In a life so outwardly barren and monotonous as Augusta’s--a life in
which the small external events were so firmly interwoven with the
subtler threads of yearnings, wants, and desires--the introduction of
so large and novel a fact as Marcus Strand would naturally produce some
perceptible result. It was that deplorable inward restlessness of hers,
she reasoned, which had hitherto made her existence seem so empty and
unsatisfactory; but now his presence filled the hours, and the newness
of his words, his manner, and his whole person afforded inexhaustible
material for thought. It was now a week since his arrival, and while
Arnfinn and Inga chatted at leisure, drew caricatures, or read aloud to
each other in some shady nook of the garden, she and Strand would roam
along the beach, filling the vast unclouded horizon with large
glowing images of the future of the human race. He always listened
in sympathetic silence while she unfolded to him her often childishly
daring schemes for the amelioration of suffering and the righting of
social wrongs; and when she had finished, and he met the earnest appeal
of her dark eye, there would often be a pause, during which each, with
a half unconscious lapse from the impersonal, would feel more keenly the
joy of this new and delicious mental companionship. And when at length
he answered, sometimes gently refuting and sometimes assenting to her
proposition, it was always with a slow, deliberate earnestness, as if
he felt but her deep sincerity, and forgot for the moment her sex, her
youth, and her inexperience. It was just this kind of fellowship for
which she had hungered so long, and her heart went out with a great
gratitude toward this strong and generous man, who was willing to
recognize her humanity, and to respond with an ever-ready frankness,
unmixed with petty suspicions and second thoughts, to the eager needs of
her half-starved nature. It is quite characteristic, too, of the type of
womanhood which Augusta represents (and with which this broad continent
of ours abounds), that, with her habitual disregard of appearances, she
would have scorned the notion that their intercourse had any ultimate
end beyond that of mutual pleasure and instruction.
It was early in the morning in the third week of Strand’s stay at
the Parsonage. A heavy dew had fallen during the night, and each tiny
grass-blade glistened in the sun, bending under the weight of its liquid
diamond. The birds were improvising a miniature symphony in the
birches at the end of the garden; the song-thrush warbled with a sweet
melancholy his long-drawn contralto notes; the lark, like a prima donna,
hovering conspicuously in mid air, poured forth her joyous soprano solo;
and the robin, quite unmindful of the tempo, filled out the pauses with
his thoughtless staccato chirp. Augusta, who was herself the early bird
of the pastor’s family, had paid a visit to the little bath-house
down at the brook, and was now hurrying homeward, her heavy black hair
confined in a delicate muslin hood, and her lithe form hastily wrapped
in a loose morning gown. She had paused for a moment under the birches
to listen to the song of the lark, when suddenly a low, half articulate
sound, very unlike the voice of a bird, arrested her attention; she
raised her eyes, and saw Strand sitting in the top of a tree, apparently
conversing with himself, or with some tiny thing which he held in his
hands.
“Ah, yes, you poor little sickly thing!” she heard him mutter. “Don’t
you make such an ado now. You shall soon be quite well, if you will only
mind what I tell you. Stop, stop! Take it easy. It is all for your own
good, you know. If you had only been prudent, and not stepped on your
lame leg, you might have been spared this affliction. But, after all, it
was not your fault--it was that foolish little mother of yours. She will
remember now that a skein of hemp thread is not the thing to line her
nest with. If she doesn’t, you may tell her that it was I who said so.”
Augusta stood gazing on in mute astonishment; then, suddenly remembering
her hasty toilet, she started to run; but, as chance would have it, a
dry branch, which hung rather low, caught at her hood, and her hair fell
in a black wavy stream down over her shoulders. She gave a little
cry, the tree shook violently, and Strand was at her side. She blushed
crimson over neck and face, and, in her utter bewilderment, stood like a
culprit before him, unable to move, unable to speak, and only returning
with a silent bow his cordial greeting. It seemed to her that she had
ungenerously intruded upon his privacy, watching him, while he thought
himself unobserved. And Augusta was quite unskilled in those social
accomplishments which enable young ladies to hide their inward emotions
under a show of polite indifference, for, however hard she strove,
she could not suppress a slight quivering of her lips, and her intense
self-reproach made Strand’s words fall dimly on her ears, and prevented
her from gathering the meaning of what he was saying. He held in his
hands a young bird with a yellow line along the edge of its bill (and
there was something beautifully soft and tender in the way those large
palms of his handled any living thing), and he looked pityingly at it
while he spoke.
“The mother of this little linnet,” he said, smiling, “did what
many foolish young mothers are apt to do. She took upon her the
responsibility of raising offspring without having acquired the
necessary knowledge of housekeeping. So she lined her nest with hemp,
and the consequence was, that her first-born got his legs entangled, and
was obliged to remain in the nest long after his wings had reached their
full development. I saw her feeding him about a week ago, and, as my
curiosity prompted me to look into the case, I released the little
cripple, cleansed the deep wound which the threads had cut in his flesh,
and have since been watching him during his convalescence. Now he is
quite in a fair way, but I had to apply some salve, and to cut off the
feathers about the wound, and the little fool squirmed under the pain,
and grew rebellious. Only notice this scar, if you please, Miss Oddson,
and you may imagine what the poor thing must have suffered.”
Augusta gave a start; she timidly raised her eyes, and saw Strand’s
grave gaze fixed upon her. She felt as if some intolerable spell had
come over her, and, as her agitation increased, her power of speech
seemed utterly to desert her.
“Ah, you have not been listening to me?” said Strand, in a tone of
wondering inquiry. “Pardon me for presuming to believe that my little
invalid could be as interesting to you as he is to me.”
“Mr. Strand,” stammered the girl, while the invisible tears came near
choking her voice. “Mr. Strand--I didn’t mean--really--”
She knew that if she said another word she should burst into tears. With
a violent effort, she gathered up her wrapper, which somehow had got
unbuttoned at the neck, and, with heedlessly hurrying steps, darted away
toward the house.
Strand stood looking after her, quite unmindful of his feathered
patient, which flew chirping about him in the grass. Two hours later
Arnfinn found him sitting under the birches with his hands clasped
over the top of his head, and his surgical instruments scattered on the
ground around him.
“Corpo di Baccho,” exclaimed the student, stooping to pick up the
precious tools; “have you been amputating your own head, or is it I who
am dreaming?”
“Ah,” murmured Strand, lifting a large, strange gaze upon his friend,
“is it you?”
“Who else should it be? I come to call you to breakfast.”