Sunday morning--a calm and peaceful time. Olof was up, and sat combing
his hair before the glass.
"Those wrinkles there on the temples are getting deeper," he thought.
"Well, after all, I suppose it looks more manly."
He laid down the comb, turned his head slightly, and looked in the
glass again.
"Paler, too, perhaps," he thought again. "Well, I'm no longer a
boy...."
He moved as if to rise.
"Look once more--a little closer," urged the glass.
Olof brushed his moustache and smiled.
"Can't you see anything?" the glass went on, with something like a
sneer. "Under the eyes, for instance?"
And suddenly he saw. The face that stared at him from the glass was
pale, and marked by the lines and wrinkles of those past years. And
under the eyes were two dark grey furrows, like heavy flourishes to
underline a word.
"Is it possible?" he cried, with a shudder.
"Is it any wonder?" said the glass coldly.
The face in the glass was staring at him yet, with the dark furrows
under the eyes.
"But what--how did they come there?" asked Olof in dismay.
"Need you ask?" said the glass. "Well, you have got your 'mark,'
anyhow--though it was not one you asked for."
* * * * *
The face in the mirror stared at him; the dark furrows were there
still. He would have turned his head away, or closed his eyes, but
could not. He felt as if some great strong man were behind him with a
whip, bidding him sternly "Look!"
And he looked.
"Look closer--closer yet!" commanded his tormentor. "A few deep
lines--and what more?"
Olof looked again. The plainer furrows tailed off into a host of
smaller lines and tiny folds, this way and that, there seemed no end
to them. And again he shuddered.
"Count them!" cried the voice behind him.
"Impossible--they--they are so small!"
"Small they may be--but how many are there?"
Olof bent forward and tried to count.
"Well?"
No answer.
"How many are there?" thundered the voice--and Olof saw the whip
raised above his head.
"Nine or ten, perhaps," he answered.
"More! And what do they mean? Can you tell me that?"
"No."
"No? Then let me tell you, that you may know henceforward. The
first...?"
"I--I don't know."
"You know well enough. Bright eyes--that is the first."
He flinched involuntarily as under the lash. And now the strokes
followed sharply one on another.
"A fine figure and curling hair ... tears and empty promises ... a
thirst for beauty ... false brotherhood ... selfishness and the
desire for conquest ... dying voices of childhood ... dreams and
self-deceit...."
"Enough!"
"Not yet. There are little extras that you have not called to mind."
"Leave me in peace!" cried Olof almost threateningly.
"You could not leave yourself in peace. Look again--what more--what
more?"
"Go!" Olof sprang up with a cry like that of a wounded beast, took the
mirror and flung it against the stove, the pieces scattering with a
crash about the floor. His blood boiled, his eyes burned with a dark,
boding gleam.
"And what then?" he cried defiantly. "My mark? Why, then, let it be.
I'll go my own way, mark or no mark."
He picked up his hat and hurried out.