
 for the deep wrinkles of sorrow which furrowed his face, his 
 wan cheeks, and slow motions, showed too clearly that the 
 last sparks of self-confidence, energy, and hope, were quite 
 extinguished in his breast. 
 
 The gentlest sigh of his sick daughter made him shudder ; 
 her painful cough tore his heart in pieces. If she directed a 
 Buffering look towards him, he trembled, as if in her lifeless 
 eyes he read the terrible word — child-murder I Now, when 
 the feeling of love within him had been freed from the pride 
 which had obscured it, and was experienced in all its purity 
 and strength, he would cheerfully have endured the most 
 painful death to prolong his child's life but a single year. 
 
 Poor Gansendonckl Everything in the world had so 
 smiled upon him. Beautifnl dreams of fortune and greatness 
 had all his life long played with him.. And now he sat there 
 like a dumb ghost beside his dying child ; anxious and trem- 
 bling, like a malefactor at the bar of Divine justice. K, on 
 the one hand, the perpetual gnawing of conscience, and con- 
 tinual reflection on the past, had made his body old ; it had, 
 on the other hand, led his soul out of the darkness of pride 
 and presumption, and softened his whole nature. Now, his 
 dress was poor, his speech firiendly, and his bearing modest. 
 Patiently enduring his heavy lot, his whole life was now de- 
 voted to soothe his daughter's affliction, and obtain Charles'i 
 freedom. 
 
 Baas Gansendonck had sat for half an hour in the same 
 
mSTB HOST GANSENDOirCK. 308 
 
 position ; he held his breatn, and did not stir a limb, for fear 
 of disturbing his daughter's repose. At last, Lisa raised her 
 head, with a sigh of restlessness and pain. Baas approached 
 her with deep feeling — 
 
 " Lisa, darling, it distresses you, does it not, to sit always 
 in this room, and alone ? See how brightly the sun shines 
 out there, and how soft and fresh the air is. I have put a 
 chair in the garden — shall I take you into the sunshine ? The 
 doctor said that it would do you good." 
 
 " no, father, let me stay here," she sighed. — " This pil- 
 low IB so hard." 
 
 "The perpetual stillness of this room is painful, Lisa. 
 Your heart needs something to revive it." 
 
 "*The perpetual stillness!'" repeated the maiden, mus- 
 ing ; " ah I how still and sweet it must be in the grave I " 
 
 " Oh, Lisa, leave these sad thoughts ! Come, shall I help 
 you ? No one shall see you, for I shall keep the garden door 
 shut ; and you shall sit in the beautiful ash-grove, and see 
 how gloriously the flowers blossom, and hear how charmingly 
 the birds sing ! Do it to please me, Lisa." 
 
 " Well then, father, from love to you, I will try whether I 
 can still go so far." 
 
 Supporting herself on the table with both hands, she raised 
 herself slowly up ; hot tears streamed down her father's face, 
 when he saw how she tottered, and how all her limbs shook, 
 as if her body were a burden too heavy for her. Silently he 
 put his arm round her, and almost carried her along. In this 
 way, father and daughter went step by step through the house 
 — standing still to rest more than once on their way — and 
 reached the garden with difficulty, where Lisa, exhausted and 
 coughing painfully, sank into the arm-chair. After Baas had 
 placed the pillows comfortably behind her, and under her head, 
 hf sat down by her side and waited till she had somewhat 
 
TALES OP FLEMISH LUTI. 
 
 t &oCfwered from her exhaustion. At last he said, while t1i« 
 tears flowed fast, and his voice sounded sadly on the ear — 
 
 ** Have good hopes, Lisa dear ; the beautiful summer has 
 begun — the sweet, pure air will strengthen you. You will 
 grow well again." 
 
 "Ah, father, why deceive me?" sighed the dying girl, 
 faintly shaking her head. " Whoever sees me — and you too, 
 father — sheds tears, and weeps over my fate I There is no 
 hope now ! Is it not so ? Before the Church-fest* comes, 
 shall lie in the grave I" 
 
 "My child! do not grieve yourself with such dreadful 
 thoughts." 
 
 "* Dreadful thoughts I' In the world there is no good 
 thing, father. Would that I were now in heaven 1 Yonder 
 there is heaku, bliss, and eternal life I " 
 
 " Charles will soon return, Lisa. Have you not said your- 
 self that you would soon be well again? He will comfort 
 you ; his friendly words will breathe new life into you, and 
 deliver you from your heavy suflPerings." 
 
 " Still six months I" sighed the maiden despairingly, look- 
 ing towards heaven, as if asking something of God ; " still six 
 months!" 
 
 " Perhaps not so long, Lisa ; Kobfe went yesterday to Bros- 
 •els with a letter from our burgomaster to the gentleman who 
 is our intercessor with the Minister ; and everything encour- 
 ages us to hope that we shall get a diminution of Charles's 
 punishment. Then he will be set free at once. If God so 
 wills it, Kobe will bring us this very afternoon the joyful 
 news of his early release from prison. Lisa, my child, do 
 you not feel already the beginning of a new life ?" 
 
 "Poor Charles!" sighed Lisa, musingly; "already four 
 long months in prison. Oh, father, I have sinned grievously { 
 celtbtation of the oooMcntioii of (he local ohoroh.— JV. 
 
imiS HOST OANSENDONCK. 90$ X 
 
 but he, who is innocent, what must he suffer in his gloomy 
 dungeon I" 
 
 " Not so, Lisa ; I visited him the day before yesterday. 
 He bears his fate with patience ; if your illness did not make 
 him sad, he would count himself happy." 
 
 " He has suffered so much, father. You will love him, 
 will you not? and no longer drive him unkindly from you? 
 Oh, he is so good I " 
 
 " ' Drive him from me I ' " cried Baas, with a trembling 
 voice ; " on my knees, I have implored his pardon ; and I 
 have wet his feet with my tears l" 
 
 " Heavens I And he, father ? " 
 
 " He fel on my neck — kissed, and consoled me. I would 
 have accused myself — told him that my pride alone was the 
 cause of his misfortune — vowed that my whole life should be 
 an atonement ; but he closed my mouth with a kiss ! — a kiss 
 which, like a heavenly balsam, breathed hope and strength 
 into my heart, made me strong again, and able to wait with 
 less anxiety for God's decree. Blessed is the merciful, who 
 repays evil with love 1 " 
 
 "And he has forgiven me too, father, has he not ?" 
 
 " Forgiven you, Lisa ? In what have you sinned ? Ah ! 
 if you suffer — if a punishment from on high seems to afflict 
 you — it is for my sins alone that you are atoning, my poor 
 child I" 
 
 " And I, am I not guilty, father ? Was it not my levity 
 which from the first tore his heart, and drove him to despair? 
 But he has forgiven me all, I know, for he is veiy good." 
 
 " No, no ; Charles has had nothing to forgive you. In hii 
 eyes you were always pure and chaste as a lily 1 Even then, 
 when my insane pride had compelled you to do what was im- 
 prudent, and when everything concurred to cause mistrust on 
 hif part, he never cherished the smallest suspicion of yon ; 
 
S06 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 but said proudly, ' Mj Lisa is pore, and loves me alone npoii 
 the earth!'" 
 
 A sweet smile played round the young girrs lips, while she 
 said — 
 
 " Oh, this assurance will make the kiss of death so soft and 
 pleasing I When I go there, I shall pray to God for him ; and 
 from heaven I shall smile upon him wherever he is, till he 
 also comes." 
 
 The cheerful tone of Lisa's voice encouraged her father to 
 make an attempt to divert her thoughts to more pleasing sub- 
 jects ; and he said joyfully — 
 
 ** And you do not know, Lisa, all that he said to me the 
 day before yesterday, about a beautiful garden which he means 
 to lay out for you when he is free ; with its beautiful flowers, 
 its winding paths, its arbours, grassy plots, and little ponds. 
 And while they are making it, he will take you to Paris, and 
 show you the most beautiful things in the world ; and put new 
 life into you, my darling, by his watchful love, and by giving 
 you every kind of pleasure and happiness. Oh, Lisa 1 only think 
 — you will be Charles's wife then. Nothing on earth shall 
 ever separate you — your life will be a heaven of bliss I And 
 Charles wishes that I should live with you and his mother in 
 the brewery. He is to be my son ; and you, Lisa, will have 
 a tender mother again to love you. I will regain the good 
 will of the villagers through gentleness and kindness. Every 
 one will respect and love us ; and we will love one another ; 
 and our lives on earth shall be spent in peace and joy. But, 
 Lisa, child, what is the matter? — you tremble 1 ;Are you 
 not well?" 
 
 The young girl made an effort to smile ; but one could see 
 clearly that she had not the power. She feebly sought her 
 father's hand, and when she had found it, spoke, with a weak 
 and gradually failing yoice — 
 
MINE HOST GANSENDONCK. 107 
 
 " Father, had God in heaven not called me, your cheering 
 words might have restored me to health ; but, ah I what can 
 now deliver me from the death which I have always before 
 my eyes, like something — I cannot say what — a cloud — some- 
 thing which beckons to me. There I there ! again I feel it. 
 It runs through my body, oh, so cold I The air is too keen. 
 "Water 1 — ^water for my brow I Oh, father, dear father, I 
 think — I must die I " 
 
 With these sad words she closed her eyes, and sank lifelew 
 to the ground. 
 
 Baas Gansendonck fell on his knees before his daughter, 
 and raised his hands to heaven in earnest prayer, while tears 
 gushed from his eyes. But he soon recollected himself, and 
 sprang up with feverish haste ; rubbed the hands of the un- 
 conscious Lisa, raised her head, called her by her name, kissed 
 her stiff cold lip, and moistened her brow with tears of peni- 
 tence and love. In a short time, the sick girl revived. While 
 her father, half mad with joy, watched in her face the signi 
 of her awaking out of her death-like sleep, she opened her 
 eyes slowly, and looked round with an expression of disap- 
 pointment and surprise. 
 
 "Not yet?— still on earth?" she sighed. "Oh, father I 
 lead me in ; mj head whirls round ; my breast glows as if on 
 fire ; the air bums my lungs ; the sun pains me." 
 
 The father lifted her up with a jealous care, as if he would 
 carry his child out of the reach of the death which threatened 
 her, and bore her into her apartment. There Lisa lay down 
 again by the table, and silently laid her languid head upon 
 the pillow. Baas would have uttered some words of comfort, 
 but she said imploringly— 
 
 "Do not speak, dear father: I am so weary. Let m© 
 Wst." 
 
 Baas Gansendonck resumed his seat without saying a word, 
 
908 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFl. 
 
 and wept in silence as lie thought on the approaching deatk 
 of his darling child. 
 
 A half-hour had elapsed without a motion, a sound, or a 
 sigh having indicated the presence of living beings in the 
 room, when suddenly a vehicle drew up before the door. 
 
 " There is Kobe I there is Kobe 1 " cried Baas Gansendonck 
 ioyfuUy. " I know our horse's tread I " 
 
 A feeble glimmer of hope lighted up the dying maiden's 
 eyes. 
 
 Kobd entered the room. Lisa seemed to exert all her re- 
 maining strength to learn the joyful intelligence. She raised 
 her head and turned towards Kobe. Mine host sprang up— 
 
 "Well, Kob^, well?" 
 
 " Nothing^* he replied, while tears filled his eyes. " The 
 gentleman who was to have spoken for Charles to the Minister 
 of Justice is gone to Germany." 
 
 A low but painful cry of anguish burst from Lisa's lips, her 
 head fell back on the pillow, and a few quiet tears rolled over 
 her wan and melancholy face. 
 
 " Ah I" she sighed, iJmost inandiblj. ^ Ha ihall lee bm 
 BomoMoneMrtiil" 
 
HOST OANSEMDOMCX. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 • ThlttlM ■own— thorns looim.* 
 
 Owe beantifol morning, a young peasant walked with rapi^ 
 itrides over the highway which led from Antwerp to Breda. 
 His breath went and came quickly, and drops of perspiration 
 stood on his brow. There beamed from his eyes, notwith- 
 Btaading, an inexpressible rapture, and in the quick glances 
 which he cast over green field and dark blue sky, there 
 sparkled gratitude to God, and love for life-quickening nature. 
 His steps were light, and at intervals an involuntary exclam- 
 ation of joy escaped from his over-excited breast. One would 
 have said that he was hastening with burning impatience 
 towards a spot where some great good fortune awaited him. 
 
 It was no other than Charles the brewer, whose term of 
 punishment had been shortened, and who was now on his way 
 to his native village with his heart full of happy dreams. He 
 would see his Lisa again — console her and bring her new life I 
 Was it not his condemnation, his imprisonment, which had 
 overwhelmed her with sorrow, and made her ill ? and would 
 not his release and return therefore infallibly restore her to 
 health ? Yes, he returned to her with a heart as fresh and 
 loving as ever ; he would surprise her by his sudden appear- 
 ance ; he would say, " Rise up out of your sorrow, my Lisa 
 Here am I, your trae, unaltered friend I Draw strength 
 
310 VALB8 OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 from my love 1 Raise your head hopefally again, for aL oai 
 Borrow is over I Look calmly and cheerfully into the future I 
 Welcome life! a life which promises us so many beautiful 
 years." And his good old mother — how he would reward her 
 now for all that her rich maternal love had endured I He saw 
 already in imagination how she hastened out to meet him, 
 weeping for joy — felt her arms round his neck, her warm kiss 
 glowing on his cheek, and her tears moistening his brow. 
 Pleased with this sweet imagination, he laughed with delight, 
 and, " Mother I mother I" fell in fervent accents from his lips. 
 
 Oh happy, happy was the youth I The once more tasted 
 freedom made his bosom swell with emotion. The rich and 
 odorous air of the fields surrounded him, and infused the fire 
 of life into his breast : the vernal sun gilded the lovely green 
 of the firs, and clothed nature in a gorgeous festal robe. 
 Dreaming of a beautiful future, thanking God with overflow- 
 ing heart, enchanting his soul with fond pictures of all that 
 was most dear to him, now sighing when he thought of love, 
 and again laughing for joy, the youth strode rapidly on till he 
 found himself about half an hour's walk from his native village. 
 
 There all of a sudden he stood still, trembling as if some 
 miexpected and hateful sight had filled him with fear and 
 perplexity. Three young gentlemen had just issued from a 
 ride-path ; one of them was Herr von Bruinkasteel. It was 
 diflScult to say whether they had perceived the young peasant 
 Of not ; however it might be, they did not look at him, but 
 struck into the road which led to the village. 
 
 Charles was at a loss what to do. He did not wish to enter 
 into conversation with the Baron yet, for he felt by the palpi- 
 tation of his heart, how dangerous it would be for him if his 
 enemy were to address to him one insolent or contemptuous 
 word. At the same time, he could not remain where he was, 
 for his impatience to see his beloved, and embrace his mother^ 
 
MINE HOST 6ANSEND0NCK. til 
 
 bore him too powerfully on. After short congideration, he 
 quickly came to a resolution ; and springing upon a by-patb, 
 he ran towards the village, making a circuit through copses 
 and fields. 
 
 Over the village hang the slow and melancholy tones of 
 the bell of death. In the churchyard a freshly-made grave 
 yawns for its destined occupant. Every tone of the death- 
 knell is repeated in the expectant grave. It is as if a hollow 
 voice rose from out the ground, as if the dark earth, full of 
 longing, sighed, " Come, come, come I " The animals even 
 seem painfully affected by the solemn call of death. The 
 dogs are howling, and the oxen at intervals reply with a deep 
 and troubled low ; and yet a profound stillness pervades the 
 whole neighbourhood. No moving object is visible, save a few 
 solitary old people, who here and there may be seen, prayer- 
 book in hand, tottering like dumb shadows towards the 
 church. 
 
 Soon after, a melancholy procession approaches. But how 
 beautiful, how very beautiful, is this funeral procession to the 
 final resting-place I Four young maidens in snow-white 
 garments bear the body of their friend, who died in the flower 
 of her youth ; other maidens, similarly clothed, walk beside 
 them, to take the dear burden on their shoulders in their turn. 
 Behind, come all the daughters of the parish with flowers or 
 branches of consecrated poplar in their hands — even the little 
 children who do not yet know what " to die" means. Many 
 are in tears, and all walk with downcast eyes, and mourn the 
 poor, poor Lisa, who, alas I has expiated where she surely 
 was not guilty. On the coffin are strewn roses and lilies, 
 emblems of virgin purity. They emit so fresh an odour, and 
 look so lovely on the white pall I In the coflfin, too, there 
 Um a flower, a lily, which the gnawing worm of sorrow htm 
 
211 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 destroyed, cold and pale, a sin-oSering, a saorifloe to pridt 
 
 and arrogance. 
 
 Only three men follow close to the corpse. On one side 
 Kobe, on the other, Sus the smith, shedding tears of sorrow. 
 Between them they sympathizingly support a third, who 
 totters feebly along. His hands cover his face ; through his 
 fingers, the hot tears force their way, and his bosom heaves 
 visibly with painful sobs. Poor Gansendonck I guilty father I 
 Turn not thine eye on that bier I At every timid glance, 
 thou art conscience-stricken — is it not so ? Thou art trem- 
 bling with grief and remorse — but I will not look into thy 
 heart. I respect thine agony. Forgetting thy ill-fated pride, 
 I would rather weep tears of sympathy for thy present anguish 
 of heart. — They approach the field of the dead ; and yonder 
 itands the priest who is to utter the last prayer over the corpse. 
 
 But what is this which fills every heart with astonishment 
 and terror ? Why this agonizing cry which bursts at once 
 from every breast? What dreadful apparition makes the 
 maidens tremble ? God I yonder is Charles I He stands 
 for a moment as if struck by lightning, and gazes with fixed, 
 wild stare on the funeral procession, which has suddenly come 
 into view. He understands it all. His hair stands on end ; 
 he hastens on, and falls down beside the corpse, which the 
 bearers have lowered to the ground. Violently he pushes 
 the maidens aside, pulls off the pall, and lacerates his hands 
 by tearing at the screws of the coffin-lid. He will open the 
 coffin ; he calls wildly and piteously upon his Lisa ; he cries, 
 he weeps, he laughs by turns I Some men advance and draw 
 him forcibly away ; but now another sight tears fi-om him a 
 cry of vengeance, so horrible, so desperate, that all tremble 
 and recoil at the wild shriek. What, then, has his wildered 
 eye beheld, that, sweeping all before him in his fury, he 
 daihes headlong on some object with a cry like a scream of 
 
MINE HOST GANBENDOMCK. S18 
 
 agony ? Heavens I yonder, at the window of a tavem, standi 
 the Baron I 
 
 Alas I alas 1 the youth, in his madness, draws a knife from 
 his pocket ; it glitters hombly in the sun. In a moment ne 
 is in the tavern ; he is about to commit a murder. But no , 
 be stumbles on the threshold, and falls heavily like a stone 
 with his head on the ground. The women raise their arms, and 
 shriek, and tremble — but Charles does not rise again ; he lies 
 motionless, as if death had found a new victim in him. The 
 Baron, his enemy, is the first at his side ; he raises the young 
 man sympathizingly from the ground. In his heart, too, 
 penitence and remorse are at work ; from within, a voice calla 
 to him — " Thy wanton levity has had part in causing the 
 misery which now rages so horribly on every side I" 
 
 Kob^ runs to his assistance, and they place the youth upon 
 a chair, and bathe his brow and breast with water ; but he 
 continues sitting death-pale and motionless. 
 
 Meanwhile the priest is uttering, in a low and tremulous 
 tone, the last words of peace over a grave, and the dull heavy 
 fall of clods upon a cofSn-lid sounds sadly on the ear. 
 
 Charles has revived. The Baron tries to console him. 
 Kobe speaks to him of his mother. But the young man knowi 
 no longer either friend or foe. There is a horrible look in 
 his eyes ; he laughs, too, and appears so happy. — He if a 
 maniaol 
 
 Dear reader ! if you should ever chance to go through the 
 village which was the scene of this sad history, you will see 
 sitting on a bench, in front of the brewery, two men playing 
 together as if both were yet children. The younger has a 
 li&leM face, though the wild-fire of insanity glows in lili 
 
214 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE* 
 
 eyes ; the other is an older man, who cares for his nirfor- 
 tnnate with loving compassion, and endeavours to make him 
 happy and cheerful. 
 
 Ask the attendant the cause of his master's misfortune; 
 the good Kobe will tell you a melancholy tale, and point out 
 the grave where Baas Gansendonck sleeps his last sleep by 
 the side of his child ; and you may be sure he will close hii 
 narrative with some proyerb cr maxim of world- wisdca^ 
 
BLIND BOSi. 
 
 Off ft beantifal day in 1846, the Diligence rolled m nioal 
 over the highway between Antwerp and Tnmhont. The 
 tramp of horses, the rattle of wheels, the creaking of the 
 frame, and the loud voice of the driver, accompanied its on- 
 ward progress. The dogs barked in the distance as it passed, 
 the birds rose startled from the fields, and the shadow of the 
 old coach danced grotesquely among the trees and hedges. 
 
 Suddenly the coachman pulled up not far from a lonely 
 tavern. Springing from his seat, he opened the door of his 
 vehicle, and without saying a word, proffered his hand to a 
 traveller, who immediately leapt out upon the highway, car- 
 rying a leathern travelling-bag under his arm. With equal 
 silence the coachman put up the steps, shut the door, and 
 ascending the box, drew the whip gently across the horses' 
 backs, as a sign to proceed ; and the clumsy machine rumbled 
 on in its own spiritless and monotonous way. 
 
 Meanwhile the traveller had entered the tavern, and calling 
 for a glass of beer, sat down at a table. He was a man of 
 yeiy high stature, and appeared to be about fifty years of 
 
216 TALES OF FLEMISH LIPB. 
 
 age. One might have even supposed him to be sixty, had 
 not his vigorous bearing, his lively eye, and the youthful 
 smile upon his lips, shown that his heart and soul were much 
 younger than his face would have indicated. His hair, in- 
 deed, was gray, his brow and cheeks furrowed, and his whole 
 countenance expressed that waste of power which care and 
 toil stamp on the face as the sign of premature old age. And 
 yet one could see that his chest rose and fell with fulness an-' 
 life, that his head sat erect and high, and his sparkling eyes 
 expreased the energy of manhood. 
 
 From his dress one would have inferred that he was a 
 wealthy citizen, although it perhaps would not have attracted 
 attention at all, had not the coat been buttoned up to the 
 chin — a peculiarity which, when taken in connexion with his 
 great meerschaum, made one suspect that he was a soldier 
 or a German. 
 
 The people of the house, after serving the traveller, resumed 
 their work without paying any further attention to him. He 
 saw the two daughters going and coming, the landlord fetch 
 wood and peat for the fire, the mother fill the kitchen-pot ; 
 but no one said a word to him, although his eyes followed 
 every one as if he desired to enter into conversation, and his 
 sad and gentle smile seemed to say — " Ah I do you not know 
 me, then ?" 
 
 Suddenly a clock struck. This sound seemed to pain him, 
 for an expression of melancholy surprise passed over his face, 
 and chased the smile from his lips. He stood up, and with a 
 disturbed look, gazed at the clock till nine strokes, one after 
 the other, had died away in the room. The house-mother 
 had observed the emotion of the stranger, and advancing 
 to him, she also looked up at the clock with a wondering 
 look, as if she expected to see something unusual about it, 
 which she had never observed before. 
 
BLIND ROSA. 117 
 
 "Tes, sir, it sounds prettily, doesn't it?" she said. "It 
 has gone for twenty years so, and a watchmaker has never 
 laid a finger on it." 
 
 " Twenty years," sighed the traveller ; " and where then is 
 the clock which used to hang here before ? And where is the 
 pretty image of the Virgin which stood there dn the chimney- 
 ^iece? Gone, destroyed, forgotten?" 
 
 The woman looked at the stranger with surprise, and an- 
 swered — 
 
 " Our Zanna was playing with the image one day when a 
 child, and broke it. It was so very badly made, at any rate, 
 that the pastor himself had told us to buy a new one ; and 
 there it stands now. Is it not much prettier?" 
 
 The traveller shook his head. 
 
 " And the old clock you will hear immediately," she con- 
 tinued. " It is only a piece of lumber, and is always behind ; it 
 has hung for an age in our cellar. Listen, it is striking now ! " 
 
 A peculiar noise might be heard proceeding from another 
 part of the house. It was the voice of a bird, which cried 
 " Cuckoo, cuckoo " for nine times in succession* A cheerful 
 smile at once lighted up the stranger's face ; and hastening, 
 accompanied by the hostess, to a little cellar, he gazed with 
 inexpressible joy at the old clock, as the cuckoo concluded its 
 nine times repeated song. 
 
 Meanwhile, both the daughters of the family approached 
 the traveller fall of curiosity, and looked at him with wonder, 
 turning their great blue questioning eyes alternately on him 
 and on their mother. The looks of the two girls recalled 
 the stranger to himself; and, apparently satisfied, he returned 
 to the adjoining ^ipartment, still followed by the mother and 
 her daughters, all wondering at this mysterious conduct. 
 
 His heart was evidently gladdened by what he had seen j 
 his countenance was lighted up with a sweet expression of 
 
tl8 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 love and genial feeling ; and his eyes, moist with emotion, 
 iparkled so joyously, that both the girls simultaneously ap- 
 proav^hed him with visible interest. He took each by the 
 hand, and said — 
 
 " What I do seems singular, children, does it not ? You 
 cannot understand, I daresay, why the voice of the old cuckoo 
 moves me so deeply ? Ah ! I too was once a child ; and in 
 those days my father used to come every Sunday after church 
 to drink his pint of beer in this very room. When I was good, 
 I was allowed to come witli him. And then I used to stand 
 from hour to hour, waiting till the dear cuckoo should open its 
 little door ; I danced and skipt at its call, and in my childish 
 soul I admired the poor little bird as an incomprehensible 
 masterpiece of art. And the image of the Virgin, too, which 
 one of you broke, I used to love, because it wore such a beauti- 
 ful blue mantle, and because the little Jesus in her arms held 
 out his little hands and smiled to me. The child of those days 
 is now a man of threescore years ; his hair is gray, and his 
 face full of wrinkles. Four-and-thirty years have I lived in 
 the wilds of eastern Eussia; and yet I still remember the 
 image and the cuckoo, as if only a single day had fled since 
 my fa'her last brought me here." 
 
 "Are you, then, from our village?" asked Zanna. 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied the traveller with joy. But the effect 
 of his words was not what he expected. A smile played for 
 ft moment on the girls' features, but that was all : they seemed 
 leither astonished nor overjoyed at his declaration. 
 
 "But where is the old landlord, Joostens?" he at last in- 
 quired of the mother. 
 
 ** John the landlord, do you mean ? He has been dead for 
 nore than five-and-twenty years." 
 
 "And his wife — ^the good, stout Peetemelle?" 
 
 " Dead too," was the reply. 
 
BLIND ROSA. S19 
 
 "And the young shepherd, Andries, who could make such 
 beautiful baskets ? " 
 
 " Dead too," replied the hostess. 
 
 The traveller hung his head, and gave himself up for a 
 time to melancholy reflections. Meanwhile, the woman bo- 
 took herself to the barn, to tell her husband what had hap- 
 pened with this unknown visitor. 
 
 The farmer now entered the room heavily, and with the 
 noise of his wooden shoes roused the traveller out of his pain- 
 ful reverie. The latter rose, and hastened to him with out- 
 stretched arms and a cheerful face, as if he would fain greet 
 him as an old friend ; but the farmer took his hand coldly, 
 and looked at him with indijBFerence. 
 
 " And you, too, Peer Joostens," he exclaimed sadly, " and 
 you, too, do not recognise me?" 
 
 " No ; I do not think I have ever seen you, sir," he replied. 
 
 " Then you do not know him who, at the risk of his life, 
 dived imder the ice at Torfmoor to rescue you from certain 
 death." 
 
 The fanner shrugged his shoulders. The traveller seemed 
 deeply pained, and said almost imploringly — 
 
 " Have you, then, forgotten the young man who used to 
 take your part among your companions, and bring you so 
 many bird's eggs to adorn your May-wreath? — him who 
 taught you to make trumpets and whistles of the meadow- 
 reeds, and took you with him when he drove Pauvel the 
 brickmaker's son's fine cart to market?" 
 
 " I have forgotten," replied the farmer, doubtingly. " But 
 I remember that my father, now in heaven, used to tell me 
 that when I was six years old I was nearly drowned in the 
 great Torfmoor. But it was Long John who pulled me out 
 — and who, in the French time under Napoleon, was carried 
 oSf with many others, to be food for powder. Who knows in 
 
220 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 what unconsecrated ground his corpse is lying now ? May 
 God be gracious to his poor soul I" 
 
 " Ah I ah I " cried the stranger, with exultatien, " now you 
 know me : I am Long John — or rather, John Slaets, of High 
 Dries." 
 
 As he got no immediate reply, he said with surprise— 
 
 " Do you not remember the rifle-shooter of the Muschen- 
 guild? — him who for four leagues round was famed as the 
 best rifleman ? who had no equal in sureness of aim, and was 
 envied by all the other young men because the young lasses 
 looked so kindly on bun ? I am he, John Slaets, of High 
 Dries I" 
 
 " It is possible," replied the farmer distrustfully ; " but I 
 do not know you, sir, and I hope you will not take it ill. 
 There is no Muschen-guild in all our district ; and what was 
 formerly the shooting-ground is now the site of a country 
 house, which has been for several years uninhabited, for 
 Mevrouw is now dead." 
 
 Discouraged by the farmer's coldness, the traveller made 
 no further attempt to recall himself to his recollection. 
 
 " In the village dwell many of my friends, who cannot 
 have forgotten me," he said quietly, as he rose and prepared 
 to go. " You, Peer Joostens, were very young indeed when 
 all that happened ; but Pauvel will fall on my neck the mo- 
 ment he sees me, I am quite sure of that. Does he still dwell 
 on the moor?" 
 
 " The brickwork is long since burned down, and the clay- 
 pits filled up. The finest hay in the whole parish grows there 
 now ; it is the rich Tist's pasture." 
 
 " And where is Pauvel ?" 
 
 " The whole family were unfortunate, and left this quarter 
 altogether. What has become of them I cannot tell : dead, 
 without doubt. But I see, sir, you are talking of our grand* 
 
BLIND S08A. SHX 
 
 fktliers' times, and it will be a difficult matter to get an answer 
 to all your questions unless you go to our grave-digger. He 
 can tell over on his fingers everything that has happened 
 these hundred years or more." 
 
 " I daresay, farmer ; Peer John must now be ninety years 
 old at leaat." 
 
 " Peer John ? That is not our grave-digger's name : he ii 
 called Lauw Stevens." 
 
 A smile of pleasure overspread the traveller's countenance. 
 
 " God be thanked," he exclaimed, " that He has spared at 
 least one of my old comrades I " 
 
 "Was Lauw, then, a friend of yours, sir?" 
 
 " My friend," said the traveller, shaking his head, " I can 
 scarcely call him, for there was a perpetual rivalry, and 
 sometimes strife between us. Love affairs were at the bottom 
 of our differences. On one occasion, I well remember, when 
 he and I were struggling, I threw him from the bridge at 
 Kalvermoor into the stream beneath, and he was nearly 
 drowned ; but that is more than thirty years ago. Lauw will 
 be glad to see me again. Well, Farmer Joostens, give me your 
 hand ; I hope to drink many a can of beer in your house I" 
 
 Taking his travelling-bag under his arm, he left the tavern, 
 striking into a road behind it which ran through a plantation 
 of young pines. Although the farmer's reception and infor- 
 mation were not very cheering, they had notwithstanding 
 poured some consolation and joy into his heart. The sweet 
 odour of earlier years breathed round him ; and with the flood 
 of reminiscences which arose in his soul at every step, he felt 
 as if bom anew. The young pine- wood, it is true, which 
 surrounded him on all sides, was strange to him ; for on this 
 spot a lofty fir- wood had stood, whose trees bore innumerable 
 nestfl, and around whose borders grew the wild strawberry in 
 abundance. The wood had disappeared like the people of the 
 
222 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 Tillage : the old trees had died, and their children taken theii 
 place, to run their life-course in their turn. They were 
 strangers to the traveller, and he consequently viewed them 
 with indifference. But the song of the birds which resounded 
 on every side was still the same ; the wailing sough of the 
 wind as it stirred the pine-tops, the chirping of the grass- 
 hoppers, and the heath -breeze, with its delicious odours — all 
 the eternal workings of nature were the same as in the days 
 of his childhood and youth. Pleasing thoughts arose in the 
 traveller's mind ; and although he walked on with serene and 
 happy feelings, he never raised his musing eyes from the 
 ground till he had left the pine-wood behind him. Here 
 fields and meadows were spread out before him, through 
 which flowed a beautiful stream in pleasant windings ; behind, 
 at the distance of about a mile, the pointed church-steeple 
 rose among the trees, with its gilded cock glittering in the 
 Bunshine like a day-star. Still farther off, the windmill lazily 
 whirled its heavy red wings. 
 
 Overcome by the beauty of the scene, and the memories it 
 suggested, the traveller paused. His eyes became moist, he 
 let his travelling-bag fall on the ground, and spread out his 
 arms, while the expression of a deep and fervent joy beamed 
 upon his countenance. 
 
 At this moment the prayer-bell pealed forth the Angelus, 
 
 The traveller knelt down, and bending his head upon his 
 breast, remained motionless in this attitude for a time, pro- 
 longing his devotion, though visibly agitated and trembling. 
 An earnest prayer streamed from his heart and lips, while he 
 raised his eyes and folded hands to heaven, full of passionate 
 gratitude. Then picking up his travelling-bag, he hastened 
 impatiently on. Gazing at the church-steeple, he said in a 
 Vow tone — 
 
 **Toa at least are not altered, humble little church, whew 
 
BUND BOf A. S9i 
 
 I was baptized — where, at my first comnmnion, everything 
 was so joyful, so wondrous, so beautiful, and holy I Ah I I 
 shall see it once more, that image of the holy Mary, with its 
 golden robe and its silver crown ; St. Anthony, with his 
 pretty little pig, and the black devil with his red tongue, of 
 which I used to dream so often ! And the organ, on which 
 Bus the clerk used to play so beautifully, while we sang with 
 loud and earnest voices — 
 
 ' Ave Maria, 
 Gratis plena!" 
 
 The traveller sang these last words with a loud voice. The 
 associations which it suggested must have affected him deeply, 
 for a glistening tear rolled down his cheek. Silently he moved 
 on, sunk in self-forgetfulness, till he had reached a little bridge 
 which led across the stream to a marshy meadow. 
 
 An indescribable smile now lighted up his countenance, af 
 if his whole soul beamed there. 
 
 " Here," he said, with emotion, " I first took Eosa's hand 
 in mine. Here our eyes first made that mutual confession which 
 reveals heaven to the young and ardent, but yet trembling, 
 heart. The yellow water-lilies sparkled in the sunshine then as 
 now ; the frogs croaked merrily, and the larks sang overhead." 
 
 Crossing the bridge, he stepped upon the heath. 
 
 " Ah," he said to himself, " even the little frogs which saw , 
 our love are dead — the flowers are dead, the larks are dead I 
 Their children now greet the gray-haired man, who returns 
 among them like a spectre from the past. And Kosa, my 
 dear Rosa I does she still live ? Perhaps 1 Married, it may be, 
 and surrounded by her children. Those who are left behind 
 forget, alas 1 the unhappy brother who roams far from his 
 borne I" 
 
 A serene and cheerful smile played round his lips. 
 
 ** Poor pilgrim I" he sighed, " there boiled up in thy bosoa 
 
294 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 just then a feeling of jealousy, as if it were still spring-time ht 
 thy old heart 1 The season of love is long since past for thee. 
 Well, it matters not, if only she recognises me, and has not 
 quite forgotten our ardent attachment. God I then I shall no 
 longer lament my long journey of eight thousand miles ; and 
 shall go, half consoled, to join my parents and friends in the 
 grave I " 
 
 Not far from the village, he entered a little tavern, of the 
 sign of the " Plough," and asked the landlady to fetch him a 
 glass of beer. On the hearth, by a gi-eat pot, sat a very 
 aged man, who stared into the fire like an image of stone. 
 Before the woman had returned with the beer, the traveller 
 had recognised him, and, sitting down beside him, took hii 
 hand. 
 
 " God be praised, that He has granted you so long a life. 
 Father Joris. You are one who belonged to the good old 
 times ! Do you not know me, then ? No I The wild boy 
 who used to creep through your hedge, and eat your apples 
 before they were ripe ?" 
 
 " Six-and-ninety years 1" muttered the old man, withotrt 
 stirring. 
 
 " So it is," sighed the traveller. " But tell me, Father 
 Joris, is Eosa, the wheelwright's daughter, still alive ?" 
 
 " Six-and-ninety years I " hummed the old man, with a hol- 
 low voice. 
 
 Tlie woman reappeared with the beer. 
 
 " He is blind and deaf, sir," she said. " Do not speak to 
 him ; he does not understand a word." 
 
 "Blind and deaf I" muttered the stranger despairingly; 
 "what devastation inexorable time spreads in thirty years! 
 Heavens I I wander here amid the ruins of a whole generation 
 of men I" 
 
 " Did yon ask after Bosa« the wheelwright's daughter ?" 
 
njMD BOSA. 22ft 
 
 resijned the woman. " Our wheelwright had five daughter*, 
 but there was no Rosa among them ; for the oldest is called 
 Beth, and is married to the postman ; the second is Gonde, 
 who is a milliner ; the third is called Nel6 ; and the girl, 
 Anneken ; and as for the little child, it is rather silly, poor 
 thing I" 
 
 " But I do not refer to these people at all," said the traveller 
 with impatience. " I speak of Kob Meulincz's family." 
 
 " Oh, they are all dead, long ago, sir," was the woman's 
 reply. 
 
 This was a severe blow to the traveller ; and, much agitated, 
 he rose, and left the tavern with feverish haste. Before the 
 door, he struck his hand upon his brow, and exclaimed, de- 
 spairingly — 
 
 " Gt)d 1 she too ! My poor Rosa dead I Always, always 
 chat inexorable word * dead I ' * dead I * Nobody on this 
 earth knows me again. Not one looks on me with the eye 
 of a friend!" 
 
 Tottering like a drunken man, he turned towards a pine- 
 copse, and stood there quite unmanned by his grief, leaning 
 his head on a tree. When his agitation was partially allayed, 
 he went slowly towards the village. The path led by a soli- 
 tary churchyard; pausing at the foot of the cross, he un- 
 covered his head, and said, in a low and solemn voice — 
 
 ** Here, before the image of the Saviour on the cross, Rosa 
 plighted her troth to me ; here she promised to remain ever 
 true, and wait till I should return to my native village. We 
 were overpowered by our sorrow ; this bench was wet with 
 our tears ; and, quite mad with grief, she received from my 
 hand the little golden cross — the love-pledge which I have so 
 dearly redeemed. Poor friend I perhaps I am now standing 
 on thy gravel" 
 
 With these melancholy thoughts, he sat down desponding 
 
926 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFS. 
 
 on the kneeling bench, and remained there for a long time, 
 unconscious of everything around him. Slowly, at last, he 
 tamed his head, and gazed at the churchyard, where littlo 
 hillocks indicated the most recent graves. It grieved him to 
 see the many wooden crosses which had fallen through ag« ; 
 and which no child's hand had thought of raising up agam 
 over a father or a mother's resting-place. His parents, too, 
 slept here ; but who could help him to find their graves ? 
 
 So mused he, long, sadly, and despondingly ; mysterious, 
 impenetrable eternity pressed upon his soul like a leadeA 
 tombstone, when suddenly a man's footsteps startled him out 
 of his despairing thoughts. 
 
 Along by the side of the churchyard wall crept the old 
 grave-digger, spade on shoulder. He bcre^ .ne unmistakable 
 marks of age and poverty ; his back was bent by perpetual 
 toil ; his hair was white, and his face all covered with deep 
 wrinkles ; but strength and energy still lived in his eye. The 
 traveller recognised his rival, Lauw, at first sight, and was 
 about to hasten forward to greet him. But the bitter disap- 
 pointments which he had already met with deterred him, and 
 he resolved to say nothing, but wait to see whether Lauw 
 recognised him. 
 
 The grave-digger paused a few paces off, and, after he had 
 looked at him with apparent indifference, he began to mark 
 off a long quadrangle, the limits of a new grave. Now and 
 then, however, he cast a side look on the stranger, who sat 
 before him on the bench, and a selfish and invidious kind of 
 jatisfaction seemed to sparkle in his eyes. The traveller, de- 
 ceived by the expression which had suddenly passed over the 
 grave-digger's countenance, felt his heart throb with the ex- 
 pectation that Lauw would approach and address him by his 
 name. 
 
 The grave-digger looked at him again for a moment lEeeaJj, 
 
BUND BOfA. SS7 
 
 then feeling in the pocket of his tattered waistcoat, pulled out 
 an old book bound in divij parchment, to which a pencil was 
 attached by a leathern thong. Turning round, he seemed to 
 note down something on one of the leaves. This act, taken 
 in connexion with the exulting expression of his countenance, 
 iurprised the trareller so much that he went up to the grave- 
 digger, and said with curiosity — 
 
 " What were you writing in the little book just now?" 
 
 " That is my affair," replied Lauw Stevens, gruffly. " Yon 
 hare stood a terribly long time on my list ; I was making a 
 cross at your name." 
 
 "You recognise me, then?" exclaimed the stranger joy- 
 fally. 
 
 " Recognise I" said the grave-digger in a bitter and mocking 
 tone ; " I don't know that ; but I remember well, just as if it 
 had happened yesterday, that an envious villain once threw me 
 into the river and nearly drowned me, because I was loved by 
 Resa the wheelwright's daughter, Since then, many an Easter 
 candle has been burnt ; but" — 
 
 "You were loved by Rosa I" interrupted the stranger. 
 " It is not true, I tell you." 
 
 "Ah, you knew it well enough, spiteful fellow that yon 
 were 1 Had she not for a whole year worn the silver conse- 
 crated ring which I had brought with me from Scherpenheu- 
 vel ? And did you not tear the ring forcibly from her, and 
 throw it into the water?" 
 
 A sad smile passed over the traveller's countenance. 
 
 " Lauw 1 Lauw !" he exclaimed, " we do wrong ; memory 
 makes us children again. Believe me, Rosa did not love yon, 
 as you suppose ; she took your ring only out of friendship, and 
 because it was consecrated. In my youth, I was rough and 
 rude, I fear, and did not always act nobly to my comradea. 
 Bat ihall four-and-thirty years have passed so defstraotivelj 
 
938 ¥AUI OF ITJSMISH UFS. 
 
 OTer men and tlings, and left nothing but our wretehed 
 passions unchanged? Ah, Lauw, shall the only man who 
 recognises me be my enemy — and will he continue my enemy 
 ■till ? Come, give me your hand ; let ns be friends. I will 
 make you happy for the remainder of your life." 
 
 The grave-digger withdrew his hand sharply, and said, in a 
 gloomy and surly tone — 
 
 "Forget! I forget you? It is too late I You have 
 poisoned my life. No day passes but I think of you ; and do 
 I think of you to bless your name, do you suppose? You 
 yourself may determine that — you who have been the cause 
 of my misery." 
 
 Folding his trembling hands, the traveller raised his eyei 
 to heaven, and exclaimed in despair — 
 
 " God 1 God I hate alone knows me 1 — ^hate alone does not 
 forget me I" 
 
 " You have done well," resumed the grave-digger, laughing, 
 " in coming here to lie beside your blessed parents. I have 
 kept a capital grave for you ; I will lay the proud Long John 
 under the roof-ledge, where the rain-water may get at him, 
 and wash all the malice and villany out of his corpse." 
 
 A sudden trembling shook the traveller from head to foot, 
 and a lightning-flash of indignation and wrath shot from his 
 eyes. This violent excitement, however, quickly gave way 
 to a feeling of dejection and pity. 
 
 " You deny your hand to a brother," he said, " who returns 
 to the home of his youth, after an absence of four-and-thirty 
 years ! The first greeting which you address to your old com- 
 rade is bitter mockery I Lauw, this is not right ; still, 
 be it so ; let us say no more about it ; only tell me where my 
 blessed parents lie buried." 
 
 " I don't know," said the grave-digger surlily. " It is mort? 
 than fire-and-twenty yean since they were brought here ; and 
 
BLIND B08A. 339 
 
 I nave dng frosh graves on the same spot three times sinoo 
 then." 
 
 There was something more than ordinarily painful to the 
 traveller in these words ; powerless, he let his head sink on 
 his hreast, while he stared intently on the ground, quite over- 
 whelmed hy his sorrow. 
 
 The grave-digger resumed his labour, hut with an unsteady 
 and hesitating hand, as if some deeper feeling were now at 
 work within him. He looked and beheld the stranger's 
 anguish, and seemed inwardly shocked at the secret and 
 long-cherished revenge which had actuated his conduct, and 
 impelled him to torture his fellow-man so mercilessly. This 
 change of feeling was visible upon his countenance ; the 
 contemptuous smile had vanished, and he looked at his mourn- 
 ing comrade with rising sympathy. He then slowly ap- 
 proached him, and, taking his hand, said, in a low but 
 impressive voice — 
 
 " John, friend, forgive what I have said and done I I have 
 acted cruelly and maliciously. But, John, you do not know 
 how much I have suffered through you." 
 
 " Lauw I " exclaimed the other, grasping his hand with emo- 
 tion ; " those were errors of our youth I And see how little 
 I calculated on your hostility : your very naming me was it- 
 self an inexpressible joy to me. I am still grateful to you for 
 that, though you have torn my heart by your bitter mockery. 
 And now tell me where Bosa lies buried ? In heaven she will 
 rejoice to see us reconciled, and standing like brothers beside 
 her last resting-place 1" 
 
 " Buried ! " exclaimed the grave-digger. " God grant that 
 she were buried, poor thing I " 
 
 "What? what do you mean to say?" cried the traveller. 
 "Is Bosa still alive?" 
 
 ** Yes, she lives, if her heavy lot is worthy the name of lift." 
 
ISO TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 "You make me tremble. For Gkxi's sake, fpeaki 
 
 misfortune has "befallen her?" 
 
 " She is blind." 
 
 " Blind ? Rosa blind I She has no eyes with which to look 
 on me again I Alas, alas 1 " 
 
 Overcome by grief, he tottered back to the bench, and sank 
 down upon it. The grave-digger approached him. 
 
 " For ten years she has been blind," he said, " and begs 
 her daily bread. I give her twopence every week ; and when 
 we bake, there is always a little loaf set apart for her besides." 
 
 The traveller sprang up, and warmly pressing the grave- 
 digger's hand, exclaimed — 
 
 " Thanks, thanks ! God bless you for your kindness to her 1 
 I will tak« it on myself to reward you in His holy name. I 
 am rich, very rich. To-day we shall meet again ; but now, 
 without losing a moment, tell me where she lives; every 
 minute is another minute of misery to her." 
 
 With these words he drew the grave-digger by the hand 
 towards the gate of the churchyard. From the wall Lauw 
 pointed with his finger to an object in the distance-^ 
 
 " Do you see the smoke rising from yonder little chimney 
 behind the copse ? There is the hut of the broom-maker, 
 Nelis Oems, and there Rosa lives ! " 
 
 Without waiting for further directions, the traveller hast 
 ened in the direction pointed out, and passing through the 
 village, soon reached the solitary dwelling. 
 
 It was an humble hut, built of dry twigs and mud, but 
 clean outside and carefully white-washed. Not far from the 
 door lay four little children sprawling on the gi'ound in the 
 warm sun, or making wreaths of the blue corn-flowers and red 
 poppies. They were barefoot and half-naked ; the eldest, a 
 little boy of six, wore nothing but a linen shirt. While the 
 three little sisters looked at the unknown visitor with shyneM 
 
WUSD BOSA. 931 
 
 and timidity, this little fellow, on the contrary, gazed at him 
 with a certain surprise and interest, mingled with an open- 
 hearted ingennousness. The traveller laughed kindly to the 
 child, hut, without stopping, entered the hut, where he found 
 the father husy with his hrooms in a comer, and the mother 
 with her wheel hy the hearth. 
 
 These people seemed to he ahout thirty years of age, and 
 appeared quite contented with their lot. For the rest, every- 
 thing ahout them was as clean as rustic life would admit of in 
 a dwelling so confined. His entrance surprised them very little, 
 and they at once greeted him politely and put themselves at 
 his service, thinking that he wished to inquire the way; 
 and the hushand, indeed, had already sprung from his seat to 
 accompany him to the door, and point it out. When he, how- 
 ever, said with manifest agitation and impatience, " Does Eosa 
 Meulincz dwell here?" the hushand and wife exchanged a 
 strange look, and were so taken hy surprise, that they 
 scarcely knew what to reply. 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied the man at last, " Kosa dwells here ; hut 
 ghe is gone on her hegging rounds. Do you wish to speak 
 with her?" 
 
 " God I where is she ? Can she not he got at once ?' 
 
 "It would he difficult, sir; she is gone on her weekly 
 rounds with our Trieny ; hut she will he home in an hour for 
 certain." 
 
 " May I wait here, then?" asked the traveller. 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered these words, when the man hastened 
 into a side-room and brought out a chair, which, though 
 roughly and coarsely made, was yet considerably cleaner than 
 the lame old chairs which stood in the room. Not content 
 with that, the woman drew a white cloth out of a chest, and 
 spreading it over the chair, requested the stranger to he seated. 
 He waa delighted with this simple and honest kindness, and 
 
289 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE* 
 
 returning the cloth with many thanks, he sat down. He 
 then looked attentively about the room, hoping to find some 
 tokens of Rosa's having been there. When looking to one 
 side in search of some objects of this kind, he suddenly 
 felt a little hand gently laid on his, and softly stroking hig 
 fingers. Surprised by this proof of afiection, he turned round, 
 and saw the blue eyes of the little boy gazing earnestly up at 
 him with a beautiful smile of confidence and love, as if he had 
 been his father or elder brother. 
 
 " Come here, little Peter ! " exclaimed the mother. " You 
 must not h& so forward, child I " 
 
 Little Peter, meanwhile, seemed not to have heard this ad- 
 monition, for he still continued to gaze at the unknown visitor, 
 and to stroke his hands as before, so that the latter did not 
 know what to make of it, so inexplicable was the interest 
 which the child seemed to have in him. 
 
 " My dear little child," he sighed, " how beautiful your 
 Dine eyes are: you touch my heart deeply I Come, I will 
 give you something, you are such a dear little fellow I " 
 
 He drew from his pocket a little gold purse, ornamented 
 with silver and jewels of various colours — shook out some 
 small coins, and gave them to the child, who stared at the 
 present with astonishment, but did not, for all that, quit hia 
 hold of the traveller's hand. The mother now rose, and com- 
 ing up to the child, said reprovingly — 
 
 " Peerken, Peerken, you must not be unpolite ; thank the 
 gentleman, and kiss his hand." 
 
 The little boy kissed his hand, nodded his little head, and 
 with a clear voice said — 
 
 ** Thank you, sir. Long Johnl" 
 
 A thunder-stroke could not have shook the traveller mor« 
 powerfully than the simple utterance of his name by this inno- 
 tent child. Tears rolled involuntarily over his cheeks ; bt 
 
ML soil.. SS3 
 
 took the child apon his knee, and looked deep into hiB eyef 
 while he exclaimed — 
 
 " you little angel 1 Do yon then know me ? — me, whom 
 yon have never seen? Who tanght yon my name?" 
 
 " Blind Rosa," was the reply. 
 
 " But how is it possible that yon should have known me ? 
 or was it God himself who inspired your child's soul ?" 
 
 " Oh I I knew you at once," said Peerken. " When I lead 
 Rosa about, as she goes her begging rounds, she always talks 
 of you ; and she says that you are, oh so big I amd that you 
 have black eyes that sparkle ; and she said that you would 
 come home one day, and bring us all such beautiful things. 
 And I was not afraid of you, sir, for Rosa told me that I was 
 to be sure to love you, and that you would bring me a great 
 bow and arrow." 
 
 The traveller listened earnestly to the sweet and simple 
 revelations of the boy. Suddenly he took him in his arms 
 and kissed him warmly ; and then said in a cheerful tone— 
 
 " Father, mother, this child is from this time wealthy. I 
 will train him, educate him, and endow him richly. His 
 recognising me shall be the making of his fortune on 
 earth." 
 
 The parents were quite overwhelmed with wonder and joy ; 
 and the man was scarcely able to stammer a reply — 
 
 " Ah I it is far too good of you. We knew you at once, 
 but we could not be quite sure. Rosa has told us that you 
 are a rich gentleman." 
 
 "And you, too, good people I you know me!" cried the 
 traveller. " I am among friends here ; I find a family and 
 a relationship, where hitherto I have been met by nothing 
 but death and forgetfulness." 
 
 The woman pointed to an image of the Virgin on the table, 
 •11 blackened by smoke, and said — 
 
9^84 TiJJEB OF riiEMIBH UFK. 
 
 ** Every Sunday evening a candle is lighted there for the 
 return, or .... the soul of John Slaets 1" 
 
 The stranger raised his eyes devoutly to heaven, and fer- 
 vently exclaimed — 
 
 " God ! blessed be Thy name, that Thou hast made love 
 mightier than hate I My enemy has cherished my name in 
 his heart, recalling it daily only to curse it ; but while my 
 friend has lived in my memory, and breathed the love I felt 
 for her on everything around me, she, too, has here preserved 
 the memory of me, and made other hearts love me — while 
 I was eight thousand miles away. I thank Thee, God I 
 Thou art kind indeed I " 
 
 A long silence reigned till John Slaets had regained his 
 calmness ; the people of the house observed his emotion, and 
 the husband had considerately resumed his work, only looking 
 up from time to time that he might be ready to run to serve 
 the stranger, if any occasion arose. 
 
 The latter had now taken Peerken on his knee again, and 
 Baid — 
 
 " Mother, has Kosa lived long with you?" 
 
 The mother prepared herself to give him the beginning 
 and the end, and the short and the long of the whole matter, 
 and moving her spinning-wheel to his side, she sat down, and 
 began — 
 
 " I will tell you, sir, how it has come about. You must 
 know that when old Meulincz died, the children divided what 
 he left among themselves ; and Eosa, who would not have 
 married for all the money in the world — I need not tell you 
 why — made over her share to her brother, on the condition 
 that he should maintain her during her life. In addition to 
 this, she was a dressmaker, and earned a considerable gum 
 in this way, but did not give it to her brother. She de- 
 voted all her earnings to good works, visited the sick, and. 
 
BLINDBOfiL. SU 
 
 wlieii tho people were very poor, paid the doctor to attend 
 them. She had always a word of comfort for everybody, and 
 some reviving cordial in her pocket for those who were very 
 weak. It so happened that my husband — we had been only 
 half a year married then — came home one day with a dread- 
 ful cold ; listen — he has had that cough ever since. Next to 
 God, we have to thank the good Eosa that my dear Nelis 
 does not lie in his grave. Ah, sir, if vou had but sppu what 
 she did for us out of pure love and kindness I She brouffbt 
 warm coverings — for it was cold, and we were very poor. She 
 fetched two doctors from other parishes to consult together 
 about our Nelis ; she watched by my husband's bedside, she 
 ightened his sufferings and my grief with her kind, lovmg 
 words, and gave us all the money we required to pay tor 
 medicine and food — for Rosa was beloved everywhere ; and 
 when she went to Mevrouw Hall, or to the wealthy farmers 
 about, a small gift for the poor was never refused her. And, 
 sir, our Nelis lay sick in bed for six long weeks, and all that 
 time Rosa took care of us, and helped us through, till my 
 husband, by degrees, picked up his strength again, and was 
 able to work." 
 
 ** How you must have loved the poor blind Rosa I " sighed 
 the traveller. 
 
 The man raised his head for a moment from his work, and 
 with tears in his eyes, exclaimed with ardour — 
 
 ** Could my blood restore her sight, I would let it be drained 
 to the last drop." 
 
 This fervent utterance of gratitude made a deep impression 
 on John Slaets. The woman perceived this, and giving her 
 husband an admonitory nod to be silent, she continued — 
 
 " Three months after, God sent us a child — it sits on your 
 knee. Rosa, who knew long before of its coming, wished 
 to b« it! godmother, and Peer, my husband^s brother, wai to 
 
n$ TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 be godfather. On the christening-day, there \^a8 some ooa- 
 rersation about the name which should be given to the child. 
 Rosa begged us to call the child John, but the godfather — a 
 good man, but rather obstinate, wished, and there was nothing 
 to object to it, that it should be called Peter after him. And 
 so, after a long discussion, it was baptized John-Peter ; and 
 we call him Peerken, because his godfather — to whom he 
 belongs more than to Kosa, being a boy — will have it so, and 
 would be offended if we did not do it. But Kosa will not 
 hear of Peerken — she will call the child nothing but Johnny ; 
 and the little fellow is accustomed to it already, and knows 
 thai he is called Johnny, because it is your name, sir." 
 
 The traveller pressed the child passionately to his breast, 
 And kissed him warmly. Silently musing, he gazed intently 
 At the boy's laughing countenance, while his heart melted 
 with a sweet sadness. The woman continued — 
 
 " Rosa's brother had made an arrangement with some 
 people in Antwerp, to buy up victuals of every kind, in all 
 the places about, to send to England. He would soon grow 
 rich with this trade, people said, for every week he took ten 
 carts full of provisions to Antwerp. At first, all went well ; 
 but suddenly some one failed in Antwerp, and the unfortunate 
 Tist Meulincz, who had been security, was ruined, and was 
 made so very poor by it, that all his goods were not enough 
 by half to p?*y his debts. He was not able to bear up under 
 it all, and died, poor fellow ! may our Lord receive his soul I 
 — Rosa then went to live in a little room at Nand Flinck's, 
 in the comer yonder ; but in the same year, Karel, Nand's 
 son, who had been taken for a soldier, came home with in- 
 flamed eyes. He had not been a fortnight at home, when he 
 lost his sight altogether. Rosa, who had felt great pity for 
 him, and always did what her kind heart bade her, had nursed 
 biro during his illness, and now used to lead him about to 
 
■UHD BOSA. S37 
 
 ke€f^ up his BpiritB, and refresh him a little. But Rosa goon 
 caught the same disease, and has never since leheld the light 
 of day I Nand Flinck is dead, and the children are scattered ; 
 the blind Karel is provided for by a farmer not far from 
 Lier. We then begged Rosa to come and live here, and told 
 her that we should be very much pleased to see her besid» 
 UB, and would willingly work for her all our lives ; and she 
 oame with pleasure. — ^And before God we can declare, that 
 she has now been nearly six years here, and has never heard 
 from us anything but words of kindness ; but, then, she is all 
 goodness and love ; and if anything were to happen, which 
 was to be pleasant to Rosa, I do believe our children would 
 fight and tear each other's hair to be the first to " — 
 
 " And she begs I " sighed the traveller. 
 
 " Yes, sir, but that is not our fault," replied the woman 
 with offended pride. " Do not think that we have forgotten 
 what Rosa once did for us. Had it been necessary to yoke 
 ourselves to the plough, and endure hunger for her sake, she 
 would not have required to beg. What do you think of us, 
 sir ? No 1 we prevented it for more than six months ; and 
 that is the only wrong we have done to Rosa. As our family 
 increased rapidly, Rosa feared in her angel heart that she 
 would be a burden to us, and wished to assist a little. It 
 was all in vain to oppose ; she became quite ill with vexation ; 
 we saw this, and after half a year's entreaties, we were at 
 l&st compelled to allow her to take her own way. But it is no 
 disgrace to a blind woman. Though we are very poor, we are, 
 thank God, not so needy as to require it ; but she compels us for 
 all that to take now and then a share of her gains, for we can- 
 not be at variance with poor blind Rosa ; but we give it back 
 again in another way. For although she does not know it, 
 she is better clothed than we, and the food which we prepare 
 Gor her ii mnch better than our own. A little pot is always 
 
StS TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 devoted to her. See, there it is, two eggs with latter-sanoo, 
 in addition to potatoes I The remaining money she layi 
 aside, if I understand her rightly, as a little portion to our 
 children when they are grown up. We thank her from out 
 hearts for her love ; hut, sir, we can do little elm" 
 
 The traveller had listened with the deepest silence to this 
 explanation ; a quiet smile which beamed upon his countenance, 
 and a slight occasional movement of tne eyes, were the only 
 indications of the feelings of intense joy which filled his heart. 
 
 The woman had ceased speaking, and had set her wheel in 
 motion again ; while the traveller remained for a time occupied 
 with his own reflections. Suddenly he put the child on the 
 floor, and turning to the man, who was busy with his brooms, 
 said in a tone very like a command — 
 
 " Cease working I " 
 
 The broom-maker did not understand at first what he wa 
 after, and rose from his seat, astonished at the tone of th 
 stranger's voice. 
 
 " Cease, I say — and give me your hand, farmer Nelis." 
 
 " Farmer I " muttered the broom-maker with surprise. 
 
 " Come, come," cried the traveller. " To the door witl 
 your brooms I I will give you a hide of land, four milch-cows, 
 a heifer, two horses, and everything else which goes to make 
 up a comfortable farm-steading. — You do not believe me?" 
 he continued, showing the broom-maker a handful of gold 
 pieces. " What I say is true. I might give you this gold, 
 but I love and respect you too much to put money in your 
 hand. I will make you the possessor of a good hide of land, 
 and even after my death, I will benefit you and your children." 
 
 The good people gazed at him with moist eyes, and appeared 
 not yet quite to comprehend all he said. When the traveller 
 was about to renew his promise, Peerken eagerly seized hiis 
 tfj the hand, as if he would say something to him. 
 
BLIHD BOBA. tt9 
 
 " What is it, my dear child?" he asked. 
 
 "Mr. John," replied the boy, ''see! — tht workers are 
 ooming from the fields. I know where Rosa is. Shall I ruM 
 to meet her, and tell her that you have come?" 
 
 The traveller took Peerken's hand, and drew him towards 
 the door — 
 
 " Come along ; we shall go together I " he said ; and taking 
 leave of the family with a slight and hasty gesture, he accom- 
 panied the child, who led him towards the middle of the village. 
 As soon as they had reached the first houses, the rustics came 
 out of their barns and stables, and looked gaping after the 
 traveller, as if they had seen a miracle. In truth, it was a 
 wonderful spectacle to see the child in his shirt, and with his 
 bare feet, laughing and talking merrily, as he skipt along by 
 the side of this unknown stranger. The astonished villagers 
 could not understand what the rich gentleman, who seemed t& 
 be a baron at least, meant to do with the broom-maker's little 
 Peter. Still greater was their astonishment, when they saw 
 him stoop and kiss the child. The only explanation of the 
 matter which occurred to the wisest heads among them, and 
 was soon pronounced before every house -door to be the true 
 account of the matter, was, that the rich gentleman had bought 
 the boy from his parents, and meant to adopt him as a son. 
 This had often been done by city people who had no chil- 
 dren of their own ; and little Peter, with his great blue eyes 
 and fair curly head, was certainly the prettiest boy in the 
 village. But for all that, it was both strange and pretty to 
 see the rich gentleman carry off the child in nothing but his 
 Bblrt. 
 
 Meanwhile the traveller stept on. The whole village seemed 
 to him irradiated with a heavenly light ; the foliage coloured 
 with a fresher green ; the humble little cottages smiled to him, 
 and it was for him the birds were singing their enchantiDg 
 
140 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 song; the air seemed filled with glowing life and balmy 
 odours. 
 
 Bevelling in this new feeling of happiness, he had turned hii 
 attention from the child. His eyes were fixed upon the dis- 
 tance, and his glance tried to penetrate the trees which limited 
 the prospect at the other end of the village. Suddenly the 
 child pulled his hand, and cried with a loud voice — 
 
 " There I down there, comes blind Rosa with our Trieny I" 
 
 An old blind woman might be seen, led by a little girl of 
 five, entering the broad street of the village from behind a 
 little house. 
 
 Instead of responding to the child's eagerness and haste, the 
 traveller stood still, and looked earnestly and sadly at the 
 poor blind woman as she slowly approached. And was this, 
 then, his Rosa? — the beautiful, the lovely maiden, whose 
 image, so fresh and young, was yet deeply engraven on his 
 heap^r 
 
 in a moment these thoughts vanished, and he hastened on 
 to meet his friend. When he had approached to within fifty 
 paces of her, he could restrain his emotion no longer, but, 
 " Rosa, Rosa 1 " burst involuntarily from his heart. When 
 the voice fell upon the blind woman's ear, she withdrew her 
 hand from her guide, and trembled as if she had been struck 
 by paralysis. She stretched out her arms gropingly before 
 her, and, exclaiming, "John, John I" hastened towards her 
 long-lost lover. At the same moment, she put one hand in 
 her bosom, and tearing a string which hung round her neck, 
 she held out a golden cross with an unsteady and trembling 
 hand : and so she fell into her friend's arms. Then gently 
 withdrawing from his embrace, she took his hand, and ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " John, I die of joy — but I have vowed a vow to Gk)d» 
 C!ome^ oome, lead me to the churchyard." 
 
BLmD BOSA. 941 
 
 Joim Slaets did not nnderstand wliat Rosa's purpose was ; 
 Imt feeling, from the tone of her voice, that an earnest, per- 
 haps a sacred work was about to be done, he at once complied 
 with her wish; and, without paying any attention to the 
 villagers, who by this time surrounded them in great numbers, 
 he led his blind friend to the churchyard. Here she turned 
 towards the kneeling-bench, and with the words — 
 
 " Pray, pray ; I vowed it to Gk)d," she forced him to kneel 
 by her side. 
 
 She raised her hands, and foe a long time prayed in a low 
 murmuring voice. She then threw her arms round her friend's 
 neck, and kissed him ; but her strength had now failed her, 
 and speechless, but smiling, she laid her head upon his throb- 
 bing breast. 
 
 Peerken, meanwhile, danced among the villagers, and as he 
 clapped his hands, kept shouting as loud as he could — 
 
 ** It \b Long John I it is Long John I " 
 
 On a beautifiil day in the autumn of 1846, the Diligence 
 rolled as usual over the highway between Antwerp and 
 Tumhout. Suddenly the driver pulled up, not far from a 
 lonely tavern, and descending from his box, opened the car- 
 riage-door. Two young travellers sprang out upon the road, 
 laughing, rejoicing, and swinging about their anus like two 
 birds just escaped from a long imprisoament. They looked 
 at the trees and the beautiful blue autumnal air with the 
 cheerful, bright expressioH of people who have left the crowded 
 city, and would now fain inhale with their breath the whole 
 of broad, laughing nature. Suddenly the younger of the two 
 turned his face towards the fields, while his face shone with 
 poetic enthusiasm. 
 
 " Listen, listen I" he said. 
 
 From behind the fir- clumps there came the sound of diitant 
 
149 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 mnsic. The measure was so light and gay, that one was OOM- 
 pelled to associate it with the quick beating of dancers' feet. 
 
 The younger companion pointed with silent delight towards 
 the pine-copse, and then exclaimed in a jocular way — • 
 
 •• Oh ! hark to the sound of the fiddle and horn. 
 The dance and the song — 'tis a festal morn. 
 Oh ! little they reck of dull care or of sorrow : 
 They will laugh for the day — tho' they weep on the morrow." 
 
 ** Come, come, friend John, your inspiration is prsmatare. 
 It 18 probably only the new burgomaster whom they are in- 
 angurating." 
 
 " No, no, that is no official merriment. Let us go and see 
 the peasant girls dancing — ^It is so wonderfully pretty." 
 
 "We shall first drink a glass of beer with mine host 
 Joosteng, and ask him what is going on in the village." 
 
 "And defraud ourselves of the pleasure of surprise? 
 Prose I" 
 
 The travellers entered the tavern, and both burst into a loud 
 laugh the moment they had put their heads into the room. 
 
 Mine host Joostens stood in front of the fireplace, as straight 
 as an arrow, and as stiff as a log. His long, brown, copious 
 Sunday-coat hung round him, reaching to his feet. He greeted 
 the guests with a constrained smile, in which appeared a cer- 
 tain perplexity, for he dared not move his head in the least, 
 as his high stiff shirt-collar took every opportunity of pinching 
 him behind the ears. When the travellers entered, he called 
 out with impatience, but without the slightest movement of 
 his head — 
 
 " Zanna, Zanna, I hear the music. Did I not tell you that 
 you would be too late?" 
 
 Zanna came running into the room with a great basket- 
 fnl of flowers. Oh I she was so beautiful with her folded 
 laoe-cap, her gown of pilot-cloth, the great golden heart upon 
 
BUND BOSA. V Sit 
 
 her breafit, and the dear little ear-rings I Her face was red 
 
 with joy and delighted anticipation ; it looked like a gigantic 
 flower which is just on the point of unfolding its petals. 
 
 "A. majestic peony opening its cup on a beautiful May- 
 day I " whispered the younger. 
 
 Meanwhile she had fetched two glasses of beer, and then 
 hastened out of the house with her flowers, singing and laugh- 
 ing as she went. With the^ greatest impatience mine hort 
 now shouted — 
 
 " Beth, Beth, if you do not come down at once, I shall go 
 alone, as true as I stand here I" 
 
 Just at this moment the old clock, which hung on the wall, 
 pointed to nine, and a bird's voice called in a plaintive tone — 
 " Cuckoo I cuckoo I cuckoo I " 
 
 " What is the meaning of that?" asked one of the travel- 
 lers. " You have sold the clock, I suppose, which used to 
 hang here, to be tormented all the year round with that de- 
 testable song?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," said mine host with a cunning smile, " laugh 
 at the bird as you please ; it brings me fifty Dutch florins a 
 year, and a bunder* of good land into the bargain." 
 
 In the distance, four gun-shots resounded at o|ual in- 
 tervals. 
 
 " Heavens I " cried mine host, " the fest has begun. The 
 wife wears my very life away with her off-putting and 
 dawdling I " 
 
 " But, mine host Joostens," asked the other traveller, " what 
 is afoot here? Is it the church-fest to-day? That would 
 be singular on a Thursday. Or is the king coming?" 
 
 " Things of far greater importance, sir, are going on here 
 to-day : the like was never heard before I If you only knew 
 it, you would not require — this time at least — to draw long 
 
 * Tvo koDdzod and forty feet long by one buadred and twen^ bnw4 
 
S44 TALEf or FLEHIBH UVM. 
 
 bows and inyent lies in order to fill yonr books. And tbis old 
 cuckoo, too, has something to do with the tale of Blind Rosa." 
 
 "Blind Rosa I" cried the younger companion with joyfoi 
 surprise. "What a beautiful title! It would be a good 
 pendant to the Zieke Jongeltng"* 
 
 "Hallo I that won't do," replied the other. "We have 
 come out together to hunt after tales, and the spoil must be 
 honourably shared.*' 
 
 " Well, well, we shall draw lots for it at once," muttered 
 the younger, half sorrowfully. 
 
 "But," said the other, "it is all a mystery to us yet. 
 Come, mine host Joris, oS with that detestable collar, and let 
 us have the story in a friendly way. You will get the book 
 for nothing when it is printed." 
 
 " Yes, but I cannot tell you all the outs and ins of it at 
 present," replied mine host. " There, I hear my wife on the 
 stair ; but come along with us to the village, and by the way 
 I will let you know how it comes about that guns are firing 
 and music playing so merrily to-day." 
 
 The wife entered with a dress which immediately fixed 
 the attention of the younger traveller, by its flaming red, 
 blue, yellow, and white colours. She ran up to her husband 
 and affectionately tugged his shirt-collar up a little higher, 
 and then taking his arm, led him hastily out of the housCi 
 Both travellers followed. 
 
 Mine host Joostens now told the whole history of Blind 
 Rosa and Long John to his attentive companions as they 
 walked towards the village; and although he had spoken 
 himself quite out of breath, the travellers did not cease to ply 
 him with all sorts of questions. He told, likewise, how Herr 
 
 • These two traTellers were Eendrik Consdence, the author of these ialm, and Jaa 
 ran Beers, unquestionably the greatest Flemiah lyric poet of the day, and Hbm 
 Itmpova D4 Zidu Jongding. 
 
BUND S08A. 945 
 
 Slaeta had purchased the old cuckoo clock, and promised him 
 fifty florins a year if he would let it hang in his tavern-room 
 as of old ; how Long John had lived four-and-thirty years in 
 Eussia in Asia, and had amassed considerable wealth by the 
 fur-trade ; how he had purchased the estate of old Mevrouw, 
 and meant to live on it with Rosa and Nelis's family, all of 
 whom he had adopted ; how he had given the grave-digger 
 a large sum; and finally, how this very evening a grand 
 peasants' banquet was to be given at the Hall, and for which 
 a whole heifer was to be roasted, and two huge pots of rice- 
 soup were to be boiled. Mine host was still in the full flow 
 of his description, when they reached the broad central street 
 of the village. 
 
 The travellers listened no longer to his talk, for they were 
 now staring their eyes out of their heads, gazing at all the 
 striking and beautiful things which presented themselves on 
 every side. The whole village was adorned with pine- 
 branches along the front of the houses in an uninterrupted 
 line, bound together by snow-white kerchiefs or flower- 
 wreaths. Interspersed, and above the spectators' heads, swung 
 inscriptions in great red letters. Here and there a fine May- 
 tree was planted, with its hundred tiny flags of gold leaf 
 flittering against one another, with chains of birds' eggs, and 
 ringing little glass rods. On the ground the boys and girls 
 had scattered heath-flowers profusely, and formed out of them 
 as usual the initials of Jesus and Mary. Alongside might be 
 seen J. R., prettily woven with flowers. This was meant to 
 stand for John—Rosa^ and was the invention of the school- 
 master. Amid all these beauties moved a living mass of 
 people, who had flocked from the neighbouring villages to 
 be present at this singular marriage-festival. 
 
 The young travellers amused themselves by moving firom one 
 group to another, and listening to the people's remarki. But 
 
S46 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 when the procession was seen approaching the village th?x>iigk 
 the fields, they hastened to the churchyard gate, and tock up 
 their position on an eminence whence they could see all that 
 was going on. They looked upon the procession with a kind 
 of reverence ; and indeed, it was so beautiful and impressive, 
 that the hearts of the travellers throbbed with emotion — for 
 their hearts were young, and full of poetic enthusiasm. More 
 than sixty little girls, between the ages of five and ten, 
 all clothed in white, with a bright, child-like smile on their 
 faces, advanced through the blue air like a little flock of 
 lambs. Above their fresh little faces, and on their loose and 
 flowing hair, lay a wreath of monthly roses, which seemed aa 
 if they would fain contest the prize of beauty with the laugh- 
 ing lips of the little maidens. 
 
 " It is one of Andersen's fairy tales," said the younger in a 
 low voice. " The sylphs have left their flower-cups — Inno- 
 cence, Purity, Youth, Joy I How beautiful it is I " 
 
 " Ha I " said the other, " there come the peonies all in a 
 row, and Zanna Joostens at the head of them I " 
 
 The younger was, however, too much enchanted to con- 
 descend to notice this unpoetical remark. With a kind of 
 rapture he was gazing at the great number of marriageable 
 young maidens who followed the little children, all in their 
 best ornaments, and beaming with life and health. How 
 finely the features of those blooming girls came out under 
 their snow-white lace caps I how charmingly their quiet 
 virgin bashfulness was painted on their blushing cheeks I 
 how bewitching was the shy smile which hovered lound their 
 lips! — like the gentle ripple which the summer-breeze stirs 
 upon the lake, when it plays with the water and makes it 
 laugh. 
 
 Ha ! there comes Blind Kosa, leaning on her bride groom'i 
 arm. How happy must the poor woman feel \ — she hai en- 
 
BUMO BOBA. S47 
 
 dnred so mncli ; slie was reduced to bear the "beggar s wallet. 
 For four-and-thirty years she mourned her absent lover, and 
 cradled her soul in a hope which she herself half-suspected to 
 be a delusion. And there he is now, the friend of her child- 
 hood and youth 1 Leaning on his arm, she walks to the altar 
 of the God who has heard her prayers. The vows which they 
 interchanged under the cross near the churchyard are about 
 to be fulfilled. She is his bride I On her breast glitters 
 the plain golden cross which Long John gave her so many 
 years ago. She hears now the joy, the welcomings, the song, 
 and the music which celebrate his return. She trembles in 
 her agitation, and nervously presses her bridegroom's arm, as 
 if she almost doubted the reality of her happiness. 
 
 Behind comes Nelis, with his wife and children ; they are 
 clothed now like country people well-to-do. The parents hang 
 their heads as they walk, and dry a tear of admiration and 
 gratitude from their eyes every time they look at their blind 
 benefactress. Peerken holds his head erect with a simple and 
 natural independence, and shakes his waving blond hair, 
 which falls in curls upon his neck. He leads his little rlster 
 by the hand. 
 
 But what group is that? The ruins of an army, which 
 has been devastated by the sword of Time ! Behind Nelis's 
 children totter twenty aged men : a singular spectacle indeed ! 
 All are gray or bald ; the backs of many are much bent ; the 
 greater number support themselves on staves ; two walk with 
 crutches; one is blind and deaf;— -all suffer from age in one 
 form or another, broken down by the weight of labour and of 
 years, so that one might have supposed that Death with his 
 scourge was driving them before him, like a herd of cattle, 
 to the grave. 
 
 Lauw Stevens, with his hands almost touching the g^-ound, 
 goen foremost; and the blind and deaf landlord of ^Tb« 
 
t48 TALE8 OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 Rough *' IS led by the miller's grandfather. These old people 
 had lived when Long John was the cock of the parish, when 
 every one had to yield to the courage and haughtiness of his 
 lusty youth. 
 
 Behind these followed the villagers, men and women, who 
 had been invited in a body to partake of the marriage-feast 
 in the Hall. 
 
 The procession entered the church. Outside, the solemn 
 pealing of the organ was heard. 
 
 The younger traveller took his comrade aside into the 
 churchyard, and stooping and turning round, held out two 
 blades of grass, whose points were just visible beyond his 
 closed hand. 
 
 " Already?" said the other; "you are in very great haste." 
 
 " Choose, choose at once I I am eager for this subject, and 
 I an impatient to know whether I may write upon it to-mor- 
 row or not.' 
 
 The elder drew one of the blades of grass out of his com- 
 panion's hand : the younger let the remaining one fall to the 
 ground, and sighed sorrowfully — 
 
 "I have lost I" 
 
 And so it happens, dear reader, that the elder of those two 
 friends now narrates to you the tale of Blind Kosa. It is 
 vexing, certainly ; for, as it is, you have the story in prose, 
 whereas you might have been reading it in inspired rhythmical 
 Another time may late be more propitious to yon I 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Towards the latter end of July 1842, an open carriage 
 IB j2;ht be seen proceeding on its way to Antwerp, along one 
 of the three great roads which lead from the confines of the 
 Ihitch territory. 
 
 This vehicle, though made to look its best, by careful and 
 elaborate polishing, yet betrayed too clearly the poverty of 
 its owner. It bore the marks of old age, swayed to and fro 
 on its framework, and clattered in its wheel-boxes like a loose 
 window-pane. The leathern covering, which was partly 
 thrown back, glanced in the sun with the grease with which 
 it had been besmeared, but the oily polish failed to conceal 
 the scratches and rents in the leather. The door-handles, it 
 is true, as well as the rest of the brasswork, were very care- 
 fully furbished, but the last remnants of what had once been 
 silvering, and which might just be discovered by a minute ex- 
 amination of the ornaments, spoke of former wealth, now sadly 
 diminished, if not entirely dissipated. The single horse which 
 drew the carriage, was a strong but coarse animal ; and it was 
 •isj to Bee, from ita short and clumsy steps, that it had 
 
250 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 intended for teavier work, and was more accustomed to t1i« 
 cart and the plough than to the light labour in which it was 
 now engaged. 
 
 On the box, sat a peasant lad of seventeen or eighteen 
 years, dressed in a faded livery, with gold lace round his hat, 
 and white metal buttons on his coat ; but the hat fell over 
 his ears, and the coat was so long and wide that it nung 
 round him like a great sack. This dress, the property of the 
 master, had apparently been worn by many a servant, and 
 was evidently still destined to adorn the person of many a 
 successor. 
 
 The sole occupant of the carriage was a gentleman about 
 fifty years of age. No one would have suspected that he 
 was the master of such a servant, and the owner of such a 
 crazy vehicle, for his appearance immediately inspired the 
 spectator with respect and esteem. 
 
 With downcast eyes, and apparently sunk in deep reflection, 
 he sat there motionless, till a rumbling of wheels announced 
 the approach of another carriage. He then raised his head ; 
 his expression suddenly became more open, and assumed the 
 clear lustre of contentment and complacency ; and a gentle 
 pride, which perhaps might rather be called self-respect, lighted 
 up his features. Scarcely, however, had he exchanged a polite 
 greeting with the passer-by, when his head slowly sank again 
 upon his breast, and a quiet melancholy again took possession 
 of his countenance. Spite of that, it needed only the glance 
 of a moment to be attracted powerfally to this man by some 
 secret sympathy. Although very thin, and covered with in- 
 numerable wrinkles, his face was yet so regular and noble ; 
 his expression so gentle, and yet so deep ; his high- vaulted 
 brow, so clear and strong, that one instinctively felt persuaded 
 that this man was richly endowed with intellect and feefeng. 
 
 Apparently he had suffered much. If his countenance h«d 
 
THE POOB NOBLEKAN. S61 
 
 not given this impression, it might have been inferred from 
 the silver-gray hairs which already covered his head, and 
 with which a peculiar flash of his dark black eyes, wnen he 
 he was visited by some overwhelming thought, finely con- 
 trasted. 
 
 His dress was in perfect keeping with these outward char- 
 acteristics ; it bore the stamp of that rich, one might almost 
 gay, splendid simplicity, which considerable experience of the 
 world, and a fine sense of the becoming, usually give. Hig 
 linen was fine, and strictly clean; his clothes of excellent 
 material ; and his hat carefully brushed. At times too, and 
 especially when any one passed, he drew from his pocket a 
 beautiful golden snuff-box, and took a pinch with such neat- 
 ness, and even elegance, that one might have inferred from 
 this insignificant circumstance alone, that he was accustomed 
 to move in the most refined society. 
 
 A critical or ill-natured eye, to be sure, might easily have 
 discovered, on closer examination, that this gentleman's cloth- 
 ing was brushed thread -bare, that the nap of his hat had 
 been elaborately smoothed over the worn-out rim, and that his 
 gloves were sewed in more places than one. Nay, had one 
 been able to peep into the carriage, one might have seen that 
 there was a rent in his left boot, and that the stocking under 
 it was blackened with ink. But all these marks of poverty 
 were so skilfully concealed, and the dress was worn with such 
 an air of wealth, and such a noble dignity of bearing, that 
 most men would have at once concluded that if this gentle- 
 man did not wear finer clothes, it was only because he did 
 not choose to do so. 
 
 The carriage had already rolled over the highway with 
 considerable rapidity for about two hours, when the servant 
 drew up in the causewayed court of a small inn outside 
 Antwerp. The landlady and the hostler came out, and over- 
 
25S TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 whelmed the gentleman with tokens of respect, while helping 
 to unyoke the horse. The owner of the carriage must have 
 been in the habit of putting up here, for every one addressed 
 blm by his name. 
 
 ** BeautiM weather, Herr von Vlierbeke ? But it grows 
 rather warm ; a little rain would do no harm to the high 
 country, Herr von Vlierbeke. Shall we give the horse a feed 
 of our oats ? Ah I the servant has brought oats with him, I 
 see. Have you any commands, Herr von Vlierbeke ?" 
 
 While the hostess was uttering in rapid succession these 
 and similar questions, Herr von Vlierbeke stepped out of his 
 carriage, said some friendly words to the woman, hoped she 
 was well, inquired after her family, and ended by saying 
 that he must go immediately into the city. He shook hands 
 with her heartily, yet with just so much of the manner of a 
 kind patron, that the difference of rank between them was 
 not thereby compromised. Then, after giving some directions 
 to his servant, he turned quickly, but with a polite greeting, 
 towards the bridge which led to the city. 
 
 At a solitary part of the outworks, Herr von Vlierbeke stood 
 still to brush the dust from his clothes, and smooth his hat 
 with his pocket-handkerchief; and then passed through the 
 Bed Gate. Now that he found himself in the city, where he 
 had to pass men of all kinds, and where he could not be for 
 a moment unobserved, he held his head and body erect, and 
 gave to his mien that serene expression of self-satisfaction 
 which impresses others with the belief that one is happy. — 
 Such was the outward seeming, but, in secret, deep sorrow 
 and anxiety oppressed his heart. 
 
 A humiliation awaited him, the very probability of which 
 made his heart bleed. But there was a being on earth whom 
 he loved more than his life or his pride of rank. For her he 
 had already offered up that pride as a sacrifice — ^for her lik^ a 
 
TBB rooB noblemah. Stt 
 
 mitjT Buffered ; and yet so powerfdl was that feeling of love 
 in him, that every pain, every humiliation which he endured, 
 exalted him in his own eyes, and made him regard sorrow as 
 something which ennobles and sanctifies. 
 
 None the less, however, did his soul tremble and recoil 
 tinder the effort ; and the further he plunged into the city, 
 and the nearer he approached the house where a sore trial of 
 moral strength awaited him, the more impetuously did his 
 blood course through his veins. He soon stood before a door ; 
 and as he pulled the bell, his hand trembled spite of the sur- 
 prising self-command which he possessed ; but the moment 
 the servant appeared, he was again master of his feelings — 
 
 " Is the Herr Notary at home ?" he asked. 
 
 After replying in the affirmative, the attendant conducted 
 him into a small room, and then went to inform his master. 
 So soon as he found himself alone, Herr von Vlierbeke threw 
 his right foot over his left in such a position that the rent in 
 his boot could not be perceived, and then drawing forth his 
 golden snuff-box, took a graceful pinch. 
 
 The Notary entered with a business face, seemingly quite 
 prepared to give a polite greeting ; but scarcely had he per- 
 ceived who his visitor was, when he assumed that expression 
 of cold reserve which serves as a kind of armour of defence, 
 when one foresees a troublesome business, and would fain get 
 rid of it. Far from showing his usual loquacity and cordi- 
 ality, he sat down, after a few words of ordinary politeness, 
 opposite Herr von Vlierbeke, silently and with an inquiring 
 look. The latter, hurt and humbled by this ungracious recep- 
 tion, felt a cold shudder pass over him ; but making a great 
 effort, he picked up courage, and said in a tone of expostula- 
 tion--" Pardon me, Herr Notary ; compelled by an unavoid- 
 able necessity, I once more throw myself on your goodntfll 
 lor a small service/' 
 
9M TALES OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 ** And what do you wish from me ?" asked the Notary. 
 
 " My object in coming to you is to obtain another and a 
 final advance of a thousand francs, or even less, on mortgage 
 of my estate. But I have a smaller and more urgent request. 
 This very day I need money, and would fain borrow two or 
 three hundred francs from you. You will not, I hope, refuse 
 me this trifling assistance, which will rescue me from a great 
 embarrassment." 
 
 " A thousand francs I on mortgage 1 " muttered the Notary. 
 **Who would pay the interest? Your property is already 
 burdened beyond its value." 
 
 " Oh I it cannot be, Herr Notary ; you must certainly de- 
 ceive yourself," replied the nobleman with great anxiety. 
 
 " Not at all, I assure you. At the request of those who 
 have advanced money on your property, I have taken a valu 
 ation of all you possess, and put as high an estimate on it ai 
 it will bear. The result has been, that it is only in the eveni 
 of a peculiarly favourable sale that it can meet the demands 
 which will be made on it. Ton committed an irremediabh 
 folly, sir I Had I been in your place, I should not have sacri 
 ficed all my possessions, and my wife to boot, to an ungrate- 
 ful, and I might almost venture to say, a dishonourable man, 
 whether he were my brother or not." 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke, seemingly overpowered by painful 
 recollections, bent his head sadly, but gave no answer to the 
 imputation thrown on his brother's character. He seemed 
 to struggle with his feelings, and his finger pressed the gold 
 snuff-box convulsively as the N-^tary prweeded — 
 
 " Through this one imprudent act you have brought 
 yourself and your child to poveiiy : this can be concealed no 
 longer. For ten long years have you, with God knows how 
 much suffering, preserved the secret of. your ruin ; but noir 
 tiie moment approaches when you must sell all you have." 
 
POOR NOBLEILUI. SM 
 
 The nobleman looked at the Notary with an expression ol 
 agony and despair. 
 
 " It is as I have said," the latter continued. " Herr Ton 
 HoogeLaen has died while travelling in Germany, and the 
 heirs have got possession of the bond for four thousand francs, 
 and have instructed me not to renew it on any terms. Herr 
 vor Hoogebaen was your friend, but the heirs know nothing 
 about you. For ten years you have postponed taking up this 
 bill, and during that period have paid two thousand francs as 
 interest.— For your own good the thing must come to an end. 
 The date of the bond gives you still four months' respite, 
 Herr von Vlierbeke." 
 
 " Four months more," sighed the nobleman in a melancholy 
 tone, " and then— God I" 
 
 " Then, your goods will be sold by order of a court of law. 
 Such a prospect, I easily conceive, must be very painful to 
 you ; but as an unavoidable misfortune threatens you, do your 
 best to meet it with courage, and prepare yourself for the 
 stroke. Permit me to dispose of your property at once, under 
 some pretext or other, and so escape the disgrace of a com- 
 pulsory sale." 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke had been sitting for some minutes with 
 his hands over his eyes, as if the sad intelligence which he 
 had just received, had quite overwhelmed him. When the 
 Notary suggested the voluntary sale of his property, he 
 raised his head, 'ind said with a constrained but painful 
 composure — 
 
 " Your advice, Herr Notary, is both good and generous ; 
 but I cannot follow it. You know that all my sacrifices — my 
 submitting to this life of misery, my never-ceasing anxiety — 
 have but one object, the happiness of my only child. You 
 are aware, and you alone, that everything which I do has a 
 single, and, as I believe, a sacred purpose. Now, it almoil 
 
t56 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 seems at present as if Ck>d was about to answer my ten yeait* 
 prayer. A tender affection has sprung up between my child 
 and a wealthy man whose goodness and excellence I admire. 
 His guardian seems favourable to the attachment. Four 
 months I the period is a short one ; but am I, by this proposed 
 sale, at once to destroy all my hopes, and expose my child and 
 myself to starvation, just at the very time when I may bring 
 all my anxieties and sufferings to a happy termination ?" 
 
 " So you mean to deceive these people, and perhaps expose 
 your child to a still greater misfortune than poverty?" 
 
 The word "deceive" made the nobleman tremble ; a cold 
 shudder ran through his limbs, and a blush of shame over- 
 spread his fine brow. 
 
 " * Deceive I' " he sighed bitterly ; " oh, never ! But I do 
 not wish to crush the feeling of love which has grown up so 
 gently and insensibly between these two young hearts, by an 
 unseasonable proclamation of the wretched state of my own 
 fortunes. If any decided step were about to be taken, I should 
 explain honestly how I stood. If my doing so shall blight 
 my hopes, I shall then follow your counsel, sell my property, 
 and leave my fatherland for some country where I can pro- 
 cure, by teaching, a maintenance, however miserable, for my 
 daughter and myself." 
 
 For a time he was silent, and then added, as if struggling 
 with his own feelings — 
 
 " By the deathbed of my wife, and by the altar of God, T 
 vowed that my child should not participate in my calamity — 
 that she should not feel the pressure of poverty, but lead a 
 peaceful, a happy, and a free life. Hitherto I have fulfilled 
 my vow ; but these ten years' sufferings and ten years' humi- 
 liation have not e»abled me to place her fortunes on a sure 
 basis ; but now, one ray of hope irradiates our dark future." 
 
 Then, trembling, he seized the Notary by the hand, looked 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAN. 857 
 
 Into bis face with a wild and anxious expression, and said 
 imploringly — " Help me, my friend, at this critical time ; do 
 not torture me any longer, but give me what I ask. I will 
 bless the name of my benefactor, the deliverer of my child, 
 while I live I" 
 
 The Notary withdrew his hand, and replied with visible 
 annoyance — 
 
 " But I do not understand what bearing all this has on the 
 sums you wish to borrow ?" 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke put his hand in his pocket, and said, 
 in a peculiar tone — 
 
 " Ah, it is amusing, is it not, to sink so low as to see life- 
 long happiness or misery dependent on things which other 
 men would laugh at ? Well, to-morrow the young man and 
 his uncle dine with us. The uncle invited himself. We have 
 nothing to set before them ; and my daughter requires a few 
 articles of dress to make her presentable, especially as we 
 shall also be invited by them in turn. Our solitude, there- 
 fore, can no longer conceal our poverty. Sacrifices of every 
 kind must be made to save us from shame." 
 
 At these words, he drew his hand out of his pocket, and 
 showed two francs in a little purse. 
 
 " See I " he said with a bitter smile, " that is all I possess 
 in the world ; and to-morrow I have to entertain wealthy 
 visitors. If my poverty is in the smallest degree betrayed, 
 then all hope for my child is at an end. For God's sake, 
 Herr Notary, do not deny me your generous aid." 
 
 " A thousand francs I " muttered the Notary ; " I cannot de- 
 ceive my clients. What security will you give me? Ton 
 possess nothing which is not overburdened already." 
 
 "A thousand, or five hundred, or two hundred — ^let mo 
 have something,* whatever it may be, which wiF deliver me 
 from the present difficulty." 
 
358 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 " I hare no money at my disposal at present/' was the cold 
 reply. " Perhaps m a fortnight ; but I cannot say for cer- 
 tain." 
 
 " Then, for onr friendship's sake, lend me out of your own 
 purse." 
 
 " I cannot hope that you will ever be in a position to repay 
 the loan," interrupted the Notary impatiently. " It is, there- 
 fore, alms which yon are asking." 
 
 The nobleman wrung his hands painfully ; he grew pale ; 
 his eyes flashed, and his brow grew dark with passion ; but 
 he controlled this violent emotion, and, looking up, he mut- 
 tered with a kind of melancholy indifference — 
 
 " Alms, do you say ? Be it so. Even this last drop of the 
 cup of suffering will I drink — it is for my child I " 
 
 The Notary took some five-franc pieces out of a drawer and 
 offered them to him. Whether it was that he now felt more 
 keenly the degradation of taking alms, or that the sum offered 
 was so entirely inadequate, he looked at the money for a time 
 with a wild stare, and then, throwing himself back in his 
 chair, he covered his face with his hands. 
 
 At this moment a servant entered and announced a stranger ; 
 the nobleman sprang up the moment the serrant left the room, 
 and wiped a few tears from his eyes. The Notary pointed to 
 the money on the table ; but Herr von Vlierbeke, shuddering, 
 turned aside his head, and said hastily — 
 
 " Herr Notary, pardon my boldness ; I have still one favom 
 to beg of you." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " In the name of my child, secrecy 1 " 
 
 ** On that point, you have already had long experience of 
 me. Have entire confidence. Will you, then, not accept this 
 ■mall help?" 
 
 "Thanks! thanks 1" cried the nobleman, as he pushed 
 
THE rOOB NOBLEMAIC S3t 
 
 •ride the Notary's Land, trembling as if an ague were on him, 
 and hastened from the room and the house, without waiting 
 to be shown out by the servant. 
 
 Overwhelmed by the humiliating blow which he had re- 
 ceived, almost unconscious, and tortured by a deep sense of 
 shame, his head on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the 
 ground, the wretched nobleman hastened, apparently without 
 a purpose, from street to street, and seemed not to know where 
 he was, or whither he was going. At last, the feeling of ne- 
 cessity roused him from his feverish dream, and, turning his 
 steps towards the Burgerhout gate, he wandered along the 
 fortifications, till he found himself alone in a solitary spot. 
 
 There, pausing, a severe internal struggle seemed to com- 
 mence. His lips moved rapidly, while his countenance ex- 
 pressed pain, despair, and shame, by turns. Meanwhile he 
 drew the gold snuff-box from his pocket, and, with an ex- 
 pression of intense grief, gazed for a long time on the arms 
 engraven on its lid, and then relapsed into a melancholy 
 reverie. Soon after, he shook off his sad thoughts, as if he 
 had come to some important conclusion, and said, with a low 
 but faltering voice, full of deep emotion — 
 
 " Last token of a mother's love I Guardian angel, who hast 
 so long concealed my misery I — sacred shield, which I have 
 thrown over a penury which all else, alas I too clearly indi- 
 cated ; thou time-honoured heirloom of my father I to thee, 
 too, must I say farewell — thee must I with my own hand dis- 
 honour! May this last resource in our necessity rescue us 
 from a still deeper humiliation I" 
 
 A tear rolled over his face as he proceeded with his singu- 
 lar business, and with a knife scraped the snuff-box till the 
 arms were quite indistinguishable. He then returned to the 
 city, where he threaded his way through narrow and solitary 
 ■treets, examining the signboards as he passed along with a 
 
9M TALES OF FLEMISH UFl. 
 
 timid and shy look. After he had cirept about in this waj 
 for more than an hour, he came to a small lane in the St. 
 Andrew's quartet, where, as his face at once indicated, ho 
 found the object of his search. His eye was fixed upon a 
 signboard on which were inscribed the two words, " Sworn 
 Hill-carrier." This signified that some one lived in the 
 house who lent money for pledges, as the representative of 
 the establishment called Mont de Piete. The nobleman 
 passed the house, and walked to the end of the street ; ther 
 tiimed, and walked, now slowly and now quickly, up and 
 down, always quickening his step when he saw any one 
 approaching. At last he found a favourable moment, and 
 trembling as he crept along the wall, he slipped into the house 
 on which he had perceived the signboard. He reappeared 
 after a considerable time, and fled round the corner of another 
 street. A certain satisfaction was perceptible in his eyes ; but 
 the dark red which still suffused his face clearly indicated 
 that he had obtained the desired relief only at the cost of a 
 new humiliation. 
 
 He proceeded into the middle of the town, and entering 
 an eating-house, purchased a fowl, a meat-pie, some pre- 
 served fruits, and other little dishes, and having got them 
 packed in a basket, said that he would send his servant to 
 fetch them. He then purchased at a silversmith's a pair of 
 silver spoons, and a pair of ear-rings, and then left this quarter 
 apparently with the intention of providing himself with vari- 
 oua other aftisles. 
 
THE FOOB NOBLEHAS. S61 
 
 CHAPTBB IL 
 
 On many of the waste heatlis of our country, man has be- 
 gun a victorious contest with nature, in his efforts to awaken 
 the soil out of its sleep of ages. He has stirred up the arid 
 entrails of the earth, and dropt the sweat of his brow into its 
 lap ; has called science and industry to his aid ; has drained 
 marsh and moor ; has led the rich mountain- water from the 
 bed of the Meuse into diverse channels, and so caused its fer- 
 tilizing life-veins to permeate the soil which for more than a 
 thousand years has lain in a sleep of death. 
 
 Glorious struggle of man with matter 1 ever-to-be-lauded 
 victory, which one day will convert the barren Kerapenland 
 into a fertile garden I Truly, our posterity will scarcely be- 
 lieve that where a waving sea of corn or a green meadow is 
 spread out before their enchanted gaze, the sun's rays were 
 once reflected by the bright and barren sand. 
 
 To the north of the city of Antwerp, towards the borders of 
 Holland, one can perceive scarcely any traces of these begin- 
 nings; here and there only, close by the highway, a part 
 of the heath is enclosed ; but more inland, in the heart of 
 the district, everything is waste and sterile. Yonder, as far 
 as the eye can reach, nothing is visible but a scorched plain, 
 whose only ornament is the never-failing heath-flower. Yon- 
 der are wide-extended lands where nothing bounds the horizon 
 iave that bluish mist — always a sure sign that the waste ez- 
 
26S TALES OF FLEMISH Lin. 
 
 tends mucli farther tlian the eye can reach. If one has wan- 
 dered far over these plains, he will know that here and there 
 he comes unexpectedly upon some winding little brook, whose 
 banks are adorned with wild-flowers and low willow clumps. 
 By the side of this murmuring heath-stream, farm-houses, 
 Tillas, and whole villages may be met with, as if man, like the 
 soil beneath him, needed only running water to enable him to 
 find nourishment and to live. In one of those spots where 
 willows and bushes of various kinds abounded, €tood a Hall of 
 considerable size, to which a retired path led. The lofty trees 
 which threw their shadow so majestically round, showed that 
 man had been here for centuries ; and the moat which sur- 
 rounded the hall and its immediate environs, as well as the 
 stone bridge before the gate, justified the inference that a 
 lordly estate must be attached to it. This property went by 
 the name of Grinselhof. 
 
 The farm-house, with its stables, bams, and out-houses, oc- 
 cupied the whole front of the domain, and almost prevented 
 the passer-by from seeing what was going on behind the 
 thick wood, and within the moat. That, indeed, was to a 
 great extent a secret to the farmer himself. Behind his 
 house and farm-yard there rose a thick plantation, which, 
 like a curtain, concealed the interior of the domain from 
 his curious eyes. Neither he nor any one of his family were 
 allowed to pass this limit uninvited. In the depths of this 
 seclusion, among the highest trees, stood a large house, called 
 by the peasantry the Castle. Here dwelt a nobleman and his 
 daughter, as lonely and retired as hermits, without attendants 
 either male or female, and carefully avoiding all society. 
 The rumour was that this nobleman, notwithstanding his ex- 
 tensive possessions, avoided the intercourse of his fellow- men 
 through avarice and parsimony. 
 
 So far as the farmer was concerned, the secret was impeiM- 
 
THE POOB NOBIJUUX. 963 
 
 trable; for lie honoured his master's privacy too much to 
 throw any light npon his circumstances and mode of life. It 
 was to him a profitable farm. The soil was fruitful there, and 
 the rent moderate. He showed himself grateful to his master 
 for this, and willingly lent him a horse to convey him every 
 Sunday morning to the village, where the nobleman and hii 
 daughter regularly attended Divine service. On urgent oc- 
 casions, too, his younger son acted as servant to the pro- 
 prietor 
 
 It is late in a July afternoon, and the sun has nearly com- 
 pleted its daily course in the heavens, and dips towards the 
 western horizon; but its rays, though they have lost their 
 mid-day heat, are still warm, and pour over nature a rich and 
 varied glow. On Grinselhof, too, the declining sun beams 
 brightly and serenely down between the over-arching foliage. 
 While its rays paint the tops of the trees with softer tints, 
 the green on the farther side grows darker, and the interior of 
 the wood more mysterious and gloomy. Giant shadows now 
 stretch over the ground ; and after the sultry heat of the day, 
 a fresh evening coolness slowly rises from blade and leaf, and 
 fills the air with its reviving odour. Spite of all this, however, 
 everything is gloomy round Grinselhof. A deathlike stillneas 
 lies like a funeral pall over the lonely dwelling ; the birds are 
 silent, the wind is hushed, and not a leaf stirs. Nothing but 
 light ; it alone seems to live here. 
 
 One might have supposed, from the absence of all motion 
 and of all sound, that amid these melancholy shades nature 
 lay sunk for ever in a magic sleep. If one let his eye wander 
 round in the impenetrable gloom, in the vain endeavour to 
 pierce through the wild entangled foliage, it was only to recoil 
 with a shudder, as if the quiet mystery of this spot held 8om« 
 jet ifkidiyulged horror in its breast. 
 
264 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 Snddenly a nstle is heard among the bushes, and the HttU 
 branches bend and quiver ; some one swiftly springs through 
 them ; many birds leave the copse in alarm, and fly terrified 
 hither and thither, as if endeavouring to escape some ap- 
 proaching danger. Perchance there comes some human being, 
 to bring life and sound where death and silence seemed to 
 have an eternal empire. 
 
 Yonder the copse opens, and a young maiden, all clothed 
 in white, springs forward from among the hazel bushes, chas- 
 ing a butterfly with a silken net in her hand. She leaps and 
 runs more swiftly than a roe ; stretching her slender body, with 
 her arms above her head, and scarcely touching the ground 
 with her tiptoes, she seems winged, and more agile than the 
 birds which she had just startled from their hiding-places. 
 Her long hair falling in thick clusters on her beautiful neck 
 — see with what a bound she rises from the earth ! 
 
 How beautiful! how magnificent is that butterfly, which 
 flutters and dances overhead as if it had pleasure in sporting 
 with the young girl — its indented wings all over-sown with 
 eyes of azure, purple, and gold ! 
 
 A cry of joy, like a clear musical tone, burst from the 
 maiden's lips. She thought she had caught the object of her 
 chase, but she had only touched it with the edge of the net 
 and ruffled its wings. The butterfly rises high into the air, 
 and is soon far beyond reach ; while she looks sadly after it, 
 till its colours melt into the blue of the sky. 
 
 The girl stands panting for a moment till she has regained 
 her breath, and then with slow steps strikes into a broad foot- 
 path. How beautiful she is I The sun has somewhat em 
 browned the soft colouring of her face, but only to deepen the 
 glow upon her cheeks, and to give to it the full expression ol 
 mental energy and bodily health. Under her high brow 
 her black eyes gleam like stars through her long eyelaahet ; 
 
nm rooB koblemav. S€i 
 
 her finely-cnt month encloses two rows of glancing pearli, 
 which peep out between lips which might shame the bloom 
 of the fairest rose. All the charms of this bright virgin face 
 are surrounded by a crown of wavy and flowing hair, which 
 lies cradled on her shoulders, here and there revealing a white 
 and swan-like neck. Her form is slender, and scarcely con- 
 cealed by the simple white garment which she wears. "When 
 she raises her head, and bending back, gazes into the blue 
 heavens above her, one might almost believe that he saw the 
 dream-form of some spirit of the air, and imagine that this 
 maiden was the elf of Grinselhof. 
 
 Wandering over the winding paths — now visited by some 
 pleasing memory which lighted up her face with a smile, at 
 another time repressing some deeper emotion of the heart, and 
 standing with earnest fiwje, and eyes fixed upon the ground — 
 she approached a flower-bed, in which some favourite pinks 
 were fast withering under the heat. These flowers were evi- 
 dently objects of more than ordinary affection, for they were 
 all bound careftilly to white stakes, and not a weed was per- 
 mitted to show its head among tfc^m. The selection of the 
 flowers, the childlike precautions by which they were sur- 
 rounded, a tone of motherly care which could be felt better 
 than expressed — all betokened that they were reared and tended 
 by a female, or rather a loving virgin hand. The maiden 
 had already perceived from a distance that the flowers were 
 drooping ; she approached them with an anxious face, stooped 
 down, and taking a faded blossom in her hand, said — 
 
 *• Alas, my poor flowers 1 I forgot to water you yesterday. 
 You are thirsty, are you not ? And now you stand patiently 
 there, pining away waiting for me, and hanging your little 
 heads as if you would die !" 
 
 Musing a little, she added : " But since yesterday I hairiB 
 been lo distracted, so joyfdl, so veiy happy V* 
 
5M6 TALES OF FLBMI8R UfS. 
 
 Then looking to the gronnd modestly and basnfally, sht 
 whispered, with a scarcely articulate voice — "Guslavl" 
 
 For a time she stood motionless in this attitude, and forgot 
 her flowers, and the whole world besides — seemingly all alone 
 with some charming creation of her fancy. . Again her lips 
 moved, and she whispered — 
 
 "Ever, ever, his image before my eyes — ever his voice 
 haunting me I It is impossible to free myself from this magic 
 spell ; how my heart beats I Heavens I what is this I feel ? 
 Now my blood boils in my veins, now flows cold and slow, 
 and again hastens in wild pulsations through my heaving 
 bosom. My heart is heavy ; a vague anxiety, which I cannot 
 name, possesses me ; and yet my soul exults, and is filled with 
 a deep and mysterious rapture I " 
 
 She stood silent and motionless for some time ; then, seem- 
 ing suddenly to awake, she raised her head, and with a 
 characteristic movement shook the thick curls hastily from 
 her face, as if she would thus free herself from some over- 
 powering thought. 
 
 " Wait a minute," she said to the pinks with a smile ; " I 
 will bring you help and refreshment." And springing aside, 
 she broke a few twigs and constructed a screen for the 
 flower-bed ; then, picking up a watering-pot which lay near^ 
 ran through the grass to a little fish-pond overhung bj 
 weeping willows. When she approached, the surface of the 
 water was smooth and calm ; but scarcely had her form 
 been reflected in it, when the whole pond seemed to swarm 
 with living beings : hundreds of little fishes, of every size 
 and colour — red, white, and black, came shooting from every 
 Bide, and pushed their little heads out of the water, snap- 
 ping their mouths as if they would fain talk with their 
 young mistress. Holding fast with one hand by the stem 
 of the nearest willow, she bent gracefully over the water. 
 
tEE POOB NOELEMAN. 
 
 and ecdeayonred to fill the can without tonching her little 
 friends. 
 
 " Come, come, let me aJone," she said, as she gently pushed 
 the fishes aside to make room for the pot ; " I have no time 
 to play with you at present. I shall fetch your dinner very 
 soon." 
 
 But the fish insisted on playing round the watering-pot 
 while it remained ; and even after the young girl was gone, 
 they seemed attracted to the spot on the edge of the pond 
 which had been pressed by her feet, and passed and repassed 
 it with swift and shooting motions. 
 
 The maiden had watered the flowers, and the watering-can 
 had slowly dropt from her hands. With thoughtful and 
 downcast eyes she directed her steps towards her lonely dwell- 
 ing, then returning with some bread for the fishes, wandered 
 round the garden-paths sunk in a deep reverie. 
 
 At last she approached a spot where an old Indian jessa- 
 mine stretched its hanging branches over the path. Under its 
 broad shadow were a table and two chairs. A book, inkstand, 
 and some ladies'-work, indicated that she had already spent 
 part of the day here. She sat down, and taking up the book 
 and the work by turns, let both fall heedlessly from her hands ; 
 and then giving herself entirely up to her musing, she rested 
 her graceful head upon her hand, as if weary, and needing 
 repose. 
 
 For some time her eyes wandered unsteadily from object 
 to object : a sweet smile played at intervals round her mouth, 
 as if she were conversing with some beloved friend. But ere 
 long her wearied eyelids slowly sank — ^rose again only to sink 
 more heavily, till at last a deep sleep fell upon her. 
 
 "Did she sleep?" Her soul, at least, was awake and 
 happy ; for that charming smile was still visible on her coun- 
 tenance, vanishing at times to give place to a calmer expret- 
 
TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 doiif and then coming again, as a token of the perfect peace 
 and joy which existed in the mirror-like purity of the maiden's 
 soul. Surely the creations of her dreaming fancy took shape 
 and hovered before her eyes in the evening red, pouring a 
 flood of happiness over her heart I 
 
 Long she lay there, in entire seK-ohlivion, and cradled in 
 delicious dreams. — 
 
 There was a noise at the front gate near the farm-house, 
 and the loud neighing of a horse broke the sfHuess of Grin- 
 selhof ; but the maiden did not awake. The old vehicle had 
 returned from the town and had stopped at the farm-yard, 
 and the farmer and his wife hastened up to welcome their 
 master and unyoke the horse. 
 
 While they were busying themselves in this way, Herr von 
 Vlierbeke stepped out of the carriage and addressed some 
 friendly remarks to them, but in a tone so melancholy, that 
 both simultaneously looked at him with surprise. At other 
 times, and even in his most kindly and cheerful moods, a quiet 
 earnestness and gloom never left him ; but on this occasion a 
 more than ordinary dejection was imprinted on his face. He 
 seemed very much exhausted ; and his eyes, usually so full of 
 Tivacity, had now a dull and heavy motion under his hanging 
 eyelids. 
 
 The horse had been put in the stable ; and the young man, 
 who had already laid aside his livery, took some baskets and 
 packets out of the carriage, and carried them into the house. 
 Meanwhile, von Vlierbeke went up to the farmer and said — 
 
 " Rans, I shall need you to-morrow ; there are to be visitors 
 at Grinselhof. Herr Denecker and his nephew dine with us." 
 
 The farmer looked at his master with astonishment; he 
 could scarcely believe that he heard rightly. After a short 
 pause, he said, with a doubting look — "The stout, rich 
 gentleman, who sits beside you in church on Sundays ?" 
 
TUB rOOB NOBLEMAH. 269 
 
 "Well, Huis, what is so surprising in his paying me a 
 ▼isit?" 
 
 "And the high-spirited young Herr Gustav, who after 
 service yesterday spoke with our young lady?" 
 
 "The same." 
 
 " Ah, sir, those are very wealthy people ; they have pur- 
 chased all the property round Echelpoel. At their country 
 seat ten horses stand in their stables, in addition to those 
 which they have in town. Their carriage is all adorned with 
 gold and silver from top to bottom." 
 
 " So I believe, and it is just for that reason that I am par- 
 ticularly desirous to receive them as becomes their position. 
 Hold yourself and your wife and son in readiness ; I will call 
 you early to-morrow morning, and you will not object to 
 lend me a hand, I hope ?" 
 
 " Not at all, sir, not at all. We shall do what you wish 
 with the greatest pleasure ; a word from you is enough. Wo 
 Hre too happy to be of any service to you." 
 
 "I thank you for your kindness. It is arranged, then: 
 to-morrow morning early." And so saying, Herr von Vlier- 
 beke entered the farm-house ; and after giving some order? 
 with respect to the baskets which had been taken out of the 
 carriage, he struck into the wood which stretched from the 
 farm to Grinselhof. 
 
 So soon as he was out of sight of the farmer, his counte- 
 nance assumed a freer expression, and a cheerful smile lighted 
 up his face as he looked about apparently in search of some 
 one in this solitude. Suddenly his eyes fell on the sleeping 
 girl. As if under the influence of some magic power, his 
 iteps became slow and cautious, and he finally stood still, 
 gazing with rapture at his child. 
 
 How beautiful was the sleeping girl I Her wavy locks lay 
 in graceful disorder on her cheeks; the setting sun cast « 
 
S70 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 mellow radiance around her, and bathed her in its rich wana 
 glow. The Indian jessamine had dropt some of its blos- 
 soms upon her head, and strewed the ground with its white 
 cups. She still dreamed, and a smile of calm happiness 
 dimpled her features, while her lips moved and whispered 
 some scarcely articulate words — as if her soul, too full of joy, 
 had wished to unburden itself by utterance. Herr von Vlier- 
 beke stood long, scarcely daring to breathe, and caressing 
 with loving eyes that sweet and maidenly creature. With 
 deep feeling he raised his eyes to heaven, and said — 
 
 " Thanks be to Thee, Almighty God ! she is happy. Lei 
 me be for ever miserable ; but, oh, may my suffering make 
 Thee merciful to her I Thy favour and protection for my child 
 is all I ask. May this her sweet dream be true, God I " 
 
 After this short but fervent supplication, he sat down on the 
 chair which stood near her, and cautiously leaning his arm upon 
 the table to support his head, he gazed on bis daughter with a 
 smile of joy and admiration. Her virgin beauty must have 
 been to him a source of intense happiness, for its miraculous 
 power seemed in a moment to dispel his sufferings and anxiety. 
 He kept his eye fixed intently upon her, with an indescribable 
 rapture ; and the changing emotions which played over the 
 girl's features were repeated in his, as in a faithftd mirror. 
 Suddenly a deep blush suffused her brow; her lips moved 
 again with more distinctness ; her father watched them with 
 eager attention; and though she had said nothing audibly, 
 he was yet able to distinguish one of those empty soundless 
 words which had vanished into the air with her breath. 
 
 With a pleasure equal to hers, he added — 
 
 " Gustav I — she dreams of Gustav I Her heart is one with 
 mine ; may all go well — may God look on us propitiously I 
 Yes, my child, open thy heart to the delicious feeling of hope 
 •lone— dream on 1 But who knows ? Yet I will not imbit> 
 
THX POOX HOBLEMAH. S71 
 
 ter these sweet moments by the cold image of reality. Sleep 
 OD, sleep on, and let thy soul bathe itself in the magic stream 
 of a budding love ! " 
 
 HeiT von Vlierbeke sat for some time in still contemplation 
 of the young girl ; then, rising, went behind her, and im- 
 printed a long kiss upon her brow. Still half dreaming, she 
 opened her eyes slowly; but scarcely had she perceived who 
 had roused her, than she sprang up, and throwing her arms 
 round her father, hung on him affectionately, and asked him 
 all sorts of questions in the midst of her tender caresses. 
 The nobleman turned from his daughter, and said, with a sly 
 jest — 
 
 " I suppose, Lenora, I need scarcely ask to-day what beau- 
 ties yon haTe discovered in Vondel's Lucifer f You cannot 
 have had time, I fear, to begin a comparison of this master- 
 piece of our language with Milton's Paradise Lostt" 
 
 " Ah, father, I do not know what is wrong with me to-day ; 
 but I have such singular feelings — feelings which I cannot 
 describe. I have not been able to read with attention." 
 
 " Well, Lenora, do not trouble yourself about it. Sit down, 
 my child, I have something important to say to you. You do 
 not know why I went to town to-day ? — we have guests to- 
 morrow." 
 
 She was astonished at this news, and looked at her father 
 with surprise. 
 
 " It is Herr Denecker who is to be our visitor to-morrow ; 
 the wealthy merchant who sits near us at church, and lives in 
 Echelpoel Castle." 
 
 " Yes ; I know him very well. He has always a kind 
 greeting for me, and hands me out of the carriage when we 
 stop at the church-door. But" — 
 
 "Your eyes ask whether he comes alone. No, Leuora, 
 ■ome one accompanies him." 
 
S7t TALEB OF FLEMISH LTFB. 
 
 " Gustav ?" sbe exclaimed, while a Hnsh of modeirty orw- 
 ■pread her brow. 
 
 " Yes," replied her father, " it is Gustav. Do not tremble 
 or be alarmed, my child, because your soul is now for the first 
 time opening itself to a new sentiment. Between you and 
 me, there can be no secret which my deep love cannot pene- 
 trate." 
 
 The maiden looked into her father's eyes, and seemed to 
 seek the solution of this mysterious language in his mild and 
 amiable expression. Suddenly, as if her heart had been en- 
 lightened all in a moment, she threw her arms round his 
 neck, and said, with fervent gratitude — 
 
 ** Father, dear father, your goodness is infinite I " 
 
 For a time the nobleman, with joy depicted on his counte- 
 nance, held his daughter in his embrace ; but gradually an 
 expression of deep sadness overspread his features, and a tear 
 glistened in his eye, as he said with emotion — 
 
 " Lenora, whatever occurs in life, and whatever misfortunes 
 await us, you will ever love your father as you do now, will 
 you not?" 
 
 " Always I always I" 
 
 " Lenora, my child," sighed the father, " your sweet affec- 
 tion is my only joy on earth — my very life. Do not rob my 
 soul of this consolation." 
 
 The melancholy tones of his voice so alarmed the maiden 
 that she took his hand affectionately in hers, and, laying her 
 head on his Iwreast, began to weep in silence. 
 
 For some minutes they remained in this position without 
 stirring a limb, and overpowered by something which could 
 be called neither joy nor sorrow, but mysteriously partook of 
 both these feelings. The father's countenance was the first 
 to alter its expression ; he looked serious, and shook his head, 
 as if reproaching himself. In truth, the singular words which 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAN. S7d 
 
 had drawn tears from his daughter's eyes, had been prompted 
 
 by the thought that another would one day share his child' « 
 affection, perhaps estrange it entirely from him. Keady for 
 any sacrifice, even if it were disproportionately great, which 
 could in the least contribute to his child's happiness, still, 
 the idea of such a separation painfully affected him. 
 
 " Come, come, Lenora," he said caressingly, " be cheerftil 
 and happy again. There is a happiness sometimes in unbur- 
 dening our souls when an excess of feeling oppresses them. 
 Let us go in ; I have still much to tell you to prepare you 
 for receiving our guests in a proper way." 
 
 Both approached the house with slow steps, but a few tears 
 ■till lingered in Lenora's beautiful eyes. 
 
 Some hours later, Herr von AHierbeke sat in the largest 
 room in the house, leaning his elbow on the table, on which 
 stood a little lamp. The apartment, which was only lighted 
 in one place, while all the corners were lost in a deep gloom, 
 had something dismal and deathlike about it. The flickering 
 flame of the lamp threw its light in long streaks upon the 
 walls, conjuring up spectre-like forms out of the darkness, 
 while the old portraits kept their eyes fixed on the table with 
 an obstinate stare. The fine and calm countenance of the 
 nobleman was the only object which stood out from the appall- 
 ing gloom. His bright eye appeared to be gazing intently 
 into the darkness, and he sat like an immovable statue, ap- 
 parently listening attentively to catch some expected sound. 
 At last he rose quietly, and, noiselessly approaching the other 
 end of the room, he applied his ear to the lock of a door. 
 
 " She sleeps," he whispered to himself^ and then, as he 
 raised his head, looked upward, and said — 
 
 " May God guard her repose 1" 
 
 Approaching the table^ he took the lamp in bit huid, and 
 
274 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 opened a press which was fitted into the wall. Kneeling 
 down, he took from a drawer some napkins and a table-cloth, 
 unfolded them, and looked at them with a scrutinizing glance 
 to see that they were free from any stain. A smile of satis- 
 faction showed that he was pleased with the result of his ex- 
 amination. 
 
 He then took out a little basket, and placii^g it on the 
 table, brought a rag and a piece of chalk from a drawer, and 
 breaking the latter with the handle of the knife, he began to 
 rub and furbish the silver knives and forks which lay in the 
 basket. He did the same with the salt-cellar and other little 
 dishes, which were chiefly of silver, and which, with their 
 thin embossed ornaments, gave the appearance of considerable 
 wealth. 
 
 While he was engaged in this humble occupation, his mind 
 was given up entirely to the past. The fixedness of his face 
 and eyes, although now and then he looked round timidly and 
 anxiously, showed that he was sunk in deep reflection. From 
 time to time his lips moved, and half audibly uttered some 
 words in impressive and afiecti';:nate tones ; words evidently 
 associated with beloved memories, for they were always accom- 
 panied by a smile. He had named all the names which had been 
 dearest to him on earth, and perhaps enjoyed again the pure 
 happiness of bis youth. His voice became clearer as he sighed — 
 
 " Poor brother ! one man alone knows what I did for you, 
 and he dares to call you an ingrate and a deceiver ; while you, 
 sick and sorrowing, wander forlorn the wide plains of North 
 America. For small recompence, you roam over the wastes 
 and prairies, where for months you are never cheered by the 
 sight of a human face. You, a nobleman like myself, are the 
 servant of the Saxon ; and for a scanty subsistence procure 
 the fars which serve to adorn the persons of the wealthy. 
 Ah, bitter are the sufferings I have endured, and still endure^ 
 
THE POOR WOBLEMAR. tli 
 
 tat your sake ; bnt God is my witness, that love of you still 
 lives undiminished in my heart. May your soul, my 
 brother I while you sit and mourn amid these solitary plains, 
 feel this sigh of mine, and may its sympathy console thee in 
 thy misery I " 
 
 The nobleman sat for a time sunk in contemplation of his 
 brother's fate ; at last, by an effort he dispelled these thoughts, 
 and fixed his attention exclusively on his work. He laid the 
 silver-plate on the table, and said musingly — 
 
 " Six forks and eight spoons, and four of us sit down to 
 table ; things must be well managed, otherwise there will be 
 a deficiency somewhere. Still, it will suffice ; I shall give 
 the farmer's wife particular instructions ; and she is a clever 
 woman." 
 
 During the latter part of this soliloquy, he had shut up 
 everything again in the cupboard. Then taking the lamp 
 in his hand, he left the room slowly and cautiously, and de- 
 scending a few steps into a large vault, he opened a little 
 door which led into a low cellar, which he had to stoop to 
 enter. Aided by the light, he groped among a great many 
 empty bottles, till he found the object of his search; and 
 taking three bottles out of the sand, he said, with a pale and 
 anxious face — 
 
 " Heavens ! only three bottles of table wine I No more ; 
 and they say that Herr Denecker has a pride in drinking 
 freely I What am I to do when these three bottles are 
 emptied, and more are needed ? I drink none, and Lenora 
 little, so two bottles for Kerr Denecker and one for his 
 nephew may perhaps be enough. Complaining cannot mend 
 the matter, however ; I must hope the best." 
 
 Without saying anything further, the poor nobleman went 
 to the opposite coraer of the cellar, and collecting there a few 
 cobwebs, he hung them artfully over the three bottles, sprink- 
 
276 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 ling a little sand over them at the same time. Returning to the 
 room, lie pasted tlie paper on the wall wherever it happened 
 to be a little loose. Then, after he had brushed his clothes 
 for half an hour, and had done his best to conceal the shabby 
 parts, especially about the knees and elbows, with ink and 
 water, he again sat down by the table, and applied himself 
 to a still more singular occupation. He took a strong thread, 
 a cobbler's awl, and a bit of rosin, out of a drawer, laid his 
 boot on his lap, and began like an experienced shoemaker to 
 sew the rent. 
 
 This work must have awakened sad thoughts in him, for he 
 smiled contemptuously at times, as if he took a bitter pleasure 
 in self-mockery. A violent internal struggle, hdwever, soon 
 made itself visible on his countenance ; the blush of shame 
 alternated with the paleness of mental agony, till he at last 
 hastily cut the thread, threw the boot on the table, rose, and 
 stretching out his hands towards the portraits on the wall, 
 exclaimed, with a suppressed but feeling and earnest voice — 
 
 " Yes, look on me, ye whose noble blood runs in my veins I 
 Thou, Field- Marshal, who for thy fatherland offered up thy 
 life by Egmont's side, on the field of St. Quentin I thon, 
 Statesman, who, after the battle of Pavia, didst render such 
 distinguished service to the Emperor Charles I thou. Bene- 
 factor of mankind, who didst endow so many churches I thou, 
 Prelate, who, as Priest and Scholar, didst so manfully defend 
 the church of thy God I look on me, not alone out of that 
 dead canvas, but from heaven, where now you are I He who 
 sits here patching his boots, concealing his wretchedness in the 
 stillness and solitude of the night, he is your son — the last re- 
 presentative of your illustrious line I If he quails before the eye 
 of man, before you at least he is not ashamed of his humiliation. 
 my ancestors I with sword and pen you have striven against 
 the enemies of your fatherland, while I struggle here againit 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAN. 377 
 
 mockery ard unmerited contempt, without hope either of victory 
 or of fame. I suffer, and my soul wears away with my suffer- 
 ings ; and the world awards me nothing but mockery and con- 
 tempt. And yet I have not cast a stain upon your arms ; what 
 I have done is good and virtuous in the sight of God. Love, 
 compassion, and generosity, are the sole causes of my misfor- 
 tune. Yes, yes, direct your eyes on me ; behold how sunk 
 I am in poverty I And yet out of the depths of my humilia- 
 tion, even before you, I will proudly raise my head, and my 
 eyes shall not sink before your glance. Here, in your pre- 
 sence, I am alone with my soul — with my conscience ; and 
 here I feel that no shame can touch him who is a martyr to 
 his duty as Noble, brother. Christian, and father I " 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke was quite carried away by his excite- 
 ment; walked up and down the room with long strides, 
 pointing in quick succession with his hand to the portraits of 
 his fathers. There was something majestic in his mien ; 
 with head erect, he looked a prince ; his dark eyes sparkled 
 in the gloom, his fine countenance was full of dignity, and 
 his expression and whole bearing was manly, even grand. 
 Suddenly he stood still, laid his hand upon his brow, and 
 muttered, with a sad smile — 
 
 "Poor fool I thy soul seeks more room; it would fain 
 burst the narrow limits which its degradation imposes ; and 
 dreams" — 
 
 Clasping his hands and looking towards heaven, he said — 
 
 " Yes, it is a delusion ; but still, I thank Thee, good God, 
 that Thou hast caused courage and patience to spring up in 
 my soul I Enough ; reality again stands before me, like a 
 grim skeleton grinning at me from out the darkness ; but 
 now I am strong, and can laugh at the stem spectre of de- 
 spair." 
 
 As the recollection of his actnal circnmstanoei rocnrre^ 
 
S78 TILES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 to him, dejection was again depicted on his features, and let- 
 ting his head sink upon his brbast, he uttered a sigh of painful 
 anxiety. 
 
 " And to-morrow — to-morrow will the eye of man again look 
 distrustfully upon thee ; thou wilt tremble before the wonder- 
 ing and curious looks of those who seek to solve the problem 
 of thy acts ; thou wilt drain once more with full draughts the 
 cup of shame. Still, learn well thy part ; calculate every ex- 
 pression of thy face — play on, to the last scene, the coward 
 farce. And be mindful of thy noble race, that thou mayest be 
 ready to bleed in every vein of thy heart, and die a hundred 
 deaths I Go, thy night's work is done — go, and seek repose, 
 and forget in sleep what thou art, and what awaits thee. — 
 Mockery I yonder is the stage of thy final abasement ; yonder 
 thou mayest see a stranger take possession of the estate of thy 
 forefathers ; the cold and heartless laugh over thy ruin — over 
 thy flight from thy fatherland with thy only child, to seek the 
 bread of wretchedness in a distant country. — Sleep 1 it makes 
 me tremble — the bond I — the bond!" 
 
 Repeating this word with increasing agony, he put aside 
 everything that was on the table, and taking the lamp in his 
 hand, disappeared through a door which apparently led to hii 
 chamber. 
 
TOOB NOBLElUa, tTf 
 
 ^ CHAPTER IIL 
 
 On the following day, so soon as the morning dawn colonredi 
 the sky, every one about Grinselbof was in activity; the 
 farmer's wife and her maid scoured the steps and passages ; 
 the farmer cleaned the stable, and his son hoed and weeded 
 the approach. Lenora was early in the dining-room busy 
 cleaning it, and arranging tastefully the furniture and various 
 little ornaments. 
 
 There was more life and movement than had been seen in 
 Grinselbof for ten years ; it seemed as if the people of the 
 farm-house enjoyed the novelty of the work in an especial 
 manner — for there was visible on their faces a kind of tri- 
 umphant expression, as if they imagined that they were 
 waging a successful war with the deathlike solitude which 
 had reigned here so long undisturbed. 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke, although in his heart more excited 
 than any of the others, walked up and down with an assumed 
 indifference, going from one to another, directing their opera» 
 tions, and encouraging them now and then with a kind and 
 amiable word, without confessing even to himself that he was 
 nervously anxious about the preparations for this eventful 
 day. With a smiling countenance, he flattered the self-love 
 of these simple people, by telling them, in a jocular way, that it 
 was an ^.onour to them if his guests showed themselves satis- 
 fied with their reception. The farmer and his wife had never 
 
TALES OF FLEMISH UFI. 
 
 Been Herr von Vlierbeke so cheerful and commnnicatiye ; and 
 as they really loved and honoured him from their hearts, they 
 w*4re in as high spirits as if they had been at a Grinselhof 
 festival. They did not perceive that this more than ordinary 
 kindness and good-will on the part of the poor nobleman was 
 an effort to repay them for their willing labour, since he could 
 not afford to remunerate them in any other way. 
 
 When the heaviest work was done, and the sun was now 
 pretty high in the heavens, Herr von Vlierbeke called his 
 daughter down, and gave her very minute directions about 
 cooking the food ; telling her at the same time to look after it 
 now and then, and explain to the farmer's wife how she should 
 prepare certain dishes, which she had never seen before. 
 
 The fire was lighted in the old stove ; the wood blazed and 
 crackled in the fireplace ; the coals glowed in the grate, and 
 the smoke rolled in playful volumes over the roof. 
 
 The basket was unpacked, the stuffed fowl, the meat-pie, 
 and other exquisite dishes taken out ; then whole baskets of 
 pease and beans, and other vegetables were brought in ; and 
 the women began to clean and prepare them. Lenora herself 
 took part in this work, and chatted pleasantly the while with 
 the farmer's wife and the maid. The latter, who had very 
 rarely, indeed, had a close view of the young girl, and had not 
 at any time been more than a few moments in her presence, 
 was never tired gazing, with a species of wonder and profound 
 veneration, at her beautiful maiden features, her slender form, 
 and her bright, sparkling eyes ; and these emotions were still 
 more vividly depicted on her face, when Lenora dreamily sung 
 a few verses of a well-known popular ballad. The maid rose 
 from her chair, approached her mistress shyly, and said in a 
 low and beseeching tone, but loud enough for Lenora to cver- 
 hear her — 
 
 ** Ah, mistress, beg the young lady to sing a bit of that 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAW. J81 
 
 ballad ; I heard it yesterday, and oh I it was so beautiful that 
 I could not help weeping for a quarter of an hour after, be- 
 hind the hazel-bushes." 
 
 " do ! " begged the farmer's wife of Lenora ; " if it is not 
 too much trouble to you, Miss, you would give us so much 
 pleasure ; you have a voice like a nightingale, and I remem- 
 ber well that my dear mother — she is long since with God — 
 used always to hush me asleep with that very song." 
 
 " It is so long," replied Lenora, smiling. 
 
 " If it were only a few verses," she replied ; " this is such 
 a happy day with us all." 
 
 " Well, then," said Lenora, " if it will give yon pleaaurej 
 why should I refuse ? Listen, then." 
 
 THE ORPHAN GIRLl 
 
 Swiftly but gently flowed the etreaia, 
 
 So flowed a maiden's tears. 
 Who by the river wailing sat. 
 
 Few were that maiden's yean. 
 
 Idly into the stream she flung 
 
 The blossoms by her side ; 
 And " Father dear ! ah, brother, come I 
 
 Most piteously she cried. 
 
 A youthful knight by chance o'erhawd 
 
 The moan which she did make ; 
 H« wept and paused to learn her grie( 
 
 And vowed her part to take. 
 
 * What ails thee, dearest child," he saU^ 
 
 ** Coine, tell thy grief to me ; 
 If this stout arm can lend thee aid. 
 
 It shall not lacking be." 
 
 She raised her sad and heavy eye. 
 
 And sighed, " brave young man I 
 My grief is great, no mortal hand 
 
 Oan aid— God only can. 
 
 ** See'st thou the grassy mound hard %;f >» 
 
 It is my mother's grave ! 
 ft«ok on this stream— my father dnt 
 
 U«8 deep beneath its wavtt t 
 
nt TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 "Th« wild stream swept him with iti I 
 
 My brother plunged to save — 
 In Tain, in vain !— he also saiA, 
 And found a watery grave ! 
 
 • Now have I left my lonely cot, 
 
 Where naught but sorrow dwell* "<— 
 io tad and simple is the tale 
 The maid despairing tells. 
 
 • Ho longer weep," then spake the '. 
 
 "Let all thy care have end. 
 
 And find in me, maiden fair f 
 
 Thy father, brother, friend." 
 
 Then gently grasp'd her hand, and eall'4 
 
 The Orphan Girl hia bride ; 
 And cloth'd her gay in wedding robw 
 
 There by the river side. 
 
 Of food, and drink, and raiment now. 
 
 And Joy she hath full stor^— 
 Praise to the gallant youth who did 
 
 So brave a deed of yore !* 
 
 At the beginning of the last verse, Herr von Vlierbeke had 
 made his appearance at the kitchen door, and the fanner's 
 wife had risen respectfully, and seemingly afraid that he might 
 be angry at what had happened ; on the contrary, he had 
 given his daughter a sign to finish the song. When she 
 had stopped, he said in a kindly tone — 
 . " Ah, I am delighted to find you all so happy here. I should 
 like your assistance for a few minutes up stairs, my good 
 woman." 
 
 Both now went up stairs to the room above, where the 
 cloth was laid for dinner, and found that the young peasant 
 had already taken his place there, dressed in his old livery, 
 and with a napkin thrown over his arm. After the nobleman 
 had, by a short address, convinced the mother and son, that 
 what he was going to do had this special object — namely, 
 
 * TUB popular ballad, known by the name of Die Waise, Is much sung in the '. 
 The melody is sad but sweet and pleasing, and as Willens has remarked {Oude Vlaemitcht 
 Liederen, p. 223), has » great resemblance to Oatalani's favourite song; " Ifsl cor jrfi, 
 mom mi Mmte." It ii preeminently an indigenous Oerman ballad. 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAN. 28& 
 
 their gaining credit for their able service at table, be began 
 to play a real comedy, and made each go through their parts 
 several times. He especially drilled them in changing the 
 plates and spoons with great rapidity, and was bo skilful in 
 letting all the casualties and emergencies, which he feared, 
 happen, as if naturally, during this lesson, that he at last 
 could stop the rehearsal with a pretty confident anticipation 
 that all would go well. 
 
 At last the hour of dinner approached ; everything was 
 ready in the kitchen, and every one in his place. Lenora 
 was dressed, and waited with throbbing heart behind the 
 curtain of a side window. Her father sat with a book under 
 a chestnut-tree, and feigned to read, and thus concealed hii 
 rising anxiety from the farm-people. 
 
 About two o'clock in the afternoon, a splendid carriage, 
 drawn by beautiful English horses, entered the grounds of 
 Grinselhof, and drew up before the house-door. The noble- 
 man greeted his guests with that bland dignity which was 
 peculiar to him, and made some cheerful remarks ; while the 
 merchant gave orders to his coachman to call for him precisely 
 at five o'clock, as he had still to go to the city on business 
 which could not be postponed. 
 
 Herr Denecker was a stout man, whose dress, though very 
 rich, seemed to be arranged with a careful neglect, in order 
 to give him an independent exterior ; his face was not very 
 significant ; it bore the marks of a certain shrewdness, and 
 also of considerable goodness of heart, which, however, had 
 perhaps never been allowed a fair field of action on account 
 of the indifference which was a leading feature in his char- 
 acter. 
 
 The whole appearance of his nephew, Gustav, on the con- 
 trary, was noble ; to a fine form, and an independent, manly 
 ooontenance, he added an education of the highest order, and ia 
 
984 TALES OF FLEMISH IHSU 
 
 refinemont of manners and expression was scarcely excelled 
 even by the nobleman himself. His fair hair and darfc^blue 
 eyes gave something poetic to his countenance, while his firm 
 collected look, and a few slight wrinkles on his brow indicated 
 that he was richly endowed with intellect and feeling. 
 
 With the customary phrases of politeness, Herr von Vlier- 
 beke conducted his guests into the room on the ground-floor, 
 where his daughter awaited their arrival. The merchant 
 greeted her with a friendly laugh, and exclaimed with genuine 
 admiration — 
 
 " So beautiful and charming, and to be shut up in Grin 
 selhof I Ah, Herr von Vlierbeke, this is not right I" 
 
 Meanwhile Qustav approached the beautiful girl, and uttered 
 a half-inarticulate greeting. The brows of both were suJBftised 
 with blushes, -and their eyes fell ; but the young man quickly 
 regained his presence of mind, and began to converse with 
 Lenora intelligently. 
 
 The merchant directed Herr von Vlierbeke's attention to 
 their mutual embarrassment, and whispered in his ear — 
 
 " Do you see what is going on there ? My nephew does 
 not know whether his head is off or on ; the young lady puts 
 out his eyes. I do not know how far the affections of these 
 two young people have been already engaged. If, however, 
 you do not look favourably upon its growth, and a pretty early 
 maturity too, it would be well to pay attention to it betimes, 
 otherwise it will soon be too late. For, I assure you, that 
 my nephew, with his quiet countenance, is not a youth to 
 see an obstacle. See, they talk together now easily ; their 
 mutual fear is gone." 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke felt deeply moved by the merchant'! 
 words, because they strengthened his last hopes of deliver- 
 ance ; but concealing his feelings, he replied — 
 
 **Toa are jesting, Herr Denecker; there is bo harm in 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAK. S85 
 
 their intercourse ; they are both young, and it is not Burpris- 
 ing that a slight affection shoulH spring up between them. 
 It is of no importance." 
 
 " Come," he then said with a loud voice, " the dinner is on 
 the table ; let us go." 
 
 Gustav shyly offered Lenora his arm, and blushing, and 
 with a slight trepidation, she took it. Both seemed perplexed, 
 and yet there beamed from the eyes of both an inexpressible 
 joy, and their hearts beat fast with a feeling of rapture. 
 The uncle held his finger up to his nephew, shaking it with 
 feigned displeasure, as if he would say, " I see already what 
 is going on there." This made the young man redden still 
 more, although the manifest approbation of his uncle at the 
 same time filled his heart with sweet hopes ; besides, Lenora 
 had fortunately not observed the movement. 
 
 They took their seats — the nobleman opposite Herr De- 
 necker, and beside Gustav, who again sat opposite Lenora. 
 
 The farmer's wife carried up the dinner, and her son in 
 livery waited the table. The dishes were pretty well pre- 
 pared, and the merchant more than once testified his satisfac- 
 tion with them. The good food, and especially its abundance, 
 took him by surprise, for he had expected a very meagre din- 
 ner, as Herr von Vlierbeke was decried in the whole neigh- 
 bourhood as an avaricious and niggardly miser. 
 
 The conversation was now general, and consequently Lenora 
 felt more at ease in replying to the merchant's remarks, and 
 astonished both the guests by the signs she gave of a well- 
 cultivated and refined intellect. It was quite otherwise, how- 
 ever, when she had to reply directly to Gustav; then her 
 self-possession seemed all at once to desert her; and with 
 downcast eyes she had not courage to give him anything but 
 an abrupt and unmeaning reply. The young man himself 
 did not fare much better: both felt deeply happy in their 
 
286 TILES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 hearts : and yet one would have thought that they did not 
 enjoy themselves very much. 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke, meanwhile, led the conversation to 
 subjects of a kind which he thought would be agreeable to his 
 guests. With the greatest complaisance he listened to the 
 merchant, and gave him opportunity to speak of things with 
 which, as a merchant, he was likely to be well acquainted. 
 His guest perceived this kindness, and thanked him for it in 
 his heart. The merchant felt himself attracted to Herr von 
 Vlierbeke with a genuine feeling of friendship, and endea- 
 voured to vie with him in politeness. 
 
 Thus everything went well : everybody was pleased with 
 himself and his company ; above all, it was gratifying to the 
 nobleman to see the mother and son understand their duties 
 so well : they took away the plates and spoons which had 
 been used, and brought them back clean with such expedition, 
 that it would have been impossible to perceive that there wa< 
 a deficiency. One thing alone was the source of some uneasi 
 ness to the nobleman. He looked with anxiety as Hen 
 Denecker emptied one glass of wine after another, during tht 
 conversation. The young gentleman, too, frequently askec 
 Lenora to drink more wine, either out of mere kindness, 
 or that he might have occasion to address her; and so it 
 happened, that the first bottle was nearly drained before the 
 dinner was well begun. Herr von Vlierbeke, meanwhile, 
 took stolen glances at the liquor which still remained, and 
 trembled secretly every time he saw the merchant empty his 
 glass. The attendant had now to produce the second bottle 
 at the nobleman's order, and the latter gradually let the con- 
 versation flag, that he might not increase the merchant's thirst, 
 for he perceived that his guest could not speak without per- 
 petually carrying the wine to his lips. He saw himself 
 sadly mistaken, however, for Hen Denecker tamed the oos» 
 
POOR NOBLEMAS. 9%1 
 
 versation to the subject of wine itself — began to praise the 
 noble juice, and to express his surprise at the nobleman^s ex- 
 traordinary abstemiousness. Meanwhile he drank moTe than 
 ever, and was supported in his potations by Gustav also, who, 
 however, drank much more moderately. 
 
 The anxiety of the nobleman increased with every draught 
 which the merchant took, and he restrained from pledging 
 him, although it was most painful to him to do so, and showed 
 himself in this one point at least inhospitable, through fear of 
 a greater shame. When the second bottle was finished, the 
 merchant said in a light easy tone to Herr von Vlierbeke, 
 who, with a weight at his heart, though to appearance merry 
 and gay, was narrowly watching his guest's progress — 
 
 " Yes, Herr von Vlierbeke ; the wine is old and tempting i 
 I confess that ; but one must change when drinking, other- 
 wise it is impossible to enjoy the flavour. I cannot help 
 thinking that you have a capital cellar, if I may judge from 
 this specimen. Let us have a bottle of CMteau-Margaux ; 
 and if we have time after that, we shall close our meeting 
 with a draught of Hochheimer. I never drink champagne ; 
 it is a poor wine to connoisseurs." 
 
 While the merchant was speaking, a sudden pallor over- 
 spread the Bobleman's face ; but in order to conceal his alarm, 
 he rubbed his brow and eyes for a minute, exerting his mind 
 at the same time to discover some way out of this difficulty. 
 When his guest concluded, the nobleman took his hand from his 
 face, and a quiet smile was all that could be perceived on it. 
 
 ''^ CMteau-Margaux f^^ said he. "As you please, Herr 
 Denecker." Then turniug to the servant, he said, " John, a 
 bottle of CMteau-Margaux. Left hand, third row." 
 
 The peasant youth stared at his master as if he were ad- 
 dressing him in an unknown tongue, and muttered some unin- 
 telligible words. 
 
S8S TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 " Excuse me," said the nobleman rising. " He does not 
 know where to find it— a moment I " 
 
 He descended the stairs, and entering the kitchen, took np 
 the remaining bottle, and carried it with him to the cellar. 
 Here finding himself alone, he stood still and drew a deep 
 breath, while he said to himself — 
 
 " ChdteaU'Margauxy Hochheimer, Champagne ! Nothing 
 in the house except this last bottle of Bordeaux. What shall 
 I do ? There is no time to reflect I The die is cast— may 
 God help me I " 
 
 He now ascended the stairs, and re-entered the dining-room 
 smiling, and with the screw in the cork of the only remaining 
 bottle. Meanwhile, Lenora had ordered other glasses to be 
 brought. 
 
 " This wine is fully twenty years old ; I hope it will 
 please you," said the nobleman, while he filled the glasses. 
 Trembling, he watched the merchant's face as he tasted 
 it. The latter had scarcely put the gla&s to his lips, when 
 he withdrew it again, with an air of discontent, and ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " There is some mistake here : it is the same wine." 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke likewise tasted the wine, with an as- 
 sumed expression of doubt on his face, and then exclaimed, 
 as if taken by surprise — 
 
 " It is as you say — I have made a mistake. However, ai 
 we have begun this bottle, we shall empty it first. We have 
 plenty of time." 
 
 " As you please," replied the merchant ; " but on condition 
 that you drink more freely, and help me. We can stay « 
 little later than we ii^tended." 
 
 In this way the wine gradually disappeared in the third 
 bottle likewise, so that only a glass or two remained. 
 
 The nobleman could no longer conceal his agitation ; h« 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAN. 
 
 tnmed away from the bottle, "but, spite of himself, his looks 
 always returned to it. Already there rang in his ears the 
 dreadful word, Chdteau-Margaux — the word which was to 
 cover him with shame. The cold perspiration broke from 
 every pore ; the colour of his face changed several times in 
 the same instant ; yet his shifts were not yet exhausted, and 
 he struggled bravely against the approaching exposure of his 
 poverty. By rubbing his face and brow with his hands and 
 pocket-handkerchief, by coughing and turning round at times, 
 as if he would sneeze, and by other devices of a similar kind, 
 he succeeded in concealing his agitation, and escaping the 
 notice of his guest«, till Herr Denecker put his hand on the 
 bottle to drain it of its last glass of wine. When the nobleman 
 saw this, he shuddered ; and growing deathly pale, covered 
 his face, and with a long sigh, let his head sink slowly on the 
 arm of the oh air. 
 
 Was it a feigned swoon, or was the nobleman only making 
 use of his real agitation and alarm to help himself out of hig 
 painful difficulty? 
 
 All rose. Lenora uttered a shriek, and hastened to her 
 father's side with an anxious countenance ; while he, raising 
 himself slowly up, endeavoured to smile, and said — 
 
 " It is nothing; I feel the atmosphere here suffocating; let 
 me go into the open air for a minute, and I shall soon be 
 better." 
 
 So saying, he left the room, and descended the front steps 
 into the garden. Lenora had taken his arm to help him down, 
 although he had no particular need of her assistance; and 
 Denecker and his nephew followed with faces expressive of 
 deep concern. 
 
 After the nobleman had sat for a few minutes under the 
 shade of the old jessamine, the paleness disappeared from 
 his face, and with a steady and lively voice he said to hii 
 
290 TALES OF FLEMISH LIF&. 
 
 gnests, ttafc he felt quite better, but would ask their per- 
 mission to remain for a time in the open air, lest the faint 
 should return ; and soon after, standing up, he expressed a 
 desire to walk. 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure," said the merohant, " for at 
 five o'clock my carriage comes, and I must urive with my 
 nephew into the city ; and I should not like to leave without 
 first seeing your grounds. Let us walk about a little, and 
 then, before going, we shall drink in front of the castle, a good 
 bottle of wine to our lasting frien'\ship." At these words he 
 offered his arm to Lenora, who took it frankly. Although 
 Herr Denecker had a wish by doing so to tease his nephew a 
 little, the young man was, in truth, not at all displeased to 
 see his uncle show such a liking for the object of his own 
 attachment. 
 
 The walk commenced, agriculture, the enclosure of the 
 heath, the chase, and various other topics, formed in succession 
 the subjects of conversation. Lenora, who, now that she was 
 in the open air, felt all her freedom and vivacity return to her, 
 put no longer any restraint upon herself. The cheerful serenity 
 and virgin purity of her nature were now revealed in all their 
 charm. Like a playful young roe, she wished to make the 
 merchant run ; and skipping gaily by his side, she was lavish 
 of every demonstration of genial and hearty enjoyment of life. 
 Herr Denecker was excessively charmed with the high spirits 
 of the girl, and almost allowed himself to be persuaded to 
 dance and play : he could not gaze sufficiently at Lenora's 
 fascinating countenance, which indeed had already given birth 
 in his breast to a very pleasing sensation ; and he remarked to 
 himself, while a smile played upon his lips, that his nephew 
 had a pretty good taste. 
 
 While the nobleman, however, was busy explaining some- 
 thing to hig guest, and drawing a sketch on the ground, Lenora 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAH. S91 
 
 and Gustav had walked off a little way, and seemed engaged 
 in a very earnest conversation. When the father and his 
 guest again renewed their walk, the young people were fully 
 fifty yards in advance, and, either by intention or accident, 
 this distance between the two parties was henceforth main- 
 tained. 
 
 Lenora showed Gustav her flowers, her gold fishes, and 
 everything which she loved and tended in her solitude. He 
 scarcely distinguished her sweet and childlike words, for what 
 ihe said seemed to vanish at the very moment it reached his 
 ears, and melt away into a kind of heavenly music, which 
 filled him with enchanting dreams, and transported his soul 
 into a region of unutterable bliss. 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke, again, on his part, gave himself incon- 
 ceivable trouble to entertain his guest, and keep him in a 
 cheerful humour, that he might drive from his recollection 
 any intention which might still linger there of returning to the 
 table ; he called into requisition all his extensive knowledge, 
 — told him remarkable stories, and endeavoured to penetrate 
 the innermost folds of the merchant's breast, that he might 
 know how to please him — nay, even when the conversation 
 showed symptoms of flagging, he began to make jests, and 
 said and did things, which, it is true, were perfectly becom- 
 ing, but far removed from his usually dignified and earnest 
 manner. 
 
 The time was now approaching which Herr Denecker had 
 fixed for his departure. The nobleman was thanking God, 
 from the bottom of his heart, that He had enabled him to 
 get through his difficulties thus far so successfully, when the 
 merchant suddenly turned to his nephew, and said — 
 
 " Now, Gustav, we are going in to drink a parting cup 
 do not lose time, it is already five o'clock." 
 
 Again Herr von Vlierbeke grew pale, and looked with a 
 
299 TALBI OF FLEMISH UFE, 
 
 visible expression of alarm at the merchant, who could not 
 understand the effect which his words seemed to have on hif 
 host, and did not conceal his surprise — 
 
 " Do you feel unwell ?*' he asked. 
 
 " I take a pain in the stomach sometimes at the mere men- 
 tion of the word u?ing," stammered Herr von Vlierbeke ; " it 
 is a peculiar, nervous pain." 
 
 Suddenly his countenance assumed a livelier expression, 
 and pointing with his finger towards the gate, he said — 
 
 " There, I hear your carriage, Herr Denecker." 
 
 The carriage drove up to the door of Grinselhof. 
 
 The merchant said no more about the wine, but he thought 
 it singular tnat his departure should give such manifest 
 pleasure ; and doubtless this suspicion would have seriously 
 offended him, had not the extremely friendly manner and 
 hospitable reception of the nobleman convinced him of the 
 contrary. He could not ascribe his un politeness to any other 
 cause but his indisposition, which he, perhaps out of considera- 
 tion for his guests, had been making great efforts to conceal. 
 Accordingly Herr Denecker said affectionately, as he pressed 
 the nobleman's hand — 
 
 " Herr von Vlierbeke, I have spent a particularly agreeable 
 afternoon with you : in your society, and that of your amiable 
 daughter, one feels truly happy. I am overjoyed to have 
 made your acquaintance, and I hope that a nearer connexion 
 may one day secure me your friendship. Meanwhile, let me 
 thank you for your very kind and fiiendly reception." 
 
 Gustav and Lenora meanwhile approached, while the noble- 
 man was uttering a few words in polite disavowal of his guest'i 
 complimentary language. 
 
 " And my nephew," continued the merchant, " is, I am 
 sure, of my opinion, that few hours of his life have been so 
 pleasant as those which we have spent to-day at GrinselhoC 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAN. 898 
 
 YoTi mil likewise do me the honour, Herr von Vlierbeke, 
 to dine with me, in company with your amiable daughter, 
 though I am forced to postpone this pleasure for a little. 1 
 go to Frankfurt to-morrow on business, and shall be absent 
 probably for some months. In the meantime, my nephew 
 will do himself the honour of visiting you frequently, and I 
 hope he will continue to be welcome." 
 
 The nobleman repeated his friendly expressions. Lenora 
 was silent, although Gustav looked into her eyes, and seemed 
 to ask some encouragement. The uncle moved towards the 
 carriage. 
 
 " And the parting cup?" said Gustav with surprise. "Pray 
 let US go in for a little yet." 
 
 " No, no I " said Herr Denecker ; " were I to wait till you 
 were willing to leave, I suppose we should not be gone to-day. 
 But it is high time to be off; so, say nothing more about it; 
 a merchant must keep his appointments, and you know your- 
 self what we have promised." 
 
 Gustav and Lenora exchanged a long look, in which could 
 easily be read sorrow that they should part so soon, and the 
 mutual hope of meeting again ere long. The nobleman and 
 Herr Denecker shook hands heartily and affectionately, and 
 then both guests stepped into the carriage. 
 
 Laughing in a friendly way, and kissing their hands slb 
 long as they were within sight, the itrangen left Grinselhof, 
 
294 tALBSi OF FLEMISH UFl. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 On the second day after his uncle's departure, Gustav pre- 
 sented himself at Grinselhof. Father and daughter received 
 him as kindly as on the former visit ; and having spent the 
 greater part of the afternoon in their society, he returned to 
 Echelpoel Castle at the approach of evening, with his heart 
 full of warm recollections. 
 
 At first he did not venture to show himself often at Grin- 
 selhof ; either from a feeling of propriety, or because he was 
 afraid of being troublesome to the nobleman. Before two 
 weeks had elapsed, however, the hearty way in which the 
 nobleman always received him, dispelled the feeling, whatever 
 it was ; and the young man no longer resisted the longing 
 which drew him so powerfully to Lenora's side. No day 
 passed without a visit to Grinselhof; and there, the too swift 
 hours glided away in a calm and dreamy happiness. He 
 took pleasure walks with Lenora and her father, through the 
 shady paths round Grinselhof; was present at the instructions 
 which the father gave his daughter in many arts and sciences ; 
 listened with rapture to the maiden's beautiful voice as she 
 sang her favourite songs ; entered into instractive conversation 
 with both, or sat under the jessamine dreaming of a happy 
 future ; while he gazed with loving eyes at the young maiden, 
 who, he earnestly hoped — in fulfilment of the ardent prayers 
 which he continually offered to God — ^should one day be Ids wife. 
 
THE FOOB NOBLEMAN. S95 
 
 Lenora's noble and charming conntenance had first at- 
 tracted him ; but now, when he perceived the beanty of her 
 soul, his feeling for her became so fervent, so unbounded, 
 that the whole universe seemed to him colourless and dead, 
 when the loved object was not present to throw a light 
 and a glory over everything. To him no angel, depict- 
 ed in the finest sacred poetry, could be half so beautiful as 
 his virgin friend. And, indeed, while she was adorned with 
 all the personal beauty with which the Creator must have 
 clothed the first woman, there beat in her bosom a heart 
 whose mirror-like purity had never been dimmed by the 
 smallest breath of the world, and out of which, at the 
 slightest touch, feeling, fresh and ardent, sprang like a clear 
 fountain. 
 
 Gustav had never been quite alone with Lenora, as she 
 never, in his presence, left the room in which she usually sat 
 with her father, unless the latter expressed a wish to walk 
 in the open air ; yet the young man felt no desire to conceal 
 his affection from Herr von Vlierbeke, or to tell the maiden 
 how entirely her image filled his soul. It would indeed have 
 been superfluous to express in words what was passing in the 
 hearts of each. Love, friendship, respect, beamed from the 
 eyes of all ; three souls lived here, in one sentiment, united 
 by one bond, blended in the same feeling of affection and 
 hope. 
 
 Although Gustav felt a deep reverence for Lenora's father, 
 and loved him truly like an affectionate son, there was yet 
 one thing which threatened to disturb his high estimation of 
 him. What he had heard in the neighbourhood, of the ex- 
 cessive niggardliness of Herr von Vlierbeke, had now become 
 to him a certainty. On no occasion had the nobleman offered 
 him a glass of wine, or invited him lo eat the evening meal 
 with himself and his daughter j on the contrary, Guitav had 
 
296 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 often observed with grief tlie great efforts wliicli were madt 
 to conceal from him this unexampled stinginess. 
 
 Avarice is a passion which is universally visited with 
 abhorrence and contempt, because one almost instinctively 
 perceives that the moment this vice begins to show itself, it 
 renders all nobility in the human heart Impossible, and fills it 
 instead with a cold and coarse selfishness. Gustav accordingly 
 had to struggle long with his feelings, before he could bring 
 himself to overlook this failing of Herr von Vlierbeke, and to 
 convince himself that it was only a caprice in him — a mere 
 aberration of judgment, which had left unharmed the native 
 nobility of his character. Had the young man only known 
 the truth 1 Had he only been able to look further into the 
 nobleman's heart, then would he have seen that, behind that 
 smile, a sorrow lay concealed ; and that every tremor which 
 shook those nervous features, was the expression of the agony 
 of a soul which was afraid of exposing its secret. He knew not, 
 happy youth, that while he sunned himself in Lenora's eyes, and 
 sipped so sweetly from the golden cup of love, the nobleman's 
 life was a perpetual suffering, that he dreamt day and night 
 of a horrible future, and with the sweat of agony on his brow 
 counted the hastening hours, as if every minute brought him 
 nearer to some fearful and unavoidable calamity. And, in- 
 deed, had not the Notary said to him — " Only four months I 
 only four months, and the bond falls due I then will your pro- 
 perty be sold by auction by order of a court of law?" 
 
 Of these four momentous months two had already passed. 
 
 If the nobleman appeared to encourage the young man's 
 love, it must be confessed that it was not entirely from affec- 
 tion towards him. No, no ; the drama of his sufferings must 
 be played out within a limited time. If it did not, then the 
 fate which awaited himself and his child was open shame — 
 moral death. Within that period, deftiny would irreTocably 
 
THE POOB NOBLEUAK. MT 
 
 determine wbether he was to emerge victoriously out of this 
 ten years* struggle with misery, or sink overwhelmed under 
 the public obloquy. 
 
 On this account he all the more carefully concealed hia 
 poverty ; and although he watched like a guardian angel over 
 both young people, he yet did nothing to check the speedy 
 development of their mutual love. 
 
 When the time fixed for Herr Denecker's return arrived, the 
 two months of his absence seemed to Gustav to have fled like 
 a dream. Although he was quite convinced that his uncle 
 would have no objections to the prosecution of his love, he yet 
 foresaw that he would not permit him to devote so much time 
 to it : and the thought of being separated from Lenora, per- 
 haps for weeks, made him look forward to his uncle's return 
 with no little anxiety and vexation. He, on one occasion^ 
 communicated his fears to Lenora with much sadness, and 
 painted vividly the sorrow with which even a temporary sepa- 
 ration from her would fill him. For the first time he saw 
 tears in her eyes. This token of affection moved him so deeply, 
 that he silently took her hand, and sat for a long time by her 
 side without uttering a word. Meanwhile, Herr von Vlier- 
 beke endeavoured to console him, but his words seemed in- 
 effectual. After a long silence, Gustav rose to take leave, 
 although the usual hour of departure had not arrived. The 
 maiden read in his countenance that a change had taken place 
 in his mind, and that his features were lighted up with an 
 unaccountable vivacity and joy. She sought to detain him in 
 order to discover the ground of his apparent cheerfulness. But 
 he escaped with a few friendly remarks, simply telling her 
 that she would probably learn his secret on the following day. 
 He then left Grinselhof with hasty steps, as if some over- 
 whelming purpose was driving him on. 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke believed that he had read in the young 
 
fSS TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 man's eyes what was passing in his heart; and beautiful 
 dreams made the nobleman's sleep calm and sweet that night. 
 On the following day when the usual hour of Gustav's visit 
 arrived, the father's heart beat high with expectation. He 
 saw Gustav pass through the gate and approach the house. 
 
 The young man's dress was not on this occasion composed 
 of light materials, as was usual. He was clothed entirely 
 in black, as on the day on which he first visited Grinselhof. 
 A cheerful smile played round the nobleman's features as he 
 went to meet his visitor, for the choice of the dress had con- 
 firmed his hopes, and convinced him that Gustav had come on a 
 solemn errand — indeed, formally to solicit his daughter's hand. 
 
 Gustav expressed a wish to see him for a few minutes alone. 
 Herr von Ylierbeke led him into a side-room — offered him a 
 chair — sat down opposite him, and said — 
 
 " I am prepared to listen, my young friend." 
 
 Gustav kept silence for a time, as if he would collect hig 
 thoughts, and then began with visible anxiety, but at the same 
 time with firmness — 
 
 " Herr von Vlierbeke, I venture to take a very important 
 step with you, and it is your extreme kindness alone which 
 gives me the necessary courage; and I hope that, let the 
 answer be what it may, you will at all events excuse my 
 boldness. It cannot have escaped your notice, sir, that from 
 the first day on which I had the good fortune to see Lenora, 
 my heart has been filled with an irresistible love for her — for 
 she appeared to me then, and appears now, an angel. Per- 
 haps, before permitting this feeling to gain such entire poeses- 
 sion of me, I ought to have asked your consent ; but I could 
 not but suppose, from the polite and friendly way in which 
 you always received me, that you had read my heart I " 
 
 The young man paused, in the hope of receiving some en- 
 couragement from, the nobleman. The latter, however, only 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAN. 
 
 kx>iEed. at him with a quiet smile, in which it was impossible 
 to read how he received the young man's declaration. A wave 
 of his hand, as if he would say, " Go on," was the only reply. 
 Gustav felt his confidence entirely forsake him for a moment, 
 but immediately mastering his fears, he took courage, and 
 said with fervour — 
 
 " Yes, I have loved Lenora since the moment in which her 
 eyes first met mine ; she lighted then a spark of love in my 
 bosom, which has since become a flame, and which would con- 
 sume me entirely if any one should try to smother it. It 
 may be, sir, that you imagine that her beauty alone is the 
 ground of my love? Certainly this ground is sufficient to 
 make even the most unimpressible love her : but I have dis- 
 covered, in the heart of this angel, a treasure far transcending 
 that — her virtue, the unspotted purity of her soul, her gentle 
 and high-toned sensibility — the gifts with which God has so 
 lavishly endowed her — these are the things which have led 
 me from admiration to love, and froni love to worship. Ah I 
 why then conceal it longer ? Without Lenora, life is impos- 
 sible — the very thought of separation from her fills me with 
 Badness, and makes me tremble : I must see her daily, hourly 
 — hear her voice, and drink in happiness from her looks. I do 
 not know, Herr von Vlierbeke, what your decision may be ; 
 but if it is not favourable, believe me, my heart will be broken 
 for ever. Were you to separate me from my beloved — my 
 uweet Lenora, it would be a fatal blow — life would be for ever 
 hateful to me." 
 
 With deep emotion and great emphasis Gustav had uttered 
 these words. Herr von Vlierbeke took his hand sympathiz- 
 ingly, and said — " Do not be alarmed, my young friend ; I 
 know that you love Lenora, and that your love is requited ; 
 but what do you wish from me ?" 
 
 With downcast eyes the young man anawered— " H after 
 
800 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 mil tlie tokens of your affection wbicli I bave received, I still 
 have some doubts of receiving your final consent, it is because 
 I am conscious of one fact whicb may, I fear, make you tbink 
 me unwortby of enjoying tbe bappiness wbicb I now desire. 
 I have no family tree wbicb strikes its roots deep into tbe 
 past; tbe deeds of my ancestors are not blazoned in tbe his- 
 tory of our country ; tbe blood wbicb flows through my veins 
 is plebeian blood. 
 
 " Do you tbink, then, Gustav," said Herr von Vlierbeke, 
 •* that I did not know that before you began to visit here ? Your 
 heart is great and noble, otherwise I would not have loved 
 you as my son." 
 
 " Then," exclaimed Gustav with joy, " you will not deny 
 me Lenora's hand, if my uncle also gives bis consent to our 
 union?" 
 
 " No, I would not in that case deny it. I would, on the 
 contrary, confide my child's bappiness to you with the great- 
 est pleasure ; but there is an obstacle yet unknown to you." 
 
 " An obstacle ! " sighed the young man, growing pale. " An 
 obstacle between me and Lenora I " 
 
 " Moderate your ardour for a minute," rejoined von Vlier- 
 beke, " and listen without prejudice to what I shall now tell 
 you. You believe, Gustav, that Grinselhof and the adjoining 
 possessions are mine; you deceive yourself; we possess no- 
 thing ; we are poorer than the farmer who lives at the lodge." 
 
 Tbe young man looked for a short time with an expression 
 of surprise and doubt ; and then an incr^edulous smile passed 
 over his face, which made tbe nobleman redden and tremble. 
 He resumed with anxious emphasis — 
 
 " Ah, I read in your eyes that you have no faith in my 
 words. You believe me to be a miser, a man who conceals hie 
 gold, who exposes himself and bis child to want, that he may 
 neap paltry treasure together, and who sacrifices everything^ U 
 
THE POOR MOBLEMAX. SOI 
 
 his insatiable ararice — a selfish being who is either feared or 
 despised," 
 
 "Oh, pardon me I" exclaimed Gustav anxiously, "my 
 esteem for you is unbounded." 
 
 " Do not be alarmed at my words," said the nobleman, more 
 ;almly. "I do not blame you; your smile convinced me 
 ,hat you also believe, with others, that I use poverty as a cloak 
 for the most detestable avarice. For the present it is unne- 
 cessary to enter into more minute details — what I have said 
 is true : I possess nothing — literally nothing I Keturn home 
 without seeing Lenora : consider maturely, with coolness and 
 composure, whether no grounds exist for altering your resolu- 
 tion ; let a night pass over your head, and if to-morrow morn- 
 ing you can still love the poor Lenora, and if you believe that 
 you can still make each other happy, then ask your uncle's 
 consent. Here is my hand ; you may press it then as the hand 
 of a father, and my most fervent wishes will be at that mo- 
 ment fulfilled." 
 
 The solemn and calm tone in which these words were 
 uttered, convinced Gustav of their truth, however much the 
 information they conveyed took him by surprise; and his 
 countenance at once expressed a joyful animation — 
 
 " If I can love the poor Lenora I " he exclaimed. " To 
 call her my wife, to become united with her by the bond of 
 everlasting love, for ever to draw happiness from her sweet 
 looks 1 To know that I am her protector, that my labour con- 
 tributes to her happiness I Palace or hut, riches or poverty — 
 everything is to me indifferent, if only she is present to breathe 
 a soul into the spot where I am. Night can bring me no 
 counsel, Herr von Vlierbeke ; if I may now possess Lenora's 
 hand through your generosity, I will thank yon on my knees 
 &>r the priceless gift I " 
 
 " I believe it," replied the nobleman. " This fervent passion, 
 
S03 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 this steady devotedness, are natural to your youth and ardent 
 disposition — but your uncle?" 
 
 "My nncle?" muttered Gustav, visibly annoyed. "It is 
 true, I must have his consent ; what I possess in the world, 
 or may henceforth possess, depends on his favour. I am an 
 orphan — his brother's son ; he took me when a child, and has 
 loaded me with benefits. He has, therefore, a right to con- 
 trol my acts — I must obey him." 
 
 " And will he, who is a merchant, and probably sets a high 
 value on money, because he has learnt what one can accom- 
 plish with it — will he likewise say, * Poor or rich, palace or 
 hut, it is the same' ?" 
 
 " Ah, I cannot tell, Herr von Vlierbeke," replied Gustav, 
 troubled ; " but he is so kind to me, so extremely kind, that 
 I have cause to hope for his consent. To-morrow is the day 
 of his return ; at our very first meeting I shall tell him of my 
 intentions, and say that my peace, my happiness, and my life 
 depend on his consent. He has a more than ordinary regard 
 and affection for Lenora, and seemed to encourage me to sue 
 for her hand : your explanation, it is true, will surprise him 
 very much, but my entreaties, believe me, will move him." 
 
 The nobleman rose to bring the conversation to a close, and 
 said — " Well then, ask your uncle for his consent, and realize 
 your expectations ; and then request him to come to me to 
 enter into more details. Whatever may be the consequence, 
 Gustav, you have acted towards us as a brave and honest 
 youth ought. My esteem and friendship shall certainly al- 
 ways remain with you. — Go, leave Grinselhof for once without 
 seeing Lenora ; she cannot again be in your presence till this 
 matter is settled. I will tell her what she ought to know 
 of it." 
 
 Half pleased and half sad, joy and anxiety in his heart, 
 Gnstny took leave of Lenora's father. 
 
TBS POOK NOBLUCAJI. SOS 
 
 CHAPTEB V. 
 
 Ok the following morning Herr "vcn Vlierbeke sat by % 
 table in an upper room of the Castle, his head resting on his 
 band. He must have been in deep reflection, for his eye 
 wandered unsteadily and unconsciously from object to object ; 
 and hope and pleasure, sorrow and anxiety, by turns revealed 
 themselves on his countenance. 
 
 Lenora made her appearance in the room, remained for a 
 minute in a wavering and uncertain way, went from one side 
 to another, looked' through the window into the garden, and 
 then hastened down stairs again. There could be no doubt 
 that she was waiting with great impatience for some expected 
 visit; her countenance, however, expressed an undisguised 
 cheerfulness, from which one could infer that her heart was 
 full of the sweetest hopes. Had she been able to see the 
 anxiety which at times overspread her father's face in the 
 midst of his musings, she would not perhaps have dreamt so 
 confidingly and cheerfully of a happy future ; but Herr von 
 Vlierbeke carefully concealed his sadness when she was pre- 
 sent, and laughed gaily apd affectionately at her impatience, 
 as if he also looked forward with confidence to the events of 
 this critical day. 
 
 At last, quite tired of going and coming, Lenora sat down 
 beside her father, and gazed into his face with a clear and in- 
 quiring look. 
 
804 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 " My dear Lenora," lie said, " do not oe so impatient. T»- 
 day we can hope for nothing ; to-morrow, perhaps. Moderate 
 your joy, my child, and then your sorrow will be less difficult 
 to overcome, if God should decide in this matter contrary to 
 your hopes." 
 
 " Ah, father," stammered Lenora, " God will be gracious 
 to me. I feel in my heart that I am happy ; do not wonder 
 at it, father. I see Gustav speaking with his uncle — I hear 
 what he says, and Herr Denecker's reply. I see him embrace 
 Gustav, and give his consent. Surely I may hope the best ; 
 for you remember Herr Denecker also liked me, and was al- 
 ways so very friendly at church." 
 
 " Would you be very happy indeed if Gustav were to be 
 your bridegroom ?" asked Herr von Vlierbeke, smiling. 
 
 " Never to leave him," exclaimed Lenora ; " to help to 
 make him cheerful and happy 1 To infuse life into the solitude 
 of Grinselhof with our love I And then to sweeten your days, 
 father I for Gustav understands so much better than I do how 
 to chase away from your heart the melancholy which at times 
 darkens your countenance. You will go walking and hunting 
 with him, talk, and be merry ; he will love and honour you 
 as a son, and tenderly care for you. His great object on earth 
 will be to make you happy, because he knows that your hap- 
 piness is mine; and I will reward his generous nobleness, 
 strewing his path with the beautiful flowers of a grateful 
 heart. yes, we shall live together in a paradise of peace 
 and love I " 
 
 " Poor, innocent Lenora ! " sighed Herr von Vlierbeke ; 
 " may God grant yow beautiful wish I but there are laws and 
 usages which regulate the world, of which you are ignorant 
 — a woman must follow her husband wherever he goes. If 
 Gustav selects you to be his wife, you must obey him without 
 renstance, and console yourself gradually for abienoe froM 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAlf. 805 
 
 tm, 8aoH a separation wonid in other circnmstances be in- 
 conceivably bitter to me ; but if I knew yon to be Happy, I 
 oonld learn to bear the loneliness." 
 
 Lenora had listened to her father with surprise and alarm ; 
 and now when he had ceased speaking, she let her head sink 
 slowly on her breast, and shed a few quiet tears. Herr von 
 Vlierbeke took her hand, and said with a gentle voice — 
 
 "I knew, Lenora, that I was saying what would grieve 
 you ; but you must accustom yourself gradually to the thought 
 of this separation," 
 
 She raised her head, and said, in a firm and animated tone — 
 
 " What— will Gustav wish me to leave you ? Shall you re- 
 main by yourself at Grinselhof, and spend your days in sad- 
 ness and solitude, while I and my husband enter the world, 
 and dwell in the midst of gaiety and pleasure ? Then would 
 there be no longer one peaceful or happy moment for me; 
 everywhere the voice of conscience would call out to me, 
 * Ungrateful, unfeeling creature, your father suffers I ' Yes, I 
 love Gustav ; he is dearer to me than my life, and I would 
 receive his hand as a blessed gift from God ; and yet, if he said 
 to me that I must leave my father — choose between my father 
 and him — I would reject him ; weep, mourn, perhaps die. But 
 in your eyes, my father ". . . . 
 
 She hung her head for some moments, as if overwhelmed 
 by sad and desponding thoughts ; but almost immediately she 
 looked up at her father with spirit and energy in her glance, 
 And said — 
 
 " You doubt Gustav's affection for you ; you consider him 
 capable of filling your life with sorrow, of separating me from 
 you ? father, you do not know him ; you do not know how 
 much he loves you, and what a treasure of love and goodnesa 
 his heart is." 
 
 Herr vo© Ylierbeke drew his somewhat excited daughter t» 
 
806 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 his side, and imprinted a kiss en her brow. He was aboat to 
 soothe her with some consolatory words ; bnt suddenly she tor« 
 herself from his arms, and sprang up smiling and trembling. 
 Pointing with her finger to the window, she seemed to listen 
 to an approaching sound. 
 
 The tramp of horses and the roll of wheels informed Herr 
 von Vlierbeke what had so suddenly disturbed his daughter ; 
 and with a joyful countenance he hastened down, and reached 
 the front door as Herr Denecker stepped out of his carriage. 
 
 The merchant seemed to be in very good humour, and 
 pressed Herr von Vlierbeke's hand cordially, as he said to 
 him — 
 
 " Ah, Herr von Vlierbeke, I am delighted to see you again. 
 How goes it with you ? My nephew seems to have known 
 how to make good use of his time during my absence." 
 
 While he was being conducted by the nobleman with his 
 usual courtesy to a room, he put his hand on the shoulder of 
 the latter in a friendly way, and said, laughing — 
 
 " Ha I ha I we were good friends before, and now we shall 
 be relations ; I hope so, at least. My rascal of a nephew has 
 no bad taste, I confess. He might search far before he found 
 such a beautiful and charming young girl as Lenora. Why, 
 you see, Herr von Vlierbeke, we must have such a wedding 
 as will be spoken of for twenty years to come." 
 
 Meanwhile they had entered a side-room, and had sat 
 down. Although the nobleman's heart beat with a kind of 
 tiroid joy, he did not venture quite to believe all that Herr 
 Denecker's manner appeared to convey, and looked at him 
 doubtingly. The merchant continued — 
 
 " It would appear now as if Gustav was longing with a 
 burning impatience to complete his happiness, for he has 
 begged me on his knees to hasten matters. I have had pity 
 for the young fool, and have left business for a day, and com« 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAN. 807 
 
 nmning here tc mate the necessary arrangementa at once. 
 He has told me that you have given your consent ; that is 
 well done on your part, sir. I likewise have thought over 
 this marriage during my journey, for I had perceived that 
 love's arrow had quite pierced my nephew's heart ; but I was 
 not without fear regarding your intentions ; the inequality of 
 rank — a notion of older times — might have been an objection." 
 
 " Gustav, then, has informed you that I consent to his mar- 
 riage with Lenora?" asked the nobleman. 
 
 " He has not surely deceived me?" replied Herr Denecker 
 with surprise. 
 
 " No ; but did he say nothing else which in your eyes must 
 be of no small importance ?" 
 
 The merchant shook his head laughing, and said, in a jocn- 
 lar tone — 
 
 " Oh, you refer to that good joke which you played off upon 
 him so successfully ; but we shall very soon arrange all that. 
 He has told me that Grinselhof does not belong to you, and 
 that you are poor. You have, however, a better opinion of 
 my understanding than to think that such jests will pass for 
 truth with me, ha, ha I" 
 
 The nobleman trembled ; his hopes had risen for a moment 
 with Herr Denecker's merry and confident tone ; he had im- 
 agined that he knew all, and was, notwithstanding, prepared 
 to fulfil his nephew's wishes ; but what he had said showed 
 him that he must enter once more into melancholy explana- 
 tions of his poverty ; and he accordingly braced himself for 
 this new victory over his pride. 
 
 " Herr Denecker," he said, " be so good as not to have the 
 slightest doubt of what I am about tell to you. I am quite 
 willing that my Lenora should be married to your nephew, 
 but I declare to you here that I am poor — extremely poor I" 
 
 "What I" exclaimed the merch^t; "I am well awaiv 
 
808 TALES OF FLEMISH LDTI. 
 
 that you are desperately attached to yoiir gold — that ham hetm 
 long known ; but at a time like this, surely — the marriage d 
 your only child — ^you ought to open your heart and purse for 
 once, in order to give your daughter a dowry befitting her 
 position. People have long said — pardon me for repeat- 
 ing it — that you are a miser as it is. But what would be 
 said were you to let your only daughter be married dower- 
 less?" 
 
 The nobleman seemed to be sitting on needles, and struggled 
 painfully with the jesting incredulity which Herr Denecker 
 displayed, and which did not permit him to bring this un- 
 happy subject to a speedy close by short and clear statements. 
 Almost imploringly, he exclaimed — 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, sir, spare me this bitter mockery; I 
 declare to you, on my word as a gentleman, that I do not 
 possess a penny." 
 
 " Well, then," replied the merchant with a cunning smile, 
 " we shall bring the thing to figures, and soon see whether 
 the proof and the reckoning agree. You imagine, perhaps, 
 that I have come hither to talk you over to make a great 
 sacrifice ; not so, Herr von Vlierbeke. God be thanked, I do 
 not require to drive so close a bargain ; but a marriage is a 
 transaction which two enter into with one another, and in 
 which it is proper that both parties should pay a little into 
 the common purse, even if the portions be unequal." 
 
 "0 God I" sighed the nobleman. 
 
 " Listen," said the merchant ; " I will give my nephew a 
 hundred thousand francs, and he will remain in the business, 
 where my credit will be of great value to him. I do not 
 wish, indeed I could not permit, that you should endow 
 Lenora with an equal sum. Her distinguished birth, and 
 her own worth more than overbalance any deficiei;icy in *ier 
 mamage portion. But the half of that — say about fifij 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAN. 809 
 
 thousand francs — ^yon can manage to give, or I am very 
 much deceived. Let us shake hands on this." 
 
 The nobleman sat on his chair pale and trembling, as if he 
 had unexpectedly received some dreadful blow ; in a troubled 
 and desponding tone, he replied — 
 
 " Herr Denecker, this conversation is more than I can bear : 
 cease to pain me so much. I repeat it, I possess nothing ; and 
 since you compel me to speak before I know your determina' 
 tion, then know that Grinselhof, and all the lands appertain- 
 ing, are mortgaged beyond their true value. It is unnecessary 
 to explain to you how these debts have been incurred, it is 
 sufficient to assure you that I speak the truth ; and I request 
 you, before we proceed further, to state explicitly to me 
 what your intentions with reference to your nephew's mar- 
 riage may be, now that you know my circumstances?" 
 
 This communication, which had been uttered by the noble- 
 man with all solemnity and emphasis, still failed to convince 
 the merchant. A little astonishment was all that was visible 
 in his countenance, and then, with an incredulous laugh, he 
 rejoined — 
 
 " Pardon me, Herr von Vlierbeke, but I could not have 
 believed that you would have been so pertinacious. But be 
 it 80, every one has his failings : one man is too niggardly, 
 another too lavish. Well, then, I am ready to stretch a point 
 to make Gustav happy. Give your daughter twenty-five 
 thousand francs, on the condition that the amount of her 
 portion remain a secret, so that I be not a laughing-stock to 
 my friends. Twenty-five thousand francs, you must confess, 
 is not too much ; such a trifle will do little more than meet 
 her necessary preparations. Come now, act candidly and 
 honestly — here is my hand I " 
 
 Trembling, as if seized by an ague-fit, the nobleman sprang 
 up suddenly and unlocked a little press in the wall, and then 
 
310 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 taking out a packet of papers, threw thero on the tabl6| 
 
 saying— 
 
 ** Eead, and convince yourself." 
 
 As the merchant looked through the papers, his counte- 
 nance altered gradually, and he shook his head musingly at 
 times. Meanwhile, the nobleman said, with a mixture of jest 
 and anger — 
 
 " Ah, you would not believe me ; but guard yourself against 
 coming to a conclusion even from these papers alone. You 
 must know all at once, and then I will not again have to ex- 
 pose myself to the torture of these humiliating disclosures. 
 Here is a bill for four thousand francs, which I cannot pay. 
 You perceive I am more than poor — I have debts." 
 
 " It is, then, true," said Herr Denecker, astonished : " you 
 possess nothing. I see from these papers that my Notary is 
 also yours. I spoke with him about your wealth, and he left 
 me in my wisdom, or rather in my error." 
 
 The nobleman now breathed freely, as if a load had fallen 
 from his heart ; and his countenance again assumed that air 
 and digiiity which was peculiar to him. He sat down, and 
 said with a constrained coldness — 
 
 " Now that you have no longer any doubts of my poverty, 
 I ask you, Herr Denecker, what is your decision?" 
 
 "My decision?" replied the merchant; "my decision is, 
 that we continue good friends as formerly. But the marriage ? 
 — That must no longer be thought of; we shall speak no 
 more of that. So, then, Herr von Vlierbeke, you had made 
 your calculations, as I now begin to see, and would fain have 
 struck a good bargain, and sold your wares as dear as poe- 
 sible?' 
 
 " Sir," cried the nobleman, with . an angry glance, ** speak 
 of my daughter with respect, be she poor or rich. Do not 
 teget who she is," 
 
FOOB NOBLEMAN. 811 
 
 "Do not be angry, Herr von Vlierbeke," replied the mer- 
 chant. " I do not mean to oiBfend you i I am very far firom 
 meaning to do that. Had you been successful, I would per- 
 haps have rather admired your tactics; but he who would 
 overreach me, must rise early in the morning. And since 
 you are so nice on the point of honour, permit me to ask you 
 if you acted honourably in inviting — I may say, enticing— 
 my nephew to frequent this house, till this unhappy lore 
 struck so deep a root in his heart ?" 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke let his head sink to conceal the blush 
 of shame which, like a cloud, overspread his brow, and sat 
 quite overwhelmed for a time, till the merchant roused his 
 attention by the word—" Well?" 
 
 "Ah," sighed Herr von Vlierbeke, "have pity on met 
 Perhaps love of my child led me into this error. God has 
 endowed my Lenora with all the gifts which can adom a 
 woman on earth ; I had hoped that her beauty, the purity of 
 her soul, and the nobility of her race, might be treasures at 
 least as valuable as gold." 
 
 " Yes, to a nobleman, perhaps ; but not to a merchant," 
 muttered Herr Denecker. 
 
 " Do not reproach me with having enticed your nephew to 
 visit here; the word pains me deeply, and is unjust. But 
 when I saw a mutual attachment spring up at the same time 
 between Gustav and Lenora, I did not, I confess, do anything 
 to check this feeling. On the contrary, I daily thanked God 
 in my prayers that he had sent me one who was to be my 
 child's deliverer. Yes, for Gustav is no ordinary man, and 
 one who would have made her happy — not by his wealth, but 
 by his noble character and good heart. Is it then so great a 
 misdeed if a father, whom unavoidable misfortune has beg- 
 gared, should cherish the hope of seeing his child rescued from. 
 the miseries of poverty ? " 
 
81S TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 " Certainly not," replied the merchant. " Everything de- 
 pended on its success ; but you made a bad choice, Herr von 
 Vlierbeke. I am a man who examines goods twice before he 
 concludes a bargain, and it is excessively difficult, I can 
 assure you, to pass apples for citrons with me." 
 
 This style of talk, borrowed from trade, seemed to pain the 
 nobleman deeply, for he sprang up quickly and said, with 
 rising anger — 
 
 " You have, then, no pity for my misfortunes ? You would 
 give me to understand that it has been my purpose to deceive 
 you ? Was it you who discovered my poverty ? Were you 
 not at liberty to do what you pleased after my voluntary ex- 
 planation ? Do you think that, because I listen humbly to 
 your reproaches, and confess my mistake — my fault, that every 
 feeling of self-respect is dead in my heart? You speak of 
 wares as if you had come here to buy something 1 Do yon 
 mean my Lenora ? All your wealth cannot reach that, sir. 
 If love for her. is not powerful enough to cause inequalities of 
 another kind to disappear, know that my name is Von Vlier- 
 beke, and that this name, even in poverty, weighs heavier 
 than all your gold I " 
 
 A deep indignation was visible on the nobleman's features 
 while he uttered these words ; his eyes shot fire at the mer- 
 chant, who, terrified by his rapid movements, drew back and 
 looked at him with some alarm. 
 
 " Well," said Denecker, " we will not waste so many words 
 about it ; every one remains what he is, every one keeps what 
 he has, and so the matter is settled. I have only one request 
 to make — namely, that you no longer permit my nephew to 
 visit you, otherwise " — 
 
 " Otherwise!" cried the nobleman with passion; "do you 
 threaten me?" And then controlling himseli^ he said, with 
 0Qbdned passion — 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAN. tlS 
 
 ** Enough of this : shall I order Herr Denecker'f car- 
 riage?" 
 
 " As you please," replied the merchant ; " we can transact 
 no business with one another, but that is no reason why we 
 should be enemies." 
 
 " Good, good ; let us stop, sir. This conversation pains me ; 
 it must have an end." 
 
 With these words, he conducted the merchant to the door, 
 and took leave of him curtly. 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke returned to his room, sank into a chair, 
 and covering his face with his hands, sighed deeply, while his 
 breast heaved violently with a mingled excitement, indigna- 
 tion, and grief. He remained in this attitude for a time, silent 
 and motionless ; his hands then sank powerless on his knees, 
 and a deathlike pallor overspread his face. He appeared 
 overpowered by the most painful reflections j but no move- 
 ment, no feature of his countenance, indicated the silent ago- 
 nies of his soul. 
 
 Suddenly he heard a noise in the room overhead, which 
 roused him out of his unconsciousness, and made him tremble 
 with fear and anxiety. 
 
 "0 God I my poor Lenoral" he exclaimed. "She comes. 
 I have not yet suffered enough ; I must break my poor child's 
 heart tool — with cruel coldness rob her of all her bright 
 hopes, destroy her sweetest dreams, and behold her despair ! 
 Would to God I could escape this fearful interview I What 
 shall I say? how tell her all?" 
 
 He laughed bitterly, and said, muttering to himself in « 
 tone of despair — 
 
 " Ah, conceal thine own suffering — take courage I Even 
 if tty heart is broken, if despair overmasters thee, still smile, 
 tmilel What is thy fate after all, but a perpetual self- 
 mockery ? What else canst thou do, miserable slave ? — Keep 
 
814 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 down this rebellions feeling I Be calm, be calm, there U 4iy 
 child 1" 
 
 Lenora entered, and turned toward her father with an in- 
 quiring but hopeful glance. Whatever exertion Herr von 
 Vlierbeke might have made to conceal his agony, he was not 
 successful on this occasion. Lenora at once perceived that 
 he was suffering from some great sorrow; and when he con- 
 tinued silent, spite of her anxious and questioning looks, she 
 began to tremble, and said with alarm — 
 "Well, father, well?" 
 
 " Ah, my child," said the father, " we are unhappy I Gk)d 
 tries us severely ; we must bow to His almighty will." 
 
 " What must I fear ? " cried Lenora in perplexity. " Speak, 
 father; has he refused his consent?" 
 " He has refused it, Lenora." 
 "No, no I" cried the maiden, "it cannot be!" 
 " Kefused— because he has millions, and we are poor." 
 " Is it true ? Is Gustav lost — hopelessly lost ?" 
 " Hopelessly," repeated the nobleman with a hollow voice. 
 The young girl uttered a loud cry of anguish, and hasten- 
 mg forward, sank down with her head upon the table. She 
 Bobbed audibly, muttering at times the name of her beloved 
 in a tone of utter despair. The nobleman rose, and for a long 
 time gazed at his suffering child. An unutterable sadness was 
 imprinted on his features ; his eyes, at other times so clear 
 and sparkling, were restless and troubled ; he closed ' hands 
 convulsively, and at last folding them, he approached his 
 daughter, and said imploringly — 
 
 " Lenora, have pity on me ; moderate your grief for my 
 gake, my child! In this unhappy interview with Herr De- 
 necker, I have endured all the agonies which can torture a 
 nobleman's and a father's heart. I have drunk, in full 
 draughts, the bitter gall of shame, and emptied to the dregi 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAN. 816 
 
 the cup of humiliation. But all this is nothing when I be- 
 ho.d your sorrow. Oh, try to control yourself show me yonr 
 face ; let me find consolation in your tranquillity I My brain 
 whirls — I die of despair I " 
 
 When he said this, he sank into a chair, quite exhausted 
 by his prolonged sufferings. The maiden approached her 
 father, and rested her head on his shoulder, saying with diffi- 
 culty, as tears and sobs would allow her — 
 
 " Never to see him again I to renounce his love, and all 
 the happiness which I dreamt of I Ah, he will die of sorrow I" 
 
 " Lenora, Lenora I " sighed the nobleman. 
 
 " dear father I — Gustav for ever, for ever lost I I could 
 die at the dreadful thought : still, so long as I possess you, I 
 will bless and praise God ; but I can do nothing but shed 
 tears now I let me weep I " 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke pressed his child to his breast, and in 
 silence respected her grief. A profound stillness reigned 
 round father and daughter. Both sat there for a long time, 
 till the very excess of their sorrow had brought fatigue, and 
 mere exhaustion made their hearts accessible to mutual ooa- 
 ■olaiion. 
 
Bl€ TALES OF FLElOf H Uf*. 
 
 CHAPTEB VL 
 
 FoUK days after Herr Denecker had refused his consent to 
 Gustav's marriage with Lenora, a hired carriage drove oyer 
 the heath, and drew up at a lonely part of the road, about 
 a mile from Grinselhof. A young man sprang out of the 
 ■vehicle, and pointing out a distant inn, at which the carriage 
 was to wait, hastened with rapid strides in the opposite direc- 
 tion. He appeared driven on by an uncontrollable impatience, 
 and trembled at times as if his own thoughts terrified him. 
 So soon as he saw Grinselhof glimmering through the trees, 
 he advanced cautiously, keeping close by the wood, and going 
 from one side to another, wherever the foliage was thickest. 
 When he reached the Castle, he uttered a cry of joy — for the 
 gate fortunately stood open. Cautiously he crept through 
 the bushes till he gained the bridge, and then, passing the 
 farm-house on tip-toe, disappeared among the lofty trees, 
 which, like a wall, enclosed Grinselhof, separating it from the 
 rest of the world. 
 
 He had advanced only a few paces within the grounds, when 
 he suddenly paused with visible agitation. Under the Indian 
 jessamine sat Lenora, resting her head on the table ; her breast 
 heaved convulsively, and a few glistening tears forced their 
 way through her fingers, and fell on the ground. 
 
 The youth approached lightly ; but slow and quiet as hii 
 motioni were, the maiden suddenly raised her head, and sprang 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAN. SIT 
 
 up trembling, while the word " Gustav" escaped fix)m her 
 breast, like a cry of pain, and resounded among the trees. 
 She would have fled, but before she could advance a step, 
 ijfie young man was on his knees before her, and address- 
 ifig her with ardour, while he held her hand firmly in hit 
 own — 
 
 " Lenora, Lenora, hear me I If you flee from me, if you 
 deny me the consolation to tell you, with my last farewell, 
 what I sufier and what I hope, I shall either die at your feet, 
 or, carrying a serpent of torture in my heart, perish far from 
 my fatherland, far from you, my sister, my beloved, my bride 1 
 Lenora, by your earnest, pure love, I conjure you, do not 
 drive me from you at this time I " 
 
 Although Lenora trembled in every limb, her countenance 
 yet expressed dignity and self-command, and she replied, 
 calmly and coldly — 
 
 " Yomr boldness surprises me, sir ; it required much to 
 appear at Grinselhof again, after the insult which has been 
 offered to my father. He is now in bed ill ; his high soul 
 Bank under his sufferings, and a violent fever has seized him. 
 This is the reward of my love for you." 
 
 " Ah, Lenora, you blame me I what have I, then, done 
 wrong?" exclaimed the young man despairingly. 
 
 " There can be no longer any intercourse between us," re- 
 plied the maiden. " We are not so rich as you, sir, it is true ; 
 but the blood which flows in our veins brooks not eontempt. 
 Stand up, go, I must never see you more." 
 
 "Pity, favour," implored Gustav, raising his hands im- 
 ploringly ; " I am innocent, Lenora ! " 
 
 The maiden endeavoured to conceal the tears which she 
 could not restrain, and turned to go. 
 
 " Oh how cruel I" he exclaimed. " You leave me for ever, 
 without even saying farewell, without one word of comfort ; 
 
BIS TALES OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 you are deaf to my entreaties, insensible to my sorrow. WeD 
 then, I must endure my fate, for you have willed it so." 
 
 Then springing up, he exclaimed with a flood of tears — 
 
 " Lenora, my friend, you pronounce my^ death- sentence, 
 I forgive you ; may you be happy on earth without me. 
 Farewell — farewell for ever I " 
 
 When he had said this, strength seemed to fail him, and 
 sinking on a chair, his arms fell powerless and outstretched 
 upon the table. 
 
 Lenora had already moved a few paces from the arbour, 
 but the evident despair of her lover drew her back irresistibly ; 
 one could easily read in her face a violent struggle between 
 duty and love. At last her heart seemed to yield, tears gushed 
 from her eyes, and slowly approaching the young man, she 
 took his hand and sighed tenderly — 
 
 " Gustav, my poor friend, we are unhappy, very unhappy, 
 are we not?" 
 
 The affectionate grasp of her hand, and the sweet tones ol 
 her voice, restored the young man to himself; and with a 
 happy smile, looking in the maiden's eyes, he said with rap- 
 ture — 
 
 " Lenora, dear Lenora, you have returned to me ; you have 
 pity for my sufferings ; you do not, then, hate me ?" 
 
 " Can a love like ours die, Gustav ?" 
 
 " no, no I" cried the youth with ardour, " it is eternal^ 
 eternal I too mighty for misfortune or misery, indestructible 
 while our hearts beat in our bosoms I " 
 
 The maiden hung her head and looked down, as she replied 
 solemnly — 
 
 " Do not think, Gustav, that our separation gives me less 
 pain than it gives you. If the assurance of my love can 
 console you in your absence, then be strong and brave, for I 
 will ever cherish your memory in my mourning heart ; I will 
 
POOS NOBLEMAH. Sit 
 
 fbillow yon in spirit, and love you, till the grare fills np the 
 gulf which yawns between ns : yonder with God we shall 
 meet again— -on earth, never." 
 
 " Oh 1 you deceive yourself, Lenora," exclaimed GustaT, 
 with animation. " My uncle is not inexorable — he will yield 
 out of compassion for my despair." 
 
 " That may be, but my father's feeling of honour is un- 
 bending," said the maiden with a sorrowful pride. " You 
 must go, Gustav ; already too long have I transgressed his 
 command, too long forgotten my duty in remaining alone 
 with a man who cannot be my husband. Leave me ! Were 
 any one io surprise us, my unhappy father would die of grief 
 and shame." 
 
 " Good, dear Lenora ! only oue moment more ; hear what I 
 have to say to you. My uncle has refused his consent to 
 our union ; I have wept, entreated — nothing availed to shake 
 his resolution. Despair, then, obscured my intellect ; I re- 
 belled against him, threatened him like an ingrate, and said 
 things which have made me abhor myself since I recovered 
 my senses. On my knees I begged forgiveness ; my uncle is 
 good-hearted, and he pardoned me on condition that I imme- 
 diately, and without offering any objection, should accompany 
 him on a long-purposed journey to Italy — he hopes in this 
 way that I shall forget you. Forget you, Lenora I — I have, 
 howevei, embraced this plan with secret joy. I shall be alone 
 with him for months, show him all the love which I really 
 entertain for him, soften his heart by my great respect, un- 
 ceasingly entreat him for his consent, persuade him, and 
 return victoriously, Lenora, to offer you my life and my hand, 
 to deck your brow with the happy bridal wreath, and kneel- 
 ing before God's altar, to receive you as my beloved wife." 
 
 A bright smile beamed for a moment on the maiden's coun- 
 tenance, and her eyes sparkled with pleasnre at this charm- 
 
8S0 TALES OF FLEMISH LIVE. 
 
 ing picture of a still possible happiness ; but soon the deliudom 
 vanished, and she replied calmly, though sadly — 
 
 " My poor friend, it is cruel to be compelled to tear rudely 
 even this feeble hope out of your heart. Your uncle may 
 consent, but my father?" 
 
 " Your father I he will pardon all, and receive me into hii 
 arms again like a son that was lost and is found." 
 
 " No, no, do not believe it, Gustav ; his honour has been 
 hurt — as Christian he will forgive, but, as nobleman, never 
 forget the insult." 
 
 " Lenora, you do your father injustice I If I, with the 
 full consent of my uncle, return and say to him, * Here I am, 
 the man who can make your child happy ; I will adorn her 
 life with all the love and joy which a husband ever lavished 
 on a wife ; her destiny on earth shall be enviable : give me 
 Lenora 1' — what do you think he would reply?" 
 
 With downcast eyes, Lenora answered — 
 
 " You know his boundless goodness of heart, Gustav ; my 
 happiness is the one wish of his soul ; he would bless you, and 
 thank God." 
 
 " Is it not so, Lenora ? he would consent. You see all is 
 not lost — a bright ray still lights up our future. Lay this 
 sweet hope to your heart ; do not mourn ; let me carry with 
 me on this weary journey the consolation that you, confiding 
 in God's goodness, will wait for me. Think of me in your 
 prayers ; utter my name at times in these shady walks where 
 love so sweetly filled our hearts — where I, during two happy 
 months, drank from your countenance a century of infinite 
 bliss. Smile to me in your solitude ; my spirit will bo 
 conscious of your distant greeting, and I will rejoice and find* 
 courage to bear patiently our temporary separation." 
 
 Lenora wept in silence ; the sweet and touching words of 
 her lover had quite conquered her pride ; in her heart nothing 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAH. 321 
 
 remained but love and sorrow. The young man perceived it, 
 and continued — 
 
 " I go, Lenora ; hut I leave my fatherland and my beloved 
 with a fully assured hope. Come what will, I will bear it 
 cheerfully. Lenora, you will think on me — daily think on 
 me, will you not?" 
 
 " God I I have promised my father to forget you I " 
 
 " Forget me I Would you do your heart violence to forget 
 me?" 
 
 " no, Gustav 1 " was the low reply. " I will, for the first 
 time, disobey my father ; for I feel — I feel that I have not 
 strength. My promise was a lie. To forget you is impossible 
 for me ; I must love you while I live ; it is my earthly des- 
 tiny." 
 
 " Oh, thanks, thanks, Lenora I " exclaimed Gustav with 
 rapture. " Your loving words give me strength and courage. 
 May God Almighty keep you I Your image will be ever pre- 
 sent to me, and be my guardian angel, in joy as in sorrow, by 
 day as by night ; it will continually hover around me. It 
 breaks my heart to leave you ; but duty commands, and I 
 must go : farewell I farewell I " 
 
 With feverish ardour, he then pressed both her hands, and 
 quickly disappeared among the trees. 
 
 " Gustav, Gustav, farewell I " cried Lenora, half uncon- 
 sciously, and overpowered by her emotion. With tremulous 
 hand she sought a chair; then sinking powerless upon it, 
 laid her head upon the table, and yielded to the anguish (d 
 her heart, while the hot tears streamed over her hand& 
 
10 9JklMM OF FLEMISH Ufl, 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 Lenoba had told her father of Gustav's last visit, and had 
 laboured to impart to his heart those sweet hopes of a better 
 future which now lived in her own ; but Herr von Vlierbeko 
 was quite unimpressed by her account of what had taken place, 
 and bad even received it with a kind of satirical laugh, and 
 without giving her any definite reply. 
 
 From that day Grinselhof had become still more lonely and 
 melancholy than ever. Visibly tortured by a secret suffering, 
 the nobleman generally sat with his head resting on his hands, 
 and his eyes fixed on the ground ; he saw continually before 
 him the unhappy day on which the bond fell due, and which 
 was rapidly and inevitably approaching, to drive the father 
 and his child for ever into misery and destitution. Lenora 
 concealed her own sorrow, that she might not aggravate her 
 father's inexplicable grief by allowing her own melancholy to 
 appear. Although her heart was full of anxious thoughts, 
 she assumed cheerfulness and serenity. She did and said to 
 him all that her loving heart could suggest, to draw him out 
 of his painful reflections. Her exertions, however, had be«a 
 quite fruitless ; her father rewarded her with a smile, or with 
 a tender caress ; but the smile was sad and bitter — the caress 
 was feeble and lifeless. On several occasions she had inquired 
 with weeping eyes into the cause of her father's sadness, but 
 he avmded every explanation. For whole days he would 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAN. 323 
 
 wander about in solitnde, and sunk in gloomy thoughts, through 
 the most shady and secluded paths in the garden, and appeared 
 to flee even his daughter's presence. When Lenora saw him 
 from a distance, she could perceiye his look of anguish and 
 despair, and the violent gesticulations which he occasionally 
 made ; but when she approached to soothe his excitement and 
 alleviate his sorrow by marks of deep affection, he scarcely 
 replied to her loving inquiries, and abruptly left her, to seek 
 some retired corner of the house in which he might indulge 
 his feelings unseen. 
 
 So passed a whole month — a month of silent suffering and 
 deep melancholy. Lenora, meanwhile, perceived with despair 
 how rapidly her father's countenance was growing pale and hag- 
 gard, and how his eyes were losing their wonted brilliancy, as 
 if some consuming malady was wasting his life away. About 
 this time, however, an alteration in his conduct convinced her 
 that some sad and fearful secret lay heavy on his heart. For 
 a week past his eyes had beamed again with more than their 
 accustomed fire. He now seemed to be continually the victim 
 of a feverish agitation ; his words, his thoughts, his gestures, 
 his acts, all showed impatience and excitement. About this 
 time, too, he went twice or thrice every week to the city with- 
 out letting any one know what he did there. Late in the even- 
 ing, he returned to Grinselhof, and then seated himself quietly 
 and thoughtfully by the table ; soon after, he generally asked 
 Lenora to go to her room, and then disappeared with the lamp 
 into his own. But not to rest, as his sorrowing daughter knew 
 too well ; for as she lay awake through anxiety, she often heard 
 diuring the night her father's footsteps, as he restlessly paced 
 the floor overhead ; and she trembled, as she lay, with grief and 
 alarm. Lenora possessed great courage, and had acquired, from 
 her unusual training and education, an almost masculine energy 
 of soal ; and so there gradually arose in her heart the resolu- 
 
824 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 tion to force her father to impart his secret to heft:, HowoTer 
 much her exceeding respect for her father withheld her from 
 taking this step, her love and concern, on the other hand, daily 
 and irresistibly urged her to make a bold effort. She had fre- 
 quently sought her father with the intention of executing her 
 plan, but the piercing glance with which he met her approach, 
 and the whole expression of his face, had always deterred her. 
 She saw that her father suspected her intention, and seemed 
 to tremble in her presence, as if he feared her questions. 
 
 One day Herr von Vlierbeke had gone to the city as usual, 
 early in the morning. It was now past noon, and Lenora 
 wandered slowly, lost in sad reveries, through the rooms of 
 the Castle, which were pervaded by a deathlike stillness. 
 At times, she gave expression to her troubled thoughts in 
 words, then paused for a time, and raised her hand to wipe a 
 tear from her eye. In her abstraction, and scarcely knowing 
 what she did, she drew out the drawer of the table on which 
 her father was accustomed to write. Perhaps the desire she 
 felt to discover his secret urged her unconsciously to do this. 
 She found a document lying open, and scarcely had her eyes 
 fallen on it, when a mortal paleness overspread her face, and 
 §he read with trembling what this paper revealed to her. 
 
 She shuddered as she shut the drawer ; and left the room 
 with downcast eyes, and a slow motion, like a person absorbed 
 in the most painful and distressing thoughts. She sat down 
 in the front room, gazed fixedly on the ground for a time, and 
 then sighed — 
 
 " Sell Grinselhof I and wherefore ? Herr Denecker mocked 
 my father's poverty. What a secret this is I Are we then 
 really so very, very poor ? What a light is here ! Tkii •<>• 
 fonnti for my father's grief.'' 
 
 • •••••• 
 
POOB NOBLEIUX. tSfi 
 
 OHAPTEB VIIL 
 
 Ab Lenora now suspected, it was but two days after this that 
 the announcement of the sale of her father's possessions ap- 
 peared in the newspapers, and was posted throughout the city 
 and the surrounding villages. It attracted considerable atten- 
 tion, and the poverty of a nobleman, whom everybody had 
 considered so wealthy and avaricious, was a great subject of 
 wonder. The sale had been announced as taking place " on 
 account of his leaving the country;" and no one would have 
 suspected the real grounds, had not the news spread from the 
 city that Herr von Vlierbeke had been forced to this, in order 
 to pay his debts ; and that he consequently was excessively 
 poor. Even the true cause of his misfortune — the assistance 
 which he had lent his brother — became currently reported, 
 although the details, of course, were not accurately known. 
 Since the announcement, the nobleman had kept himself more 
 Becluded than ever, that he might escape all explanations. 
 He awaited with patience the approach of the appointed day ; 
 and although a feeling of sadness often threatened to over- 
 power him, he found in the never-flagging cheerfulness of his 
 daughter, strength to look forward, with a certain courage 
 and spirit, to the day of trial. 
 
 In the meantime, he received a letter from Gustav, who 
 was then in Rome, containing also a few lines to his daughter. 
 The young man declared that his attachment to Lenora had 
 
896 TALES OP FLEMISH LDPB. 
 
 been only strengthened and deepened by absence ; and that he 
 found his only consolation in the hope of being one day nnited 
 with her in the bond of marriage. In other respects, however, 
 his letter was not so encouraging ; for he informed them sadly 
 and complainingly, that his attempts to gain over his uncle 
 had been hitherto quite unsuccessfQl. — The father had thrown 
 aside the letter with indifference, and did not conceal from 
 Lenora that he no longer cherished the faintest hope of their 
 possible union ; and counselled her entirely to blot out the 
 memory of this unhappy attachment, that she might not pre- 
 pare for herself still greater sorrow. Lenora herself was 
 convinced that now that her father's poverty had become 
 generally known, she must give up all hope ; and yet it was 
 such a blessed and cheering feeling to be assured that Gustav 
 still loved her — that he whose image filled her heart and 
 inspired her dreams, continually thought on her, and lamented 
 their separation I True to her vows, she often uttered his 
 name in her solitude ; many a sigh was breathed for him 
 under the old jessamine, as if she were confiding to the winds 
 the longing of her soul to bear to a milder sky. In her 
 iolitary hours, too, she sometimes repeated Gustav's tenderest 
 confessions of his love ; and in her meditative walks, through 
 the shady paths of Grinselhof, she paused at every spot where 
 a word, a pressure of the hand, or a glance from him, had 
 made her heart glow with rapture. 
 
 As if every misfortune which could afflict the nobleman's 
 heart were to be poured upon him at once, to overwhelm him 
 by one concentrated stroke, he at this time received news of 
 his brother's death in America. The unfortunate man had 
 died of a fever in the wilds, lying to the we»t of Hudson's 
 Bay. Herr von Vlierbeke mourned for several days the death 
 of his beloved brother ; but the approaching crisis of his own 
 fiite did not permit him to dwell long on this sabjeot 
 
THB FOOB NOBLEMAH, 317 
 
 At last tbe day of sale arrived. 
 
 By early moming, people of all kinds had made their ap- 
 pearance at Grinselhof, partly from curiosity, partly with the 
 intention of purchasing ; and wandered about, looking at the 
 furniture, and calculating beforehand the value of every article. 
 The poor nobleman had collected into the large hall, every- 
 thing in the house which was saleable. Assisted by hii 
 daughter, he had laboured, during the whole preceding night, 
 to freshen and furbish things up a little, in order that their 
 clean and polished exterior might induce the fancier to offer 
 a good price. They did this from no selfish motive — for 
 u the estate had been sold some days before very disadvan- 
 iageously, they knew that even in the event of the most 
 favourable sale, the proceeds would fall considerably short of 
 the amount of their remaining debts. His honesty alone had 
 induced him to sacrifice his night's rest to the interests of his 
 creditors, in the hope of lessening their loss as much as pos- 
 sible. Apparently Herr von Vlierbeke had determined not 
 to sleep another night at Grinselhof ; for among the frirniture 
 exposed for sale were two beds, in addition to many clothes 
 belonging to him and his daughter. Lenora had betaken 
 herself early in the moming to the farm, to remain there till 
 all was over. 
 
 At ten o'clock, the hall where the sale wa« to be carried 
 on, was filled with people. Nobles, and distinguished ladies, 
 were mingled there with old clothesmen and wrangling pawn- 
 brokers, who had come out of the city in the hope of making 
 a good bargain. Here and there, too, stood groups of peas- 
 ants, and talked with an air of secrecy and wonder about the 
 misfortune which had befallen Herr von Vlierbeke. Not a 
 few of those present laughed loudly, and entertained them- 
 selves with all sort of jests, till the clerk began to read a list 
 «f the articles to be sold. Half an hour after, the sale began. 
 
818 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 The clerk was just engaged commending a beantifal inlaid 
 wardrobe, when Herr von Vlierbeke himself entered the hall, 
 and took up his position beside the auctioneer. His appear- 
 ance caused a general movement among the bystanders: 
 heads were put together, and they whispered to each other, 
 looking at the nobleman at the same time with a sort of im- 
 pudent curiosity, with which in some cases a feeling of sym- 
 pathy was mingled ; but on the countenances of the majority, 
 nothing could be read but indifference or cheerfulness. This, 
 however, lasted only for a minute ; for the calm and dignified 
 look of the nobleman soon inspired them with respect and 
 admiration. He was certainly poor, and misfortune had done 
 what it could to prostrate him so far as wealth was concerned ; 
 but out of his eyes, and his clear, calm features, there beamed 
 a free, courageous soul, whose greatness and gentle dignity 
 were unimpaired by adversity. 
 
 The clerk, meanwhile, proceeded with the auction, and was 
 instructed in the recommendation of certain articles by Herr 
 Ton Vlierbeke, who gave him information regarding their 
 origin, their age, and real value. 
 
 Borne noblemen from the vicinity, who in earlier times had 
 been on friendly terms with Lenora's father, now advanced to 
 speak with him about his misfortune; but he successfully 
 evaded both their curiosity and their compassion. He spoke 
 so unconstrainedly, and remained so entirely master of him- 
 self, that they found no opportunity of displaying their useless 
 sympathy. In his conduct, his bearing, his smile, there was 
 something so dignified and commanding, that every one left 
 him with the deepest respect. 
 
 But calm and collected as the countenance of Herr von 
 Vlierbeke was, strong and undiminished as was the energy of 
 •onl, and high sense of personal dignity, which sparkled in his 
 tje, the most painful sufierings secretly oppressed his heart 
 
TBE POOR noblemah. 329 
 
 Everything whicli had belonged to his ancestors, objects which 
 bore the arms of his family, and had been piously cherished in 
 his house for centuries, he now saw sold for a trifle, and pass 
 into the hands of pawnbrokers and second-hand dealers. As 
 these precious memorials of the past were one after the other 
 placed upon the table, the famous history of his forefathers 
 was unrolled before him, and he endured a pang as painful, 
 as if in the parting from every little treasure a fond memory 
 had been torn from his bleeding heart. 
 
 The sale was nearly at an end, when the portraits of the 
 distinguished men who had borne the name of Vlierbeke were 
 taken from the wall and put up to auction. The first, that 
 of the hero of St. Quentin, fell to an old broker for the 
 wretched sum of thr^e francs I There was such a bitter 
 mockery in the sale of the portraits, and the ridiculously low 
 prices which they brought, that the anguish of the nobleman's 
 heart now first began to reveal itself in his face, spite of his 
 utmost efforts at self-control. With downcast eyes, he sank 
 for a time into sad and desponding thoughts ; then raised his 
 head, and, evidently deeply affected, left the room, that he 
 might avoid witnessing the sale of the remaining portraits. 
 
 The sun had still a fourth of its daily journey to perform 
 before reaching the western horizon. At Grinselhof, a pro- 
 found quiet has succeeded the tumultuous noise of tradesmen : 
 no human being is any longer visible in the lonely garden 
 walks. The gate is shut, and everything has returned to its 
 accustomed calm : one might suppose that its stillness had 
 never been broken. 
 
 The door of Herr von Vlierbeke's dwelling opens, and on 
 the threshold appear two people, an aged man and a young 
 maiden, each with a bundle in their hands, arid seemingly pre- 
 pared for a journey. It it difficult at first to reoognise in theie 
 
YALE! OF FLEMIfiH UFE, 
 
 poorly-clad people Herr von Vlierbeke and his daughter ; bat 
 such they are, though one would scarcely suspect it. They 
 have evidently endeavoured to dress in a manner suitable to 
 their altered circumstances, and to appear as modest and un- 
 pretending as possible. 
 
 Lenora wears a gQwn of dark calico, a hood, and a little 
 square neckerchief; her beautiful curls are invisible — either 
 concealed by her hood, or more probably fallen under the 
 scissors. The poor nobleman wears a coat of coarse cloth, 
 buttoned to the chin, and a cap with a broad shade, which 
 *lmost entirely conceals his couiitenance. 
 
 Spite of what they have done to conceal their former rank 
 %nd descent, there yet reigns, even in their dress, a certain 
 ^;race, and something undefinable in their gait and air which 
 aidicate a high breeding. The countenance of the father 
 was calm ; and it was impossible to say whether sorrow, joy, 
 or indifference was most eonspicuous in it. Lenora looks 
 firm and courageous, although the departure from her birth- 
 place, and the home which she had loved from her childhood 
 — from those richly-foliaged trees, under whose shade her 
 heart had experienced the first rapturous feeling of love — from 
 the graceful jessamine, at whose foot the timid confession first 
 fell upon her ear from the lips of Gustav I — yes, she is firm 
 and courageous, although this solemn farewell fills her heart 
 with sadness. But she must support her sufiering parent; 
 watch the fluctuating emotions of his soul as they appear and 
 disappear on his countenance ; like a sentinel keep guard over 
 his heart, that by proofs of her infinite affection, she may chase 
 away the grief which would overpower it. And therefore it 
 is that her look is so clear and sweet when it meets her 
 father's. With slow steps, father and daughter approach the 
 farm, and enter to take leave of the farmer and his wife. 
 
 The latter was alone with her maid, on the ground-floor. 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAlf. 381 
 
 ** Mother Beth/' said the nobleman, in a gentie a&d feetls 
 tone, ** we come to bid you farewell." 
 
 The woman looked at them for a moment, arranged hei 
 dress hurriedly, and then putting her apron before her eyes, 
 rwa out by the back-door lamenting loudly as she went. 
 The maid laid her head on the window-sill and began to sob, 
 and refused all consolation. The woman returned in lera 
 than a minute, accompanied by her husband. 
 
 "Alas, it is true then, sir I" said the farmer's wife, with 
 choking voice. " You leave Grinselhof, and we are never to 
 see you again 1 " 
 
 "Come, come, good Mother Beth," said the nobleman, 
 taking her hand, " do not weep on that accoimt ; you see that 
 we endure our fate patiently." 
 
 The woman raised her head, again looked at her former 
 master and mistress, and began to weep more uncontrollably 
 than ever. The fanner stood for a moment with his eyes 
 fixed on the ground, and then suddenly said to the nobleman 
 with a firm voice, in which considerable effort was apparent — 
 
 "I beg, sir, that you will let me have a few words with 
 you alone." 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke followed him into another apartment. 
 The farmer shut the door, and said timidly — 
 
 "Gracious sir, I scarcely venture to tell you what my 
 prayer is. Will you forgive me if it displeases you?" 
 
 " Speak out freely, friend," replied the nobleman, with a 
 kind smile. 
 
 " You see, sir," stammered the farmer, much affected, " it 
 is to you that I owe all that I have ever earned. When I 
 married my Beth T had nothing, and you gave us this farm 
 at a low rent. We have prospered by God's favour, and 
 under your protection ; while you, on the contrary, our bene- 
 fMstor, have met with misfortune, and now are forced to leave 
 
TALES OF FLEMISH LIFK. 
 
 your home. God alone knows whither you are bound, or what 
 fate awaits you. Perhaps to endure poverty and want — but 
 no, that must not happen. I would reproach myself all my 
 life long, and it would be to me a continual grief; every- 
 thing, sir, which I possess, is at your service." 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke tremulously pressed the farmer's hand, 
 and said, deeply moved — 
 
 " Yon are a good man. I should be happy to be obliged 
 to you; but give up your kind intentions, my friend, and 
 retain what you have earned by the sweat of your brow. Do 
 not be anxious about us ; with God's help, we shall be able 
 to find some tolerable way of life." 
 
 " Ah, sir," implored the farmer, " do not refuse the little 
 assistance which I can give." He opened a drawer, and pro- 
 duced a heap of silver coins. "See," he continued, "this 
 could not compensate for the hundredth part of the kindness 
 which you have always shown to us. Grant me this one fa- 
 vour, which I beg from your magnanimity. Take this money : 
 if it were to spare you a single hour's misery, I would be 
 grateful to God for it during my life." 
 
 Tears of emotion gushed from the nobleman's eyes, and 
 with difficulty controlling his feelings, he said — 
 
 " Thanks, thanks, my good friend ; but I must refuse it. 
 Every ftirther attempt is useless. Let us go into the other 
 room." 
 
 " But, sir," cried the farmer despairingly, " whither do yor 
 go ? For God's sake, tell me I " 
 
 " It is impossible," replied Herr von Vlierbeke, ** for I dt 
 not myself know. And did I know it, prudence would pre- 
 vent my informing any one." 
 
 He entered the other room as he uttered these words, and 
 found all, even Lenora, in tears. The maiden hung on ths 
 woman's neck, while the servant girl kissed her young mif- 
 
THE POOB NOBLEMAN. 38S 
 
 j'b hand. The nobleman at once perceived that it was 
 necessary to bring this painful scene to a close ; and address- 
 ing a few earnest words to his daughter, she controlled her emo- 
 tions, and made an effort to appear calm. They now warmly 
 pressed each other's hands, and gave the parting kiss ; and 
 then father and daughter took up their little bundles, and 
 went across the bridge of Grinselhof, on their way towards 
 the open heath. For long, the people of the farm followed 
 them with their eyes, till they disappeared behind the trees. 
 
 Silently Herr von Vlierbeke walked along the heath road, 
 till he gained an eminence behind which rose a thick fir- 
 wood, limiting the prospect on one side. - He knew that when 
 he struck into the path through this wood, Grinselhof would 
 be lost to view. On this spot, then, he paused, and turned 
 slowly round. Once more he threw a parting look on the 
 estate and the house which his forefathers had possessed, and 
 where his own cradle had stood. Agonizing thoughts must 
 now have been passing through his soul, for Lenora trembled 
 as she looked at him ; still, she had not the courage to inter- 
 rupt his sad and solemn contemplation. At last two glisten- 
 ing tears trickled slowly down the broken-hearted nobleman's 
 face. Lenora, throwing her arms around him, kissed them 
 away, and then, with consoling and affectionate words, drew 
 him gently into the forest path. 
 
 Thay were soon lost in Uie gloomy depths of the wood. 
 
tl4 VAUg OV FLEMiaH 
 
 OHAPTEB IX. 
 
 BcABCELT eight days after Herr von Vlierbeke's departui*, 
 a second letter arrived from Italy. The postman asked the 
 fiirmer whither the former owners of Grinselhof had removed ; 
 but neither he nor any other could give him information, 
 for all were alike ignorant of the country in which they had 
 taken refuge. The Notary was equally unable to throw 
 any light upon the matter. The letters were then laid aside 
 in the post-office, along with several others which afterwards 
 came from the same quarter ; and nobody concerned himself 
 further about the fate of the poor nobleman, except the farmer 
 of Grinselhof, who never failed, every Friday when he went 
 to market, to make diligent inquiry of the country people 
 whether they had seen his old master ; but no one had any- 
 thing to communicate. 
 
 Almost four months had now elapsed, when one day a 
 handsome travelling- carriage drew up before the Notary'i 
 house. The door was opened, and a young man in travelling 
 clothes hurriedly entered the hall. 
 
 "The Herr Notary," he said impatiently to the servant. 
 The latter replied that his master was engaged, and could not 
 see him for a few minutes ; and then, conducting the young 
 gentleman to a room, requested him to wait ; and there left 
 him. The youth seemed very much annoyed at the delay. 
 
I>OOK NOBLEKAM. 
 
 •iicl, throwing himself into a chair, muttered a few words of 
 impatience. 
 
 The impatierce, however, soon gave way to melancholy, 
 and, looking to the ground, he became absorbed in deep and 
 apparently sad thoughts. 
 
 Gradually his features brightened, and a cheerfiil smile 
 played round his mouth as he raised his head, and said with 
 joy and ardour — 
 
 " Ah, how my heart throbs with desire ! How sweet is the 
 hope — the certainty — of seeing her again on this very day ; 
 of rewarding her for her fidelity ; of compensating her for a 
 six months' sorrow ; of kneeling before her, and exclaiming — 
 * Lenora, Lenora, my sweet bride I he has consented to our 
 union. I bring you wealth, love, happiness I I return with 
 the will and the power to gladden your father's heart, and 
 make his old age happy ; and to live with you both in the 
 paradise which we dreamt of. my beloved I freely receive 
 me into your arms ; accept my bridal kiss ; I am your bride- 
 g^om, and nothing in life will ever again separate us. Oh, 
 come — one embrace, one eternal bond unites the father and 
 his child with me. Ah, yes, I feel that our souls are one — 
 one in their desires and one in their love. Thanks, thanks, 
 OGodT" 
 
 While he uttered these words, indulging in the bright pic- 
 tures which his fancy painted, he had quite forgotten the pre- 
 sent, and, rising from his chair, walked up and down in his 
 excitement. A noise outside the room-door brought him back 
 to reality, and restraining his feelings, he assumed an expres- 
 ticr. of tranquillity, although the cheerful smile still lingered 
 on his face. In a short time, he again relapsed into musing : 
 ft different feeling seemed now to arise in his heart, for a 
 gentle tremor came upon him, and he now seemed as anxious 
 and desponding, as he was formerly hopeful and glad* 
 
TALES OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 ** But what if I am the victim of a self-delusion I My htten 
 have been unanswered, my entreaties unheeded ; even my 
 tears have been vain. And if Lenora" — 
 
 He stood for a time motionless, his hand upon his brow ; 
 but suddenly he cast these gloomy thoughts from him, and 
 with conviction and fervour exclaimed — 
 
 " Away, away with these suspicions, which would creep like 
 a poisonous snake into my bosom ! Lenora forget me — reject 
 me ? No, no ; it is impossible I Has she not said that our 
 love is eternal and indestructible? Can Lenora's lips lie? 
 Can a heart like hers be unfaithful ? Oh, peace, peace — ^you 
 •lander her I " 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered these last words, when the door ol 
 the apartment was opened ; and the young man, concealing 
 111 emotion, approached the Notary with a composed counte- 
 nance. The latter entered the room with an official look, 
 ready to adapt his words and bearing to the rank of his visi- 
 tor. Scarcely however had he recognised the young man, 
 when a friendly smile lighted up his countenance, and he ap- 
 proached him with open arms, saying — 
 
 " Welcome, welcome, Herr Gustav ! I have expected you 
 for some days, and am overjoyed to see you again. No doubt 
 we have some weighty matters to arrange together ; I thank 
 you for the confidence you place in me. And how standi 
 it with the legacy, to talk more particularly? Is there a 
 will?" 
 
 Some melancholy recollection seemed to occur to Gustav ; 
 and as he drew out his pocket-book, an expression of heartfelt 
 grief overspread his face. The Notary perceived it, and re- 
 marked — 
 
 ** It grieved me deeply to hear of your loss. Your good uncle 
 was my friend, and I was in a special manner soiTy to hear of his 
 When far from his fatherland, the call of God reached 
 
HOB fOOR NOBI^JUX, 
 
 Mm. It IB a great misfortune ; but snch is man's destiny ; 
 and we must console ourselves with the thought that we are 
 all mortal I Your uncle had no ordinary affection for you, 
 sir ; and no doubt he has remembered you in the final arrange- 
 ment of his property.'* 
 
 " Have the goodness to convince yourself how dearly he 
 loved me," said Gustav, laying a document on the table. 
 
 The Notary glanced through the paper. What he read 
 seemed to be as agreeable as it was unexpected. 
 
 Gustav meanwhile sat with downcast eyes ; but moving 
 about restlessly on his seat, as if the victim of an irresistible 
 impatience. 
 
 After some minutes, the Notary rose from his chair, and 
 said, in a very respectful tone — 
 
 " Permit me, Herr Denecker, to wish you much happiness. 
 These papers are unassailable, and in complete and legal 
 form. Sole heir I Are you aware of all, sir ? You possess 
 more than a million 1 " 
 
 " We shall speak of this at greater length at another time," 
 interrupted Gustav impatiently. " I drove here immediately 
 en my arrival to beg a favour of you." 
 
 " J wait your commands, sir." 
 
 " You are, I believe, Herr von Vlierbeke's man of busi- 
 ness?" 
 
 ** At your service." 
 
 " I learned from my departe(! ancle that Herr von Vlier- 
 beke was reduced to extreme poverty. I have reasons which 
 make me most anxious to free him from his difiBculties." 
 
 " I imagine, sir," replied the Notary, " that you wish to 
 perform a deed of benevolence ; you cannot apply your wealth 
 better than in this instance. I know how Herr von Vlierbeke 
 fell into difficulties, and what he has suffered ; he was a sacri- 
 fice to his own generosity and honour. Perhaps he pushed 
 
tt8 Y1L10 OF FLEMISH LIFB. 
 
 those virtues to tie verge of folly ; however that may be, M 
 certainly deserved a better fate." 
 
 " Well then, Herr Notary, I entreat you to be so good as 
 to inform me what must be done in order to assist Herr von 
 Vlierbeke without hurting his sense of honour. Among other 
 things, I am aware there exists a bond for four thousand francs 
 in favour of the von Hoogebaen family. This bond I must 
 get possession of at once, were it to cost me ten times its 
 value." 
 
 "With visible astonishment, and without replying, the 
 Notary looked at Herr Denecker with such a peculiar expres- 
 sion, that the latter asked anxiously— 
 
 " What is there in my purpose to alarm you ? You mate 
 me tremble*" 
 
 " I cannot know the precise extent of your anxiety ; but I 
 fear that the information which I have to give you will grieve 
 you deeply. I have scarcely courage to speak it. If my con- 
 jecture is well grounded, I am sorry for you, sir." 
 
 "Heavens! what do you say?" cried Gustav with alarm. 
 "Explain yourself^ quickly. Has death visited Grinselhof? 
 Ib the only hope of my life annihilated ?" 
 
 " No, no," exclaimed the Notary quickly. " Do not be 
 •larmed ; both still live ; but a great misfortune has befallen 
 them." 
 
 " What is it ?" said the young man with feverish anxiety. 
 
 •* Compose yourself," replied the Notary. " Pray sit down, 
 and listen. It is not so bad as you suppose ; your wealth ii 
 able materially to alleviate their misery." 
 
 ** Oh, God be thanked I" exclaimed Gustav with joy. " But 
 I conjure you, sir, to make haste to put my mind at ease. De- 
 lay is torture." 
 
 " You must know, then, that the bond fell due during youf 
 absence. Herr vcv\ T'lierbeke spout months in the vain en- 
 
POOB NOBLEMAN. 99$ 
 
 dearour to procnre money to meet it. In addition to this, hii 
 property was burdened with the heaviest mortgages. In the 
 end, in order to avoid the disgrace of a sale by order of a court 
 of law, he had his entire real and personal estate sold by public 
 auction. The proceeds very nearly cleared his debts ; every 
 creditor has been satisfied ; and all have expressed their admi- 
 ration of the noble and upright conduct of Herr von Vlier- 
 beke, who preferred to expose himself to extreme misery 
 rather than permit the slightest reproach to be attached to 
 his name." 
 
 " Does Herr von Vlierbeke, then, now occupy his paternal 
 property as a tenant ?" 
 
 " No ; he has left the place." 
 
 " And where is he to be found ? I must see him and speak 
 with him before this day is over." 
 
 " I cannot tell where he is to be found." 
 
 "How — ^you do not know?" 
 
 " Nobody knows ; they disappeared without informing any 
 one of their intentions." 
 
 " Heavens I is it possible ?" exclaimed Gustav with anxiety. 
 " What I am I to be still longer separated from her, and with- 
 out knowing even what has befallen her ? I tremble when I 
 think of her possible fate. Do you not possess the slightest 
 clue to their place of residence ? Does no one, no one know 
 where they are?" 
 
 " No one," repeated the Notary. " On the very evening 
 after the sale, Herr von Vlierbeke left Grinselhof on foot, and 
 crossed the heath, in what direction is unknown. Since then 
 I have often endeavoured to discover his place of retreat, but 
 always in vain." 
 
 This melancholy intelligence affected the young man 
 deeply. He grew pale, and covered his face with his hands, 
 to conceal the emotion by which he was agitated. Thon^ 
 
t40 TALES OF FLEMISH LOTI. 
 
 it pained him deeply to learn from the Notary the fbll extent 
 of the father's poverty, he partially knew it before ; but the 
 certainty of not soon meeting his beloved, and rescuing her 
 out of her misery, filled his heart with intense grief; while 
 the uncertainty which hung over her fate made him fear the 
 worst. 
 
 The Notary contemplated the young man in silence, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders at times, and with an expression of sym- 
 pathy on his countenance. At last he said, with an attempt 
 at consolation — 
 
 " You are young, sir ; and, after the manner of youth, you 
 carry both joy and sorrow too far. Your despair has no suffi- 
 cient ground. In the time in which we live, it is an easy 
 matter to find out people if we will only seek for them. With 
 money and activity, one is almost certain of discovering Herr 
 Ton Vlierbeke's retreat within a few days — even if it is in a 
 foreign land. If you will commission me to make the search, 
 I will spare neither time nor labour to procure you satisfactory 
 intelligence as soon as possible." 
 
 " And I, on my side, will put into requisition the extensive 
 correspondence of my house, and never cease to search till I 
 discover their hiding-place." 
 
 "Take courage, then, Herr Denecker; I have no doubt 
 that our efforts will quickly be crowned with success. And 
 now that you are convinced of my readiness to serve you, I 
 should like, with your permission, to take the liberty to ad- 
 dress to you a few calm and earnest words ; though, perhaps, 
 I have no right to question you about your plans, and still 
 less to allow myself to imagine for a moment that they are 
 not in the highest degree praiseworthy. Your intention is, 
 then, to marry Miss Lenora?" 
 
 •* My unalterable intention," replied the young man. 
 
 •* Unalterable ! " rejoined the Notary ;" so be it, then. Bui 
 
POOR NOBLEMAH. S41 
 
 ihe confidence which your honoured uncle continually placed 
 in me, and my office as notary and adviser of the family, make 
 it my duty to open your eyes calmly to what you are about to 
 do. You are a millionnaire^ and bear a name which is itself 
 worth a handsome capital on the Exchange. Herr von Vlier- 
 beke possesses nothing — his poverty is universally knowa; 
 and whether the world acts justly or unjustly, certain it is, 
 that it condemns the fallen nobleman to disgrace and con- 
 tempt. With wealth, youth, and a person like yours, you 
 may aspire to the hand of a very rich heiress, and double 
 your possessions. 
 
 Gustav had at first listened with undisguised impatience to 
 these words ; and then, turning his eyes from the Notary, had 
 begun to think of other things. At this point, he turned 
 round hastily, and said — 
 
 " It is well ; you do your duty, and I thank you. Enough. 
 Now tell me to whom Grinselhof belongs at present?" 
 
 The Notary seemed somewhat offended at this sudden inter- 
 ruption, and at the small impression which his words seemed 
 to make ; but concealing his vexation under a polite smile, he 
 replied — " I see that you have resolved on your course; act, 
 then, according to your inclination. The holders of the mort- 
 gages still keep possession of Grinselhof, because it sold for 
 less than its value, and their claims." 
 
 " And who dwells in the Castle ?" 
 
 " It is at present uninhabited. No one leaves town during 
 the winter." 
 
 "It is possible, then, to purchase it from the present 
 owners?" 
 
 " Certainly ; I myself have orders to dispose of it for tht 
 ralue of the mortgages." 
 
 " Grinselhof, then, belongs to me, Herr Notary. Hare til* 
 goodness to inform the owners of this immediately." 
 
MS TALIS OF FLEmSH LEFI. 
 
 " Very good, nr ; yon may consider Grinselhof henceforth 
 as yonr property. K yon have any desire to see the phice, 
 yon will find the keys with the farmer." 
 
 Gustav took np his hat to go; and bidding the Notai^s 
 adieu, he said — 
 
 " I am worn out, and reqnire rest ; I feel deeply the melan- 
 choly intelligence which yon have given me. Farewell for 
 the present, sir, and have the goodness to fiilfil your promise 
 with as little delay as possible. My gratitude will be greater 
 than you suppose. Adieu till morning." 
 
 Sorrowfully and anxiously Gustav left the lawyer's house, 
 to mourn in solitude over the sad news which he had ao ua- 
 iKfsotedly hMid. 
 
VOOK NOBUnUM. Mt 
 
 OHAPTEB X. 
 
 Trk charming spring liad now divested the earth of iti 
 gloomy winter garment, and breathed new life and energy 
 into every created thing. Grinselhof, too, shone again with 
 that wild and free beanty which was peculiar to it: the 
 stately oaks unfolded their leaves; the Alpine roses were 
 already in full blossom; the insects swarmed and hummed 
 among the bushes ; and the reviving sunlight shed its gentle 
 warmth on the tender opening leaves. 
 
 Grinselhof is still the same : its walks are as solitary as 
 ever, and a deathlike stillness reigns among its groves and 
 ?opses ; but around the house there are signs of motion and 
 life. Two servants may be seen engaged in cleaning a costly 
 chariot, and the neighing and stamping of horses may be 
 heard proceeding from the once untenanted stables. A young 
 girl stands at the door, and talks and laughs with the ser- 
 vants. Suddenly the sound of a silver table-bell is heard, 
 and the maid runs into the house, exclaiming — 
 
 " Heavens I there is the master's bell. He rings for break- 
 fiist, and there is nothing ready I" 
 
 After the lapse of a short time, she ascends the stairs, 
 carrying the handsome breakfiurt-service into the upper room, 
 and places it before a young man, who sits there silent and 
 mofingy with his head restmg on his hands. 
 
844 TALES OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 Awaking fix)m a reverie, he takes his breakfast with the air 
 of one who is unconscions of what he is doing. 
 
 The room is singularly furnished. While some pieces of 
 furniture are remarkable for beauty and costliness, and as pro- 
 ducts of the most recent taste, various chairs and cabinets are 
 as conspicuous for the high antiquity indicated by their dark- 
 brown hue and their elaborate carving. One sees clearly 
 that some things have stood the tear and wear of two or three 
 centuries. On the walls hang many pictures somewhat 
 smoked, and of very ancient date, whose gilded frames, all 
 covered with dust, have long since lost their brightness; they 
 are portraits of statesmen, abbots, and prelates. These pic- 
 tures, and many other objects in the room, bear the arms of 
 Herr von Vlierbeke's family. It was universally known that 
 a public auction had been held at Grinselhof, where every- 
 thing which had belonged to Herr von Vlierbeke had been 
 distributed among many purchasers, and found its way into 
 the most diverse places ; and how was it possible that those 
 objects could have returned to the spot which they seemed to 
 have left for ever? 
 
 The gentleman rises from his chair, but still with the same 
 air of abstraction, and walks slowly up and down the room, 
 pausing at times to gaze sadly at the portraits ; then resum- 
 ing his walk, he holds his hand before his eyes, as if he would 
 prevent any interruption of his reverie. Approaching an old- 
 fashioned cabinet which stands on a corner table, and opening 
 it, he takes out a few trifling articles, and among the rest a 
 pair of golden earrings and a necklace of red coral beads. 
 He gazes at these objects for a long time with a sweet and 
 melancholy smile ; a deep sigh escapes his lips ; he raises his 
 mournful eyes to heaven ; and then replacing the ornaments 
 in the cabinet, he descends the stairs into the court. Reply- 
 'ng silently to the respectful greetings of his servants, as h» 
 
THI POOR NOBLEMAH. 146 
 
 pMses, lie is soon lost among the gloomiest paths of tie snr- 
 rounding grounds. He pauses before an Indian jessamine, 
 End standing there with folded arms, he says in a low and 
 earnest tone — 
 
 " On this very spot the confession of her love first escaped 
 her virgin lips ; the blush of modesty suffused her brow, and 
 looking shyly down, her sweet voice murmured the sacred 
 words, while I was too deeply moved, too wildly transported 
 by my infinite happiness to speak, but stood trembling and 
 mlent by her side, as if the gi'eatness of my good fortune ter- 
 rified me. thou who hast so often heard her sweet-toned 
 voice — thou, the witness of those pure and rapturous hours I 
 the spring has again crowned thee with young leaves, but at 
 thy feet dwell no more either joy or hope I — the lamentation 
 of a mourning heart alone rises among thy foliage ! All is 
 melancholy and silent ; she whose presence breathed life into 
 thy solitude is gone I We have lost the angel who, by a 
 gingle word, could change this spot into a beautiful heaven, 
 and spread around her joy, hope, and blessedness, as the sun 
 diffuses light and life I Ah I it has left us, that soul of love I 
 and nothing, nothing remains save memory I " 
 
 After a short silence, he struck into another path and wan- 
 dered among the bushes, from time to time pausing before 
 objects which were dear to him as witnesses of past occur- 
 rences, and spoke eloquently to him of her whom he mourned 
 80 deeply. He stood by the edge of the pond, and looked at 
 the swarms of goldfishes as they sported in the WAter ; and 
 gazed with a loving eye at the pinks which adorned the bor- 
 ders of the broad paths, and which had been reared and tended 
 by her with such motherly affection. And so he gave himself 
 up to the past, and poured forth his sorrow to every object 
 which she had known or loved, till at last, weary and de- 
 ipcmding, he sank upon a chair under the old jessamine. H« 
 
8ii TALES OF FLEMISH UWE, 
 
 had sat there for a considerable time, indnlging his grie^ 
 when the farmer's wife approached him with a book, and said 
 cheerfully — 
 
 " Here is a book, sir, in which Miss Lenora used often to 
 read. When at market yesterday, my husband recognised 
 the man who bought it at the auction, and accompanied him 
 to his house to get it. It must be a fine book ; but had it 
 not belonged to our young mistress, I would not have touched 
 it for all the money in the world, for my husband says that 
 it is called Lucifer," 
 
 While the farmer's wife was speaking, the gentleman had 
 taken the book from her, and turned over its leaves with in- 
 tense pleasure, without seeming to hear a word which the 
 woman addressed to him. At last he raised his head, and 
 said with a friendly smile — 
 
 **I thank you for your care and attention, Frau Jans. 
 Yon cannot conceive how it delights me to get possession of 
 anything which belonged to your mistress. Be assured that 
 I shall not forget your willing service." 
 
 After saying this, he again examined the book, and seemed 
 to peruse it with attention. The farmer's wife, however, still 
 remained where she was, and at last said in a sorrowful tone — 
 
 " Permit me, sir, to ask whether you have yet heard any 
 news of Miss Lenora?" 
 
 The gentleman shook his head, and replied — 
 
 " Alas I not the smallest. All our efforts have been hithert J 
 fruitless." 
 
 " That is very unfortunate," said the woman sorrowfully. 
 " Gtod knows where she is now, and what she has to bear I 
 She said to me when she was going away, that she intended 
 to work for her father. Alas 1 one must have been accustomed 
 to work from childhood, if one is to earn their bread by their 
 Qfim hands. Oh, when I think of it, it is heart-rending 1 IV 
 
POOB NOBLElfAH. S47 
 
 ihiok that our poor young lady is perhaps at thU moment 
 ■erving others, and is forced to work like a slave for her daily 
 bread. I, too, have served, sir, and know what it is to work 
 from morning till night — and so beautiful, so refined, so 
 amiable, and so kind-hearted 1 Oh, sir, it is too sad I I can- 
 not help weeping when I think of it 1 " 
 
 She began to shed tears ; and the gentleman, touched by 
 the genuine and heartfelt sorrow which she displayed, looked 
 at her in silence as she continued, with an effort at self-con- 
 trol, but with a choking voice — 
 
 "And now, when she might be so happy, and mistress 
 again of Grinselhof, and all the rest of the possessions, in the 
 midst of which she was born and brought up ; now, when 
 Herr von Vlierbeke might spend the rest of his old age in 
 peace, and without any more troubles, — now they are perhaps 
 wandering from place to place, poor, and neglected by every- 
 body. Ah, sir, it is very sad indeed to know that a bene- 
 factor is unfortunate, and not to be able to do anything to 
 help him, but pray to God, and hope for His compassion." 
 
 Without being aware of it, the simple woman bad touched 
 the most sensitive chords in the heart of her new master, and 
 had moved him deeply. She now perceived that he shed 
 tears, and wrung his hands with an expression of grief and 
 despair ; and with some anxiety and alarm, she added — 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, for having caused you sorrow ; but my 
 heart is so full of this, that it runs over, and I talk on scarcely 
 knowing what I say. K I have done wrong, you are much 
 too good to be angry with me for loving our young lady 
 BO much, and lamenting her fate. Has your honour any 
 orders?" 
 
 She was about to go, but the gentleman raised hi« head, 
 ftod said with suppressed but deep feeling — 
 
 ^ I be angiy, Frau Jans, because yon expre« to me jcmi 
 
ilS^ TALES OF FLEMISH LHV. 
 
 lore for Lenora ? No ; my heart rather blesses you for it. 
 The tears which you have drawn from me, do me good — for 
 I suffer much, and am very miserable. Life is a burden to 
 me, and were the merciful God to call me away from this 
 earth, I would die with joy. All hope of seeing her again 
 on earth is gone ; perhaps Lenora is waiting for me in heaven 
 above." 
 
 " Oh, sir, do not say so," interrupted the woman anxiously ; 
 " that cannot be." 
 
 ** You lament her, and sometimes shed tears for her sake, 
 my good woman," he continued, without paying attention to 
 her exclamation ; " but you cannot understand the sorrow 
 and pain which I feel, — how not a single minute passes with- 
 out tearing my heart with some new agony. For eight long 
 months to have prayed to God for the highest earthly favour 
 He could confer — the being able to call Lenora my bride, to 
 see her again, to overcome all obstacles, to make her happy I 
 And then almost to lose my senses with joy and rapture — ^to 
 hasten to my fatherland with lightning speed ; and now, in- 
 stead of the reward I hoped for, to find nothing but the most 
 hopeless solitude — nay, what is more agonizing, to know that 
 my beloved, my noble Lenora, is unhappy, and not have the 
 power to alleviate her misery, and raise her out of her humili- 
 ation ; to be compelled to spend the days of her sufferings in 
 impotent despair, and not even to have the poor consolation 
 that she still survives the miseries and hardships to which 
 she has been exposed." 
 
 Profound silence followed this violent burst of grief. The 
 farmer's wife stood with downcast eyes, and deeply affected. 
 After a short interval, she said in a consolatory tone — 
 
 ** Ah, sir, I understand your grief well. But who knows 
 but some sudden and unexpected news may come, after all. 
 God is good; He will listen to our prayers; §ad thea 
 
THE POOR NOBLEMAH. Z4t9 
 
 joy for theii retam will make us qnite forget all our Bor- 
 row." 
 
 " May yonr hopes be realized, my good woman 1 but it ia 
 now more than seven months since they left their home, and 
 more than three since hundreds of men have received orders 
 to search for them. Inquiries have been made in every city, 
 and up to this moment not the smallest news, not the slightest 
 trace, that they still live — that they are still in this world I 
 My understanding tells me that I ought not yet wholly to 
 despair ; but my impatient, bleeding heart tortures itself with 
 its own despair, and loudly proclaims that * I have for ever lost 
 them — ^for ever 1 * " 
 
 He rose and left the jessamine ; but as he moved away, he 
 suddenly raised his eyes with an expression of surprise, and 
 pointing towards the public road, said — 
 
 " Listen I do you hear nothing ?" 
 
 " The tramp of a horse's feet," replied the woman, withoat 
 comprehending why the noise should have so powerful an 
 effect on him. 
 
 " Poor fool I " sighed the youth, with a sad smile ; " what 
 has an over-driven horse to do with me, after all ?" 
 
 " See, see, it comes this way," cried the farmer's wife, with 
 increasing interest. " Heavens 1 it is a messenger from the 
 city I There can be no doubt of it. may he bring good 
 news ! " 
 
 The rider advanced to the gate at full gallop, but pulled 
 the rein when he saw the gentleman and the farmer's wife 
 coming to meet him ; and, dismounting, drew a letter from his 
 pocket, and gave it to the master of Grinselhof, with the wordi 
 — "Herr Denecker, I come from the Herr Notary. He 
 ordered me to ride at full speed, and, without stopping onc« 
 by the way, to give you this letter." He then led his smolE* 
 in|f horse to the stable. 
 
TALEg OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 With a trembling hand, Herr Denecker broke the seal, 
 while the farmer's wife looked at him with a smiling and 
 hopeful comitenance. 
 
 When Herr Denecker read the first lines, he grew pale and 
 trembled, and his agitation increased the further he read ; bat 
 at last he exclaimed, almost mad with joy — 
 
 " God be praised I she is restored to me." 
 
 "Oh, sir, sir I" exclaimed Fran Jans, "have you good 
 news?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, rejoice with me I Lenora lives I I know where 
 ihe is, and I go to fetch her." And running to the house, 
 lie called his servants hurriedly, and said — 
 
 " Quick, the travelling carriage, the English horses, my 
 portmanteau, my cloak. Make haste, fly I " 
 
 With his own hand, he then brought down several articlea 
 necessary for a journey, and placed them in the carriage, 
 which had been already drawn out of the coach-house. The 
 horses were yoked, and although they stamped their feet, and 
 champed their bits with impatience, the lash was not spared. 
 As if it had been swept on by the winds, the carriage dashed 
 through the open gate, and the duBt rose in thick clondr tram 
 the Antwerp road. 
 
fooB no: 
 
 OHAPTBB XL 
 
 Wb mnBt now transport ourselveB to the Frenoh town qf 
 Nancy, in search of Herr von Vlierbeke and his daughter. 
 Arrived there, we must pass through several streets of what 
 IB called the Old Town, and stop before a cobbler's humbl* 
 little work-shop. Pass through the shop and ascend thf 
 •tairs — still higher ; now open a little door. 
 
 Here everything looks very poor, but extremely neat and 
 clean. The curtains of that little bed are snow-white, the 
 well-scoured stove shines with a brilliant polish, and the floor 
 IB strewed with sand in the Flemish fashion. Before the open 
 window, stand daisies and violets in a wooden box, and 
 blossom in the sun, and hard by hangs a cage with a gold- 
 finch. 
 
 How Btill it is in this room — not even a sigh breaks thf 
 quiet and loneliness of the place ; yet there sits, by the win- 
 dow, a young girl, who sews a piece of new linen with great 
 assiduity, and is apparently quite absorbed in her work. The 
 dresB of the young worker is extremely plain, but so tasteful, 
 clean, and neat, that an odour of freshness and life seems tr 
 envelop her. 
 
 " Poor Lenora I this, then, is thy fate I To conceal thy 
 illustrious rank in the attics of a labourer's dwelling ; to seek 
 a refuge from mockery and contempt far from thy native 
 land ; to labour unceaflinglFt Btrugglir«|^ wlfii want and 
 
itt TALIt OF FLEIOSH UFS. 
 
 nty, bowing nnder sorrow and shame, and, witli a bleeding 
 heart, scarcely bearing up under the incurable wounds of 
 humiliation and despair I 
 
 " Certainly thy wretchedness has already given to thy coun- 
 tenance the sallow tinge of want ; adversity and trial have 
 gnawed at thy heart, and robbed thy eyes of their once bril- 
 liant fire ; and thou art a dying flower, pining away in silent 
 and uncomplaining suffering I — Heaven be praised, it is not so I 
 The hero blood which flows through thy veins has made thee 
 strong against fate I Thy graceful and lovely nature is more 
 beautiful than ever ! If a residence in a narrow room has made 
 the dark-brown hue disappear from thy face, it has only been 
 to give it a tenderer, a mellower tone. As thy noble brow has 
 grown more pale, the flush on thy lovely cheeks has become 
 fresher. Still glances thy dark eye behind thy long eye- 
 lashes, full of fire and life ; still does that bright enchanting 
 smile play round thy charming lips. It may be that thou 
 still bearest in thy heart a rich treasure of courage and hope ; 
 it may be that there still hovers before thy eyes a loved form. 
 Is it out of the well of memory, then, that thou drawest 
 atrength to contend victoriously with misfortune ?" 
 
 See, some dream or fancy takes possession of her now ! she 
 lets her hands fall, and pauses in her work. With her head 
 inclined, she gazes intently on the ground ; her soul is else- 
 where, and permits itself to be borne along unconsciously and 
 unresistingly on the stream of self-oblivion. 
 
 She lays the linen on a chair, and slowly rises ; contemplatei 
 for a few moments her modest little flowerets on the window-sil!, 
 plucks a daisy, and dreamily tearing its leaves, gazes into the 
 distance, where a noble chestnut exalts its leaiy crown above 
 the surroxmding houses. The sight of its well-known foliage 
 works powerfully upon her soul ; a strange smile hovers round 
 hn lip«, tean gush from her eyes, and, with risible excite 
 
«n POOB NOBUEKiJI. S58 
 
 menty ibe liihales, with long inspirations, the fresh air of the 
 early spring, and seems to drink in the warm genial snnshine. 
 The expression of her countenance changes ; one would sup* 
 pose that her fancy wanders among beloved but distant 
 friends, and talks with them of happy and joyftil things; 
 unintelligible sounds escape her lips, followed by a sad and 
 painful smile. Perchance she murmurs the name of some 
 absent one. She now looks sympathizingly at the sprightly 
 goldfinch, which flutters restlessly from side to side, and triei 
 vainly to force its prison-grating, with its little beak. She 
 gazes at the bird with dreamy forgetfulness a while, and then 
 ■ays with a gentle voice — 
 
 " Wherefore would you leave us, dear one ? — ^you, the dear 
 companion of our misfortunes ? Be contented. Father is well 
 again, and now we shall live cheerfully and happily all together. 
 Why flutter so restlessly in your wiry prison ? But oh, it is 
 % hard thing to be caught and confined in a narrow space, 
 when one has been bom in the free fields, or in the wild forest 
 or untamed heath, where life and joy and freedom reign, and 
 where alone, under God's blue sky, they can be enjoyed ! 
 Alas, poor bird I I am a child of nature like you; I also 
 have been torn from my native fields — I also long for the 
 solitude of my childish years, and for the great and calm old 
 trees which overshadowed my cradle. Does there mingle it- 
 self with your sadness, too, the form of one whom you loved ? 
 Do you, too, lament something more than freedom ? Why 
 do I auk you ? Is not this the season of love again ? Love 
 \b for you, as for me, the most beautiful tale of life. I bought 
 you in better times ; you have been for long my sole com- 
 panion and my pastime.'' 
 
 With these words she took the cage in her hand, and oon- 
 tiBued— ^ But I understand your little sorrows now. I wHl 
 BO longer be to yon what inexorable deetiny ii to me. Them, 
 
t5A VALM 07 VLBMUH UTB. 
 
 fly — ^be free, and may God protect thee I Ck) and enjoy what 
 IB most of all essential to every living thing — freedom and 
 love I how you hop for joy, how gallantly you spread your 
 wings I Farewell, farewell, happy little one I" 
 
 Lenora looked for some time after the bird, as it flew hea- 
 venwards, dashing through air and light more swiftly than an 
 arrow ; then returning with a smile of satisfaction to her chair, 
 she industriously resumed her work. About a quarter of an 
 hour after, she paused to listen to a sound oft the stairs — 
 
 " Ah, there comes father I " she said ; and rising, she went 
 to the door. 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke entered the little room with a roll of 
 paper in his hand, and slowly approaching a chair, he sat 
 down, exhausted and panting. He had grown very thin and 
 wan, his eyes were hollow, his cheeks pallid, and his whole 
 face showed marks of suffering. One could easily perceive 
 that he had been the victim of a severe illness, and that mental 
 energy, as well as bodily strength, had been sapped. 
 
 His dress indicated great poverty, though kept painfully 
 clean, and evidently with great labour; it was everywhere 
 threadbare, here and there patched, and all too wide for his 
 shrunk and meagre body. Adversity and sickness had appa- 
 rently quite crushed his once manly soul ; he seemed dispirited 
 and heart-broken. 
 
 Lenora looked at him for a moment with deep concern, and 
 then said — " Alas I father, do you feel ill again ?" 
 
 " no, Lenora ; but I am so unfortunate I " 
 
 She embraced him tenderly, and took his hand in an affec- 
 tionate and consoling way. 
 
 " Father, father, eight days ago you lay in bed very ill. 
 We prayed God to restore you to health, as the greatest boon 
 He could confer on us. God heard our prayers ; yon are well 
 again ; and yet yon are cast down by the first little reverM 
 
THS POOB HOBLEKAII, 855 
 
 yon meet with. Oh, what matters it? What prevents ni 
 being happy ? Come, let us, as we have done hitherto, raise 
 ourselves proudly to meet whatever additional misfortune may 
 befal us. Let us he strong, and boldly look our poverty in 
 the face. Courage is riches. Come, father, forget your sor- 
 rows ; look at me — am I melancholy ? Do I let despairing 
 thoughts get the better of me ? Yes, I wept, lamented, and 
 suffered, when my father was ill ; but now that you are well 
 — now, come what will, your Lenora will continually thank 
 God for His goodness." 
 
 The father looked sadly into the eyes of his high-spirited 
 daughter, and sighed — 
 
 " Poor Lenora I you have power to make even me take 
 courage and make an effort to console myself; may Heaven 
 reward you for so much love I I know the source from wnicn 
 you draw this strength ; and yet — ^you angel sent by God 
 Himself to support me — your words and smiles work power- 
 fully upon me, as if a part of your soul passed into mine. I 
 returned to our little home here with a failing heart, a troubled 
 mind, and quite powerless with despair, and your look alone 
 has been sufficient to pour consolation into my breast." 
 
 " Come, father," interrupted the maiden ; " you are always 
 lavishing your tenderness on me. Let me know how it went 
 with you, and I will afterwards tell you something which will 
 give you pleasure." 
 
 "Ah, my child, I reported myself at Herr Eoncevaux'g 
 Educational Listitute, to recommence my English lessons; 
 but I found that an Englishman had been engaged during 
 my illness, and thus our chief means of livelihood is taken 
 from ns." 
 
 " And the German hour, with Miss Pauline?" 
 
 " Miss Pauline has gone to Strasburg, and does not retnxu. 
 Ab, Lenora, eTerything lost at once. Had I not good oauM 
 
8M TALBB OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 to be dispirited ? Even you seem overcome by this unlucky 
 news. It seems to me that you look pale?^' 
 
 In fact Lenora had cast down her eyes, and seemed pain- 
 fully affected by this intelligence. Her father's question 
 brought her back to herself; and with an effort to appear 
 cheerful, she replied — 
 
 " I was thinking, father, how these repulses must have 
 pained you, and I felt the pain over again for you ; but, not- 
 withstanding, I have reason to be happy. Yes, father, for I 
 at least have good news." 
 
 " So 1— that surprises me." 
 
 Lenora pointed with her finger to the chair, and continued — 
 
 ** Do you see that linen there ? I have got an order for 
 twelve fine shirts, and when they are finished, the order is to 
 be repeated. I am to be well paid ; and I know something 
 better yet, though it is only a hope." 
 
 Lenora had uttered these words so quickly and cheerfully, 
 that her father, borne along by her vivacity, was betrayed 
 into a smile of satisfaction. 
 
 " Well," he asked, " what is this other thing which makes 
 you so happy?" 
 
 Reproaching herself for having lost time, she sat down again 
 to her needle, and resumed her sewing, visibly delighted at 
 having succeeded in chasing away her father's melancholy, 
 and, half jestingly, she replied — 
 
 " Ah, you cannot guess it : have you any notion, father, 
 who has given me this work to do ? — The rich lady in the 
 large house at the comer. She sent for me this morning, and 
 I went to her during your absence. You ^re astonished, I see, 
 father, are you not?" 
 
 " Yes. You mean Madame Boyan, for whom you received 
 lome beautiful collarB to embroider 1 How did she come to 
 know you?" 
 
POOR NOBLEMAN. 807 
 
 " I don't know ; but probably tbe woman who sent me that 
 troublesome work, informed the lady who had done it. She 
 must have spoken, too, of your illness, and our poverty ; for 
 the lady knew more than you could have supposed." 
 
 " Heavens I she does not know . . . ." 
 
 " No, she does not know what our name was in our father- 
 land." 
 
 " G^o on, then, Lenora ; you excite my curiosity. I see yon 
 wish to tease me." 
 
 " Well then, father, since I see that you are all right again, 
 I will be more brief. Madame de Eoyan received me very 
 kindly, and after praising my beautifal embroidery, she inquired 
 into our former fortunes, and consoled and cheered me. Only 
 hear what she said to me, after having ordered her maid to 
 give me this linen to make shirts of : * Go, my child, work on 
 courageously, and be virtuous, and I will protect you. I re- 
 quire a great deal of work done for myself, and can give 
 you two months' occupation ; but this is not all : I will re- 
 commend you to my numerous acquaintances, and take care 
 that you are always provided with sufficient work, to enable 
 you to find a comfortable livelihood for yourself and your deli- 
 cate father.' With tears in my eyes I took her hand and 
 kissed it ; for her beautiful and noble benevolence, which did 
 not give me alms, but work, touched me deeply. When she 
 saw in my eyes the gratitude which I felt, she said with still 
 greater kindness, while she patted me affectionately on the 
 shoulder — * Keep up your spirits, Lenora ; a time will come 
 whet you will have to take in pupils to help you ; and so, 
 advancing from less to greater, be a mistress yourself some 
 day.' Yes, dear father, she said bo. I have her words by 
 heart." 
 
 And so saying, ihe sprang up, and embraced him in Uif 
 ]bigheft ipinti. 
 
^08 TALES OF FLEMISH L3F1B. 
 
 "What do yon say to this, father?" she continued. "Is 
 it not good news ? Who knows — pupils, apprentices, a shop, 
 a magasin^ a servant-girl I You keep the books, and select 
 the wares — I stand in the shop and sell, or give directions to 
 my workwomen. Oh I it is charming to think of — to be happy, 
 and at the same time to be conscious that we owe it all to the 
 work of our own hands ; and then, father, then would your 
 wishes be quite fulfilled, and you would spend your old age 
 in comfort and peace." 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke smiled cheerfully, and one could see 
 clearly from the happy expression which revealed itself in his 
 wan and wasted features, that the words or his daughter had 
 allured him into entire self-forge tfulness for a moment. He 
 soon perceived it himseK, however, and shook his head plea- 
 santly, saying — 
 
 " Lenora, Lenora, sweet Lenora I You charm me away 
 from reality so easily ; I hang on your lips like a child, and 
 have perfect faith in all your hopeful promises of future hap- 
 piness. However it may turn out with our future, we have 
 indeed good cause to thank God for the present at least. But 
 now to come to more serious matters: the shoemaker has 
 again spoken to me about the rent, and begged me to pay him. 
 We still owe him twenty francs— is it not so?" 
 
 " Yes, we owe twenty francs for rent, and twelve francs to 
 tradesmen — that is all. So soon as these shirts are ready, we 
 shall give the shoemaker my earnings, and he wiU be quite 
 satisfied. They will give us a little longer credit in the shops ; 
 and I have got two and a half francs here for my last work. 
 So you see, father, we are rich yet. Within four weeks, all 
 our debts will be paid. You are well again, and your strength 
 will soon return. Summer has begun, everything smiles on 
 ns, and we shall be so very happy yet!" 
 
 H«rr Ton Vlierbeke seemed quite oonsded, and renovated 
 
THE POOR NOBLEUAN. M9 
 
 courage beamed in his dark eyes, and his spirits were consi- 
 derably raised. He went to the table, and said, as he nn- 
 roUed the paper — 
 
 " Lenora, I have a little work too. Professor Delsaux hai 
 given me some music to copy for his pupils : it will, in a few 
 days, bring me in four francs. Be quiet now for a little, my 
 child ; my mind is distracted at present, and I should cer- 
 tainly make blunders, and spoil the paper." 
 
 " I may sing, though, may I not, father?" 
 
 " yes, that gives me great pleasure, and never disturbs 
 me." 
 
 The father now began to write, while Lenora, with a clear 
 but low voice, sang beautifully a great many of her songs, and 
 in this way gave free expression to the feelings of her heart. 
 Meanwhile she sewed on industriously, looking up from time 
 to time at her father, to observe whether any sad thoughtg 
 arose in his mind, which required to be dissipated. 
 
 A considerable time after this, Lenora heard the clock in 
 the parish church strike; and putting aside her work, she 
 took a basket from behind the stove, and hanging it over her 
 arm, was about to leave the room, when her father, observing 
 her intention, said with surprise — 
 
 "Already, Lenora?" 
 
 " It is Ifalf-past eleven, father." 
 
 Without making any further remark, Herr von Vlierbeke 
 again applied himself to his music, and proceeded with hig 
 copying. The young girl ran quickly down stairs, and soon 
 returned with the basket fall of potatoes, and something else 
 wrapped in a piece of paper, which however she concealed 
 under her apron as she re-entered the room. Pouring water 
 into a pot, she began to peel the potatoes, singing the while. 
 She did not take long to finish this work ; then lighting a 
 &©, ghe washed the potatoes, and put them in the pot to be 
 
S66 TALES OF FLEMISH UFB. 
 
 boiled. Behind this she placed another pot, considerably 
 tmaller, in which there was some butter and a good deal of 
 vinegar. 
 
 Up to this moment, the father had not once looked up from 
 his work. The preparation of the midday meal was no un- 
 usual sight, and it was seldom indeed that it varied. On 
 this occasion, however, the potatoes were scarcely ready, when 
 a very savoury smell diffiised itself through the room. Herr 
 von Vlierbeke looked at his daughter with surprise, and 
 said — " Meat on a Wednesday I Lenora, child, we must be 
 firugal ; you know that well.'* 
 
 " Ah, father," replied Lenora, laughing, " never mind, the 
 doctor ordered it." 
 
 ** Yon would fain deceive me, I see." 
 
 "No, no; the doctor said you must have meat at least 
 three times a week, if we could afford to purchase it at alL 
 It will do you good, father, and restore your strength." 
 
 " But, Lenora, our debts ?" 
 
 " Well, well, father, let me look after all that. Every one 
 will be satisfied, I can assure you. Do not torment your mind 
 about it any longer. I will answer for everything. Be so 
 good as put aside your papers now, as I wish to lay the cloth." 
 
 The father shook his head, and did what Lenora had de- 
 sired him. She then spread a snow-white linen cloth ovef 
 the table, and set down the potatoes and a couple of plates. 
 Everything was poor and humble, but so white and clean, 
 that the table a& it now appeared, would have pleased the 
 eye of the wealthiest and most fastidious. 
 
 Father and daughter sat down to their meal, and beat 
 their heads, as they thanked God for the food He had girsn 
 them. While they were still engaged in this quiet thanks- 
 giving, voices were suddenly heard on the stairs. Lenora 
 alarmed, and trembled Tioleiitly. With strained attention 
 
*BB POOB NOBLEMAK. 
 
 and vifdble agitation, she listened to sounds which were heard 
 indistinctly proceeding from below. The father, surprisea to 
 observe the unaccountable excitement depicted in his daugh- 
 ter's face, looked at her inquiringly, as if be would say, " What 
 ig the matter? what is it?" Lenora gave him a hasty sign 
 to be silent. The sounds were again audible, and now at 
 last Lenora recognised the voice. As if struck by a thun- 
 derbolt, she sprang up with a cry of pain, and running to the 
 door, shut it, and held it firmly with her hands. 
 
 "Lenora, for Heaven's sake, what are you afraid of?" 
 cried the alarmed and anxious father. 
 
 "Gustavl Gustavl" she exclaimed; "he ia there — he 
 comes I Oh, away with everyth' jg from the table ; he of all 
 others must not be a witness of our poverty." 
 
 The countenance of Herr von Vlierbeke grew dark when 
 he heard this. He raised his head proudly, and his eye was 
 vigorous and brilliant once more. Silently approaching his 
 daughter, he removed her from the door. Lenora fled to the 
 most distant comer of the room, and hid her face in her hands 
 The door flew open — a youth hastened exulting into the room, 
 and ran with open arms to the young girl. He wildly uttered 
 her name, and, in his blind joy, would have fallen upon her 
 neck, but the outstretched arm and stem look of the father 
 held him back. He remained standing ; and, looking round 
 in silence, contemplated with a shudder the meagre dinner 
 and the humble clothing of the old man and his daughter. 
 What he had seen apparently afiected him deeply, for he 
 covered his eyes with his hands, and pressing them violently, 
 said — 
 
 " Lenora, beloved I look on me, that I may know whether 
 your heart has preserved the sweet memory of our love I" 
 
 The maiden cast on him an earnest look — a look in whioh 
 hei pure loving soul was all revealed. 
 
S62 TAIJM OF FLEMISH LIFE. 
 
 "Oh, what happiness I" exclaimed Gustav with ardont; 
 ** still, as ever, my sweet, dear Lenora I God be praised I do 
 power on earth can now rob me of my bride I Lenora, 
 come into my arms ; do not refuse the bridal kiss I " 
 
 He opened his arms as he said this, and would have run 
 forward to press her to his beating heart. Trembling with 
 anxiety and joy, Lenora stood with downcast eyes, though 
 longing to receive the fond embrace which was to be the 
 sign of their everlasting union ; but ere the youth could obey 
 the impulse of his passion, Herr von Vlierbeke stood beside 
 him, and taking his hand firmly to restrain him, he said with 
 deep emotion, but with a severe tone — 
 
 " Herr Denecker, modern te your joy. We too rejoice to 
 Bee you again ; but it is not permitted either to you or to lu 
 to forget what we are. Respect our poverty." 
 
 " How 1 what do you say ? Who are you ? Are you not 
 my friend and my father ? Lenora is my bride. Heavens t 
 what means that accusing look ? I lose my senses — I know 
 not what I do." 
 
 Then seizing Lenora's hand, and drawing her towards her 
 father, he said hastily — 
 
 " Listen I My uncle died in Italy ; hje left me sole heir. 
 He commanded me on his deathbed to marry Lenora. I have 
 moved heaven and earth to find you ; have mourned and suf- 
 fered during the absence of my beloved. At last I have 
 found you, and come to get the reward of my suflfering— to 
 lay my wealth, my heart, my life, at your feet ; and to im- 
 plore you to grant me the happiness of leading Lenora to the 
 altar. Father, my father I do not refuse me this highest 
 favour I Come, Grinselhof awaits your coming, I hare 
 bought it for you — everything is there again. The portraits 
 of your ancestors adorn its walls once more ; and all that 
 was dear to yon is re-nurchased. Come, I will sanoimd 
 
fn rooB lOBLBMAa. 3^ 
 
 four age with honour — heap happinon upon joor aead — low% 
 and adore your Lenora I '' 
 
 The expression on the nobleman's (aoe wai idll the aaaie, 
 bat his eyes were moist. 
 
 " Oh 1" exclaimed Gustav with enthu«ia«m, ** no power on 
 earth can tear me from my Lenora again. No^ not eren her 
 father : GJod has giyen her to me I " 
 
 He knelt at Herr yon Vlierbeke^B feet, and raising hit 
 hands imploringly, said — 
 
 " Pardon me. — No, it is impossible ; you will not inflict on 
 me a deathblow I Father, father, for Qod*B sake, grant me 
 yonr blessing I Your coldness kills me." 
 
 Herr von Vlierbeke seemed at this moment to have forgot- 
 ten the young man, as he raised his eyes to heaven, seemingly 
 in earnest prayer. His voice became audible as he prayed, 
 and tears of emotion gashed from his eyes, as he exclaimed — 
 
 "Margaretha! Margarethal rejoice in the bosom of thy 
 €k)d 1 My vow is fulfilled — ^thy child will yet be happy on 
 oarthi" 
 
 Gustav and Lenora were now looking at him, trembling 
 with expectation. He raised the young man, and, kissing 
 him affectionately, said — 
 
 "Gustav, my dear son, may Heaven bless your love I 
 Make my child happy — she is your bride I" 
 
 " Gustav, Gustav is mine I " exclaimed Lenora, and has- 
 iening into the arms of her beloved and her father, they were 
 gdl united for a moment in a mutual and ardent embrace. 
 
 The first love-kiss — the sacred bridal kiss — wan exchanged 
 an the father's breast ; while the old man moistened the headf 
 al his happy children with his tears, and his hands rested 
 Vfoa them in blessing. 
 
Mi TAUf or nsMif H lifs. 
 
 And now, dear reader, I mnst confess to jon, that I baT«, 
 for important reaaons, concealed the true locality and nam« 
 of Herr von Vlierbeke's house ; consequently none of yon can 
 guess where Gustav and his yonthftil bride now dwell. 
 
 So far as I myself am concerned, I may inform you that I 
 have often had the pleasure of talking with Herr Denecker 
 and his amiable wife, and have frequently walked about the 
 grounds of Grinselhof with their two lovely chi?dren and the 
 aged grandfather. 
 
 The charming spectacle of domestic happiness— of pf^rfect 
 peace and love — ^which I have seen there, has imprinted Haelf 
 deeply on my memory. The old grandfather sitting on a 
 bench in the garden, and attempting thus early to explain to 
 bis two little grandchildren the workings of some of the 
 powers of nature which are active around us: the little 
 Adelina clambering upon his lap to stroke his cheeks, and the 
 restless Isidor galloping on his knees with wild delight ; while 
 Herr Denecker and his wife stand beside them, and press each 
 other's hands as they contemplate with feelings of intense hap- 
 piness and gratitude the grandfather's delight, and the cheer- 
 fhl playfulness of their children. 
 
 I do not mean to tell you who it was that related this tale 
 to me. It is sufficient to say that I knew every person who 
 plays a part in it; and that I have sat more than on e at 
 table with Father Jans and his wife and their maid Kate, 
 who are all great talkers, and are always very wiUinf te 
 ■peak of their beneflMtonk