Invisible Links

II

How has "it" come? That which she dares not call by name?

"It" has come like the dew to the grass, like the color to the rose, like the sweetness to the berry, imperceptibly and gently without announcing itself beforehand.

It is also no matter how "it" came or what "it" is. Were it good or evil, fair or foul, still it is forbidden; that which never ought to exist. "It" makes her anxious, sinful, unhappy.

"It" is that of which she never wishes to think. "It" is what shall be torn away and thrown out; and yet it is nothing that can be seized and caught. She shuts her heart to "it," but it comes in just the same. "It" turns back the blood in her veins and flows there, drives the thoughts from her brain and reigns there, dances through her nerves and trembles in her finger-tips. It is everywhere in her, so that if she had been able to take away everything else of which her body consisted and to have left "it" behind, there would remain a complete impression of her. And yet "it" was nothing.

She wishes never to think of "it," and yet she has to think of "it" constantly. How has she become so wicked? And then she searches and wonders how "it" came.

Ah Downie! How tender are our souls, and how easily awakened are our hearts!

She was sure that "it" had not come at breakfast, surely not at breakfast.

Then she had only been frightened and shy. She had been so terrified when she came down to breakfast and found no Maurits, only Uncle Theodore and the old lady.

It had been a clever idea of Maurits to go hunting; although it was impossible to discover what he was hunting in midsummer, as the old lady remarked. But he knew of course that it was wise to keep away from his uncle for a few hours until the latter became calm again. He could not know that she was so shy, nor that she had almost fainted when she had found him gone and herself left alone with uncle and the old lady. Maurits had never been shy. He did not know what torture it is.

That breakfast, that breakfast! Uncle had as a beginning asked the old lady if she had heard the story of Sigrid the beautiful. He did not ask Downie, neither would she have been able to answer. The old lady knew the story well, but he told it just the same. Then Anne-Marie remembered that Maurits had laughed at his uncle because in all his house he only had two books, and those were Afzelius' "Fairy Tales" and Nösselt's "Popular Stories for Ladies." "But those he knows," Maurits had said.

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 lass 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 pass 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 embarrassed. 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.

"Why will you not dance with me?" she had asked.

Uncle Theodore's eyes were closed. He opened them and looked long at her. It was a look full of pain that she met. It made her understand how a prisoner must feel when he thinks of his chains. It made her sorry for Uncle. It seemed as if he had needed her much more than Maurits, for Maurits needed no one. He was very well as he was. So she laid her hand on Uncle Theodore's arm quite gently and caressingly.

Instantly new life awoke in his eyes. He began to stroke her hair with his big hand. "Little mother," he had said.

Then "it" came over her while he stroked her hair. It came stealing, it came creeping, it came rushing, as when elves pass through dark woods.

III

One evening thin, soft clouds are floating in the sky; one evening all is still and mild; one evening the air is filled with fine white down from the aspens and poplars.

It is quite late, and no one is up except Uncle Theodore, who is walking in the garden and is considering how he can separate the young man and the young woman.

For never, never in the world shall it come to pass that Maurits leaves his house with her at his side while Uncle Theodore stands on the steps and wishes them a pleasant journey.

Is it a possibility to let her go at all, since she has filled the house for three days with merry chirping, since she in her quiet way has accustomed them to be cared for and petted by her, since they have all grown used to seeing that soft, supple little creature roving about everywhere. Uncle Theodore says to himself that it is not possible. He cannot live without her.

Just then he strikes against a dandelion which has gone to seed, and, like men's resolutions and men's promises, the white ball of down is scattered, its white floss flies out and is dispersed.

The night is not cold as the nights generally are in that part of the country. The warmth is kept in by the grey cloud blanket. The winds show themselves merciful for once and do not blow.

Uncle Theodore sees her, Downie. She is weeping because Maurits has forsaken her. But he draws her to him and kisses away her tears.

Soft and fine, the white down falls from the great ripe clusters of the trees, – so light that the air will scarcely let them fall, so fine and delicate that they hardly show on the ground.

Uncle Theodore laughs to himself when he thinks of Maurits. In thought he goes in to him the next morning while he is still lying in his bed. "Listen, Maurits," he means to say to him. "I do not wish to inspire you with false hopes. If you marry this girl, you need not expect a penny from me. I will not help to ruin your future."

"Do you think so badly of her, uncle?" Maurits will say.

"No, on the contrary; she is a nice girl, but still not the one for you. You shall have a woman like Elizabeth Westling. Be sensible, Maurits; what will become of you if you break off your studies and go into trade for that child's sake. You are not suited to it, my boy. Something more is needed for such work than to be able to lift your hat gracefully from your head and to say: 'Thank you, my children!' You are cut out and made for a civil official. You can become minister."

"If you have such a good opinion of me," Maurits will answer, "help me with my examination and let us afterwards be married!"

"Not at all, not at all. What do you think would become of your career if you had such a weight as a wife? The horse which drags the bread wagon does not go fast ahead. Think of the girl from the bakery as a minister's wife! No, you ought not to engage yourself for at least ten years, not before you have made your place. What would the result be if I helped you to be married? Every year you would come to me and beg for money. You and I would both weary of that."

"But, uncle, I am a man of honor. I have engaged myself."

"Listen, Maurits! Which is better? For her to go and wait for you for ten years, and then find that you will not marry her, or for you to break it off now? No, be decided, get up, take the chaise and go home before she wakes. It will never do at any rate for a betrothed couple to wander about the country by themselves. I will take care of the girl if you only give up this madness. My old friend will go home with her. You shall be supported by me so that you do not need to worry about your future. Now be sensible; you will please your parents by obeying me. Go now, without seeing her! I will talk to her. She will not stand in the way of your happiness. Do not try to see her before you leave, then you could grow soft-hearted, for she is sweet."

And at those words Maurits makes an heroic decision and goes his way.

And when he has gone, what will happen then?

"Scoundrel," sounds in the garden, loud and threateningly, as if to a thief. Uncle Theodore looks about him. Is it no one else? Is it only he calling so at himself?

What will happen afterwards? Oh, he will prepare her for Maurits's departure; show her that Maurits was not worthy of her; make her despise him. And then when she has cried her heart out on his breast, he shall so carefully, so skilfully make her understand what he feels, lure her, win her.

The down still falls. Uncle Theodore stretches out his big hand and catches a bit of it.

So fine, so light, so delicate! He stands and looks at it.

It falls about him, flake after flake. What will become of them? They will be driven by the wind, soiled by the earth, trampled upon by heavy feet.

He begins to feel as if that light down fell upon him with the heaviest weight. Who will be the wind; who will be the earth; who will be the shoe when it is a question of such defenceless little things?

And as a result of his extraordinary knowledge of Nösselt's "Popular Stories," an episode from one of them occurred to him like what he had just been thinking.

It was an early morning, not falling night as now. It was a rocky shore, and down by the sea sat a beautiful youth with a panther skin over his shoulder, with vine leaves in his hair, with thyrsus in his hand. Who was he? Oh, the god Bacchus himself.

And the rocky shore was Naxos. It was the seas of Greece the god saw. The ship with the black sails swiftly sailing towards the horizon was steered by Theseus and in the grotto, the entrance of which opened high up in a projection of the steep cliff, slept Ariadne.

During the night the young god had thought: "Is this mortal youth worthy of that divine girl!" And to test Theseus he had in a dream frightened him with the loss of his life, if he did not instantly forsake Ariadne. Then the latter had risen up, hastened to the ship, and fled away over the waves without even waking the girl to say good-bye.

Now the god Bacchus sat there smiling, rocked by the tenderest hopes, and waited for Ariadne.

The sun rose, the morning breeze freshened. He abandoned himself to smiling dreams. He would know well how to console the forsaken one; he, the god Bacchus himself.

Then she came. She walked out of the grotto with a beaming smile. Her eyes sought Theseus, they wandered farther away to the anchoring-place of the ship, to the sea – to the black sails.

And then with a piercing scream, without consideration, without hesitation, down into the waves, down to death and oblivion.

And there sat the god Bacchus, the consoler.

So it was. Thus had it actually happened. Uncle Theodore remembers that Nösselt adds in a few words that sympathetic poets affirm that Ariadne let herself be consoled by Bacchus. But the sympathizers were certainly wrong. Ariadne would not be consoled.

Good God, because she is good and sweet, so that he must love her, shall she for that reason be made unhappy!

As a reward for the sweet little smiles she had given him; because her soft little hand had lain so trustingly in his; because she had not been angry when he jested, shall she lose her betrothed and be made unhappy?

For which of all her misdemeanors shall she be condemned? Because she has shown him a room in his innermost soul, which seems to have stood fine and clean and unoccupied all these years awaiting just such a tender and motherly little woman; or because she has already such power over him that he hardly dares to swear lest she hear it; or for what shall she be condemned?

Oh, poor Bacchus, poor Uncle Theodore! It is not easy to have to do with such delicate, light bits of down. – They leap into the sea when they see the black sails.

Uncle Theodore swears softly because Downie has not black hair, red cheeks, coarse limbs.

Then another flake falls and it begins to speak: "It is I who would have followed you all your days. I would have whispered a warning in your ear at the card-table. I would have moved away the wineglass. You would have borne it from me." "I would," he whispers, "I would."

Another comes and speaks too: "It is I who would have reigned over your big house and made it cheery and warm. It is I who would have followed you through the desert of old age. I would have lighted your fire, have been your eyes and your staff. Should I have been fit for that?" "Sweet little Downie," he answers, "you would."

Again a flake comes and says: "I am so to be pitied. To-morrow my betrothed is leaving me without even saying farewell. To-morrow I shall weep, weep all day long, for I shall feel the shame of not being good enough for Maurits. And when I come home – I do not know how I shall be able to come home; how I can cross my father's threshold after this. The whole street will be full of whispering and gossip when I show myself. Every one will wonder what evil thing I have done, to be so badly treated. Is it my fault that you love me?" He answers with a sob in his throat: "Do not speak so, little Downie! It is too soon to speak so."