He tries to calm the night by saying aloud: "I shall not do it."

Then the most wonderful thing happens. The night is seized with a trembling dread. It is no longer the little flakes which are falling, but round about him rustle great and small wings. He hears something flying but does not know whither.

They rush by him; they graze his cheek; they touch his clothes and hands; and he understands what it is. The leaves are falling from the trees; the flowers flee from their stalks; the wings fly away from the b.u.t.terflies; the song forsakes the birds.

And he understands that when the sun rises his garden will be a waste. Empty, cold, and silent winter shall reign there; no play of b.u.t.terflies; no song of birds.

He remains until the light comes again, and he is almost astonished when he sees the thick ma.s.ses of leaves on the trees. "What is it, then," he says, "which is laid waste if it was not the garden? Not even a blade of gra.s.s is missing. It is I who must live in winter and cold hereafter, not the garden. It is as if the mainspring of life were gone. Ah, you old fool, this will pa.s.s like everything else. It is too much ado about a little girl."

IV

How very improperly "it" behaved the morning they were to leave!

During the two days after the ball "it" had been rather something inspiring, something exciting; but now when Downie is to leave, when "it" realizes that the end has come, that "it" will never play any part in her life, then it changes to a death thrust, to a deathly coldness.

She feels as if she were dragging a body of stone down the stairs to the breakfast-room. She stretches out a heavy, cold hand of stone when she says good-morning; she speaks with a slow tongue of stone; smiles with hard stone lips. It is a labor, a labor.

But who can help being glad when everything is arranged according to old-fashioned faith and honor.

Uncle Theodore turns to Downie at breakfast and explains with a strangely harsh voice that he has decided to give Maurits the position of manager at Laxohyttan; but as the aforesaid young man, continued Uncle, with a strained attempt to return to his usual manner, is not much at home in practical occupations, he may not enter upon the position until he has a wife at his side. Has she, Miss Downie, tended her myrtle so well that she can have a crown and wreath in September?

She feels how he is looking into her face. She knows that he wishes to have a glance as thanks, but she does not look up.

Maurits leaps up. He embraces Uncle and makes a great deal of noise. "But, Anne-Marie, why do you not thank Uncle? You must kiss Uncle Theodore, Anne-Marie. Laxohyttan is the most beautiful place in the world. Come now, Anne-Marie!"

She raises her eyes. There are tears in them, and through the tears a glance full of despair and reproach falls on Maurits. She cannot understand; he insists upon going with an uncovered light into the powder magazine. Then she turns to Uncle Theodore; but not with the shy, childish manner she had before, but with a certain n.o.bleness, with something of the martyr, of an imprisoned queen.

"You are much too good to us," she says only.

Thus is everything accomplished according to the demands of honor.

There is not another word to be said in the matter. He has not robbed her of her faith in him whom she loves. She has not betrayed herself. She is faithful to him who has made her his betrothed, although she is only a poor girl from a little bakery in a back street.

And now the chaise can be brought up, the trunks be corded, the luncheon-basket filled.

Uncle Theodore leaves the table. He goes and places himself by a window. Ever since she has turned to him with that tearful glance he is out of his senses. He is quite mad, ready to throw himself upon her, press her to his breast and call to Maurits to come and tear her away if he can.

His hands are in his pockets. Through the clenched fists cramp-like convulsions are pa.s.sing.

Can he allow her to put on her hat, to say goodbye to the old lady?

There he stands again on the cliff of Naxos and wishes to steal the beloved for himself. Nor, not steal! Why not honorably and manfully step forward and say: "I am your rival, Maurits. Your betrothed must choose between us. You are not married; there is no sin in trying to win her from you. Look well after her. I mean to use every expedient."

Then he would be warned, and she would know what alternative lay before her.

His knuckles cracked when he clenched his fists again. How Maurits would laugh at his old uncle when he stepped forward and explained that! And what would be the good of it? Would he frighten her, so that he would not even be allowed to help them in the future?

But how will it go now when she approaches to say good-bye to him?

He almost screams to her to take care, to keep three paces away from him.

He remains at the window and turns his back on them all, while they are busy with their wraps and their luncheon-basket. Will they never be ready to go? He has already lived it through a thousand times. He has taken her hand, kissed her, helped her into the chaise. He has done it so many times that he believes she is already gone.

He has also wished her happiness. Happiness--Can she be happy with Maurits? She has not looked happy this morning. Oh yes, certainly she has. She wept with joy.

While he is standing there Maurits suddenly says to Anne-Marie: "What a dunce I am! I am quite forgetting to speak to Uncle about father's shares."

"I think it would be best if you did not," Downie answers. "Perhaps it is not right."

"Nonsense, Anne-Marie. The shares do not pay anything just now. But who knows if they will not be better some day? And besides, what does it matter to Uncle? Such a little thing--"

She interrupts with unusual eagerness, almost anxiously. "I beg of you, Maurits, do not do it. Give in to me this once."

He looks at her, a little offended. "This once!--as if I were a tyrant over you. No, do you see. I cannot; just for that word I think that I ought not to yield."

"Do not cling to a word, Maurits. This means more than polite phrases. I think it is not well of you to wish to cheat Uncle now when he has been so good to us."

"Be quiet, Anne-Marie, be quiet! What do you understand of business?" His whole manner is now irritatingly calm and superior.

He looks at her as a schoolmaster looks at a good pupil who is making a fool of himself at his examination.

"That you do not at all understand what is at stake!" she cries.

And she strikes out despairingly with her hands.

"I really must talk to Uncle now," says Maurits, "if for nothing else, to show him that there is no question of any deceit. You behave so that Uncle can believe that I and my father are veritable cheats."

And he comes forward to his uncle and explains to him what these shares which his father wishes to sell him are. Uncle Theodore listens to him as well as he can. He understands instantly that his brother has made a bad speculation and wishes to protect himself from loss. But what of it, what of it? He is accustomed to render to the whole family connection such services. But he is not thinking of that, but of Downie. He wonders what is the meaning of that look of resentment she casts upon Maurits. It was not exactly love.

And so in the midst of his despair over the sacrifice he has to make, a faint glimmer of hope begins to rise up before him. He stands and stares at it like a man who is sleeping in a haunted room and sees a light mist rise from the floor and condense and grow and become a tangible reality.

"Come with me into my room, Maurits," he says; "you shall have the money immediately."

But while he speaks his eyes rest on Downie to see if the ghost can be prevailed upon to speak. But as yet he sees only dumb despair in her.

But he has hardly sat down by the desk in his room when the door opens and Anne-Marie comes in.

"Uncle Theodore," she says, very firmly and decidedly, "do not buy those papers!"

Ah, such courage, Downie! Who would have believed it of you who had seen you three days ago, when you sat at Maurits's side in the chaise and seemed to shrink and grow smaller for every word he said.

Now she needs all her courage, for Maurits is angry in earnest.

"Hold your tongue!" he hisses at her, and then roars to make himself heard by Uncle Theodore, who is sitting at his desk and counting notes.

"What is the matter with you? The shares give no interest now; I have told Uncle that; but Uncle knows as well as I that they will pay. Do you think Uncle will let himself be cheated by one like me?

Uncle surely understands those things better than any of us. Has it ever been my intention to give out these shares as good? Have I said anything but that for him who can wait it may be a good affair?"

Uncle Theodore says nothing; he only hands a package of notes to Maurits. He wonders if this will make the ghost speak.

"Uncle," says the little intractable proclaimer of the truth, for it is a known fact that no one can be more intractable than those soft, delicate creature when they are in the right, "these shares are not worth a shilling and will never be. We all know it at home there."

"Anne-Marie, you make me out a scoundrel!"