Invisible Links Part 25

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 la.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 embarra.s.sed. 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.

Maurits came up to her and said with a hard, hard voice:--

"You are ruining everything, Anne-Marie. Must you look like that when Uncle wishes to dance with you? If you could know what he said to me yesterday about you! You must do something too, Anne-Marie.

Do you think it is right to leave everything to me?"

"What do you wish me to do, Maurits?"

"Oh, now there is nothing; now the game is spoiled. Think all I had won this evening! But it is lost now."

"I will gladly ask Uncle's pardon, if you like, Maurits." And she really meant it. She was honestly sorry to have hurt Uncle.

"That is of course the only right thing to do; but one can ask nothing of any one as ridiculously shy as you are."

She had not answered, but had gone straight to the smoking-room, which was almost empty. Uncle had thrown himself down in an arm-chair.