“I wonder what is up between Strand and Augusta?” said Arnfinn to his
cousin Inga. The questioner was lying in the grass at her feet, resting
his chin on his palms, and gazing with roguishly tender eyes up into
her fresh, blooming face; but Inga, who was reading aloud from “David
Copperfield,” and was deep in the matrimonial tribulations of that noble
hero, only said “hush,” and continued reading. Arnfinn, after a minute’s
silence, repeated his remark, whereupon his fair cousin wrenched his
cane out of his hand, and held it threateningly over his head.
“Will you be a good boy and listen?” she exclaimed, playfully
emphasizing each word with a light rap on his curly pate.
“Ouch! that hurts,” cried Arnfinn, and dodged.
“It was meant to hurt,” replied Inga, with mock severity, and returned
to “Copperfield.”
Presently the seed of a corn-flower struck the tip of her nose, and
again the cane was lifted; but Dora’s housekeeping experiences were
too absorbingly interesting, and the blue eyes could not resist their
fascination.
“Cousin Inga,” said Arnfinn, and this time with as near an approach
to earnestness as he was capable of at that moment, “I do believe that
Strand is in love with Augusta.”
Inga dropped the book, and sent him what was meant to be a glance of
severe rebuke, and then said, in her own amusingly emphatic way:
“I do wish you wouldn’t joke with such things, Arnfinn.”
“Joke! Indeed I am not joking. I wish to heaven that I were. What a pity
it is that she has taken such a dislike to him!”
“Dislike! Oh, you are a profound philosopher, you are! You think that
because she avoids--”
Here Inga abruptly clapped her hand over her mouth, and, with sudden
change of voice and expression, said:
“I am as silent as the grave.”
“Yes, you are wonderfully discreet,” cried Arnfinn, laughing, while the
girl bit her under lip with an air of penitence and mortification which,
in any other bosom than a cousin’s would have aroused compassion.
“Aha! So steht’s!” he broke forth, with another burst of merriment;
then, softened by the sight of a tear that was slowly gathering beneath
her eyelashes, he checked his laughter, crept up to her side, and in a
half childishly coaxing, half caressing tone, he whispered:
“Dear little cousin, indeed I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You are
not angry with me, are you? And if you will only promise me not to tell,
I have something here which I should like to show you.”
He well knew that there was nothing which would sooner soothe Inga’s
wrath than confiding a secret to her; and while he was a boy, he had,
in cases of sore need, invented secrets lest his life should be made
miserable by the sense that she was displeased with him. In this
instance her anger was not strong enough to resist the anticipation of
a secret, probably relating to that little drama which had, during
the last weeks, been in progress under her very eyes. With a resolute
movement, she brushed her tears away, bent eagerly forward, and, in the
next moment, her face was all expectancy and animation.
Arnfinn pulled a thick black note-book from his breast pocket, opened it
in his lap, and read:
“August 3, 5 A. M.--My little invalid is doing finely; he seemed to
relish much a few dozen flies which I brought him in my hand. His pulse
is to-day, for the first time, normal. He is beginning to step on the
injured leg without apparent pain.
“10 A. M.--Miss Augusta’s eyes have a strange, lustrous brilliancy
whenever she speaks of subjects which seem to agitate the depths of
her being. How and why is it that an excessive amount of feeling always
finds its first expression in the eye? One kind of emotion seems to
widen the pupil, another kind to contract it. TO be noticed in future,
how particular emotions affect the eye.
“6 P. M.--I met a plover on the beach this afternoon. By imitating his
cry, I induced him to come within a few feet of me. The plover, as
his cry indicates, is a very melancholy bird. In fact I believe the
melancholy temperament to be prevailing among the wading birds, as
the phlegmatic among birds of prey. The singing birds are choleric
or sanguine. Tease a thrush, or even a lark, and you will soon be
convinced. A snipe, or plover, as far as my experience goes, seldom
shows anger; you cannot tease them. To be considered, how far the voice
of a bird may be indicative of its temperament.
“August 5, 9 P. M.--Since the unfortunate meeting yesterday morning,
when my intense pre-occupation with my linnet, which had torn its wound
open again, probably made me commit some breach of etiquette, Miss
Augusta avoids me.
“August 7--I am in a most singular state. My pulse beats 85, which is
a most unheard-of thing for me, as my pulse is naturally full and slow.
And, strangely enough, I do not feel at all unwell. On the contrary, my
physical well-being is rather heightened than otherwise. The life of a
whole week is crowded into a day, and that of a day into an hour.”
Inga, who, at several points of this narrative, had been struggling hard
to preserve her gravity, here burst into a ringing laugh.
“That is what I call scientific love-making,” said Arnfinn, looking up
from the book with an expression of subdued amusement.
“But Arnfinn,” cried the girl, while the laughter quickly died out of
her face, “does Mr. Strand know that you are reading this?”
“To be sure he does. And that is just what to my mind makes the
situation so excessively comical. He has himself no suspicion that this
book contains anything but scientific notes. He appears to prefer the
empiric method in love as in philosophy. I verily believe that he is
innocently experimenting with himself, with a view to making some great
physiological discovery.”
“And so he will, perhaps,” rejoined the girl, the mixture of gayety and
grave solicitude making her face, as her cousin thought, particularly
charming.
“Only not a physiological, but possibly a psychological one,” remarked
Arnfinn. “But listen to this. Here is something rich:
“August 9--Miss Augusta once said something about the possibility of
animals being immortal. Her eyes shone with a beautiful animation as she
spoke. I am longing to continue the subject with her. It haunts me
the whole day long. There may be more in the idea than appears to a
superficial observer.”
“Oh, how charmingly he understands how to deceive himself,” cried Inga.
“Merely a quid pro quo,” said Arnfinn.
“I know what I shall do!”
“And so do I.”
“Won’t you tell me, please?”
“No.”
“Then I sha’n’t tell you either.”
And they flew apart like two thoughtless little birds (“sanguine,” as
Strand would have called them), each to ponder on some formidable plot
for the reconciliation of the estranged lovers.