“I can't understand you,” she answered in surprise. “You saw all I had
been doing--how could I come and see you at the same time?”
“No,” I agreed; “perhaps you couldn't.” I was sick and exhausted with
want of sleep, my speech grew meaningless and uncontrolled; I had been
miserable the whole day. “No, of course you could not come. But I was
going to say ... in a word, something has changed; there is something
wrong. Yes. But I cannot read in your face what it is. There is
something very strange about your brow, Edwarda. Yes, I can see it now.”
“But I have not forgotten you,” she cried, blushing, and slipped her arm
suddenly into mine.
“No? Well, perhaps you have not forgotten me. But if so, then I do not
know what I am saying. One or the other.”
“You shall have an invitation to-morrow. You must dance with me. Oh, how
we will dance!”
“Will you go a little way with me?” I asked.
“Now? No, I can't,” she answered. “The Doctor will be here presently.
He's going to help me with something; there is a good deal still to be
done. And you think the room will look all right as it is? But don't you
think...?”
A carriage stops outside.
“Is the Doctor driving to-day?” I ask.
“Yes, I sent a horse for him. I wanted to ...”
“Spare his bad foot, yes. Well, I must be off. _Goddag, Goddag_, Doctor.
Pleased to see you again. Well and fit, I hope? Excuse my running
off...”
Once down the steps outside, I turned round. Edwarda was standing at
the window watching me; she stood holding the curtains aside with both
hands, to see; and her look was thoughtful. A foolish joy thrilled me; I
hurried away from the house light-footed, with a darkness shading my
eyes; my gun was light as a walking-stick in my hand. If I could win
her, I should become a good man, I thought. I reached the woods and
thought again: If I might win her, I would serve her more untiringly
than any other; and even if she proved unworthy, if she took a fancy to
demand impossibilities, I would yet do all that I could, and be glad
that she was mine... I stopped, fell on my knees, and in humility and
hope licked a few blades of grass by the roadside, and then got up
again.
At last I began to feel almost sure. Her altered behavior of late--it
was only her manner. She had stood looking after me when I went; stood
at the window following with her eyes till I disappeared. What more
could she do? My delight upset me altogether; I was hungry, and no
longer felt it.
Æsop ran on ahead; a moment afterward he began to bark. I looked up; a
woman with a white kerchief on her head was standing by the corner of
the hut. It was Eva, the blacksmith's daughter.
“_Goddag_, Eva!” I called to her.
She stood by the big grey stone, her face all red, sucking one finger.
“Is it you, Eva? What is the matter?” I asked.
“Æsop has bitten me,” she answered, with some awkwardness, and cast down
her eyes.
I looked at her finger. She had bitten it herself. A thought flashed
into my mind, and I asked her:
“Have you been waiting here long?”
“No, not very long,” she answered.
And without a word more from either of us, I took her by the hand and
let her into the hut.