Part 7 (1/2)

”Very well, then.”

And then we spoke of other things.

”My father is going to Russia in a few days,” she said. ”And I am going to have a party. Have you been out to Korholmerne? We must have two hampers of wine; the ladies from the vicarage are coming again, and father has already given me the wine. And you won't look at her again, will you? My friend, I mean. Please, you won't, _will_ you? Or I shall not ask her at all.”

And with no more words she threw herself pa.s.sionately about my neck, and looked at me, gazing into my face and breathing heavily. Her glance was sheer blackness.

I got up abruptly, and, in my confusion, could only say:

”So your father is going to Russia?”

”What did you get up like that for, so quickly?” she asked.

”Because it is late, Edwarda,” I said. ”Now the white flowers are closing again. The sun is getting up; it will soon be day.”

I went with her through the woodland and stood watching her as long as I could; far down, she turned round and softly called good-night. Then she disappeared.

At the same moment the door of the blacksmith's house opened. A man with a white s.h.i.+rt front came out, looked round, pulled his hat down farther over his forehead, and took the road down to Sirilund.

Edwarda's good-night was still in my ears.

XIV

A man can be drunk with joy. I fire off my gun, and an unforgettable echo answers from hill to hill, floats out over the sea and rings in some sleepy helmsman's ears. And what have I to be joyful about? A thought that came to me, a memory; a sound in the woods, a human being.

I think of her, I close my eyes and stand still there on the road, and think of her; I count the minutes.

Now I am thirsty, and drink from the stream; now I walk a hundred paces forward and a hundred paces back; it must be late by now, I say to myself.

Can there be anything wrong? A month has pa.s.sed, and a month is no long time; there is nothing wrong. Heaven knows this month has been short.

But the nights are often long, and I am driven to wet my cap in the stream and let it dry, only to pa.s.s the time, while I am waiting.

I reckoned my time by nights. Sometimes there would be an evening when Edwarda did not come--once she stayed away two evenings. Nothing wrong, no. But I felt then that perhaps my happiness had reached and pa.s.sed its height.

And had it not?

”Can you hear, Edwarda, how restless it is in the woods to-night?

Rustling incessantly in the undergrowth, and the big leaves trembling.

Something brewing, maybe--but it was not that I had in mind to say. I hear a bird away up on the hill--only a tomt.i.t, but it has sat there calling in the same place two nights now. Can you hear--the same, same note again?”

”Yes, I hear it. Why do you ask me that?”

”Oh, for no reason at all. It has been there two nights now. That was all... Thanks, thanks for coming this evening, love. I sat here, expecting you this evening, or the next, looking forward to it, when you came.”

”And I have been waiting too. I think of you, and I have picked up the pieces of the gla.s.s you upset once, and kept them--do you remember?

Father went away last night. I could not come, there was so much to do with the packing, and reminding him of things. I knew you were waiting here in the woods, and I cried, and went on packing.”