II

How has “it” come? That which she dares not call by name?

“It” has come like the dew to the grass, like the color to the rose,

like the sweetness to the berry, imperceptibly and gently without

announcing itself beforehand.

It is also no matter how “it” came or what “it” is. Were it good or

evil, fair or foul, still it is forbidden; that which never ought to

exist. “It” makes her anxious, sinful, unhappy.

“It” is that of which she never wishes to think. “It” is what shall be

torn away and thrown out; and yet it is nothing that can be seized and

caught. She shuts her heart to “it,” but it comes in just the same.

“It” turns back the blood in her veins and flows there, drives the

thoughts from her brain and reigns there, dances through her nerves and

trembles in her finger-tips. It is everywhere in her, so that if she

had been able to take away everything else of which her body consisted

and to have left “it” behind, there would remain a complete impression

of her. And yet “it” was nothing.

She wishes never to think of “it,” and yet she has to think of “it”

constantly. How has she become so wicked? And then she searches and

wonders how “it” came.

Ah Downie! How tender are our souls, and how easily awakened are our

hearts!

She was sure that “it” had not come at breakfast, surely not at

breakfast.

Then she had only been frightened and shy. She had been so terrified

when she came down to breakfast and found no Maurits, only Uncle

Theodore and the old lady.

It had been a clever idea of Maurits to go hunting; although it was

impossible to discover what he was hunting in midsummer, as the old

lady remarked. But he knew of course that it was wise to keep away from

his uncle for a few hours until the latter became calm again. He could

not know that she was so shy, nor that she had almost fainted when she

had found him gone and herself left alone with uncle and the old lady.

Maurits had never been shy. He did not know what torture it is.

That breakfast, that breakfast! Uncle had as a beginning asked the old

lady if she had heard the story of Sigrid the beautiful. He did not ask

Downie, neither would she have been able to answer. The old lady knew

the story well, but he told it just the same. Then Anne-Marie

remembered that Maurits had laughed at his uncle because in all his

house he only had two books, and those were Afzelius’ “Fairy Tales” and

Nösselt’s “Popular Stories for Ladies.” “But those he knows,” Maurits

had said.

Anne-Marie had found the story pretty. She liked it when Bengt Lagman

had pearls sewn on the breadth of homespun. She saw Maurits before her;

how royally proud he would have looked when ordering the pearls! That

was just the sort of thing Maurits would have done well.

But when uncle had come to that part of the story where Bengt Lagman

went into the woods to avoid the meeting with his angry brother, and

instead let his young wife meet the storm, then it became so plain that

uncle understood Maurits had gone hunting to escape his wrath and that

he knew how she thought to win him over. —Yes, yesterday, then they had

been able to make plans, Maurits and she, how she should coquet with

uncle, but to-day she had no thought of carrying them out. Oh, she had

never behaved so foolishly! Every drop of blood streamed into her face,

and her knife and fork fell with a terrible clatter out of her hands

down on her plate.

But Uncle Theodore had shown no mercy and had gone on with the story

until he came to that princely speech: “Had my brother not done it, I

would have done it myself.” He said it with such a strange emphasis

that she was forced to look up and to meet his laughing brown eyes.

And when he saw the trouble staring from her eyes, he began to laugh

like a boy. “What do you think,” he cried, “Bengt Lagman thought when

he came home and heard that ‘Had my brother?’ I think he stopped at

home the next time.”

Tears rose to Downie’s eyes, and when Uncle saw that he laughed louder.

“Yes, it is a fine partisan my nephew has chosen,” he seemed to say,

“You are not playing your part, my little girl.” And every time she had

looked at him the brown eyes had repeated: “Had my brother not done it,

I would have done it myself.” Downie was not quite sure that the eyes

did not say “nephew.” And fancy how she behaved. She began to cry, and

rushed from the room.

But it was not then that “it” came, nor during the walk of the

forenoon.

Then she was occupied with something quite different. Then she was

overcome with pleasure at the beautiful place and that nature was so

wonderfully near. She felt as if she had found again something she had

lost long, long ago.

People thought she was a city girl. But she had become a country lass

as soon as she put her foot on the sandy path. She felt instantly that

she belonged to the country.

As soon as she had calmed down a little she had ventured out by herself

to inspect the place. She had looked about her on the lawn in front of

the door. Then she suddenly began to whirl about; she hung her hat on

her arm and threw her shawl away. She drew the air into her lungs so

that her nostrils were drawn together and whistled.

Oh, how brave she felt!

She made a few attempts to go quietly and sedately down to the garden,

but that was not what attracted her. Turning off to one side, she

started towards the big groups of barns and out-houses. She met a

farm-girl and said a few words to her. She was surprised to hear how

brisk her own voice sounded; it was like an officer at the front. And

she felt how smart she looked when, with head proudly raised and a

little on one side, moving with a quick, free motion and with a little

switch in her hand, she entered the barn.

It was not, however, what she had expected. No long rows of horned

creatures were there to impress her, for they were all out at pasture.

A single calf stood in its pen and seemed to expect her to do something

for him. She went up to him, raised herself on tiptoe, held her dress

together with one hand and touched the calf’s forehead with the

finger-tips of the other.

As the calf still did not seem to think that she had done enough and

stretched out his long tongue, she graciously let him lick her little

finger. She could not resist looking about her, as if to find some one

to admire her bravery. And she discovered that Uncle Theodore stood at

the barn-door and laughed at her.

Then he had gone with her on her walk. But “it” did not come then, not

then at all. It had only wonderfully come to pass that she was no

longer afraid of Uncle Theodore. He was like her mother; he seemed to

know all her faults and weaknesses, and it was so comfortable. She did

not need to show herself better than she was.

Uncle Theodore wished to take her to the garden and to the terraces by

the pond, but that was not to her mind. She wished to know what there

could be in all those big buildings.

So he went patiently with her to the dairy and to the ice-house; to the

wine-cellar and to the potato bins. He took the things in order, and

showed her the larder, and the wood shed, and the carriage-house, and

the laundry. Then he led her through the stable of the draught-horses,

and that of the carriage horses; let her see the harness-room and the

servants’ rooms; the laborers’ cottages and the wood-carving room. She

became a little confused by all the different rooms that Uncle Theodore

had considered necessary to establish on his estate; but her heart was

glowing with enthusiasm at the thought of how splendid it must be to

have all that to rule over. So she was not tired, although they walked

through the sheep-houses and the piggeries, and looked in at the hens

and the rabbits. She faithfully examined the weaving-rooms and the

dairies, the smoke-house and the smithy, all with growing enthusiasm.

Then they visited the big lofts; drying-rooms for the clothes and

drying-rooms for the wood; hay-lofts, and lofts for dried leaves for

the sheep to eat.

The dormant housewife in her awoke to life and consciousness at all

this perfection. But most of all, she was moved by the great brewhouse

and the two neat bakeries with the wide oven and the big table.

“Mother ought to see that,” she said.

In the bakehouse they had sat down and rested, and she had told of her

home. He was already like a friend, although his brown eyes laughed at

everything she said.

At home everything was so quiet; no life, no variety. She had been a

delicate child, and her parents had watched over her on account of it,

and let her do nothing. It was only as play that she was allowed to

help in the baking and in the shop. Somehow she came to tell him that

her father called her Downie. She had also said: “Everybody spoils me

at home except Maurits, and that is why I like him so much. He is so

sensible with me! He never calls me Downie; only Anne-Marie. Maurits is

so admirable.”

Oh, how it had danced and laughed in uncle’s eyes! She could have

struck him with her switch. She repeated almost with a sob: “Maurits is

so admirable.”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Uncle had answered. “He is going to be my heir.”

Whereupon she had cried: “Ah; Uncle Theodore, why do you not marry?

Think how happy any one would be to be mistress of such an estate!”

“How would it be then with Maurits’s inheritance?” uncle had asked

quite softly.

Then she had been silent for a long while, for she could not say to

Uncle that she and Maurits did not ask for the inheritance, for that

was just what they did do. She wondered if it was very ugly for them to

do so. She suddenly had a feeling as if she ought to beg Uncle for

forgiveness for some great wrong that they had done him. But she could

not do that either.

When they came in again, Uncle’s dog came to meet them. It was a tiny,

little thing on the thinnest legs, with fluttering ears and

gazelle-like eyes; a nothing with a shrill, little voice.

“You wonder, perhaps, that I have such a little dog,” Uncle Theodore

had said.

“I suppose I do,” she had answered.

“But, you see, it is not I who have chosen Jenny for my dog, but Jenny

who has taken me as a master. You would like to hear the story,

Downie?” That name he had instantly seized upon.

Yes, she would like it, although she understood that it would be

something irritating he would say.

“Well, you see, when Jenny came here the first time she lay on the

knees of a fine lady from the town, and had a blanket on her back and a

cloth about her head. Hush, Jenny; it is true that you had it! And I

thought what a little rat it was. But do you know when that little

creature was put down on the ground here some memories of her childhood

or something must have wakened in her. She scratched, and kicked, and

tried to rub off her blanket. And then she behaved like the big dogs

here; so we said that Jenny must have grown up in the country.

“She lay out on the doorstep and never even looked at the parlor sofa,

and she chased the chickens, and stole the cat’s milk, and barked at

beggars, and darted about the horses’ legs when we had guests. It was a

pleasure and a joy to us to see how she behaved. You must understand, a

little thing that had only lain in a basket and been carried on the

arm! It was wonderful. And so when they were going to leave, Jenny

would not go. She stood on the steps and whined so pitifully and jumped

up on me, and really asked to be allowed to stay. So there was nothing

for us to do but to let her stay. We were touched by the little

creature; it was so small, and yet wished to be a country dog. But I

had never thought that I should ever keep a lap-dog. Soon, perhaps, I

shall get a wife too.”

Oh, how hard it is to be shy, to be uneducated! She wondered if Uncle

had been very surprised when she rushed away so hurriedly. But she had

felt as if he had meant her when he spoke of Jenny. And perhaps he had

not at all. But any way—yes she had been so embarrassed. She could not

have stayed.

But it was not then “it” came, not then.

Perhaps it was in the evening at the ball. Never had she had such a

good time at any ball! But if any one had asked her if she had danced

much, she would have needed to reconsider and acknowledge that she had

not. But it was the best proof that she had really enjoyed herself when

she had not even noticed that she had been a little neglected.

She had so much enjoyed looking at Maurits. Just because she had been a

little bit severe to him at breakfast and laughed at him yesterday, it

was such a pleasure to her to see him at the ball. He had never seemed

to her so handsome and so superior.

He had seemed to feel that she would consider herself injured because

he had not talked and danced only with her. But it had been pleasure

enough for her to see how every one liked Maurits. As if she had wished

to exhibit their love to the general gaze! Oh, Downie was not so

foolish!

Maurits danced many dances with the beautiful Elizabeth Westling. But

that had not troubled her at all, for Maurits had time after time come

up and whispered: “You see, I can’t get away from her. We are old

friends. Here in the country they are so unaccustomed to have a partner

who has been in society and can both dance and talk. You must lend me

to the daughters of the county magnates for this evening, Anne-Marie.”

But Uncle, too, gave way to Maurits. “Be host for this evening,” he

said to him, and Maurits was. He was everywhere. He led the dance, he

led the drinking, and he made a speech for the county and for the

ladies. He was wonderful. Both Uncle and she had watched Maurits, and

then their eyes had met. Uncle had smiled and nodded to her. Uncle

certainly was proud of Maurits. She had felt badly that Uncle did not

really do justice to his nephew. Towards morning Uncle had been loud

and quarrelsome. He had wanted to join the dance, but the girls drew

back from him when he came up to them and pretended to be engaged.

“Dance with Anne-Marie,” Maurits had said to his uncle, and it had

sounded rather patronising. She was so frightened that she quite shrank

together.

Uncle was offended too, turned on his heel and went into the

smoking-room.