Tales from the German. Volume I.

by C. F. van der Velde

CHAPTER LV.

Long years had passed, and Gustavus the third sat firmly upon Sweden's throne, as at Lubec a noble dame, upon whose pure beauty time had left no traces, sat upon a sofa in her cabinet. She had leaned her thoughtful head upon her full white arm, while the strong heaving of her bosom and the mild fire of her large brown eyes betrayed the sad and absorbing nature of the reminiscences which occupied her mind. The door was softly opened, and a blooming maiden cautiously protruded her head into the room and was about to withdraw it again.

'Come in, Georgina!' cried the dame. 'I am not yet asleep. Have you any thing to say to me!'

'A young officer wishes to speak with you, mamma,' answered the beautiful maiden, entering.

'An officer?--of the city militia?' asked the mother with some surprise.

'No mamma,' answered the maiden, laughing. 'He appears altogether different from them. He wears a short blue jacket with straw-colored facings turned up, a white band upon his arm, the sword belt over the shoulder, and a round hat looped up, with a black plume.'

'It is a Swede?' cried the mother with great vehemence. 'His name?'

'He will only tell it to yourself,' answered Georgina; 'which I consider particularly ill-bred.'

'It is very wonderful,' said the mother:--'ask him to come in.'

Georgina went, and soon returned, ushering in a well formed youth with the head of an Apollo, who reverently bowed to the dame, and immediately resumed his erect military position.

He would have spoken; but his eyes had wandered from the elder form to the younger, and the lovely maiden's face and figure embarrassed him so much that it cost him time and effort to collect himself.

'My father begs to assure your grace of his high respect,' he finally faltered out, 'and requests permission to place in your own hands an autograph from his majesty the king of Sweden.'

'Who is your father?' asked the lady with a trembling voice, whilst her eyes seemed to be seeking for remembered features in the unknown face.

'A noble Swede,' answered the youth.

'And his name?' asked the lady, with a movement as if she would fly to him.

'He has the honor to be an old acquaintance of your grace,' continued the officer.

'And his name?' cried she, with a fire which seemed inconsistent with her years.

'The governor of West Bothnia, count Gyllenstierna,' was the answer.

The lady turned pale and sank back upon the sofa. Her bosom labored powerfully, and the anxious daughter hastened to her with Cologne water.

'Leave me,' said she, averting her head. 'My nerves are yet strong. I faint not so easily.'

With tottering steps she advanced towards the youth and examined his features yet more intently than before.

'A certain family likeness,' said she, 'is undoubtedly to be found in his face; yet I wonder that it does not appear more distinctly.'

'I am only the adopted son of the count Gyllenstierna, whose name I bear,' answered the youth. 'The count has always remained unmarried.'

The lady sighed and motioned him to retire.

'When may my father wait upon your grace?' courteously asked the youth.

'In an hour I hope to have sufficiently recovered,' answered she--and, with a glance at the charming daughter which called a blush into her cheek, he took his leave.

'Mamma,' said she at length, in a tone of timid remonstrance, 'if the Swedish count is your old acquaintance, you ought to have invited the young count to come with him. He is at any rate his foster son, and such a modest young man.'

'You appear to be pleased with him, Georgina?' said the mother, looking earnestly at her daughter. The latter dropped her eyes to the floor, blushed deeply, and remained silent.

'It is our duty to suffer ourselves to be sought,' said the matron to the maiden. 'It is proper for the other sex to seek. If the young man's heart speak as prematurely as yours, he will come, even without an invitation.'

'You are wholly right, mamma!' cried the daughter, as if now first struck by an important truth, passionately kissing her hand.

'Leave me alone, my child,' said the mother. 'I have need of solitude to prepare myself for a sweet, sad hour. Seat yourself meantime, at your piano, and practise the bass of that beautiful sonata for four hands.

'Now?' cried Georgina, clasping her hands in despair. 'Ah, mamma! I positively cannot practise now.'

'It may perhaps cost you some effort,' said the mother, smiling, 'but it will do you good. Go to your practice, my daughter.'

Georgina departed, shrugging her shoulders, and the storm of emotion, so long restrained, once again floated over the face of the mother, who had hitherto struggled with all her power, to conceal her feelings from the eyes of observers. 'God give me strength for the sorrow and the joy of this interview!' cried she, sinking upon the sofa.