Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61, No. 377, March 1847
IV. – THE ELOPEMENT
Throughout this momentous night, which was to fix the future lot of the Isabel, or Dun, and the Sorrel, neither family nor domestics enjoyed much sleep: all lay in anxious expectation of the extraordinary things that were likely to come to pass. Mewing of cats, screeching of owls, barking of dogs, drove the dustman14 away every time he came sneaking in. The stable-boys heard the horses pant, snort, and kick; to the bailiff it seemed as if sacks were being dragged about the granary; the dairy-maid declared it was precisely like the noise of churning; and the housekeeper heard, plainly enough, a sort of rummaging in the pantry. Nor did sleep find its way into the gilded chamber. The lord of the manor and the Junker lay silent, from time to time casting a look at the little silver bell that hung between them; but it was mute, and so continued to be. When the tower-clock struck one, the Junker began to regard his wager as half-lost; but comforted himself with the reflection, that a loss to one’s wife is merely a transfer from one hand to the other. In short, the night passed, and – as far as the tower-chamber was concerned – as quietly as if there had never been ghost or goblin in the world. With the first discernible peep of day-light, both the half-undressed gentlemen rose, and hastened, with a morning greeting, to the bold layer of spirits. They tapped at the door, – no “Come in.” “They must both still be asleep.” Papa opened the door – they entered – the lady’s bed was deserted and the bed-clothes cast aside. “Bravo,” cried the Junker, “she has taken flight and the Dun is mine.” The old man did not utter a syllable, but proceeded to the servant’s bed, where no one was to be seen; but, on raising the clothes, she appeared to view, with a face like crimson, and in a state of profuse perspiration. To her master’s first eager inquiry she returned no answer, but stared at them both with a bewildered half-frantic look. Having at length recovered the faculty of speech, she informed them, in broken and unconnected sentences, that, soon after midnight, she had seen a terrific spectre come through the wall. In her fright she had buried herself under the bed-clothes, and had not afterwards ventured to raise them; of what subsequently took place she knew nothing. This, however, did not long continue a mystery, for the window was open, and under it stood a ladder – Fröken Mette had been carried off, but by whom?
What an uproar was now in the mansion! what outcry, screaming, and maledictions without object – questions without answer! “After them!” was the first order, both of father and lover; but in what direction? The mother, the most sagacious of them all, proposed a general muster of the whole household, which the father undertook to carry into effect personally. Having, therefore, summoned each living being by name, he declared that no one was missing. The whole assembled corps were of the same opinion, until Fru Kirsten exclaimed, “Where is the writing lad?” “The writing lad! the writing lad!” now resounded from every mouth. They looked around – looked at each other – no! no writing lad was there. The bailiff, with two or three others, went over to the writing-room, and the master cried to the stable-boys, “Saddle the horses and bring them to the gate like thunder and lightning!” The bailiff soon returned, with a rueful countenance, and almost breathless, with the intelligence, that the missing sheep must actually have decamped, for the bed showed plainly that no one had slept in it that night; nor were his spurs or riding-whip to be found. At the same instant, one of the stable-boys came running with the news, that the Dun was away. All now stood as petrified, speechless and looking at each other, until Fru Kirsten broke the silence. “Our Fröken daughter,” said she, “cannot have been carried off by a writing-boy; he only came sneaking here as a spy. If I greatly err not, the robber is from the west; see, therefore, if you cannot trace them on the road to Vium, and now away! It is even yet possible to overtake them, for the Dun cannot have gone any great distance with two.” Her surmise was correct; on the road she mentioned, traces of a quick-trotting horse were plainly to be seen; and, as a further proof, not far from the mansion, a bow was found, and, a little further, a glove, both belonging to Fröken Mette.
Armed with guns, pistols, and swords, master, Junker, bailiff, and gamekeeper, with four other well equipped men, hastened away in chase of the fugitives, while Fru Kirsten exclaimed, “After them! Bring them back dead or alive!” We will now accompany the lord of Ansbjerg a little way on his second expedition. As far as Vium, the traces were visible enough; but here they would have been lost, if a peasant, of whom they made inquiry, had not informed them, that about two hours before daybreak he had heard the tramp of a horse leaving the town in a westward direction. Profiting by this intelligence, they soon recovered the track, which continued in the same direction by the inn at Hvam. Here they learned that, about two hours before, the dogs had made a great disturbance. The speed of the fugitives, therefore, it was now evident, had began to slacken, as might also be seen by the traces. The pursuers had reached Sjörup, where a man, standing before the mansion, had heard a horse pass by, and thought he could discern two persons on it. Now the track was at an end; here were many roads, all with deep narrow wheel-ruts; which was the one to follow? The fugitives had followed none of them, probably from fear that the horse might fall, but had ridden among the heath. The pursuers now halted to hold a consultation. Of three high roads, one followed a north-west, one a south-west direction, the third lay between them. While these, one after another, were under consideration, the conversation turned on the great event of the night, and particularly on the suspicious writing-lad. One of the men remarked, that it occurred to him that he had seen the youth before, though he could not just then recollect where. Another had seen a stranger a few days previously speaking with him privately in the wood, and he thought the stranger addressed him twice by the title of Cornet. Now a sudden light burst in upon the old gentleman. “Ha!” exclaimed he, “then let us take the middle road leading to Vestervig. I dare swear that the writing-lad is no other than the Major’s third son, who is a Cornet in the cuirassiers. I remember that Fru Kirsten once cautioned me against him, and said that he came prowling after Fröken Mette. And you,” cried he to the bailiff, “yourself saw the handwriting of the bailiff at Vestervig. Either he has made fools of us all, or the letter was forged. And all the while he was so still, orderly, and diligent, so courteous, and so humble, that I could never have imagined he was of noble race.” Then putting his horse into a trot, “He who first gets sight of the runaways,” said he, “shall have three crowns.” The troop had about six miles to ride before they could reach the ford through the rivulet at Karup; in the meanwhile, therefore, with our reader’s leave, I will hasten forward to our fugitives, who have just reached the opposite side. The poor Dun, exhausted under her double burden, and with the first four or five miles’ hurried flight, walked slowly and tottering up the heath-covered bank. The Cornet – for it really was he – from time to time cast an anxious look backwards, and at each time gained a kiss from his dear Mette, who sat behind him, holding him fast round the waist. “Do you yet see nothing?” she asked, in a tone of anxiety, for she herself did not dare to look round. “Nothing yet,” answered he; “but I fear – the sun is already a little above the horizon – they must be on the road in pursuit of us. If the mare could but hold out.” “But where is your brother’s carriage?” asked she, after a pause.
“It ought to have met us by the rivulet at day-break; nor can I imagine what detains it, for my brother promised to send his young Hungarian servant with it, whose life I saved five years ago in the war with the Turks, when I received this sabre cut in the face. That he is not here is perfectly inexplicable. We have still eight miles before we get out of the heath.”
While he was thus speaking, they had reached the top of the bank, and the great west heath lay spread out before them like a vast sea; but no carriage, no living being was to be seen. The Cornet stopped to let the mare take breath, at the same time making a half turn, the more easily to survey that part of the heath that lay behind them. This was also naked and desolate; nothing was there to be seen save a few scattered turf stacks, nothing to be heard but the cry of the heathcock, the rushing of the rivulet, the panting of the mare, and their own sighs. Awhile they thus remained, until the Fröken broke silence with the question, “Is there not something moving yonder?” She uttered this in a suppressed voice, as if she feared it would be heard on the other side of the waste.
“There is no time for staying longer,” answered he; “I am fearful it is your father who is coming yonder.” With these words, he turned again towards the west.
“Oh! my father,” exclaimed Mette sighing, and at the same time clasping her lover still more closely.
He again looked round. “They seem to draw nearer,” said he; “if I urge on the mare, I fear she will fall.” They rode onwards a short distance, he with an oppressed, she with an anxiously throbbing heart.
“I must walk,” cried he, and dismounted, “that will so far help; do not look back, dearest girl.”
“Ah heaven! can it be our pursuers?”
“There are seven or eight of them, as far as I can discern.”
“How far off may they be?” asked Mette again.
“Scarcely more than two miles,” he replied, and notwithstanding his admonition she again looked back.
“I see no one,” said she.
“Nor do I at this moment,” he answered, “they are most probably down in a valley: one is just now making his appearance, and now another. Come, come, poor Bel,” cried he, drawing the mare after him, “you are accustomed at other times to carry an arched neck, and to lift your feet high enough; now you drag them along the ground, and stretch out your neck like a fish when it is being hauled out of the water.”
After a pause, the Fröken asked, “Can they see us?”
“They ride point blank after us,” answered the Cornet, “and gain more and more upon us.”
“Heavens! if they overtake us, I fear my father will kill you, dearest Holger! but I will shield you with my weak body, for I cannot outlive you.”
During these painful, interrupted conversations, they had travelled about two miles from the rivulet, across the western heath. Their pursuers were already close to the east bank, and might be both distinguished and counted. The apprehension of the fugitives was rapidly passing into despair; there seemed not a gleam of hope. The Cornet vied with the mare in panting, the Fröken wept. At this moment, a tall man clad in brown, with a gun in one hand, and a low-crowned hat in the other, started up before them out of the high heather. The fugitives made a stand. “Who is there? Where are you from?” cried the Cornet, in a military tone.
“From there,” answered the man, “where the houses stand out of doors, and the geese go barefoot. And where are you from? and where are you going? But stop, have not we two seen each other before? Are you not the person who lately begged for me, when Niels keeper would have laid me sprawling?”
“Black Mads!” exclaimed the Cornet.
“So they call me,” answered the poacher; “but how happens it that I meet you here so early with such a pretty companion? You have also apparently been out poaching. If I can help you in any way, let me know.” “In time of need,” said the Cornet, “the first friend is the best. I am the Major’s son at Vestervig, and have been fetching a bride from Ansbjerg. Her father and a whole troop of horse are after us. If you can save or conceal us, I will be grateful while I live; but it must be instantly, for they are on the other side of the rivulet.”
Holding his hat before his eyes on account of the sun, Mads exclaimed, “Faith! here we have him sure enough, with all his people. Kinsmen are hardest towards kinsmen, as the fox said, when the red dogs were after him. If you will promise never to make known the place to which I take you, I will try to hit upon some plan.”
The Fröken promised, and the Cornet swore.
“Hear then, children,” continued he, “they are just now riding along the bank on the opposite side of the rivulet; before they can arrive on this side, a good time must pass; and they cannot see what we are about. In the mean while we will set up a hedge for them that they will not so easily jump over.” Saying these words, he laid down his gun, drew forth his tinder-box and struck fire. He then rubbed two or three handfuls of dry moss together, placed the tinder-box among it, blew till he caused it to blaze, then cast it down into the midst of the heather, where, after crackling and smoking for a few seconds, the fire spread itself in all directions. While engaged in this occupation, the object of which was not immediately manifest to the fugitives, Black Mads did not cease giving vent to his thoughts in the following broken sentences: – “The wind is with us, the heather’s dry; now Niels keeper can soon get a light for his pipe – it is the second time he has had the benefit of my tinder-box; the man will, no doubt, curse and swagger about the heath-fowl, because I roast them without basting; but need knows no law, and a brave fellow takes care of himself. See now! it’s beginning to smoulder.” With these words he rose, and said to the Cornet, “Do now as you see I do, pull up a head of heather, set fire to it, run ten paces towards the north, and fire the heath; then pull up another, run, and again set fire, all towards the north, till you approach that little heath-hill yonder two or three gunshots distant. I will do the same towards the south, and then we will run as quickly back. The Fröken can in the mean time stay here with the horse. It will soon be done: now let us begin! Light before and dark behind.” With this formula the poacher commenced his operations. The Cornet followed his instructions, and soon a tract of heath, two miles in breadth, stood in a blaze, and both incendiaries immediately rejoined the trembling Fröken.
“We have now earned our breakfast!” cried Mads, “be so good as follow me, and put up with very humble accommodation – but what can we do with this?” he gave the mare a slap with his open hand, “Can you find your way home alone?”
“O,” said the Fröken, “she follows me wherever I go.”
“No, that she certainly must not, for she would betray us: the door of my house is too narrow for her to enter, and we dare not let her stand without. You are too good to suffer harm,” said he to the mare, while taking off the saddle and pillion, “but every one is nearest to himself.”
The Cornet, who saw his design, took his mistress by the hand and led her some stops aside, as if to place her beyond the range of the conflagration. The poacher took his piece, cocked it, went up to the side of the mare, held it behind her ear, and fired. The Fröken turned round with a shriek of horror, just in time to see her poor Dun, sinking down among the heather. Tears of pity flowed down the pale cheeks of the sorrowful girl.
“The jade is as dead as a herring,” cried Mads, by way of comforting her; “she did not even hear the report.”
He then took off the bridle, laid saddle and pillion on one shoulder, his gun on the other, and began to move onwards, at the same time encouraging the lovers to follow as fast as they could, with the grateful intelligence that his castle lay at no great distance.
“Only don’t look behind you,” added he, at the same time quickening his pace, “but think of Lot’s wife.”
The Fröken, though in a riding habit,15 was unable to go so fast through the tall heather. She frequently stumbled and entangled herself in the branches. The Cornet, therefore, without waiting for permission, took her in his arms, and, notwithstanding her reluctance, bore her away.
“Now we are at home,” at length cried their conductor, at the same time flinging saddle and package at the foot of a little heath-grown hill.
“Where,” cried the Cornet, also relieving himself of his burden. He looked around without discovering any thing bearing the remotest resemblance to a human habitation. A suspicion darted rapidly into his mind; but for a moment only. Had the man been a murderous robber, he could long ago have executed his villanous purpose without any risk of resistance, as long as he himself had literally both hands full.
“Here,” answered the poacher; at the same time raising a very broad piece of turf and laying it aside, he said, “Some days since I lived above ground, there I might not remain; but it is a poor mouse that has but one hole.” While saying this, he lifted and laid aside four or five stones, each as large as a strong man could carry, and now an opening was disclosed to view sufficiently wide for a person to creep into it.
“It looks as if they had been digging out foxes here,” said the Cornet.
“So it should look,” answered Mads; “but before we go in, we will just see around us, not on account of the Ansbjerg folks, who cannot yet have passed by the fire, but there might possibly be others in the neighbourhood.” They looked on every side: to the south, west, and north, not a living being was to be seen, and all the eastern quarter was hidden in clouds of smoke so dense that the beams of the morning sun were unable to penetrate them.
“Have the kindness to stoop,” said Mads, while he himself crept in on all fours, “and just follow me. The door is low, but the place will very well hold us; I will bring your baggage in instantly.”
With some difficulty they followed their conductor, and soon found themselves in the subterranean dwelling, a spacious apartment, the walls of which were composed of huge unhewn stones, and the roof of beams laid close to each other, from which hung a lamp, whose faint light but imperfectly illumined the objects present. On the one side were two beds, a larger and a smaller; on the other a bench, a table, two or three chairs, a chest, and two hanging presses. In the smaller bed lay three naked children, who, on the entrance of the strangers, dived, like so many young wild ducks, under the covering. On the side of the large bed sat Lisbeth, alias Madame Mads, knitting a stocking, which in her astonishment she let fall with both hands into her lap. At the end of the table stood a little red-haired man, clad in skin from his chin to his knees, whom the host introduced to his guest as his good friend Mikkel Foxtail. “We were once digging here,” added he, smiling, and pointing to Mikkel, “after his half-brother,16 and so found this nook. Mike thinks it has been a robber’s cave in former times; but it may also have been some old warrior’s burial-place, for there stood there two or three black pots with bones and ashes in them.” At the name of “robber’s cave,” a shudder passed over all the Fröken’s frame: her lover observing it, said in French, “Fear not, my dearest, here we are secure; but it pains me that the first habitation into which I conduct you, should inspire you with horror and disgust.”
“I will show you all my conveniences and luxuries,” continued the poacher, at the same time opening a door in the background. “There is my kitchen, where we dare have fire only in the night; here is also my dining-room,” added he, pointing to a salting trough and some legs of venison that were hung to smoke over the fire-place. “Bread and meat I have also got, and I bought a drop of mead in Viborg with the last deer-skin.” With these words, he set a stone bottle and a wooden dish, with the aforesaid provisions on the table. “Eat and drink as much as you desire, and of whatever the house affords; and when you wish to depart, you shall have a trustworthy guide.”
The Cornet pressed the hand of the honest Troglodyte, and said, “At the present moment I have nothing to offer you but my thanks – ”
“I require nothing,” said Black Mads, interrupting him; “but promise me only that you will never betray me or my cave.”
With the most solemn assurances, this promise was given; and the lovers now partook of a breakfast, to which hunger and joy at their safety imparted a double relish.
At the suggestion of their host, they resolved on waiting till evening, before they again entered on their interrupted journey. In the meantime, Mikkel offered to go out and reconnoitre; both to watch the pursuers, and make inquiry after the carriage from Vestervig. The first time he went no further than the opening of the cavern, from whence he informed them, that the party had ridden round the burnt space, and, in two divisions, proceeded westwards. Some hours after, he ventured out a short distance on the heath, and returned with the intelligence, that they had now taken a north-west direction, and that the heath would most probably be quite safe, as they could not suspect that the fugitives were still on it, and had no doubt been led out of the right track by false information. A little past noon Mads and Mikkel went out together, the latter to order a conveyance in one of the villages lying to the west. After an hour had passed, Mads returned with the intelligence that he had met with a young fellow who appeared to him somewhat suspicious, and who from his accent seemed to be a German. He inquired the way to the inn at Hvam, and whether some travellers had not passed by in the course of the day. From the description of the young man’s person and dress, the Cornet felt convinced that it was his brother’s Hungarian servant. They therefore both went out, and were so fortunate as to overtake him about a mile from the cave. We will not detain the reader with the Hungarian’s account relative to the non-appearance of the carriage, but merely mention, that both he and the coachman had mistaken for Karup rivulet that which runs some miles to the west, and where the carriage was then waiting. With equal brevity, we will further remark, that a little before noon he had been stopped and interrogated by the pursuers, and that he had not only skilfully extricated himself out of this examination, but had sent them in a direction which he rightly judged would not lead them into the track of the fugitives, of whose fate, however, he was in a state of the most painful uncertainty.
The next morning, the Cornet and his fair companion arrived safe at Vestervig, where they became man and wife, and obtained from his elder brother, the owner of the estate, a small country house at Thye for their habitation. Junker Kai got at first a galling disappointment, and secondly, after the lapse of a twelve-month, a still richer Fröken from the Isle of Fyen. The lord of Ansbjerg and his lady washed their hands clean of their daughter, and, notwithstanding the humble and penitent letters of her and her husband, were not to be reconciled.
THE HORSE-GARDEN
Near the west end of Ansbjerg wood there is an open space, consisting of an extensive green, entirely surrounded by old venerable beeches. Annually, on the first afternoon of Whitsuntide, the greater part of the inhabitants of the neighbouring parishes are accustomed to assemble at this spot. On that day many houses stand empty, and in many are left only the blind and the bed-ridden; for the halt and crippled, provided they lack not the sense of seeing, must once a-year enjoy themselves amid the new fresh verdure, and – like Noah’s dove – bring home a bright green beechen bough to their dusky dwellings.
What joy! what shoals! The Horse-Garden – so is this trysting-place named – at this time resembles a bee-hive; incessant bustle, endless pressing backwards and forwards, in and out: every soul bent only on sucking in the honey of joyousness, and imbibing the exhilarating summer air. How they hasten, how they flutter from flower to flower! greet, meet, separate, familiarly, gaily and hastily! How many a young swain brings or finds here the lady of his heart! At a considerable distance from the hive may be heard its ceaseless hum and tumult.
The nearer you approach, the more varied is the joyous uproar. The monotonous hum resolves itself into shout, song, and laughter, rattling of leaves, sound of fiddles and flutes. Swarms pour in and out on every side of the green wood. The lower orders in their Sunday garments, the higher classes in elegant summer attire, cavaliers in black, ladies in white.
“Is there dancing here?”
“Oh, yes, here is a forest ball, a dance on the elastic greensward.”
“Do you see that village fiddler by the large beech yonder, towering high above the surrounding multitude? Do you see how rapidly his bow dances up and down amid hats adorned with flowers? And there is a regular country dance, a real Scottish!”
“Am I in the Deer-park, in Charlottenlund?”17 you will ask. “See what a number of carriages, elegant equipages, coachmen in livery, horses with plated harness, tents with cold meat and confectionery, coffee-pots on the fire, families reclining on the grass around a basket of eatables!”
You are in the Horse-Garden. This is Whitsuntide’s evening in Lysgaard district, – the beauteous Nature’s homage-day. Thus is this holiday celebrated till the sun goes down; but formerly it was only the common people of two or three neighbouring parishes that assembled here, though this innocent merry-making is, without doubt, an ancient custom, as old as the wood itself.
Ten years after the events related in the foregoing chapters had taken place, the summer festival was, as usual, held in the Horse-Garden. A man from whose grandson I in my young days heard the story, gave the following account of it: —
“It was during my first year’s service as bailiff at Kjærsholm, I had my sweetheart at Vium; she was distantly related to the clergyman there. On the first day of Whitsuntide she agreed to meet me in the Horse-Garden, where we arrived so early that we found ourselves the only persons in the place. We wandered for an hour or two in the wood, until the sound of a violin announced to us that the people were assembled. We went to the spot as lookers on, sat down and observed the dancers. Shortly after, I noticed that two gentlemen, with a lady and two children, were approaching along the path leading from Ansbjerg. Being a stranger in the neighbourhood, I inquired of my companion who they were. ‘Hush,’ answered she, ‘it is the family. The tall stout man is the old gentleman who became a widower about five years since. The young one, with a scar on his cheek, is his son-in-law, the lady his daughter, and the two Junkers their children. Ten years ago she eloped by night with the young gentleman. While the old lady was living, a reconciliation was not to be thought of; but after her death, the old gentleman allowed himself to be persuaded, and he received them into his house. At his decease they will inherit both house and land.’ The party continued standing for some time, amusing themselves with looking at the country folks, and then gave them something for drink. On a tree that had been levelled by the wind, sat two elderly men, with a jug of beer between them, and each with his pipe. On the family approaching them they rose and took the pipes from their mouths.
“‘Sit still,’ I heard the young man say; and turning to the elder, ‘you are now better friends than when you struck a light for Niels’ pipe by Karup rivulet?’
“‘Yes, gracious sir,’ answered the person addressed with a smile; ‘there is no animal however small that will not fight for its life. It was a bad business, yet has turned out well.’ The party laughed.
“‘Be careful,’ said the old gentleman in going away, ‘that you do not get jammed between the branches of the deer you are riding on there.’ At this they all laughed heartily, and I could, from time to time, hear the old man’s jolly roar, that resounded far in the wood.
“‘What does that allude to?’ said I to my companion, ‘and who are these two old men?’
“‘The one,’ answered she, ‘in the green frock, with the gray hat, is the gamekeeper. The other, in the brown habit, is Mads the under-ranger, who lives close by, and whom the young gentleman brought with him. The story of the deer I will tell you.’
“While she was relating this and the whole history of the elopement, my notice was attracted by a pair, who were having a dance to themselves, while all the others stood watching them.
“‘Who are they?’ inquired I; ‘they look a little remarkable, particularly the youth in the long yellow skin ineffables, in that blue jacket, and that extraordinary cap on his head?’
“‘He is no youth,’ answered she, ‘but a married man; it is his wife he is dancing with; he comes from Turkey, and accompanied his young master home from the wars. He is secretary and gardener, and is both pot and pan in the house. His wife has been long in the young lady’s service, and, they say, helped her away when she eloped from her parent’s house.’”
And now my story is ended. Many ages of man lie between then and now. There has been ringing and singing over several generations since the persons therein commemorated passed to eternal rest. Both the old and the young lords of Ansbjerg have long been forgotten in the neighbourhood, and no one now knows aught to tell of Black Mads. The manor-house has often changed its proprietors, the lands have been sold and divided.
Of the robber’s cave alone, an obscure and confused tradition has been preserved. On the great heath, about two miles west of Karup stream, are some heath-covered hills, which yet bear, and ever will bear that sinister name; but no one now thinks that there was once an asylum for tender and steadfast love, a paradise underground.