Pan Part 24

She turned and said in surprise:

"Oh, are you not gone? I thought you were."

Heaven alone knows, but it struck me that her surprise was too great; that she was not careful, that she overdid it. And it came into my head that perhaps she had known all the time that I was standing behind her.

"I am going now," I said.

Then she rose and came over to me.

"I should like to have something to remember you by when you go," she said. "I thought of asking you for something, but perhaps it is too much. Will you give me aesop?"

I did not hesitate. I answered "Yes."

"Then, perhaps, you would come and bring him to-morrow," she said.

I went.

I looked up at the window. No one there.

It was all over now...

The last night in the hut. I sat in thought, I counted the hours; when the morning came I made ready my last meal. It was a cold day.

Why had she asked me to come myself and bring the dog? Would she tell me something, speak to me, for the last time? I had nothing more to hope for. And how would she treat aesop? aesop, aesop, she will torture you! For my sake she will whip you, caress you too, perhaps, but certainly whip you, with and without reason; ruin you altogether...

I called aesop to me, patted him, put our two heads together, and picked up my gun. He was already whining with pleasure, thinking we were going out after game. I put our heads together once more; I laid the muzzle of the gun against aesop's neck and fired...

I hired a man to carry aesop's body to Edwarda.

x.x.xV

The mail-packet was to sail in the afternoon.

I went down to the quay. My things were already on board. Herr Mack pressed my hand, and said encouragingly that it would be nice weather, pleasant weather; he would not mind making the trip himself in such weather. The Doctor came walking down. Edwarda was with him; I felt my knees beginning to tremble.

"Came to see you safely off," said the Doctor.

I thanked him.

Edwarda looked me straight in the face and said:

"I must thank you for your dog." She pressed her lips together; they were quite white. Again she had called me "_Eder_." [Footnote: The most formal mode of address.]

"When does the boat go?" the Doctor asked a man.

"In half an hour."

I said nothing.

Edwarda was turning restlessly this way and that.

"Doctor, don't you think we may as well go home again?" she said. "I have done what I came for to do."

"You have done what you came _to do_," said the Doctor.

She laughed, humiliated by his everlasting correction, and answered:

"Wasn't that almost what I said?"

"No," he answered shortly.

I looked at him. The little man stood there cold and firm; he had made a plan, and he carried it out to the last. And if he lost after all? In any case, he would never show it; his face never betrayed him.

It was getting dusk.

"Well, good-bye," I said. "And thanks for--everything."

Edwarda looked at me dumbly. Then she turned her head and stood looking out at the ship.

I got into the boat. Edwarda was still standing on the quay. When I got on board, the Doctor called out "Good-bye!" I looked over to the sh.o.r.e.

Edwarda turned at the same time and walked hurriedly away from the quay, the Doctor far behind. That was the last I saw of her.

A wave of sadness went through my heart...

The vessel began to move; I could still see Herr Mack's sign: "Salt and Barrels." But soon it disappeared. The moon and the stars came out; the hills towered round about, and I saw the endless woods. There is the mill; there, there stood my hut, that was burned; the big grey stone stands there all alone on the site of the fire. Iselin, Eva...

The night of the northern lights spreads over valley and hill.

x.x.xVI

I have written this to pa.s.s the time. It has amused me to look back to that summer in Nordland, when I often counted the hours, but when time flew nevertheless. All is changed. The days will no longer pa.s.s.

I have many a merry hour even yet. But time--it stands still, and I cannot understand how it can stand so still. I am out of the service, and free as a prince; all is well; I meet people, drive in carriages; now and again I shut one eye and write with one finger up in the sky; I tickle the moon under the chin, and fancy that it laughs--laughs broadly at being tickled under the chin. All things smile. I pop a cork and call gay people to me.

As for Edwarda, I do not think of her. Why should I not have forgotten her altogether, after all this time? I have some pride. And if anyone asks whether I have any sorrows, then I answer straight out, "No--none."

Cora lies looking at me. aesop, it used to be, but now it is Cora that lies looking at me. The clock ticks on the mantel; outside my open window sounds the roar of the city. A knock at the door, and the postman hands me a letter. A letter with a coronet. I know who sent it; I understand it at once, or maybe I dreamed it one sleepless night. But in the envelope there is no letter at all--only two green bird's feathers.

An icy horror thrills me; I turn cold. Two green feathers! I say to myself: Well, and what of it? But why should I turn cold? Why, there is a cursed draught from those windows.