Short Fiction by Selma Lagerlöf (android based ebook reader txt) 📕

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. Tomorrow my betrothed is leaving me without even saying farewell. Tomorrow 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. Everyone 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.”

He wanders there the whole night and towards midnight comes a little darkness. He is in great trouble; the heavy, sultry air seems to be still in terror of some crime which is to be committed in the morning.

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 butterflies; 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 butterflies; no song of birds.

He remains until the light comes again, and he is almost astonished when he sees the thick masses 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 grass 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 pass 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 nobleness, 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 passing.

Can he allow her to put on her hat, to say