"'Why should I not be pleased?' she replied, 'It is our cousin.'

"'And nothing more?' I asked, shaking my finger at her as I had seen papa do the day before.

"Then she suddenly grew very grave, and looked at me with her big, sad eyes so strangely and reproachfully that I felt how all the blood rushed to my face. I turned away, and as I could no longer keep up my superiority, I slunk out of the door.

"From this moment Cousin Robert caused me many a thought. It seemed clear to me that the two loved each other, and seized by the mysterious awe with which the idea of the great Unknown fills half-grown children of my age, I began to picture to myself how such a love might have taken shape. I ran through the wild-growing shrubs of the park, and said to myself, 'Here they enjoyed their secret walks.' I slipped inside the dusky arbours, and said to myself, 'Here in the moonlight was their trysting-place.' I sank down upon the mossy turf-bank, and said to myself, 'Here they held sweet converse together.' The whole garden, the house, the yard, everything that I had known since the beginning of my life suddenly appeared resplendent in a new light. A purple sheen was spread over all. Wondrous life seemed to have awakened therein. I had so completely absorbed myself in these phantasies, that finally I believed that I myself had lived through this love. When I saw Martha again I did not dare to raise my eyes to her, as if I cherished the secret in my bosom and she were the one who must not guess it.

"But next morning when I reflected that Martha had positively experienced everything that I after all had only dreamt about, I felt quite awed by the thought, and from out of a dark corner I contemplated her fixedly with shy, inquiring looks, as if she were a being from some strange world.

"I was well aware that every five minutes she found something to busy herself about on the verandah, from whence one could look across towards the courtyard-gate; but to-day I took good care not to put any pert questions to her. Now I felt like a confidante--like an accomplice. It was a beautiful clear September day. Over woodland and meadow was spread a rosy veil, silver threads floated softly through the air, the river carried a cover of vapour, and far and wide it was as silent as in a church. I went into the wood, for I could never have excess of solitude to satiate myself with dreams. In the birch-trees faded leaves already rustled; the bracken drooped like a wounded human being that can barely keep upright.

"I grew very sad. 'Now there will be a great dying,' I said: 'ah, that one might die too!'

"And then I remembered what I had heard and read in derision of sentimental autumn thoughts. 'For shame, how wicked!' I thought. 'They shall not deride me, for I shall know how to conceal myself and my feelings. It is no one's business what I do feel. And for all I care they may think me cold and heartless, if only I have the consciousness that my heart beats warmly and full of love for mankind.'

"Yes, that was a delightful, foolish day, and blissfully would I sacrifice what yet remains to me of life, if it might once more be granted to me. In the evening--I can see it all as if it were to-day the windows stood open, the tendrils of the wild vine swayed in the breeze, and from the distance a stamping of hoofs, a clashing of lances and swords greeted my ears. I could see nothing, for the darkness devoured it all, but I knew that it was a band of Cossacks patrolling along the frontier ditch. And then I closed my eyes and dreamt that a troop of knights were coming riding along at full speed--led by a fair, handsome prince, mounted on a milk-white charger. But I was the chatelaine sitting in the turret-room of the old castle, and the fame of my beauty had penetrated to every land, so that the prince had set forth surrounded by a company of picked hors.e.m.e.n, to seek me out and ask my hand in marriage of the old n.o.bleman my father.

"And then I remembered Martha; and whether, as the elder, she would not be preferred. But she loves her Robert, I comforted myself, she wants no prince. And then I pictured to myself what I would give to each member of my family when I had mounted the throne: to Martha wonderful jewellery, to papa an iron chest full of gold, and to mama a box of pine-apple sweets.

"The clashing of lances died away in the distance--and my dream was at an end.

"Next day he came.

"When the carriage that brought him rolled in at the courtyard gate, Martha was busy in the kitchen. I ran to her, and beaming with pleasure I whispered into her ear, 'Martha, I believe he is here.' But she forthwith apprised me that I was not her confidante. She looked at me vaguely for a time, then asked absently, 'Whom do you mean?'

"'Whom else but our cousin?'

"'Why do you tell me that in a whisper?' she asked. And when, in answer, I shrugged my shoulders, she once more took up the kitchen spoon she had put down, and went on stirring.

"'Is that the extent of your pleasure, Martha?' I asked, while I contemptuously pursed my lips.

"But she pushed me aside with her left hand and said, more pa.s.sionately than was her wont, 'Child, I beg of you, go!'

"And thus it came about that I received Cousin Robert in her stead.

"As I stepped out on to the verandah, he was just alighting from his carriage.

"'He does not look much better than papa,' that was my first thought. A great strong man like a giant, with broad chest and shoulders, his face sun-burnt, with little blue eyes in it, and framed by a s.h.a.ggy beard, such a beard as the 'lancequenets' used to wear.

"'Only the chin-strap is wanting,' I thought to myself.

"He came jumping up the steps laughing towards me.

"'Well, good morning, Martha!' he cried.

"And then suddenly he stopped short, measured me from head to foot and stood there, half-way up the stairs, as if petrified.

"'My name is not Martha, but Olga!' I remarked, somewhat dejectedly.

"'Ah, that accounts for it!' he cried, shaking with laughter, stepped up to me and offered me a red, h.o.r.n.y hand, quite covered with cracks and weals.

"'What an uncouth fellow!' I thought in my own mind. And when we had entered the room he looked me up and down again and said, 'You were quite a little thing yet, Olga, when I went away from here; now it seems like a wonder to me that you should be so like Martha!'

"'I like Martha,' thought I, 'when was I ever in the least like Martha?'

"'But no,' he continued, 'she was not so tall, and her hair was fairer, and she did not stand there so haughtily--and--and--did not make such serious eyes.'

"'Ah, good Heavens,' thought I, 'you first look into Martha's eyes!'

"At this moment the kitchen door opened quite, quite slowly, and through a narrow aperture she squeezed herself in. She had not taken off her white ap.r.o.n. Her face was as white as this ap.r.o.n, and her lips trembled.

"'Welcome, Robert!' she said softly behind his back, for he had turned towards me.

"At the first sound of her voice he veered round like lightning, and then for about a minute they stood facing each other without moving, without uttering a word.

"I trembled. For two days I had lain in wait for this moment, and now it fell so wretchedly short of my expectations. Then they slowly approached each other, and kissed. This kiss too did not satisfy me. He could not have kissed _me_ differently; 'only that he did not attempt that at all,' I added mentally. And then they both were silent again.

My heart beat so wildly that I had to press both hands to my bosom.

"At last Martha said, 'Won't you take a seat, Robert?'

"He nodded and threw himself into the sofa-corner so that all its joints creaked. He looked at her again and again, then after a long time he remarked, 'You are very much changed, Martha!'

"I felt as if he had given me a slap in the face.

"An unutterably sad smile played about Martha's lips.

"'Yes, I suppose I am changed,' she then said.

"Renewed silence. It seemed as if a long time were necessary for him to put a thought into words.

"'Why did I never hear that you were ailing?' he began again at length.

"'That I do not know.' she replied, with bitter affability.

"'Could you not write to me about it?'

"'Are we in the habit of writing to each other?' she asked in return.

"He gave the table an angry shove.

"'But if one is not well--then--then--'; he did not know how to proceed.

"I pressed my fists together. I should so have liked to finish his sentence for him.

"'Never mind.' said Martha, 'one often knows least one's self when one is not well.'