Front matter (continued 2)

She bit her lip; the despairing smile crossed her face again.

"What do you want of me?" she said in a toneless voice.

"I want nothing of you, Miss Victoria. I sat here on a stone and I offered to move."

"Oh well, I was at home with nothing to do, I had been there the whole day, and then I came here. I might have gone up the river another way, then I shouldn't have come just here...."

"My dear Miss Victoria, the place is yours and not mine."

"I wronged you once, Johannes; I wanted to make it good again, to put it right. I really have a surprise which I think ... I mean, which I hope will please you. I can't say more. But I will ask you to come this time."

"If it will give you any pleasure I shall come."

"Will you?"

"Yes; thank you for your kindness."

When he had come down into the wood he turned and looked back. She had sat down; her basket lay by her side. He did not go home, but continued to stroll up and down the road. A thousand thoughts were conflicting within him. A surprise? That was what she said just now, only a moment ago, and her voice trembled. A warm, nervous joy came over him, making his heart beat violently, and he felt himself lifted up from the road on which he was walking. And was it a mere chance that she was dressed in yellow today again? He had looked at her hand where the ring had been—she had no ring.

An hour passed. The scent of the woods and fields surrounded him, penetrated his breath, entered his heart. He sat down, leaned back with his hands clasped behind his neck and listened for a while to the song of the cuckoo on the other side of the bay. All round him the air thrilled with a passionate song of birds.

So once more it had happened! When she came up to him in the quarry in her yellow dress and blood-red hat she looked like a wandering butterfly that flitted from stone to stone and stopped before him. I don't want to disturb you, she said, and smiled; her smile was red, her whole face lit up, she strewed stars about her. She had delicate blue veins on her neck and the few freckles under her eyes gave her a warm tint. She was in her twentieth year.

A surprise? What did she intend? Would she perhaps show him his books, produce those two or three volumes, to please him by showing that she had bought them all and cut them? There, you see, a small attention, a little bit of charity! Pray don't despise my poor contribution!

He rose impetuously and stood still. Victoria was coming back, her basket was empty.

"You didn't find any flowers?" he asked absently.

"No, I gave it up. I wasn't looking for them either; I just sat there."

He said:

"While I remember it: you must not go on thinking that you have done me any wrong. You have nothing to make good again with any kind of charity."

"Haven't I?" she answered, taken aback. She thought it over again, looked at him and pondered. "Haven't I? I thought that time.... I didn't want you to go on bearing me a grudge for what happened."

"No, I don't bear you a grudge."

She thought again for a while. Suddenly she gave a cast of her neck.

"Then that's all right," she said. "Well, I might have known it. Of course it didn't make so deep an impression as all that. Very well then, we won't talk about it any more."

"Good-bye," she said. "Till we meet again."

"Good-bye," he answered.

They went their different ways. He stopped and turned. There she went. He stretched out his hands and whispered tender words to himself: I bear you no grudge, oh no, I do not; I love you still, I love you....

"Victoria!" he cried.

She heard; she started and turned round, but walked on.

Some days passed. Johannes was in a profoundly disturbed state and could not work or sleep; he spent nearly the whole day in the woods. He went up to the big fir-clad knoll where the Castle flagstaff stood; the flag was hoisted. There was also a flag flying from the round tower of the Castle.

A strange excitement seized him. Visitors were coming to the Castle, there were to be great doings.

The afternoon was still and warm; the river ran like a pulse through the heated landscape. A steamer glided in towards land, leaving a fan of white streaks over the surface of the bay. Then four carriages drove out of the Castle yard and took the road down to the pier.

The boat came alongside, some ladies and gentlemen landed and took their seats in the carriages. Then a series of shots began to ring out from the Castle; two men stood on the top of the round tower with shot-guns, loading and firing by turns. By the time they had shot off twenty-one rounds the carriages were rolling in through the gate and the firing ceased.

Of course, there were to be great doings at the Castle; the flags and salutes were in honor of the visitors. In the carriages were some officers in uniform; perhaps Otto was among them, the Lieutenant.

Johannes came down from the knoll and was making for home. He was overtaken by a man from the Castle who stopped him. The man had a letter in his cap, he had been sent by Miss Victoria and wanted an answer.

Johannes read the letter with a beating heart. Victoria invited him after all, wrote in cordial terms and asked him to come. This was the time she wanted him to come. Answer by the messenger.

A strange and unexpected joy came upon him. The blood mounted to his head and he answered the man that he would come; yes, thanks, he would come at once.

He handed the messenger a ridiculously big tip and hurried home to dress.

VIII

For the first time in his life he entered the door of the Castle and ascended the stairs to the first floor. A hum of voices came from within; his heart was beating violently; he knocked and entered.

The Lady of the Castle, still young, came towards him and greeted him in a friendly fashion, pressing his hand. Very glad to see him; she remembered him when he was no higher than that; now he was a great man.... And it seemed as though the Lady would have said more, she held his hand a long time and looked at him searchingly.

Then the Master came up and gave him his hand. As his wife had said, a great man, in more senses than one. A famous man. Very glad to see him....

He was introduced to gentlemen and ladies, to the Chamberlain who was wearing his orders, to the Chamberlain's Lady, to a neighbouring Laird, to Otto, the Lieutenant. Victoria he did not see.

Some time went by. Victoria came in, pale, hesitating indeed; she was leading a young girl by the hand. They made a round of the drawing-room, shaking hands and saying something to every one. They stopped at Johannes.

Victoria smiled and said:

"Look, here is Camilla, isn't this a surprise? You know one another."

She stood looking at them both for a moment, then she went out of the room.

For the first instant Johannes stood motionless, stiff and dazed. This was the surprise; Victoria had been kind enough to provide a substitute. Look here, you two people, go and take each other! Spring is in full bloom, the sun is shining; open the windows if you like, for the garden is full of the scent of flowers and the starlings are playing in the birch-tops. Why don't you talk to one another? Laugh, for goodness' sake!

"Yes, we know each other," said Camilla frankly. "It was here you pulled me out of the water that time."

She was young and fair, bright, dressed in a rose-coloured frock, and was in her seventeenth year. Johannes clenched his teeth and laughed and joked. Little by little her cheerful talk actually began to wake him up; they talked a long time, the beating of his heart subsided. She kept the charming habit she had had as a child of putting her head on one side and listening expectantly when he said anything. He recognized her, she was no surprise to him.

Victoria came in again; she took the Lieutenant's arm, carried him off and said to Johannes:

"Do you know Otto—my fiancé? You remember him, don't you?"

The men remembered each other. They said the necessary words, made the necessary bows and separated. Johannes and Victoria were left alone. He said:

"Was that the surprise?"

"Yes," she answered, worried and impatient; "I did the best I could, I didn't know of anything else to do. Don't be unreasonable now, you ought rather to thank me; I could see you were glad."

"Thank you. Yes, I was glad."

An irreparable despair fell upon him, his face turned pale as a corpse. If she had once wronged him it was now so abundantly made good and healed. He was sincerely grateful to her.

"And then I notice that you have your ring on today," he said dully. "Mind you don't take it off again."

Pause.

"No, now I am sure not to take it off any more," she answered.

They looked into each other's eyes. His lips quivered, he indicated the Lieutenant with his head and said hoarsely and rudely:

"You have taste, Miss Victoria. He's a handsome man. His epaulettes give him shoulders."

She gave him his answer very calmly:

"No, he is not handsome. But he is a well-bred man. And that means something."

"That was one for me, thanks!" He laughed aloud and added with insolence: "And there's money in his pockets; that means more."

She left him at once.

He drifted about from one wall to the other like an outlaw. Camilla talked to him, asked a question and he did not hear it and made no answer. Again she said something, touched his arm even and asked another question in vain.

"Oh, now he's lost in thought," she cried with a laugh. "He's thinking, he's thinking!"

Victoria heard and answered:

"He wants to be alone. He sent me away too." But suddenly she came right up to him and said aloud: "I expect you're thinking out some apology to me. You need not trouble about that. On the contrary, I owe you an apology for sending you the invitation so late. It was very neglectful of me. I forgot you till the very last, I nearly forgot you altogether. But I hope you'll forgive me, for I had so much to think about."

He stared at her speechless; even Camilla looked from one to the other and seemed astonished. Victoria stood right in front of them with her cold, pale face and looked satisfied. She had had her revenge.

"Now you can see our young men," she said to Camilla. "We mustn't expect too much of them. Over there sits my fiancé talking about elk-shooting and here is the poet deep in thought.... Say something, poet!"

He gave a start; the veins in his temples swelled.

"Very well. You want me to say something? Very well."

"Oh, not if it's such an effort."

She was going already.

"To come straight to the point," he said slowly, smiling, but with a quiver in his voice; "to begin right in the middle—have you been in love lately, Miss Victoria?"

For a few seconds there was dead silence; all three could hear their hearts beating. Camilla put in timidly:

"Of course Victoria is in love with her fiancé. She is just engaged, don't you know that?"

The doors to the dining-room were thrown open.

Johannes found his place and was standing by it. The whole table heaved up and down before his eyes, he saw a crowd of people and heard a buzz of voices.

"Yes, that's right, that is your place," said the hostess kindly. "If only everybody would sit down."

"Excuse me!" said Victoria suddenly, just behind him.

He stepped aside.

She took his card and moved it several places down, seven places down, beside an old man who had once been tutor at the Castle and who was supposed to drink. She brought back another card and sat down.

The hostess, much upset, found something to do on the other side of the table and avoided looking at him.

His confusion became even worse than before and he withdrew bewildered to his new place; his first seat was occupied by one of Ditlef's friends from town, a young man with diamond studs in his shirt-front. On his left sat Victoria, on his right Camilla.

And the dinner began.

The old Tutor remembered Johannes as a boy and a conversation was started between them. He said that he too had written poetry in his young days, he had kept his manuscripts, Johannes could read them some day. Now they had sent for him on this great occasion that he might participate in the joy of the family over Victoria's engagement. The Master and Mistress of the Castle had given him this surprise for the sake of old friendship.

"I have read nothing of yours," he said; "I read myself when I want to read anything; I have a drawer full of poems and tales. They are to be published when I am dead; after all, I should like the public to know what manner of man I was. Ah yes, we who are somewhat older in the craft are not in such a hurry to rush into print as they are nowadays. Your health!"

The meal wore on. The Master rapped on his glass and stood up. His thin, aristocratic face was alive with emotion and he gave the impression of being very happy. Johannes bent his head low. There was nothing in his glass and nobody gave him anything; he filled it himself to the brim and bent down again. Now for it!

The speech was long and eloquent and was received with joyful cheers; the engagement was announced. From all parts of the table good wishes poured in upon the daughter of the Castle and the Chamberlain's son.

Johannes emptied his glass.

A few minutes later his agitation had vanished, his calm had returned; the champagne glowed softly through his veins. He heard that the Chamberlain also made a speech and that there were more bravos and hurrahs and clinking of glasses. Once he looked towards Victoria's place; she was pale and seemed distressed; she did not look up. But Camilla nodded to him and smiled and he nodded back.

The Tutor by his side went on talking:

"It's a fine thing, it's a fine thing when two young people come together. It did not fall to my lot. I was a young student, fine prospects, great gifts; my father had an ancient name, a great home, wealth, many, many ships. So I think I may say I had very fine prospects. She was young too and belonged to the best set. I come to her and open my heart. No, she answers. Can you understand her? No, she wouldn't, she said. So I did what I could, I went on with my work and took it like a man. Then came my father's bad years, wrecks, liabilities—to make a long story short, he went bankrupt. What did I do then? Took it like a man again. And now she positively didn't hold back any longer, the girl I'm talking about. She came back, hunted me up in town. What did she want with me, you may ask? I was a poor man, I had got a little job as a teacher, all my prospects had vanished and my poems were thrown into a drawer—and now she came and said yes. Said yes!"

The Tutor looked at Johannes and asked:

"Can you understand her?"

"But then it was you who wouldn't have it?"

"Could I, I ask you? Cleaned out, stripped, a teacher's job, one pipe of tobacco on Sundays—what are you thinking of? I couldn't do her such a wrong. But all I say is: can you understand her?"

"And what became of her afterwards?"

"Good Lord, you don't answer my question! She married a captain. That was the year after. A captain in the artillery. Your health!"

Johannes said:

"They say some women are always looking for an object for their compassion. If the man is getting on well they hate him and think themselves superfluous; if things go against him and he is down they crow over him and say: here I am."

"But why didn't she accept me in the good days? I had the prospects of a little god."

"Goodness knows. She wanted to wait till you were brought low."

"But I wasn't brought low. Never. I kept my pride and sent her about her business. What do you say to that?"

Johannes said nothing.

"But perhaps you're right," said the old Tutor. "Yes, by God and all his angels, what you say is right," he exclaimed with sudden excitement and took another drink. "She took an old captain at last; she nurses him, cuts up his food for him and is master of the house. A captain in the artillery."

Johannes looked up. Victoria sat with her glass in her hand staring in his direction. She held her glass high in the air. He felt a shock all through him and seized his glass too. His hand shook.

Then she called aloud to his neighbour and laughed; it was the Tutor's name she called.

Johannes put down his glass in humiliation and sat with an embarrassed smile on his face. Everybody had looked at him.

The old Tutor was touched to tears by this friendly attention of his pupil's. He made haste to empty his glass.

"And here I am, an old man," he continued, "here I am tramping the earth, alone and unknown. That has been my lot. Nobody knows what there is in me; but nobody has ever heard me grumble. How is that?—do you know the turtledove? Isn't it the turtledove, that melancholy being which makes the gay, bright spring water muddy before it drinks it?"

"I don't know."

"No, I dare say not. But it is. And I do the same. I did not get her whom I should have had; but I am not altogether without joys for all that. Only I stir up the mud in them. Every time I stir up the mud. Then I can't be beaten by the disappointment afterwards. There you see Victoria. She drank with me just now. I have been her tutor; now she's to be married and I'm glad about it, it gives me a purely personal sense of happiness as if she was my own daughter. Now perhaps I shall be tutor to her children. Oh yes, there are really a number of joys left in life. But what you said about compassion and woman and the man brought low—the more I think about it, the more you are right. Yes, God knows you are.... Excuse me a second."

He got up, seized his glass and went along to Victoria. He was already a little unsteady on his legs and stooped a great deal.

More speeches were made, the Lieutenant made one, the neighbour Laird gave the toast of the ladies, the Lady of the house. Suddenly the young man with the diamond studs got up and spoke Johannes' name. He had received permission for what he was doing, he wanted to hail the young poet in the name of the young. His words were most friendly, a kindly expression of thanks from contemporaries, full of appreciation and admiration.

Johannes hardly believed his own ears. He whispered to the Tutor:

"Is it me he's talking about?"

The Tutor answered:

"Yes. He's forestalled me. I was going to do it myself; Victoria asked me to some hours ago."

"Who asked you to, did you say?"

The Tutor stared at him.

"Nobody," he said.

During the speech the eyes of all were turned upon Johannes; even the Master nodded to him, and the Chamberlain's Lady put up her glasses and looked at him. When the speech was finished they all drank.

"Give it him back now," said the Tutor. "He stood up and made you that speech. It ought to have fallen to one who is your senior in the craft. Besides, I didn't agree with him at all. Not at all."

Johannes looked along the table to Victoria. It was she who had got the young man with the diamond studs to speak; why had she done it? First she had applied to another about it, quite early in the day she had had it in her thoughts; why had she? Now she sat looking down and not a muscle of her face betrayed her.

Suddenly his eyes were bedewed with a deep and violent emotion, he could have thrown himself at her feet and thanked her, thanked her. He would do it later, after dinner.

Camilla sat talking to right and left and smiling all over her face. She was pleased, her seventeen years had brought her nothing but happiness. She nodded again and again to Johannes and made signs to him to get up.

He got up.

He spoke briefly, his voice sounded deep and stirred: On this occasion, when the House was celebrating a joyful event, he too—who was entirely outside the circle—was drawn from his obscurity. He wished to thank the originator of this amiable suggestion and the speaker who had addressed to him so many agreeable words. But at the same time he could not fail to appreciate the kindness with which the whole company had listened to his—the outsider's—praise. The only claim he had to be present on this occasion was that he was the son of the Castle's neighbour....

"Yes!" Victoria cried suddenly, with flaming eyes.

Everybody looked at her, her cheeks were red and her breast heaved up and down. Johannes broke off. A painful silence ensued.

"Victoria?" said her father in surprise.

"Go on!" she cried again. "That is your only claim; but go on!" The light in her eyes went out abruptly, she began to smile helplessly and shake her head. Then she turned to her father and said: "I only meant to exaggerate things. You see, he's exaggerating himself. No, I won't interrupt...."

Johannes listened to this explanation and found a way out of the difficulty; his heart was beating audibly. He noticed that Victoria's mother was looking at her with tears in her eyes and with infinite forbearance.

Yes, he had exaggerated, he said; Miss Victoria was right. She had been so kind as to remind him that he was not only their neighbour's son, but also the playmate of the Castle children, and it was to this latter circumstance he owed his presence here. He thanked her, that was how it was. He belonged to the place, the Castle woods were once his whole world, beyond them loomed the unknown country, fairyland. But in those days he would often have a message from Ditlef and Victoria that they wanted him to join them in an excursion or a game—those were the great events of his childhood. Later, when he had thought over it, he was bound to acknowledge that those hours had had a significance in his life which no one knew of, and if it was true—as they had just heard—that what he wrote had sometimes a flame in it, that was because the memories of that time kindled him; it was the reflection of that happiness his two playmates had bestowed on him in childhood. Therefore they also had a great share in what he produced. To the general good wishes on the occasion of the engagement he would therefore add his personal thanks to both the Castle children for the good years of childhood, when neither time nor things had come between them, the glad, short summer day....

A speech, a regular attempt at a speech. It was not amusing, but it didn't go so badly, the company drank, went on eating and took up their conversation again. Ditlef remarked dryly to his mother:

"I never knew it was really me that had written his books, what?"

But his mother did not laugh. She drank with her children and said:

"Thank him, thank him. It was very easy to understand, when he was so lonely as a child.... What are you doing, Victoria?"

"I'm going to send the maid to him with this sprig of lilac for my thanks. Mayn't I?"

"No," answered the Lieutenant.

After dinner the company scattered themselves about the rooms, the big balcony and even the garden. Johannes went down to the ground floor and entered the garden room. It was not empty, there were a couple of men smoking, the Laird and another, and they were talking in undertones about the Master's finances. His land was neglected, choked with weeds, the fences were down, the timber shockingly thinned; it was said he even had difficulty in paying the astonishingly high insurances on the buildings and their contents.

"How much is the place insured for?"

The Laird mentioned the sum, a whacking sum.

For that matter money was never considered at the Castle, the sums were always big there. What did a dinner like this cost, for instance? But now according to all accounts the bottom had been reached, even of their hostess's famous jewel-case, and so the son-in-law's money would have to refill the coffers.

"What's he worth, do you suppose?"

"Oh tut! there's no counting it."

Johannes got up again and went out into the garden. The lilacs were in bloom, a fragrant wave of auricula, narcissus, jasmine and lily-of-the-valley swept round him. He found a corner by the wall and sat down on a stone; a shrub hid him from all eyes. He was worn out by emotion, thoroughly fagged, and his wits were clouded; he thought of getting up and going home, but sat on in dull apathy. Then he heard a murmur on the pathway, some one was coming; he recognized Victoria's voice. He held his breath and waited a moment; then he caught a glimpse of the Lieutenant's uniform through the leaves. The engaged couple were walking together.

"It doesn't seem to me," he was saying, "that this will hold water. You listen to what he says, you hang on to every word of his speech and then shout out. What does it all mean?"

She stopped and stood before him at her full height.

"Do you want to know?" she asked.

"Yes."

She was silent.

"It's all the same to me if it meant nothing," he went on. "Then you needn't tell me."

She collapsed again.

"No, it didn't mean anything," she answered.

They began to walk again. The Lieutenant shrugged his epaulettes nervously and said aloud:

"He'd better look out, or he might feel an officer's hand about his ears."

They went in the direction of the summer-house.

Johannes remained seated on the stone for some time, in the same dull pain as before. It was all becoming indifferent to him. The Lieutenant had taken it into his head to suspect him and his fiancé immediately began to defend herself. She said what had to be said, calmed the officer's heart, and walked on with him. And the starlings chattered on the boughs above their heads. Very well. God vouchsafe them a long life.... He had made her a speech at the dinner and torn his heart out; it had cost him sorely to make good and cover up her insolent interruption and she had not thanked him for doing so. She had seized her glass and drunk. Here's your good health, look at me and see how nicely I drink.... By the bye, you should always look at a woman from the side when she's drinking. Let her drink of a cup, a glass, anything you like, but look at her from the side. It's shocking to see what an air she gives herself. She purses up her mouth and dips the extreme tip of it into the drink and she gets desperate if you watch her hand while she is doing it. You must never in any circumstances look at a woman's hand. She can't stand it, she capitulates. She begins at once to draw in her hand, to pose it more and more elegantly, always with the object of concealing a wrinkle, a crookedness of the fingers or a rather misshapen nail. At last she can bear it no longer and asks, quite beside herself: what are you looking at?... She had once kissed him, once, one summer. It was so long ago, God knew if it was even true. How was it, weren't they sitting on a bench? They talked a long time and when they walked away he came so close to her that he touched her arm. On a staircase she had kissed him. I love you, she said.... Now they had gone past, perhaps they were still sitting in the summer-house. The Lieutenant would give him a box on the ears, he said. He heard it quite plainly, he was not asleep, but still he did not get up and come forward. An officer's hand, he said. Oh well, it didn't matter to him....

He rose from the stone and went after them to the summer-house. It was empty. Up in the verandah of the house stood Camilla calling for him: Come along, there was coffee in the garden room. He followed her. The engaged couple were sitting in the garden room; several others were there besides. He took his coffee, retired and found a place.

Camilla began talking to him. Her face was so bright and her eyes looked at him so frankly that he could not resist her; he talked too, answered her questions and laughed. Where had he been? In the garden? What a story! Why, she'd looked for him in the garden and couldn't find him. Oh no, he hadn't been in the garden.

"Was he in the garden, Victoria?" she asked.

Victoria answered:

"No, I didn't see him."

The Lieutenant threw her a glance of annoyance, and to give his fiancé a lesson he called over to the Laird in a needlessly loud voice:

"Didn't you say you'd let me join your shoot?"

"Yes, of course," answered the Laird. "You're welcome."

The Lieutenant looked at Victoria. She said nothing and sat as before, making no attempt to keep him from joining the Laird's shooting party. His face clouded over more and more, he pulled nervously at his mustache.

Camilla addressed another question to Victoria.

Then the Lieutenant rose hastily and said to the Laird:

"All right then, I'll go with you this evening, at once."

With that he left the room.

The Laird and a few others followed.

There was a short pause.

Suddenly the door was thrown open and the Lieutenant came in again. He was greatly excited.

"Have you forgotten something?" asked Victoria, getting up.

He danced about by the door as if unable to stand still and then went straight up to Johannes and gave him a blow with his hand as though in passing. After that he ran back to the door and danced about again.

"Look out, man, you hit me in the eye," said Johannes with a hollow laugh.

"You're mistaken," answered the Lieutenant, "I gave you a box on the ears. Understand? Understand?"

Johannes pulled out his handkerchief, dried his eye, and said:

"You don't mean that. You know I can double you up and put you in my pocket."

As he said it he stood up.

Then the Lieutenant hurriedly opened the door and stepped outside.

"I do mean it!" he yelled back. "I do mean it, you clown!"

And he slammed the door.

Johannes sat down again.

Victoria was still standing near the middle of the room. She was looking at him and was as pale as a corpse.

"Did he hit you?" asked Camilla in the greatest astonishment.

"By accident. He got me in the eye. Would you like to look?"

"Heavens, it's all red, there's blood. No, don't rub it, let me bathe it with water. Your handkerchief is too coarse, look here, take it back; I'll use my own. Did you ever hear such a thing, right in his eye!"

Victoria held out her handkerchief too. Then she went quite slowly to the glass door and stood there with her back to the room, looking out. She was tearing her handkerchief into little strips. A few minutes later she opened the door and left the room quietly and without saying a word.

IX

Camilla came walking down to the Mill, frank and cheerful. She was alone. She went straight into the little room and said with a titter:

"Excuse me for not knocking. The stream makes such a roar that I thought it was no use." She looked about her and exclaimed: "How awfully nice it is here, charming! Where's Johannes? I know Johannes. How's his eye?"

She got a chair and sat down.

Johannes was fetched from the mill. His eye was sore and bloodshot.

"I've come of my own accord," said Camilla as soon as she saw him; "I wanted to come down here. You must go on using cold water for your eye."

"It's all right," he answered. "But, God bless you, what brought you here? Would you like to see the mill? Thanks for coming!" He took his mother round the waist and brought her forward and said: "Here is my mother."

They went into the mill. The old Miller took off his cap with a low bow and said something; Camilla didn't hear what it was, but she smiled and said at random:

"Thanks, thanks. Yes, I should like so much to see it."

The noise frightened her, she held Johannes' hand and glanced up at the two men with big, listening eyes in case they should say something. She looked like a deaf person. All the wheels and machinery of the mill filled her with astonishment, she laughed, shook Johannes' hand in her excitement and pointed in all directions. The mill was stopped and started again so that she might see it.

Even for a good while after she had left the mill Camilla talked in a comically loud voice, as though the noise were still in her ears.

Johannes walked with her back to the Castle.

"Can you imagine his daring to hit you in the eye?" she said. "But then he went off at once, he left with the Laird to go shooting. It was a frightfully unpleasant thing to happen. Victoria didn't sleep a wink all night, she told me."

"Then she'll be able to sleep tonight," he answered. "When do you think you'll be going home again?"

"Tomorrow. When are you coming to town?"

"In the autumn. Can I meet you this afternoon?"

She exclaimed:

"Oh yes, do! You told me about your cave; you must show me that."

"I'll come and fetch you," he said.

On his way home he sat for a long while on a stone and pondered. A warm and happy idea had flashed upon him.

In the afternoon he walked up to the Castle, stopped outside and sent in a message for Camilla. While he stood waiting Victoria appeared for an instant at one of the first-floor windows; she stared down at him, turned round and disappeared into the room.

Camilla came out and he took her to the quarry and the cave. He was in an unusually calm and happy mood, the young girl amused him, her light, cheerful talk fluttered about him like little blessings. Today the good spirits were near....

"I remember, Camilla, that you once gave me a dagger. It had a silver sheath. I put it away in a box with a lot of other things, as I had no use for it."

"No, you had no use for it; but what then?"

"Well, you see, I've lost it."

"Oh I say, that was unlucky. But perhaps I can get a pair to it somewhere. I'll try."

They walked towards home.

"And do you remember the big medallion you gave me once? It was a thick, heavy gold one and stood in a frame. You had written some kind of words on it."

"Yes, I remember."

"Last year while I was abroad I gave away that medallion, Camilla."

"Oh no, you didn't? Fancy your giving it away! Why did you?"

"It was a young friend of mine who had it as a souvenir. He was a Russian. He fell on his knees and thanked me for it."

"Was he so glad as that? Oh, I'm sure he must have been wildly glad if he fell on his knees! You shall have another medallion instead of it to keep for yourself."

They had come to the road that ran between the Mill and the Castle.

Johannes stopped and said:

"Here by these bushes something happened to me once. I was walking one evening as I so often did in my loneliness, and it was summer and fine weather. I lay down behind the bushes and was lost in thought. Then two people came quietly walking along the road. The lady stopped. Her companion asked: why do you stop? And as he got no answer he asked again: Is anything the matter? No, she answered; but you mustn't look at me like that. I only looked at you, he said. Yes, she answered, I know very well that you love me, but Papa won't allow it, you understand; it is impossible. He murmured: Yes, I suppose it's impossible. Then she said: You are so broad here, about the hand; you have such oddly broad wrists! And then she took hold of his wrist."

"Well, what happened?" asked Camilla.

"I don't know," replied Johannes. "Why did she say that about his wrists?"

"Perhaps they were nice. And then he had a white shirt above them—oh, of course I know why. I expect she was fond of him too."

"Camilla!" he said; "if I was very fond of you and waited a few years, I only ask.... In one word, I am not worthy of you; but do you think you would be mine some day if I ask you next year or in two years' time?"

Pause.

Camilla had suddenly turned fiery red with embarrassment, she twisted her slight figure this way and that and clasped her hands. He put his arm round her and asked:

"Do you think you could some day? Will you?"

"Yes," she answered, and fell into his arms.

The next day he saw her down to the pier. He kissed her little hands with their childish, innocent expression and was full of thankfulness and joy.

Victoria was not there.

"Why has nobody come with you?"

Camilla told him with scared eyes that the Castle was in the most terrible trouble. A telegram had come in the morning, the Master had gone as pale as death, the old Chamberlain and his wife had cried out with pain—Otto had been killed out shooting the evening before.

Johannes seized Camilla's arm.

"Killed? The Lieutenant?"

"Yes. They're on the way with his body. It is terrible."

They walked on, lost in their own thoughts, and only woke at the sight of the people on the pier and the sound of orders shouted from the ship. Camilla bashfully gave him her hand; he kissed it and said:

"Well, well, I'm not worthy of you, Camilla, no, not in any sense. But I shall be as good to you as I possibly can if you will be mine."

"I will be yours. I have wanted it the whole time, the whole time."

"I shall follow in a few days," he said. "In a week I shall see you again."

She was on board. He waved to her, went on waving as long as he could see her. When he turned to go home Victoria was standing behind him; she too held her handkerchief in the air and waved to Camilla.

"I came a little too late," she said.

He did not answer. What was he to say? Condole with her loss, congratulate her, press her hand? Her voice was so toneless and her face showed such distraction, a tragic experience had left its mark there.

People were leaving the pier.

"Your eye is still red," she said, as she began to walk away. She looked round for him.

He was standing still.

Then all at once she turned round and went up to him.

"Otto is dead," she said in a hard voice, and her eyes were burning. "You don't say a word, you are so superior. He was a hundred thousand times better than you, do you hear? Do you know how he died? He was shot, his whole head was blown to pieces, his whole silly little head. He was a hundred thousand...."

She burst into sobs and began to walk towards home with long, despairing steps.

Late that evening there was a knock at the Miller's door; Johannes opened it and looked out; Victoria stood outside and beckoned to him. He followed her. She seized his hand impetuously and led him up to the road; her hand was icy cold.

"Sit down, won't you?" he said. "Sit down and rest a little. You are so exhausted."

They sat down.

She murmured:

"What must you think of me, never leaving you in peace!"

"You are very unhappy," he said. "Now you must obey me and calm yourself, Victoria. Can I help you in any way?"

"For God in Heaven's sake you must forgive me what I said today," she begged. "Yes, I am very unhappy, I have been unhappy for many years. I said he was a hundred thousand times better than you; that was not true, forgive me! He is dead and he was my fiancé, that is all. Do you think it was of my own free will? Johannes, do you see this? It is my engagement ring, I was given it long ago—long, long ago; now I throw it away—throw it away!" And she threw her ring into the wood; they both heard it fall. "It was Papa who would have it. Papa is poor, he is completely beggared, and Otto would have had so much money one day. You've got to do it, said Papa to me. I won't, I answered. Think of your parents, said he, think of the Castle, our old name, my honour. Well then, I will, I answered; wait three years and then I will. Papa thanked me and waited, Otto waited, they all waited; but I was given the ring at once. Then a long time went by and I saw there was no help for me. Why should we wait any longer, come along with my husband, I said to Papa. God bless you, he said and thanked me again for what I was going to do. Then Otto came. I didn't go to meet him at the pier, I stood at my window and saw him drive up. Then I ran in to Mamma and threw myself on my knees before her. What is the matter, my child? she asked. I can't, I told her; no I can't take him; he's come, he's waiting downstairs; but let us insure my life instead and then I will be lost in the bay or the waterfall, it will be better for me. Mamma turned as pale as death and wept over me. Papa came. Now then, my dear Victoria, you must come down and receive him, he said. I can't, I can't, I answered and repeated what I had said, that he should take pity on me and insure my life. Papa did not answer a word, but sat down on a chair and began to tremble at his thoughts. When I saw that I said: Come along with my husband; I'll take him."

Victoria broke off. She was shaking. Johannes took her other hand in his and warmed it.

"Thanks," she said. "Johannes, be kind to me and hold my hand fast. Do me that kindness! Oh, how warm you are! I am so thankful to you. But you must forgive me what I said on the pier."

"Yes, that's forgotten long ago. Would you like me to fetch you a shawl?"

"No thanks. But I can't understand why I'm trembling, my head is so hot. Johannes, I have to ask your forgiveness for so much...."

"No, no, don't do that. There, now you are calmer. Sit still."

"You made me a speech at the dinner. I didn't know a thing from the time you got up till you sat down again; I simply heard your voice. It was like an organ and I was desperate at the power it had over me. Papa asked me why I called out to you and interrupted you; he was very sorry about it. But Mamma didn't ask me, she understood. I had told Mamma all, many years ago I told her, and two years ago I told her again, when I came back from town. That was the time I met you."

"Don't let us talk about that."

"No, but forgive me, do you hear, be merciful! What in the world am I to do? Now there is Papa at home, walking up and down his study, it is such a terrible thing for him. It's Sunday tomorrow; he has decided that all the servants are to have the day off; that is the only thing he has decided today. He is grey in the face and he doesn't say a word, so hard has his son-in-law's death hit him. I told Mamma that I was going to you. You and I must both go to town with the Chamberlains tomorrow, she answered. I am going to Johannes, I repeated. Papa can't find the money for all three of us, he will stay here himself, she said and went on talking about other things. Then I went to the door. Mamma looked at me. Now I'm going to him, I said for the last time. Mamma followed me to the door and kissed me and said: Well well, God bless you both!"

Johannes dropped her hands and said:

"There, now you're warm."

"Thank you so much, yes, now I'm quite warm.... God bless you both, she said. I have told Mamma all, she has known it the whole time. But dear me, who is it you're in love with, child? she asked. Can you ask me that again? I answered; it is Johannes I love, it is he alone I have loved all my life, loved, loved...."

He made a movement.

"It's late. Don't you think they will be getting anxious about you at home?"

"No," she answered. "You know that it is you I love, Johannes, you must have seen that? I have longed so for you all these years, nobody knows how much. I have walked along the road here and thought to myself, now I'll go a little way into the wood by the side of the road, for that is where he used to go. And then I did so. The day I heard you had come I put on a light dress, light yellow, I was sick with excitement and longing and I kept going in and out of all the rooms. How radiant you are today! said Mamma. I was saying to myself all the time: now he's come home again! He is glorious and now he has come back, both those things are true! The next day I could not endure it any longer, I put on my light dress again and went up to the quarry to find you. Do you remember? I found you, too, but I did not gather any flowers as I said I would, and that was not why I came either. You were no longer glad to see me again; but thanks all the same that I met you. It was getting on for three years ago. You had a twig in your hand and sat switching with it when I came; after you had gone I picked up the twig and hid it and took it home with me...."

"Yes but, Victoria," he said in a shaking voice, "you mustn't say such things to me any more."

"No," she answered uneasily, seizing his hand. "No, I mustn't. No, you don't like it, I see." She began to pat his hand nervously. "No, I can't expect you to. And besides, I have hurt you so much. Don't you think you can forgive me in time?"

"Yes, yes, everything. It isn't that."

"What is it then?"

Pause.

"I am engaged," he answered.

X

The next day—Sunday—the Master of the Castle came in person to the Miller and asked him to come up about noon and drive Lieutenant Otto's body down to the steamer. The Miller could not understand and stared at him; but the Master explained curtly that all his men had the day off and had gone to church, none of his servants were at home.

The Master could not have slept that night, he looked like a dead man and was unshaven besides. But he swung his walking-stick in his usual way and held himself erect.

The Miller put on his best coat and went. When he had put the horses in, the Master himself lent him a hand in getting the body into the carriage. It was all done quietly, almost secretly, there was nobody to look on.

The Miller drove away to the pier. After him came the Chamberlain and his Lady, besides the Lady of the Castle and Victoria. They were all on foot. The Master was seen standing alone on the steps and making repeated gestures of farewell; the wind ruffled his grey hair.

When the body was carried on board the mourners followed. From the railing the Lady of the Castle called ashore to the Miller that he was to say good-bye to the Master for her, and Victoria asked him the same.

Then the boat steamed away. The Miller stood a long while watching her. There was a stiff breeze and the bay was rough; it was a quarter of an hour before the boat disappeared behind the islands. The Miller drove home.

He put the horses in the stable, gave them a feed and was going in to deliver the message he had for the Master. The kitchen door, however, proved to be locked. He walked round the house and tried to get in by the front door; that too was locked. It's the dinner hour and the Master's asleep, he thought. But as he was a punctilious man and wished to carry out what he had undertaken, he went into the servants' hall to find somebody to whom he could give his messages. In the servants' hall there was not a soul. He went out again, looked all about, and even tried the maids' room. There was nobody there either. The whole place was deserted.

He was just going out again when he saw the glimmer of a candle in the Castle cellar. He stopped. Through the little barred windows he could plainly see a man come into the cellar with a candle in one hand and a chair upholstered in red silk in the other. It was the Master. He was shaved and dressed as though for a great occasion. Perhaps I might knock at the window and give him the Lady's message, thought the Miller, but stood still.

The Master looked about him, held out the candle and looked about him. He pulled forward a sack which seemed to be full of hay or straw and laid it against the entrance door. Then he poured some liquid over the sack from a can. After that he brought packing-cases, straw and a discarded flower-stand up to the door and poured some of the liquid over them; the Miller noticed that in doing so he was careful not to soil his fingers or his clothes. He took the little candle-end, placed it on top of the sack and carefully surrounded it with straw. Then the Master sat down on the chair.

The Miller gazed at all these preparations with increasing amazement, his eyes were glued to the cellar window and a dark suspicion fell upon his soul. The Master sat quite quietly in his chair and watched the candle burning lower and lower; he kept his hands folded. The Miller saw him flip a speck of dust from the sleeve of his dress coat and fold his arms again.

Then the terrified old Miller uttered a shriek.

The Master turned his head and looked out of the window. Suddenly he jumped up and came close to the window, where he stood staring out. It was a face in which a world of suffering was depicted. His mouth was strangely distorted, he shook both his clenched fists at the window, silently threatening; at last he only threatened with one hand as he walked backwards across the cellar floor. As he struck against the chair the candle upset. At the same instant a huge flame shot up.

The Miller shrieked and ran out. For a moment he tore about the yard quite out of his wits and not knowing what to do. He ran to the cellar window, kicked in the glass and shouted; then he stooped down, seized the iron bars in his fists and shook them, bent them, tore them out.

Then he heard a voice from the cellar, a voice without words, a groan, as from a dead man in the ground; it sounded twice, and the Miller fled terror-struck from the window, across the yard, down the road and home. He dared not look behind him.

When a few minutes later he and Johannes came to the place, the whole Castle, the big old timber house, was in flames. A couple of men from the pier had also come up; but they could not do anything either. Everything was destroyed.

But the Miller's lips were silent as the grave.

XI

Ask of some what Love is and it will be no more than a breeze murmuring among the roses and then dying away. But again it is often like an inviolable seal that lasts for life, lasts till death. God has created it of many kinds and seen it endure or perish:

Two mothers are walking along a road and talking together. One of them is dressed in gay blue garments because her lover has come home from a journey. The other is dressed in mourning. She had three daughters, two of them dark, the third fair, and the fair one died. That is ten years ago, ten whole years, and still the mother wears mourning for her.

"It is so glorious today!" cries the blue-clad mother exulting, and claps her hands. "The warmth goes to my head, love has gone to my head, I am full of happiness. I could strip myself naked here on the road and stretch out my arms to the sun and send it kisses."

But the black-clad mother is silent and neither smiles nor makes reply.

"Are you still sorrowing for your little girl?" asks the Blue one in the innocence of her heart. "Is it not ten years since she died?"

The Black one answers:

"Yes. She would have been fifteen now."

Then the Blue one says to console her:

"But you have other daughters alive, you have two left."

The Black one sobs:

"Yes. But neither of them is fair. She who died was so fair and bright."

And the two mothers part and go their several ways, each with her love....

But the same two dark daughters had also, each her love, and they loved the same man.

He came to the elder and said:

"I wish to ask your advice, for I love your sister. Yesterday I was untrue to her, she surprised me kissing your servant girl in the passage; she gave a little scream, it was like a whimper, and passed by. What am I to do now? I love your sister; for Heaven's sake speak to her and help me!"

And the elder sister paled and put her hand to her heart; but she smiled as though she would bless him and answered:

"I will help you."

The next day he went to the younger and threw himself on his knees before her and confessed his love.

She looked him up and down and answered:

"Unfortunately I can't spare more than ten shillings, if that is what you mean. But go to my sister, she has more."

With that she left him, holding her head proudly.

But when she had reached her room she threw herself upon the floor and wrung her hands with love.

It was winter and the streets were cold, with fog, dust and wind. Johannes was back in town, in his old room where he heard the creaking of the poplars against the wooden wall and from whose window he had more than once greeted the dawning day. Now the sun was gone.

His work had occupied him the whole time, the big sheets he had filled, growing and growing as the winter wore on. It was a series of fairy tales from the land of his fancy, an endless night in a crimson sunset glow.

But the days were not all alike, he had both good and bad, and sometimes when his work was going best, a thought, a pair of eyes, a word from the past might strike him and quench his inspiration at once. Then he got up and began to pace his room from wall to wall; he had done that so often that he had worn a white path across the floor and it grew whiter every day....

"Today, as I cannot work, cannot think, cannot rest for memories, I will set myself to describe what befell me one night. Dear Reader, today I have had such a terribly bad day. It is snowing outside, there are scarcely any people in the streets, everything is dismal and my soul is so fearfully desolate. I have been walking in the street and then for hours in my room and have tried to compose myself a little; but now it is afternoon, and I am no better. I who should be warm am cold and pale like a sunless day. Dear Reader, in this state I am trying to describe a bright and thrilling night. For work forces calm upon me and when a few more hours are past I shall perhaps be happy again...."

There was a knock at the door and Camilla Seier, his young secret fiancé, came in. He put down his pen and got up. They both smiled as they shook hands.

"You don't ask me about the ball," she said at once, throwing herself into a chair. "I danced every single dance. It lasted till three o'clock. I danced with Richmond."

"Thank you so much for coming, Camilla. I am so miserably depressed and you are so cheerful; that will help me. Fancy, and what did you wear at the ball?"

"Red, of course. Oh dear, I can't remember, but I must have talked a lot and laughed a lot. It was so jolly. Yes, I was in red, no sleeves, not a hint of them. Richmond is at the Legation in London."

"I see."

"His people are English, but he was born here. What have you been doing to your eyes? They're so red. Have you been crying?"

"No," he answered with a laugh; "but I have been staring into my stories and there is so much sunshine there. Camilla, if you want to be a really nice girl, don't tear up that paper any more than you have done."

"Oh I say, how absent-minded I am. Excuse me, Johannes."

"It doesn't matter; it is only some notes. But let's hear now: I suppose you had a rose in your hair?"

"Oh yes! A red rose; it was almost black. I'll tell you what, Johannes, we might go to London for our wedding trip. It isn't nearly so awful as people say and it's all nonsense about the fogs."

"Who told you that?"

"Richmond. He said so last night, and he knows. You know Richmond, don't you?"

"No, I don't know him. He once proposed my health; he had diamond studs in his shirt. That's all I remember about him."

"He's simply sweet. Oh, when he came up and bowed and said: I expect you hardly remember me.... Do you know, I gave him the rose."

"Did you though? What rose?"

"The one I had in my hair. I gave it him."

"You must have been very taken with Richmond."

She turned red and protested warmly:

"Not a bit, far from it. Surely one can like a person, think them nice, without.... For shame, Johannes, are you mad? I shall never mention his name again."

"But, bless me, my dear Camilla, I didn't mean ... you mustn't think.... On the contrary, I should like to thank him for having entertained you."

"Yes, you just do it—you dare! For my part I'll never say another word to him as long as I live."

Pause.

"Well, well, let's say no more about it," he said. "Are you going already?"

"Yes, I can't stay any longer. How far have you got with your work now? Mamma asked about it. Fancy, I haven't seen Victoria for several weeks and I met her just now."

"Just now?"

"As I was coming here. She smiled. But my goodness, how she has changed! Look here, aren't you coming to see us soon?"

"Yes, soon," he answered, jumping up. A flush had spread over his face. "Perhaps in a day or two. I have to write something first, I've just thought of it, a conclusion to my tales. Oh, I shall write something, I tell you! Imagine the world as seen from above, like a rare and splendid pontifical robe. In its folds people are walking about; they walk in couples, it is evening and calm, the hour of love. I shall call it 'The Race.' I think it will be great; I have had this vision so often, and every time I feel as if my breast would burst and I could embrace the earth. There they are, men and women, beasts and birds and all of them have their hour of love, Camilla. A wave of rapture is at hand, their eyes grow more ardent, their bosoms heave. Then a fine blush rises from the earth; it is the blush of bashfulness from all their naked hearts, and the night is stained a rosy red. But far away in the background lie the great sleeping mountains; they have seen nothing and heard nothing. And in the morning God throws his warm sun over all. 'The Race' I shall call it."

"I see."

"Yes. And then I'll come when I've finished it. Thank you so much for coming here, Camilla. And don't think any more about what I said. I didn't mean any harm by it."

"I'm not thinking about it at all. But I shall never mention his name again. Never."

The next morning Camilla came again. She was pale and in an unusual state of excitement.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked.

"Me? Nothing," she answered quickly. "It's you I am fond of. You really mustn't think there's anything the matter with me and that I'm not fond of you. No, now I'll tell you what I've been thinking: we won't go to London. What do we want there? He can't have known what he was talking about, that man, there's more fog than he thinks. You're looking at me, what makes you do that? I never mentioned his name. Such a storyteller, he filled me up with lies; we won't go to London."

He looked at her, studied her attentively.

"No, we won't go to London," he said thoughtfully.

"That's all right! So that's settled. Have you written that thing about the Race? I'm so frightfully interested. You must get it finished very quickly and come and see us, Johannes. The hour of love, wasn't that it? And a lovely papal robe with folds, and a rosy red night; heavens, how well I remember what you told me about it. I haven't been here so often lately, but now I'm going to come every day to hear whether you've finished."

"I shall soon have finished," he said, still looking at her.

"Today I fetched your books and took them into my own room. I wanted to read them over again; it won't tire me the least, I'm looking forward to it. Look here, Johannes, you might be so kind as to see me home; I don't know whether it's quite safe for me all the way home. I don't know. Perhaps there's somebody waiting for me outside here, somebody walking up and down perhaps...." Suddenly she burst into tears and stammered: "I called him a storyteller, I didn't mean to say that. I'm sorry I said it. He hasn't told me lies, on the contrary he was all the time.... We're going to have some friends on Tuesday, but he's not coming, but you must come, do you hear? Will you promise? But all the same I didn't want to say anything bad about him. I don't know what you think of me...."

He answered:

"I am beginning to understand you."

She threw herself on his neck, hid her face on his breast, trembling with agitation.

"Oh, but I'm fond of you too," she exclaimed. "You mustn't think anything else. I don't love only him, it isn't so bad as that. When you asked me last year I was so glad; but now he has come. I don't understand it. Is it so awful of me, Johannes? Perhaps I love him a tiny bit more than you; I can't help it, it has come over me. O dear, I haven't slept for several nights since I saw him and I love him more and more. What am I to do? You are so much older, you must tell me. He walked here with me, he's standing outside waiting to see me home again and now perhaps he's cold. Do you despise me, Johannes? I haven't kissed him; no, I haven't, you must believe me; I've only given him my rose. Why don't you answer, Johannes? You must tell me what I'm to do, for I can't bear it any longer."

Johannes sat quite still and listened to her. He said:

"I have nothing to answer."

"Thanks, thanks, dear Johannes, it is so good of you not to be wild with me," she said, drying her tears. "But you mustn't think I'm not fond of you too. Goodness! I shall come and see you much oftener than I have done and do everything you want. But the only thing is that it's he I'm more fond of. It wasn't my doing. It's not my fault."

He got up in silence, put his hat on and said:

"Shall we go?"

They went downstairs.

Outside stood Richmond. He was a dark-haired young man with brown eyes that sparkled with youth and life. The frost had reddened his cheeks.

"Are you cold?" said Camilla, flying up to him.

Her voice trembled with emotion. Suddenly she hurried back to Johannes, put her arm through his and said:

"Excuse me for not asking whether you were cold. You didn't put on your overcoat; shall I go up and get it? No? Well, anyhow button your jacket."

She buttoned his jacket.

Johannes offered his hand to Richmond. He was in a strangely absent mood, as though what was happening did not concern him. He gave an uncertain half-smile and muttered:

"Glad to meet you again."

Richmond showed no sign of guilt or of dissimulation. As he shook hands the pleasure of recognition flashed across his face and he made a polite bow.

"I saw one of your books the other day in a shop-window in London," he said. "It had been translated. It was so jolly to see it there, like a message from home."

Camilla walked in the middle and looked up at each of them in turn. At last she said:

"Then you'll come on Tuesday, Johannes. Oh, excuse me for thinking only of my own affairs," she added with a laugh. But the next moment she repented and turned to Richmond, asking him to come too. He would only meet people he knew, Victoria and her mother were asked, besides them only about a dozen were coming.

Suddenly Johannes stopped and said:

"After all I may just as well go back."

"See you on Tuesday," Camilla answered.

Richmond took his hand and pressed it sincerely.

So the two young people went on their way, alone and happy.

XII

The blue-clad Mother was in the most terrible suspense; every moment she expected a signal from the garden and the coast was not clear, nobody could come through it so long as her husband would not leave the house. Ah, that husband, that husband, with his forty years and his bald head! What sinister thoughts could they be that made him so pale this evening and kept him sitting in his chair, immovably, inexorably, staring at his paper?

She had not a minute's peace; now it was eleven o'clock. The children she had put to bed long ago; but the husband did not budge. What if the signal came? The door would be opened with the dear little latch-key—and two men would meet, stand face to face and look into each other's eyes! She dared not finish the thought.

She went away to the darkest corner of the room, wrung her hands, and at last said straight out:

"Now it's eleven. If you are going to the club you must go now."

He got up at once, even paler than before, and went out of the room, out of the house.

Outside the garden he stopped and listened to a whistle, a little signal. Steps were heard on the gravel, a key was put into the latch and turned—a moment later there were two shadows on the drawing-room blind.

And he recognized the signal, the steps and the two shadows on the blind, none of it was new to him.

He went to the club. It was open, there were lights in the windows; but he did not go in. For half an hour he roamed about the streets and in front of his garden, an endless half-hour. Let me wait another quarter of an hour, he thought, and he prolonged it to three quarters. Then he entered the garden, went up the steps and rang at his own door.

The maid came and opened it, just put her head out and said:

"Madam has long since...."

Then she stopped and saw who he was.

"I know, gone to bed," he answered. "Will you tell your mistress that her husband has come home."

And the maid went. She knocked at her mistress's room and gave the message through the closed door:

"I was to say that the master has come back."

Her mistress asked from within:

"What do you say, is your master come back? Who told you to say so?"

"The master himself. He's standing outside."

There are sounds of sore distraction in the mistress's room, hurried whispers, a door opening and closing again. Then all is still.

And the master walks in. His wife receives him with death in her heart.

"The club was shut," he says at once, from pity and compassion. "I sent you a message so as not to alarm you."

She falls into a chair, comforted, relieved, saved. The blissful feeling makes her kind heart overflow and she is solicitous about her husband:

"You are so pale. Is there anything wrong with you, dear?"

"I am not cold," he answers.

"But has anything happened? Your face looks so strangely drawn."

The husband answers:

"No, I'm smiling. This is going to be my way of smiling. I want this grimace to be my special property."

She listens to his short, hoarse words and doesn't understand them, can't make them out at all. What can he mean?

But suddenly he throws his arms around her with a grip of iron, with terrible force, and whispers close against her face:

"What do you say to giving him a pair of horns ... the man who's just gone ... give him a pair of horns, eh?"

She utters a scream and calls the maid. He lets her go with a quiet, dry laugh, with his mouth agape and slapping both his thighs.

In the morning the wife's kind heart is again uppermost and she says to her husband:

"You had an extraordinary attack last night; it's over now, but you're still pale today."

"Yes," he replies, "it takes it out of one to be witty at my age. I'll never do it again."

But, after having spoken of many kinds of Love, Friar Vendt tells of yet another kind and says:

What rapture there is in one kind of Love!

The young Lord and Lady had just come home, their long wedding tour was at an end and they settled down to rest.

A shooting star fell above their roof.

In summer the young couple walked together and never left each other's side. They plucked flowers, yellow, red and blue, and gave them to each other; they saw the grass swaying in the wind and heard the birds singing in the woods, and every word they spoke was like a caress. In winter they drove with bells on their horses and the sky was blue and high above them, the stars coursed over their everlasting plains.

Thus passed many, many years. The young couple had three children and their hearts loved one another as on the first day, in the first kiss.

Then the proud Lord fell sick, of the sickness that chained him to his bed so long and put his wife's patience to so stern a proof. The day he was well and arose from his bed he did not know himself again; the sickness had disfigured him and taken away his hair.

He suffered and brooded over it. Then one morning he said:

"Now you cannot love me any more."

But his wife threw her arms about him, blushing, and kissed him as passionately as in the springtime of their youth and answered:

"I love you, love you still. I will never forget that it was I and no other whom you chose and made so happy."

And she went into her chamber and cut off all her yellow hair, to be like her husband whom she loved.

And again many, many years went by, the young couple were now old and their children were grown up. They shared every happiness as before; in summer they still walked in the fields and saw the waving grass and in the winter they wrapped themselves in furs and drove beneath the starry sky. And their hearts continued warm and glad as with a marvellous wine.

The Lady was paralysed. The old Lady could not walk, she had to be drawn in a wheeled chair and the Lord himself drew her. But the Lady suffered so unspeakably from her misfortune and her face was deeply furrowed with sorrow.

Then she said one day:

"Now I would gladly die. I am so helpless and ugly and your face is so handsome, you cannot kiss me any more and you cannot love me as you used."

But her Lord embraced her, red with emotion, and answered:

"I love you more, more than my life, my dear one, love you as the first day, the first hour, when you gave me the rose. Do you remember? You handed me the rose and looked at me with your beautiful eyes; the rose smelt like you, you blushed like it and all my senses were intoxicated. But now I love you even more, you are more beautiful than in your youth and my heart thanks you and blesses you for every day you have been mine."

The Lord went into his chamber, threw acid on his face to disfigure it, and said to his wife:

"I have had the misfortune to get some acid on my face, my cheeks are covered with burns, and now you cannot love me any more?"

"Oh, my bridegroom, my beloved!" faltered the old woman, kissing his hands. "You are more beautiful than any man on earth, your voice kindles my heart even today and I love you till death."

XIII

Johannes met Camilla in the street; she was with her mother, her father and Young Richmond; they stopped their carriage and talked to him in a friendly way.

Camilla clutched his arm and said:

"You didn't come to our party. We had a great time, I can tell you; we were expecting you to the very last, but you didn't come."

"I was prevented," he replied.

"Excuse me for not having been to see you since," she went on. "I shall come one of these days, for certain, when Richmond has gone away. Oh, what a time we had! Victoria was taken ill, she was driven home, have you heard? I'm going up to her directly. I expect she's much better, quite well again perhaps. I've given Richmond a medallion, almost the same as yours. Look here, Johannes, you must promise me to look after your stove; when you're writing you forget everything and your room gets as cold as ice. You must ring for the girl."

"Yes, I'll ring for the girl," he answered.

Mrs. Seier spoke to him too, asked about his work, that piece about the Race, how was it getting on? She was eagerly looking forward to his next book.

Johannes gave the necessary answers, bowed very low and watched the carriage drive away. How little all this concerned him, this carriage, these people, this chatter! A cold and empty feeling came upon him and haunted him all the way home. Outside his doorway a man was walking up and down, an old acquaintance, the former Tutor at the Castle.

Johannes greeted him.

He was dressed in a long, warm overcoat which was carefully brushed and there was a brisk and decided air about him.

"Here you see your friend and colleague," he said. "Give me your hand, young man. God has guided my ways marvellously since we last met; I am married, I have a home, a little garden, a wife. The days of miracles are not yet past. Have you any observation to make on my last remark?"

Johannes looked at him in surprise.

"Agreed then. Yes, you see, I was giving lessons to her son. She has a son, a young hopeful from her first marriage; of course she has been married before, she was a widow. You see, I married a widow. You may object that this was not arranged by my fairy godmother; but there it is, I married a widow. The young hopeful she had already. It was like this, I go there and look at the garden and the widow and for a while I am absorbed in intense thought on the subject. Suddenly I have it and I say to myself: well, I dare say it wasn't promised by your fairy godmother and all that; but I'll do it all the same, I take it, for it was probably written in the book of fate. You see, that's how it came about."

"Congratulations!" said Johannes.

"Stop! not a word more. I know what you're going to say. What about the first one, you will say, have you forgotten the eternal love of your youth? That's exactly what you will say. May I then ask you, my good sir, in my turn, what became of my first, only and eternal love? Didn't she take a captain in the artillery? Moreover I will ask you another little question: have you ever, ever seen a case of a man getting the one he should have got? I haven't. There's a legend about a man whose prayers God heard in the matter, so that he was given his first and only love. But he didn't get much satisfaction out of it. Why not? you will ask again, and behold, I answer you: for the simple reason that she died immediately after—immediately after, do you hear? ha-ha-ha, instantly. So it is always. Naturally one doesn't get the right woman, but if it happens once in a while out of pure cussedness, then she dies straight away. There's always some trick in it. So then the man is reduced to providing himself with another love of the best available sort and there's no reason why he should die of the change. I tell you, Nature has ordained it so wisely that he bears it remarkably well. Just look at me."

Johannes said:

"I can see that you're doing well."

"Excellently for that matter. Look, feel and listen! Has a set of unenticing troubles swept over my person? I have clothes, shoes, house and home, wife and children—well, the hopeful anyhow. What was I saying?—with regard to my poetry I'll answer the question on the spot. Oh, my young colleague, I am older than you and perhaps a little better equipped by Nature. I keep my poems in a drawer. They are to be published after my death. But then you get no pleasure out of them, you will object? You are wrong again there, for in the meantime I delight my household with them. In the evening when the lamp is lit I unlock the drawer, take out my poems and read them aloud to my wife and the hopeful. One is forty, the other twelve, they are both enchanted. If you come and see us one day you will find supper and toddy. Now I've invited you. God preserve you from death."

He gave Johannes his hand. Suddenly he asked:

"Have you heard about Victoria?"

"About Victoria? No. Oh yes, I heard just now, a moment ago...."

"Haven't you seen her declining, getting greyer and greyer under the eyes?"

"I haven't seen her since last spring at home. Is she still ill?"

The Tutor answered in a comically hard voice, stamping his foot:

"Yes."

"I heard just now.... No, I haven't seen her declining, I haven't met her. Is she very ill?"

"Very. Probably dead by now, you understand."

Johannes gave a stunned look at the man, then at his door, wondered whether he should go in or stay where he was; looked at the man again, at his long coat, his hat; and he smiled in a confused and painful way like one in distress.

The old Tutor resumed in a threatening tone:

"Another example; can you get away from it? She did not get the right one either, her sweet-heart from childhood's days, a splendid young Lieutenant. He went shooting one evening, a shot hit him right in the forehead and blew his head to pieces. There he lay, a victim of the little trick God had a mind to play with him. Victoria, his bride, began to decline, a worm was preying on her, cribbling her heart like a sieve; we, her friends, could see it. Then a few days ago she went to a party, to some people named Seier; by the bye, she told me you were to have been there too, but didn't come. Be that as it may, at this party she overtaxes her strength, thoughts of her beloved rush in upon her and she is lively from sheer bravado; she dances, dances the whole evening, dances like a mad person. Then she falls, the floor turns red under her; they lift her up, carry her out, drive her home. She was near the end."

The Tutor went close up to Johannes and said in a hard voice:

"Victoria is dead."

Johannes began fending vaguely with his arms just like a blind man.

"Dead? When did she die? Do you say Victoria is dead?"

"She is dead," replied the Tutor. "She died this morning, this very forenoon." He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a thick letter. "And she confided this letter to me to hand to you. Here it is. After my death, she said. She is dead. I hand you this letter. My mission is ended."

And without taking leave, without a word more, the Tutor turned and strolled slowly down the street and vanished.

Johannes was left with the letter in his hand. Victoria was dead. He spoke her name aloud again and again and his voice was without feeling, almost callous. He looked at the letter and recognized the writing; there were big and small letters, the lines were straight, and she who had written them was dead!

Then he entered his doorway, went upstairs, found the right key to put into his latch and opened his door. His room was cold and dark. He sat down in the window and read Victoria's letter by the last of the daylight.

"Dear Johannes," she wrote. "When you read this letter I shall be dead. Everything is so strange to me now, I am no longer ashamed to write to you again as though nothing had happened to prevent it. Before, while I was altogether among the living, I would rather have suffered night and day than written to you again; but now I have begun to pass away I do not think so any longer. Strangers have seen me bleed, the Doctor has examined me and found that I have only a shred of a lung left; what is there to hold me back now?

"I have been thinking as I lay here in bed of the last words I said to you. It was that evening in the wood. I never thought then that they would be my last words, for then I would have said good-bye to you at the same time and thanked you. Now I shall never see you again, so now I am sorry I did not throw myself down and kiss your shoe and the ground you trod on, to show you how unspeakably I have loved you. I have lain here both yesterday and today wishing I could be just well enough to go home again and walk in the wood and find the place where we sat when you held both my hands; for then I could lie down there and see if I could find the trace of you and kiss all the heather about. But I cannot come home now, unless, as Mamma thinks, I may possibly get a little better.

"Dear Johannes, it is so curious to think that all I have ever been able to do was to come into the world and love you and now say good-bye to life. It is strange indeed to lie here waiting for the day and the hour. I am moving step by step away from life and the people in the street and the noise of the traffic; I shall never see spring again either, and these houses and streets and the trees in the Park I shall leave behind. Today I was allowed to sit up in bed and look out of the window a little while. Down at the corner I saw two people meet, they stopped and shook hands and laughed at what they said; but it seemed so strange to me that I who lay and watched them was to die. It made me think—of course those two people do not know that I am lying here waiting for my hour; but if they did know it they would still stop and talk just as they are doing now. Last night when it was dark I thought my last hour had come, my heart began to stand still and I seemed to hear already the distant roar of eternity coming towards me. But the next moment I was back from somewhere a long way off and began to breathe again. It was a feeling I can't describe at all. Mamma thinks it was perhaps only the river and the waterfall at home that were in my mind.

"O God, if you knew how I have loved you, Johannes. I have not been able to show it to you, so many things have come in my way, and above all my own nature. Papa was hard on himself in the same way and I am his daughter. But now that I am to die and it is all too late, I write to you once more and tell you so. I ask myself why I do it, as it cannot make any difference to you, especially as I shall not even be alive any more; but I want so much to be near you to the last so that I may not feel more lonely than before, at any rate. When you read this it is as though I can see your shoulders and hands and watch every movement you make as you hold the letter before you and read it. So we are not so far from each other, I think to myself. I cannot send for you, I have no right to do that. Mamma would have sent for you two days ago, but I would rather write. And I would rather you should remember me as I was once, before I began to be ill. I remember you ... [here some words are omitted] ... my eyes and eye-brows; but even they are not as they were. That is another reason why I would not have you come. And I will ask you not to see me in my coffin either. I expect I am much the same as when I was alive, only a little paler, and I am lying in a yellow dress; but still you would regret it if you came and saw me.

"Now I have been writing at this letter so many times today and yet I have not been able to say a thousandth part of what I wanted to say. It is so terrible for me to die, I do not want to, I am still hoping so fervently to God that perhaps I might get a little better, if only till the spring. Then the days are light and there are leaves on the trees. If I got well again now I would never be unkind to you any more, Johannes. How I have cried and thought about that! Oh, I would go out and stroke all the stones in the street and stop and thank every step of the stairs as I went by and be good to all. It would not matter how badly off I was if I might only live. I should never complain again about anything; no, I would smile at any one who attacked me and struck me and thank and praise God if I might live. My life is so unlived, I have not been able to do anything for anybody, and this failure of a life is to end now. If you knew how unwilling I was to die perhaps you would do something, do all in your power. I don't suppose you can do anything; but I thought that if you and every one else prayed for me and would not let me go then God would grant me life. Oh, how thankful I should be, I would never do harm to any one again, but smile at whatever fell to my lot, if only I were allowed to live.

"Mamma is sitting here crying. She sat here all night and cried for me. That does me a little good, it softens the bitterness of my going. And today I was thinking—how would you take it, I wonder, if I came straight up to you in the street one day when I was nicely dressed, and did not say anything to hurt you as I have done, but gave you a rose which I had bought on purpose? Then the next moment I remembered that I could never again do what I wanted; for I can never be well again before I die. I cry so often, I lie still and cry ceaselessly and inconsolably; it does not hurt my chest if I do not sob. Johannes, dear, dear friend, my only beloved on earth, come to me now and be here a little while when it begins to grow dark. I shall not cry then, but smile as well as I am able, from sheer joy at your coming.

"Ah, where are my pride and my courage! I am not my father's daughter now; but this is because my strength has left me. I have suffered for a long time, Johannes, long before these last days. When you were abroad I suffered, and afterwards, since I came to town in the spring I have done nothing but suffer every day. I have never known before how infinitely long the night can be. I have seen you twice in the street during this time; once you were humming as you passed me, but you did not see me. I had hope of seeing you at the Seiers'; but you did not come. I should not have spoken to you or come quite close to you, but should have been grateful to be able to look at you a long way off. But you did not come. Then I thought perhaps it was on my account you kept away. At eleven o'clock I began to dance because I could not bear to wait any longer. Ah, Johannes, I have loved you, loved only you all my life. It is Victoria who writes this and God is reading it over my shoulder.

"And now I must say good-bye, it is nearly dark and I cannot see any more. Good-bye, Johannes, thanks for every day. When I fly away from earth I shall still thank you to the last and say your name to myself all the way. Farewell, be happy all your life and forgive me the wrong I have done you and that I could not throw myself at your feet and beg your forgiveness. I do so now in my heart. Farewell, Johannes, and good-bye for ever. And thanks once more for every single day and hour. I can no more.