August Där Nol stammered a few words, which could scarcely be heard.
"You can put the kitten in a basket, Katrina," Jan said to his wife, "then August will take it along, so that we'll not have to see it again."
Katrina then picked up a little kitten that lay asleep on the bed, placed it in an old basket around which she wrapped a cloth, and then turned it over to the boy.
"I'm glad to be rid of this kitten," said Jan. "It's wee happy and Playful—too much like Glory Goldie herself. It's best to have it out of the way."
Young Där Nol, without a word, went toward the door; but suddenly he turned back, took Jan's hand, and pressed it.
"Thanks!" he said in a choked voice. "You have given me more than you yourself know."
"Don't imagine it, my dear August Där Nol!" Jan said to himself when the boy had gone. "This is something I understand about. I know what I've given you, and I know who has taught me to know."
OCTOBER THE FIRST
The first day of October Jan lay on the bed the whole afternoon, fully dressed, his face turned to the wall, and nobody could get a word out of him.
In the forenoon he and Katrina had been down to the pier to meet the little girl. Not that Glory Goldie had written them to say she was coming, for indeed she had not! It was only that Jan had figured out that it could not be otherwise. This was the first of October, the day the money must be paid to Lars Gunnarson, so of course Glory Goldie would come. He had not expected her home earlier. He knew she would have to remain in Stockholm as long as she could in order to lay by all that money; but that she should be away any longer he never supposed. Even if she had not succeeded in scraping together the money, that was no reason why she should be away after the first of October.
That morning while Jan had stood on the pier waiting, he had said to himself: "When the little girl sees us from the boat she'll put on a sad face, and the moment she lands she'll tell us she has not been able to raise the money. When she says that Katrina and I will pretend to take her at her word and I'll say that can't understand how she dared come home when she knew that all Katrina and I cared about was the money." He was sure that before they were away from the pier she would go down in her pocket, bring up a well-filled purse, and turn it over to them. Then, while Katrina counted the bank notes, he would only stand and look at Glory Goldie. The little girl would then see that all in the world he cared about was to have her back, and she would tell him he was just as big a simpleton now as when she went away.
Thus had Jan pictured to himself Glory Goldie's homecoming. But his dream did not come true.
That day he and Katrina did not have a long wait at the pier. The boat arrived on time, but it was so overladen with passengers and freight bound for the Broby Fair that at first glance they were unable to tell whether or not the little girl was on board. Jan had expected that she would be the first to come tripping down the gangplank; but only a couple of men came ashore. Then Jan attempted to look for her on the boat; but he could get nowhere for the crush. All the same he felt so positive she was there that when the deck hands began to draw in the gangplank he shouted to the captain not to let the boat leave as there was another person to come ashore here. The captain questioned the purser, who assured him there were no more passengers for Svartsjö.
Then the boat pulled out and Katrina and Jan had to go home by themselves, and the moment they were inside the hut Jan cast himself down on the bed—so weary and disheartened that he did not know how he would ever be able to get up again.
The Ashdales folk who had seen the father and mother return from the pier without Glory Goldie were greatly concerned. One after the other, the neighbours dropped in at Ruffluck to find out how matters stood with them.
Was it true that Glory Goldie had not come on the boat? They inquired. And was it true that they had received no letter or message from her during the whole month of September?
Jan answered not a word to all their queries. It mattered not who came in—he lay still. Katrina had to enlighten the neighbours as best she could. They thought Jan lay on the bed because he was in despair of losing the hut. They could think what they liked for all of him.
Katrina wept and wailed, and once inside the friends felt they must remain, if only out of pity for her, and to give what little comfort they could.
It was not likely that Lars Gunnarson would take the house from them, they said. The old mistress of Falla would never let that happen. She had always shown herself to be a just and upright person. Besides, the day was not over yet, and Glory Goldie might still be heard from. To be sure it would be nothing short of marvellous if she had succeeded in earning 200 rix-dollars in less than three months' time: but then, that girl always had such good luck.
They discussed the chances for and against. Katrina informed them that Glory Goldie had earned nothing whatever the first weeks, that she had taken lodgings with a family from Svartsjö, now living in Stockholm, where she had been obliged to pay for her keep. And then one day she had had the good fortune to meet in the street the merchant who had given her the red dress, and he had found a place for her.
Would it not be reasonable to suppose that the merchant had also raised the money for her? That was not altogether impossible.
"No, it was not impossible," said Katrina, "but since the girl has neither come herself nor written it's plain she has failed."
Every one in the hut grew more anxious and apprehensive for every moment that passed. They all felt that some dire misfortune would soon fall upon those who lived there. When the tension was becoming unbearable the door opened once more and a man who was seldom seen in the Ashdales came in.
The instant this man entered it became as still in the hut as on a winter night in the forest, and every one's eyes save Jan's alone turned toward him. Jan did not stir, although Katrina whispered to him that Senator Carl Carlson of Storvik had just come in.
The senator held in his hand a roll of papers and every one took for granted that he had been sent here by the new owner of Falla, to notify the Ruffluck folk of what must befall them, now that they could not meet Lars Gunnarson's claim.
Carl Carlson wore his usual magisterial mien and no one could guess how heavily the blow he had come to deal would fall. He went up and shook hands, first with Katrina, then with the others, and each one in turn rose as he came to them; the only one who did not rise was Jan.
"I am not very well acquainted in this district," said the senator, "but I gather that this must be the place in the Ashdales that is called Ruffluck Croft."
It was of course. Every one nodded in the affirmative, but no one was able to utter an audible word. They wondered that Katrina had the presence of mind to nudge Börje, and make him get up and give his chair to the senator.
After drawing the chair up to the table the senator laid the roll of papers down, then he took out his snuff box and placed it beside the papers, whereupon he removed his spectacles from their case and wiped them with his big blue-and-white checkered handkerchief. After these preliminaries he glanced round the room, looking from one person to the other. Those who sat there were persons of such little importance he did not even know them by name.
"I wish to speak with Jan Anderson of Ruffluck," he said.
"That's him over there," volunteered the seine-maker, pointing at the bed.
"Is he sick?" inquired the senator.
"Oh, no! Oh, no!" replied half a dozen at the same time.
"And he isn't drunk, either," added Börje.
"Nor is he asleep," said the seine-maker.
"He has walked so far to-day he's all tired out," said Katrina, thinking it best to explain the matter in that way. At the same time she bent down over her husband and tried to persuade him to rise.
But Jan lay still.
"Does he understand what I'm saying?" asked the senator.
"Yes indeed," they all assured him.
"Perhaps he's not expecting any glad tidings, seeing it's Senator
Carl Carlson who is paying him a call." This from the seine-maker.
The senator turned his head and stared at the seine-maker. "Ol'
Bengtsa of Lusterby has not always been so afraid of meeting Carl
Carlson of Storvik," he observed in a mild voice. Turning toward
the table again, he took up a letter.
Every one was dumbfounded. The senator had actually spoken in a friendly tone. He could almost be said to have smiled.
"The fact is," he began, "a couple of days ago I received a communication from a person who calls herself Glory Goldie Sunnycastle, daughter of Jan of Ruffluck, in which she says she left home some months ago to try to earn two-hundred rix-dollars, which sum her parents have to pay to Lars Gunnarson of Falla on the first day of October in order to obtain full rights of ownership to the land on which their hut stands."
Here the senator paused a moment so that his hearers would be able to follow him.
"And now she sends the money to me," he continued, "with the request that I come down to the Ashdales and see that this matter is properly settled with the new owner of Falla; so that he won't be able to play any new trick later on."
"That girl has got some sense in her head," the senator remarked as he folded the letter. "She turns to me from the start. If all did as she has done there would be less cheating and injustice in this parish."
Before the close of that remark Jan was sitting on the edge of the bed. "But the girl? Where is she?" he asked.
"And now I'd like to know," the senator proceeded, taking no notice of Jan's question, "whether the parents are in accord with the daughter and authorize me to close—"
"But the girl, the girl?" Jan struck in. "Where is she?"
"Where she is?" said the senator, looking in the letter to see. "She says it was impossible for her to earn all this money in just two or three months, but she has found a place with a kind lady, who advanced her the money, and now she will have to stay with the lady until she has made it good."
"Then she's not coming home?" Jan asked.
"No, not for the present, as I understand it," replied the senator.
Again Jan lay down on the bed and turned his face to the wall.
What did he care for the hut and all that? What was the good of his going on living, when his little girl was not coming back?
THE DREAM BEGINS
The first few weeks after the senator's call Jan was unable to do a stroke of work: he just lay abed and grieved. Every morning he rose and put on his clothes, intending to go to his work; but before he was outside the door he felt so weak and weary that all he could do was to go back to bed.
Katrina tried to be patient with Jan, for she understood that pining, like any other sickness, had to run its course. Yet she could not help wondering how long it would be before Jan's intense yearning for Glory Goldie subsided. "Perhaps he'll be lying round like this till Christmas!" she thought. "Or possibly the whole winter?"
And this might have been the case, too, had not the old seine-maker dropped in at Ruffluck one evening and been asked to stay for coffee.
The seine-maker, like most persons whose thoughts are far away and who do not keep in touch with what happens immediately about them, was always taciturn. But when his coffee had been poured and he had emptied it into his saucer, to let it cool, it struck him that he ought to say something.
"To-day there's bound to be a letter from Glory Goldie," he said.
"I feel it in my bones."
"We had greetings from her only a fortnight ago in her letter to the senator," Katrina reminded him.
The seine-maker blew into his saucer a couple of times before saying anything more. Whereupon he again found it expedient to bridge a long silence with a word or so.
"Maybe some blessing has come to the girl, and it has given her something to write about."
"What kind of blessing might that be?" scouted Katrina. "When you've got to drudge as a servant, one day is as humdrum as another."
The seine-maker bit off a corner of a sugar-lump and gulped his coffee. When he had finished an appalling stillness fell upon the room.
"It might be that Glory Goldie met some person in the street," he blurted out, his half-dead eyes vacantly staring at space. He seemed not to know what he was saying.
Katrina did not think it necessary to respond; so replenished his cup without speaking.
"Maybe the person she met was an old lady who had difficulty in walking," the seine-maker went on in the same offhand manner, "and maybe she stumbled and fell when Glory Goldie came along."
"Would that be anything to write about?" asked Katrina, weary of this senseless talk.
"But suppose Glory Goldie stopped and helped the old lady up?" pursued the seine-maker, "and she was so thankful to the girl for helping her that she opened her purse and gave her all of ten rix-dollars—wouldn't that be worth telling?"
"Why certainly," said Katrina, "if it were true. But this is just something you're making up."
"It is well, sometimes, to be able to indulge in little thought feasts," contended the seine-maker, "they are often more satisfying than the real ones."
"You've tried both kinds," returned Katrina, "so you ought to know."
The seine-maker went his way directly, and Katrina gave no further thought to his story.
As for Jan, he took it at first as idle chatter. But lying abed, with nothing to take up his mind, presently he began to wonder if there was not some hidden meaning back of the seine-maker's words. The old man's tone sounded a bit peculiar when he spoke of the letter. Would he have sat there and made up such a long story only for talk's sake? Perhaps he had heard something. Perhaps Glory Goldie had written to him? It was quite possible that something so great had come to the little girl that she dared not send direct word to her parents, and wrote instead to the seine-maker, asking him to prepare them.
"He'll come again to-morrow," thought Jan, "and then we'll hear all about it."
But for some reason the seine-maker did not come back the next day, nor the day after. By the third day Jan had become so impatient to see his old friend that he got up and went over to his cabin, to find out whether there was anything in what he had said.
The old man was sitting alone mending a drag-net when Jan came in. He was so crippled from rheumatism, he said, he had been unable to leave the house for several days.
Jan did not want to ask him outright if he had received a letter from Glory Goldie. He thought he would attain his object more easily by approaching it in the indirect way the other had taken. So he said:
"I've been thinking of what you told us about Glory Goldie the last time you were at our place."
The seine-maker looked up from his work, puzzled. It was some little time before he comprehended what Jan alluded to. "Why, that was just a little whimsey of mine," he returned presently.
Then Jan went very close to the old man. "Anyhow it was something pleasant to listen to," he said. "You might have told us more, perhaps, if Katrina hadn't been so mistrustful?"
"Oh, yes," replied the seine-maker. "This is the sort of amusement one can afford to indulge in down here, in the Ashdales."
"I have thought," continued Jan, emboldened by the encouragement, "that maybe the story didn't end with the old lady giving Glory Goldie the ten rix-dollars. Perhaps she also invited the girl to come to see her?"
"Maybe she did," said the seine-maker.
"Maybe she's so rich that she owns a whole stone house?"
"That was a happy thought, friend Jan!"
"And maybe the rich old lady will pay Glory Goldie's debt?" Jan began, but stopped short, because the old man's daughter-in-law had just come in, and of course he did not care to let her into the secret.
"So you're out to-day, Jan," observed the daughter-in-law. "I'm glad you're feeling better."
"For that I have to thank my good friend Ol' Bengtsa!" said Jan, with an air of mystery. "He's the one who has cured me."
Jan said good-bye, and left at once. For a long while the seine-maker sat gazing out after him.
"I don't know what he can have meant by saying that I have cured him," the old man remarked to his daughter-in-law. "It can't be that he's—? No, no!"
HEIRLOOMS
One evening, toward the close of autumn, Jan was on his way home from Falla, where he had been threshing all day. After his talk with the seine-maker his desire for work had come back to him. He felt now that he must do what he could to keep up so that the little girl on her return would not be subjected to the humiliation of finding her parents reduced to the condition of paupers.
When Jan was far enough away from the house not to be seen from the windows he noticed a woman in the road coming toward him. Dusk had already fallen, but he soon saw it was the mistress herself—not the new one, but the old and rightful mistress of Falla. She had on a big shawl that came down to the hem of her skirt. Jan had never seen her so wrapped up, and wondered if she was ill. She had looked poorly of late. In the spring, when her husband died, she had not a gray hair on her head, and now, half a year afterward, she had not a dark hair left.
The old mistress stopped and greeted Jan, after which the two stood and talked. She said nothing that would indicate that she had come out expressly to see him, but he felt it to be so. It flashed into his head that she wanted to speak with him about Glory Goldie, and he was rather miffed when she began to talk about something quite different.
"I wonder, Jan, if you remember the old owner of Falla, my father, who was master there before Eric came?"
"Why shouldn't I remember him, when I was all of twelve at the time of his death?"
"He had a good son-in-law," said the old mistress.
"He had that," agreed Jan.
The old mistress was silent a moment, and sighed once or twice
before she continued: "I want to ask your advice about something,
Jan. You are not the sort that would go about tittle-tattling what
I say."
"No, I can hold my tongue."
"Yes, I've noticed that this year."
New hopes arose in Jan. It would not be surprising, thought he, if Glory Goldie had turned to the old mistress of Falla and asked her to tell him and Katrina of the great thing that had come to her. For the old seine-maker had been taken down with rheumatic fever shortly after their interrupted conversation, and for weeks he had been too ill to see him. Now he was up and about again, but very feeble. The worst of it was that after his illness his memory seemed to be gone. He had waited for him to say something more about Glory Goldie's letter, but as he had failed to do so, and could not even take a hint, he had asked him straight out. And the old man had declared he had not received any letter. To convince Jan he had pulled out the table drawer and thrown back the lid of his clothes-chest, to let him see for himself that there was no such letter.
Of course he had forgotten what he did with it, Jan concluded. So, no wonder the little girl had turned to the mistress of Falla. Pity she hadn't done it in the first place! Now that the old mistress was hesitating so long he felt certain in his own mind that he was right. But when she again returned to the subject of her father, he was so surprised he could hardly follow her. She said:
"When father was nearing the end he summoned Eric of Falla to his bedside and thanked him for his loving care of a helpless old man in his declining years. 'Don't think about that, Father,' said Eric. 'We're glad to have you with us just as long as you care to stay.' That's what Eric said. And he meant it, too!"
"He did that," confirmed Jan. "There were no fox-tricks about him!"
"Wait, Jan!" said the mistress, "we'll just speak of the old people for the present. Do you remember the long silver-mounted stick father used to carry?"
"Yes; both the stick and the high leather cap he always wore when he went to church."
"So you remember the cap, too? Do you know what father did at the last? He told me to fetch him his stick and cap, and then he gave them to Eric. 'I could have given you something that was worth more money,' he told Eric, 'but I am giving you these instead, for I know you would rather have something I have used.'"
"That was an honour well earned." When Jan said that he noticed that the old mistress drew her shawl closer together. He was sure now she was hiding something under it—maybe a present from Glory Goldie! "She'll get round to that in time," he thought. "All this talk about her father is only a makeshift."
"I have often spoken of this to my children," the old mistress went on, "and also to Lars Gunnarson. Last spring, when Eric lay sick, I think both Lars and Anna expected that Lars would be called to the bedside, as Eric had once been called. I had brought him in the stick and cap so they'd be handy in case Eric wished to give them to Lars; but he had no such thought."
The old mistress's voice shook as she said that, and when she spoke again her tone sounded anxious and uncertain.
"Once, when we were alone, I asked Eric what his wishes were, and he said if I wanted to I could give the things to Lars when he was gone as he had not the strength to make speeches."
Whereupon the mistress of Falla threw back her big shawl, and then Jan saw that she held under it a long, silver-mounted ebony stick and a stiff, high-crowned leather cap.
"Some words are too heavy for utterance," she said with great gravity. "Answer me with just a nod, Jan, if you will. Can I give these to Lars Gunnarson?"
Jan drew back a step. This was a matter he had entirely dismissed from his mind. It seemed such a long time since Eric of Falla died he hardly remembered how it happened.
"You understand, Jan, that all I want to know is whether Lars can accept the stick and cap with the same right as Eric. You must know, as you were with him that time in the forest. It would be well for me," she added, as Jan did not speak, "if I could give them to Lars. I believe there would be less friction afterward between the young folks and me."
Her voice failed her again, and Jan began to perceive why she had aged so much the past few months; but now his mind was so taken up with other things that he no longer cherished the old resentment against his new employer.
"It's best to forgive and forget," he said. "It pays in the long run."
The old mistress caught her breath. "Then it is just as I thought!" she said, drawing herself up to her full height. "I'll not ask you to tell what took place. It's best for me not to know. But one thing is certain, Lars Gunnarson shall never get his hands on my father's stick!"
She had already turned to go, then suddenly faced about. "Here, Jan," she said, holding out the things. "You may have the stick and cap, for I want them to be in good, honest hands. I daren't take them home again lest I be forced to turn them over to Lars; so you keep them as a memento of the old master, who always thought well of you."
Then she walked away, erect and proud, and there Jan stood holding the cap and stick. He hardly knew how it had come about. He had never expected to be so honoured. Were these heirlooms now to be his? Then in a moment, he found an explanation: Glory Goldie was back of it all. The old mistress knew that he was soon to be elevated to a station so exalted that nothing would be too good for him. Indeed, had the stick been of silver and the cap of gold they would have been even more suitable for the father of Glory Goldie.
CLOTHED IN SATIN
No letter had come from Glory Goldie to either her father or mother. But it mattered very little now that Jan knew she was silent simply because she wished her parents to be all the more surprised and happy when the time came for her to proclaim the good tidings.
But, in any case, it was a good thing for him that he had peeped into her cards. Otherwise he might easily have been made a fool of by persons who thought they knew more about Glory's doings than he did. For instance, there was Katrina's experience at church the first Sunday in Advent. Katrina had been to service, and upon her return Jan had noticed that she was both alarmed and depressed.
She had seen a couple of youths who were just back from Stockholm standing on the church knoll talking with a group of young boys and girls. Thinking they might be able to give her some news of Glory Goldie, she had gone up to them to make inquiries.
The youths were evidently telling of some of their escapades, for all the men, at least, laughed uproariously. Katrina thought their behaviour very unseemly, considering they were on church ground. The men must have realized this themselves, for when she came up they nudged one another and hushed. She had caught only a few words, spoken by a youth whose back was turned to her, and who had not seen her.
"And to think that she was clothed in satin!" he said.
Instantly a young girl gave him a push that silenced him, then, glancing round, he saw Katrina just behind him and his face went red as blood; but immediately after he tossed his head, and said in a loud voice:
"What's the matter with you? Why can't I be allowed to say that the queen was arrayed in satin?"
When he said that the young people laughed louder than ever. Then Katrina went her way, unable to bring herself to question them. And when she came home she was so unhappy that Jan was almost tempted to come out with the truth about Glory Goldie; but on second thought, he asked her to tell him again what had been said about the queen.
Katrina did so, but added: "You understand of course that that was only said to sweeten the pill for me."
Jan meanwhile kept mum. But he could not help smiling to himself.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Katrina. "You have such a queer look on your face these days. You don't know what they meant, do you?"
"I certainly don't," answered Jan. "But we ought to have enough confidence in the little girl to think all is as it should be."
"But I'm getting so anxious—"
"The time to speak," Jan struck in, "has not come, either for them or me. Glory Goldie herself has probably requested them not to say anything to us. So we must rest easy, Katrina, indeed we must."
STARS
When the little girl had been gone nearly eight months, who should come stalking into the barn at Falla one fine day, while Jan stood threshing there, but Mad Ingeborg!
Mad Ingeborg was first cousin to Jan. But as she was afraid of Katrina he seldom saw her. It was to escape meeting Jan's wife that she had sought him out at Falla during his work hours.
Jan was none too pleased to see Ingeborg! She was not exactly insane, but flighty—and a terrible chatterer. He went right on with his work, taking no notice of her.
"Stop your threshing, Jan!" she said, "so that I can tell you what
I dreamed about you last night."
"You'd better come some other time, Ingeborg," Jan suggested. "If Lars Gunnarson hears that I'm resting from my work he'll be sure to come over to see what's up."
"I'll be as quick as quick can be. If you remember, I was the brightest child in our family, which doesn't give me much to brag about, as the rest of you were a dull lot."
"You were going to tell me about a dream," Jan reminded her.
"In a minute—a minute! You mustn't be afraid. I understand— understand: hard master now at Falla—hard master. But don't be uneasy, for you'll not be scolded on my account. There's no danger of that when you're with a sensible person like me."
Jan would have liked to hear what she dreamed about him, for confident as he was of the ultimate realization of his great expectations, he nevertheless sought assurances from all quarters. But now Mad Ingeborg was wandering along her own thought-road and at such times it was not easy to stop her. She went very close to Jan, then, bending over him, her eyes shut tight, her head shaking, the words came pouring out of her mouth.
"Don't be so scared. Do you suppose I'd be standing here talking to you while you're threshing at Falla if I didn't know the master had gone up to the forest and the mistress was down at the village selling butter. 'Always keep them in mind,' says the catechism. I know enough for that and take good care not to come round when they can see me."
"Get out of the way, Ingeborg! Otherwise the flail might hit you."
"Think how you boys used to beat me when we were children!" she rattled on. "Even now I have to take thrashings. But when it came to catechism examinations, I could beat you all. 'No one can catch Ingeborg napping,' the dean used to say. 'She always knows her lessons.' And I'm good friends with the little misses at Lövdala Manor. I recite the catechism for them both questions and answers— from beginning to end. And what a memory I've got! I know the whole Bible by heart and the hymn book, too, and all the dean's sermons. Shall I recite something for you, or would you rather hear me sing?"
Jan said nothing whatever, but went to threshing again. Ingeborg, undaunted, seated herself on a sheaf of straw and struck up a chant of some twenty stanzas, then she repeated a couple of chapters from the Bible, whereupon she got up and went out. Jan thought she had gone for good, but in a little while she reappeared in the doorway of the barn.
"Hold still!" she whispered. "Hold still! Now we'll say nothing but what we were going to say. Only be still—still!"
Then up went her forefinger. Now she held her body rigid and her eyes open. "No other thoughts, no other thoughts!" she said. "We'll keep to the subject. Only hush your pounding!"
She waited till Jan minded her.
"You came to me last night in a dream—yes, that was it. You came to me and I says to you like this: 'Are you out for a walk, Jan of the Ashdales?' 'Yes,' says you, 'but now I'm Jan of the Vale of Longings.' 'Then, well met,' says I. 'There's where I have lived all my life.'"
Whereupon she disappeared again, and Jan, startled by her strange words, did not immediately resume his work, but stood pondering. In a moment or two she was there again.
"I remember now what brought me here," she told him. "I wanted to show you my stars."
On her arm was a small covered basket bound with cord, and while she tugged and pulled at a knot, to loosen it, she chattered like a magpie.
"They are real stars, these. When one lives in the Vale of Longings one isn't satisfied with the things of earth; then one is compelled to go out and look for stars. There is no other choice. Now you, too, will have to go in search of them."
"No, no, Ingeborg!" returned Jan. "I'll confine my search to what is to be found on this earth."
"For goodness sake hush!" cried the woman. "You don't suppose I'm such a fool as to go ahunting for those which remain in the heavens, do you? I only seek the kind that have fallen. I've got some sense, I guess!"
She opened her basket which was filled with a variety of stars she had evidently picked up at the manors. There were tin stars and glass stars and paper stars—ornaments from Christmas trees and confectionery.
"They are real stars fallen from the sky," she declared. "You are the only person I've shown them to. I'll let you have a couple whenever you need them."
"Thanks, Ingeborg," said Jan. "When the time comes that I shall have need of stars—which may be right soon—I don't think I'll ask you for them."
Then at last Mad Ingeborg left.
It was some little time, however, before Jan went back to his threshing. To him this, too, was a finger-pointing. Not that a crack-brained person like Ingeborg could know anything of Glory Goldie's movements; but she was one of the kind who sensed it in the air when something extraordinary was going to happen. She could see and hear things of which wise folk never had an inkling.
WAITING
Engineer Boraeus of Borg was in the habit of strolling down to the pier mornings to meet the steamer. He had only a short distance to go, through his beautiful pine grove, and there was always some one on the boat with whom he could exchange a few words to vary the monotony of country life.
At the end of the grove, where the road began an abrupt descent to the pier, were some large bare rocks upon which folk who had come from a distance used to sit while waiting for the boat. And there were always many who waited at the Borg pier, as there was never any certainty as to when the boat would arrive. It seldom put in before twelve o'clock, and yet once in a while it reached the pier as early as eleven. Sometimes it did not come until one or two; so that prompt people, who were down at the landing by ten o'clock, often had to sit there for hours.
Engineer Boraeus had a good outlook over Lake Löven from his chamber window at Borg. He could see when the steamer rounded the point and never appeared at the landing until just in the nick of time. Therefore he did not have to sit on the rocks and wait, and would only cast a glance, in passing, at those who were seated there. However, one summer, he noticed a meek-looking little man with a kindly face sitting there waiting day after day. The man always sat quite still, seemingly indifferent, until the boat hove in sight. Then he would jump to his feet, his face shining with joyous anticipation, and rush down the incline to the far end of the pier, where he would stand as if about to welcome some one. But nobody ever came for him. And when the boat pulled out he was as alone as before. Then, as he turned to go home, the light of happiness gone from his face, he looked old and worn; he seemed hardly able to drag himself up the hill.
Engineer Boreaus was not acquainted with the man. But one day when he again saw him sitting there gazing out upon the lake, he went up and spoke to him. He soon learned that the man's daughter, who had been away for a time, was expected home that day.
"Are you quite certain she is coming to-day?" said the engineer. "I've seen you sitting here waiting ever day for the past two months. In that case she must have sent you wrong instructions before."
"Oh, no," replied the man quietly, "indeed she hasn't given me any wrong instructions!"
"Then what in the name of God do you mean?" demanded the engineer gruffly, for he was a choleric man. "You've sat here and waited day after day without her coming, yet you say she has not given you wrong instructions."
"No," answered the meek little man, looking up at the engineer with his mild, limpid eyes, "she couldn't have, as she has not sent any instructions."
"Hasn't she written to you?"
"No; we've had no letter from her since the first day of last
October."
"Then why do you idle away your mornings down here?" asked the engineer, wonderingly. "Can you afford to leave off working like this?"
"No," replied the man, smiling to himself. "I suppose it's wrong in me to do so; but all that will soon be made good."
"Is it possible that you're such a stupid ass as to hang round here when there's no occasion for it?" roared the engineer, furiously. "You ought to be shut up in a madhouse."
The man said nothing. He sat with his hands clasped round his knees, quite unperturbed. A smile played about his mouth all the while, and every second he seemed more and more confident of his ultimate triumph.
The engineer shrugged his shoulders and walked away, but before he was halfway down the hill he repented his harshness, and turned back. The stern forbidding look which his strong features habitually wore was now gone and he put out his hand to the man.
"I want to shake hands with you," he said. "Until now I had always thought that I was the only one in this parish who knew what it was to yearn; but now I see that I have found my master."
THE EMPRESS
The little girl of Ruffluck had been away fully thirteen months, yet Jan had not betrayed by so much as a word that he had any knowledge of the great thing that had come to her. He had vowed to himself never to speak of this until Glory Goldie's return. If the little girl did not discover that he knew about her grandeur, her pleasure in overwhelming him would be all the greater.
But in this world of ours it is the unexpected that happens mostly. There came a day when Jan was forced to unseal his lips and tell what he knew. Not on his own account. Indeed not! For he would have been quite content to go about in his shabby clothes and let folks think him nothing but a poor crofter to the end of his days. It was for the little girl's own sake that he felt compelled to reveal the great secret.
It happened one day, early in August, when he had gone down to the pier to watch for her. For you see, going down to meet the boat every day that he might see her come ashore, was a pleasure he had been unable to deny himself. The boat had just put in and he had seen that Glory Goldie was not on board. He had supposed that she would be finished with everything now and could leave for home. But some new hindrance must have arisen to detain her, as had been the case all summer. It was not easy for one who had so many demands upon her time to get away.
Anyhow it was a great pity she did not come to-day, thought Jan, when there were so many of her old acquaintances at the pier. There stood both Senator Carl Carlson and August Där Nol. Björn Hindrickson's son-in-law was also on hand, and even Agrippa Prästberg had turned out.
Agrippa had nursed a grievance against the little girl since the day she fooled him about the spectacles. Jan had to admit to himself that it would have been a great triumph for him had Glory Goldie stood on the boat that day in all her pomp and splendour, so that Prästberg could have seen her. However, since she had not come, there was nothing for him but to go back home. As he was about to leave the pier cantankerous old Agrippa barred his way.
"Well, well!" said Agrippa. "So you're running down here after that daughter of yours to-day, too?"
Jan knowing it was best not to bandy words with a man like Agrippa, simply stepped to one side, so as to get by him.
"I declare I don't wonder at your wanting to meet such a fine lady as she has turned out to be!" said Agrippa with a leer.
Just then August Där Nol rushed up and seized Agrippa by the arm, to silence him. But Agrippa was not to be silenced.
"The whole parish knows of it," he shouted, "so it's high time her parents were told of her doings! Jan Anderson is a decent fellow, even if he did spoil that girl of his, and I can't bear to see him sit here day after day, week in and week out, waiting for a—"
He called the little girl of Ruffluck such a bad name that Jan would not repeat it even in his thoughts. But now that Agrippa had flung that ugly word at him in a loud voice, so that every one on the pier heard what he said, all that Jan had kept locked within him for a whole year burst its bonds. He could no longer keep it hidden. The little girl must forgive him for betraying her secret. He said what he had to say without the least show of anger or boastfulness. With a sweep of his hand and a lofty smile, as if hardly deigning to answer, he said:
"When the Empress comes—"
"The Empress!" grinned Agrippa. "Who might that be?" Just as if he had not heard about the little girl's elevation.
Jan of Ruffluck, unperturbed, continued in the same calm, even tone of voice:
"When the Empress Glory of Portugallia stands on the pier, with a crown of gold upon her head, and with seven kings behind her holding up her royal mantle, and seven tame lions crouched at her feet, and seven and seventy generals, with drawn swords, going before her, then we shall see, Prästberg, whether you dare say to herself what you've just said to me!"
When he had finished speaking he stood still a moment, noting with satisfaction how terrified they looked, all of them; then, turning on his heel, he walked away, but without hurry or flurry, of course.
The instant his back was turned there was a terrible commotion on the pier. At first he paid no attention to it, but presently, on hearing a heavy thud, he had to look back. Then he saw Agrippa lying flat on his face and August Där Nol bending over him with clenched fists.
"You cur!" cried August. "You knew well enough that he couldn't stand hearing the truth. You can't have any heart in your body!"
This much Jan heard, but as anything in the way of fighting or quarrelling was contrary to his nature, he went on up the hill, without mixing in the fray.
But strangely enough, when he was out of every one's sight an uncontrollable spell of weeping came over him. He did not know why he wept, but probably his tears were of joy at having cleared up the mystery. He felt now as if his little girl had come back to him.
THE EMPEROR
The first Sunday in September the worshippers at Svartsjö church had a surprise in store for them.
There was a wide gallery in the church extending clear across the nave. The first row of pews in this gallery had always been occupied by the gentry—the gentlemen on the right side and the ladies on the left—as far back as can be remembered. All the seats in the church were free, so that other folk were not debarred from sitting there, if they so wished; but of course it would never have occurred to any poor cotter to ensconce himself in that row of pews.
In the old days Jan had thought the occupants of this particular bench a delight to the eye. Even now he was willing to concede that the superintendent from Doveness, the lieutenant from Lövdala, and the engineer from Borg were fine men who made a good appearance. But they were as nothing to the grandeur which folks beheld that day. For anything like a real emperor had never before been seen in the gentry's bench.
But now there sat at the head of this bench just such a great personage, his hands resting on a long silver-mounted stick, his head crowned with a high, green leather cap, while on his waistcoat glittered two large stars, one like gold, the other like silver.
When the organ began to play the processional hymn the Emperor lifted up his voice in song. For an emperor is obliged to sing out, loud and clear, when at church, even if he cannot follow the melody or sing in tune. Folks are glad to hear him in any case.
The gentlemen at his left now and then turned and stared at him. Who could wonder at that? It was probably the first time they had had so exalted a personage among them.
He had to remove his hat, of course, for that is something which even an emperor must do when attending divine service; but he kept it on as long as possible, that all might feast their eyes on it.
And many of the worshippers who sat in the body of the church had their eyes turned up toward the gallery that Sunday. Their thoughts seemed to be on him more than on the sermon. They were perhaps a little surprised that he had become so exalted. But surely they could understand that one who was father to an empress must himself be an emperor. Anything else was impossible.
When he came out on the pine knoll at the close of the service many persons went up to him; but before he had time to speak to a soul Sexton Blackie stepped up and asked him to come along into the vestry.
The pastor was seated in the vestry, his back turned toward the door, talking with Senator Carl Carlson, when Jan and the sexton entered. He seemed to be distressed about something, for there were tears in his voice.
"These were two souls entrusted to my keeping whom I have allowed to go to ruin," he said.
The senator tried to console him, saying: "You can't be responsible, Pastor, for the evil that goes on in the large cities."
But the clergyman would not be consoled. He covered his beautiful young face with his hands, and wept.
"No," he sobbed, "I suppose I can't. But what have I done to guard the young girl who was thrown on the world, unprotected? And what have I done to comfort her old father who had only her to live for?"
"The pastor is practically a newcomer in the parish," said the senator, "so that if there is any question of responsibility it falls more heavily upon the rest of us, who were acquainted with the circumstances. But who could think it was to end so disastrously? Young folk have to make their own way in life. We've all been thrust out in much the same way, yet most of us have fared rather well."
"O God of mercy!" prayed the pastor, "grant me the wisdom to speak to the unhappy father. Would I might stay his fleeing wits—!"
Sexton Blackie, standing there with Jan, now cleared his throat.
The pastor rose at once, went up to Jan, and took him by the hand.
"My dear Jan!" he said feelingly. The pastor was tall and fair and handsome. When he came up to you, with his kindly blue eyes beaming benevolence, and spoke to you in his deep sympathetic voice, it was not easy to resist him. In this instance, however, the only thing to do was to set him right at the start, which Jan did of course.
"Jan is no more, my good Pastor," he said. "Now we are Emperor Johannes of Portugallia, and he who does not wish to address us by our proper title, him we have nothing to say to."
With that, Jan gave the pastor a stiff' imperial nod of dismissal, and put on his cap. They looked rather foolish, did the three men who stood in the vestry, when Jan pushed open the door and walked out.
BOOK THREE
THE EMPEROR'S SONG
In the wooded heights above Loby there was still a short stretch of an old country road where in bygone days all teams had to pass, but which was now condemned because it led up and down the worst hills and rocky slopes instead of having the sense to go round them. The part that remained was so steep that no one in driving made use of it any more though foot-farers climbed it occasionally, as it was a good short cut.
The road ran as broad as any of the regular crown highways, and was still covered with fine yellow gravel. In fact, it was smoother now than formerly, being free from wheel tracks, and mud, and dust. Along the edge bloomed roadside flowers and shrubs; dogwood, bittervetch, and buttercups grew there in profusion even to this day, but the ditches were filled in and a whole row of spruce trees had sprung up in them. Young evergreens of uniform height, with branches from the root up, stood pressing against each other as closely as the foliage of a boxwood hedge; their needles were not dry and hard, but moist and soft, and their tips were all bright with fresh green shoots. The trees sang and played like humming bees on a fine summer day, when the sun beams down upon them from a clear sky.
When Jan of Ruffluck walked home from church the Sunday he had appeared there for the first time in his royal regalia, he turned in on the old forest road. It was a warm sunny day and, as he went up the hill, he heard the music of the spruces so plainly that it astonished him.
Never had spruce trees sung like that! It struck him that he ought to find out why they were so loud-voiced just to-day. And being in no special haste to reach home, he dropped down in the middle of the smooth gravel road, in the shade of the singing tree. Laying his stick on the ground, he removed his cap and mopped his brow, then he sat motionless, with hands clasped, and listened.
The air was quite still, therefore it could hardly have been the wind that had set all these little musical instruments into motion. It was almost as if the spruces played for very joy at being so young and fresh; at being let stand in peace by the abandoned roadside, with the promise of many years of life ahead of them before any human being would come and cut them down.
But if such was the case, it did not explain why the trees sang with such gusto just that day; they could rejoice over those particular blessings any pleasant summer day; they did not call for any extra music.
Jan sat still in the middle of the road, listening with rapt attention. It was pleasant hearing the hum of the spruce, though it was all on one note, with no rests, so that there was neither melody nor rhythm about it.
He found it so refreshing and delightful up here on the heights. No wonder the trees felt happy, he mused. The wonder was they sang and played no better than they did. He looked up at their small twigs on which every needle was fine and well made, and in its proper place, and drank in the piney odour that came from them. There was no flower of the meadow, no blossom of the grove so fragrant! He noted their half-grown cones on which the scales were compactly massed for the protection of the seed.
These trees, which seemed to understand so well what to do for themselves, ought to be able to sing and play so that one could comprehend what they meant. Yet they kept harping all the while on the same strain. He grew drowsy listening to them, and stretched himself flat on the smooth, fine gravel to take a little nap.
But hark! What was this? The instant his head touched the ground and his eyes closed, the trees struck up something new. Ah, now there came rhythm and melody!
Then all that other was only a prelude, such as is played at church before the hymn.
This was what he had felt the whole time, though he had not wanted to say it even in his mind. The trees also knew what had happened. It was on his account they tuned up so loudly the instant he appeared. And now they sang of him—there was no mistaking it now, when they thought him asleep. Perhaps they did not wish him to hear how much they were making of him.
And what a song, what a song! He lay all the while with his eyes shut, but could hear the better for that. Not a sound was lost to him.
Ah, this was music! It was not just the young trees at the edge of the road that made music now, but the whole forest. There were organs and drums and trumpets; there were little thrush flutes and bullfinch pipes; there were gurgling brooks and singing water-sprites, tinkling bluebells and thrumming woodpeckers.
Never had he heard anything so beautiful, nor listened to music in just this way. It rang in his ear; so that he could never forget it.
When the song was finished and the forest grew silent, he sprang to his feet as if startled from a dream. Immediately he began to sing this hymn of the woods so as to fix it forever in his memory.
The Empress's father, for his part,
Feels so happy in his heart.
Then came the refrain, which he had not been able to catch word for word, but anyhow he sang it about as it had sounded to him:
Austria, Portugal, Metz, Japan,
Read the newspapers, if you can.
Boom, boom, boom, and roll.
Boom, boom.
No gun be his but a sword of gold;
Now a crown for a cap on his head behold!
Austria, Portugal, Metz, Japan,
Read the newspapers, if you can.
Boom, boom, boom, and roll.
Boom, boom.
Golden apples are his meat,
No more of turnips shall he eat.
Austria, Portugal, Metz, Japan,
Read the newspapers, if you can.
Boom, boom, boom, and roll.
Boom, boom.
Court ladies clothed in bright array
Bow as he passes on his way.
Austria, Portugal, Metz, Japan,
Read the newspapers, if you can.
Boom, boom, boom, and roll.
Boom, boom.
When he the forest proudly treads,
All the tree-tops nod their heads.
Austria, Portugal, Metz, Japan,
Read the newspapers, if you can.
Boom, boom, boom, and roll.
Boom, boom.
It was just this "boom, boom" that had sounded best of all to him. With every boom he struck the ground hard with his stick and made his voice as deep and strong as he could. He sang the song over and over again, till the forest fairly rang with it.
But then the way in which it had been composed was so out of the common! And the fact that this was the first and only time in his life he had been able to catch and carry a tune was in itself a proof of its merit.
THE SEVENTEENTH OF AUGUST
The first time Jan of Ruffluck had gone to Lövdala on a seventeenth of August the visit had not passed off as creditably for him as he could have wished; so he had never repeated it, although he had been told that each year it was becoming more lively and festive at the Manor.
But now that the little girl had come up in the world, it was altogether different with him. He felt that it would be a great disappointment to Lieutenant Liljecrona if so exalted a personage as the Emperor Johannes of Portugallia did not do him the honour of wishing him happiness on his birthday.
So he donned his imperial regalia and sallied forth, taking good care not to be among the first arrivals. For him who was an emperor it was the correct thing not to put in an appearance until all the guests had made themselves quite at home, and the festivities were well under way.
Upon the occasion of his former visit he had not ventured farther than the orchard and the gravelled walk in front of the house. He had not even gone up to pay his respects to the host. But now he could not think of behaving so discourteously.
This time he made straight for the big bower at the left of the porch, where the lieutenant sat with a group of dignitaries from Svartsjö and elsewhere, grasped him by the hand, and wished him many happy returns of the day.
"So you've come out to-day, Jan," said the lieutenant in a tone of surprise.
To be sure he was not expecting an honour like this, which probably accounted for his so far forgetting himself as to address the Emperor by his old name. Jan knew that so genial a man as the lieutenant could have meant no offense by that, therefore he corrected him in all meekness.
"We must make allowances for the lieutenant," he said, "since this is his birthday; but by rights we should be called Emperor Johannes of Portugallia."
Jan spoke in the gentlest tone possible, but just the same the other gentlemen all laughed at the lieutenant for having made such a bad break. Jan had never intended to cause him humiliation on his birthday, so he promptly dismissed the matter and turned to the others. Raising his cap with an imperial flourish, he said:
"Go'-day, go'-day, my worthy Generals and Bishops and Governors." It was his intention to go around and shake hands with everybody, as one is expected to do at a party.
Nearest the lieutenant sat a short, stocky man in a white cloth jacket, with a gold-trimmed collar, and a sword at his side, who, when Jan stepped up to greet him did not offer his whole hand, but merely held out two fingers. The man's intentions may have been all right, but of course a potentate like Emperor Johannes of Portugallia knew he must stand upon his dignity.
"I think you will have to give me your whole hand, my good Bishop and Governor," he said very pleasantly, for he did not want to disturb the harmony on this great day.
Then, mind you, the man turned up his nose!
"I have just heard it was not to your liking that Liljecrona called you by name," he observed, "and I wonder how you can have the audacity to say du [Note: Du like the French "tu" is used only in addressing intimates.] to me!" Then, pointing to three poor little yellow stars that were attached to his coat, he roared: "See these?"
When remarks of this kind were flung at him, the Emperor Johannes thought it high time to lay off his humility. He quickly flipped back his coat, exhibiting a waistcoat covered with large showy "medals" of "silver" and "gold." He usually kept his coat buttoned over these decorations as they were easily tarnished, and crushable. Besides, he knew that people always felt so ill at ease when in the presence of exalted personages and he had no desire to add to their embarrassment by parading his grandeur when there was no occasion for it. Now, however, it had to be done.
"Look here, you!" he said. "This is what you ought to show if you want to brag. Three paltry little stars—pooh! that's nothing!"
Then you had better believe the man showed proper respect! The fact that all who knew about the Empress and the Empire were laughing themselves sick at the Major General must have had its effect, also.
"By cracky!" he ejaculated, rising to his feet and bowing. "If it isn't a real monarch that I have before me! Your Majesty even knows how to respond to a speech."
"That's easy when you know how to meet people," retorted the other. After that no gentleman in the party was so glad to be allowed to talk to the ruler of Portugallia as was this very man, who had been so high and mighty at first that he would not present more than two fingers, when an emperor had offered him his whole hand.
It need hardly be said that none of the others seated in the bower refused to accord the Emperor a fitting greeting. Now that the first feeling of surprise and embarrassment had passed and the men were beginning to perceive that he was not a difficult person to get on with, emperor though he was, they were as eager as was every one else to hear all about the little girl's rise to royal honours and her prospective return to her home parish. At last he was on so friendly a footing with them all that he even consented to sing for them the song he had learned in the forest.
This was perhaps too great a condescension on his part, but since they were all so glad for every word he uttered he could not deny them the pleasure of hearing him sing, also.
And when he raised his voice in song imagine the consternation! Then his audience was not confined to the group of elderly gentlemen in the bower. For immediately the old countesses and the old wives of the old generals who had been sitting on the big sofa in the drawing room, sipping tea and eating bonbons, and the young barons and young Court ladies who had been dancing in the ballroom, all came rushing out to hear him and all eyes were fixed on him, which was quite the proper thing, as he was an emperor.
The like of that song they had never heard, of course, and as soon as he had sung it through they wanted him to sing it again. He hesitated a good while—for one must never be too obliging in such matters—but they would not be satisfied until he had yielded to their importunities. And this time, when he came to the refrain, they all joined in, and when he got to the "boom, boom" the young barons beat time with their feet and the young Court ladies clapped their hands to the measure of the tune.
But that was a wonderful day! As he sang it again and again, with so many smartly dressed people chiming in; so many pretty young ladies darting him glances of approval; so many young swains shouting bravo after every verse, he felt as dizzy as if he had been dancing. It was as if some one had taken him in their arms and lifted him into the air.
He did not lose his head, though, but knew all the while that his feet were still on the earth. Meantime, he had the pleasant sensation of being elevated far above every one. On the one hand, he was being borne up by the honour, on the other by the glory. They bore him away on strong wings and placed him upon an imperial throne, far, far away amongst the rosy evening clouds.
There was but one thing wanting. Think, if the great Empress, his little Glory Goldie, had only been there, too!
Instantly this thought flashed upon him, a red shimmer passed before his eyes. Gazing at it more intently, he saw that it emanated from a young girl in a red frock who had just come out from the house, and was then standing on the porch.
The young girl was tall and graceful and had a wealth of gold yellow hair. From where he stood he could not see her face, but he thought she could be none other than Glory Goldie. Then he knew why he had been so blissfully happy that evening; it was just a foretoken of the little girl's nearness. Breaking off in the middle of his song and pushing aside all who stood in his way, he ran toward the house.
When he reached the steps he was obliged to halt. His heart thumped so violently it seemed ready to burst. But gradually he recovered just enough strength to be able to proceed. Very slowly he mounted step by step till at last he was on the porch. Then, spreading out his arms, he whispered:
"Glory Goldie!"
Instantly the young girl turned round. It was not Glory Goldie! A strange woman stood there, staring at him in astonishment.
Not a word could he utter, but tears sprang to his eyes; he could not hold them back. Now he faced about and staggered down the steps. Turning his back upon all the merriment and splendour, he went on up the driveway.
The people kept calling for him. They wanted him to come back and sing to them again. But he heard them not. As fast as he could go he hurried toward the woods, where he could be alone with his grief.
KATRINA AND JAN
Jan of Ruffluck had never had so many things to think about and ponder over as now, that he had become an emperor.
In the first place he had to be very guarded, since greatness had been thrust upon him, so as not to let pride get the upper hand. He must bear in mind continually that we humans were all made from the same material and had sprung from the same First Parents; that we were all of us weak and sinful and at bottom one person was no better than another.
All his life long he had observed, to his dismay, how people tried to lord it over one another, and of course he had no desire to do likewise. He found, however, that it was not an easy matter for one who had become exalted to maintain a proper humility. His greatest concern was that he might perhaps say or do something that would cause his old friends, who were still obliged to pursue their humble callings, to feel themselves slighted and forgotten. Therefore he deemed it best when attending such functions as dinners and parties—which duty demanded of him—never to mention in the hearing of these people the great distinction that had come to him. He could not blame them for envying him. Indeed not! Just the same he felt it was wisest not to make them draw comparisons.
And of course he could not ask men like Börje and the seine-maker to address him as Emperor. Such old friends could call him Jan, as they had always done; for they could never bring themselves to do otherwise.
But the one whom he had to consider before all others and be most guarded with was the old wife, who sat at home in the hut. It would have been a great consolation to him, and a joy as well, if greatness had come to her also. But it had not. She was the same as of yore. Anything else was hardly to be expected. Glory Goldie must have known it would be quite impossible to make an empress of Katrina. One could not imagine the old woman pinning a golden coronet on her hair when going to church; she would have stayed at home rather than show her face framed in anything but the usual black silk headshawl.
Katrina had declared out and out she did not want to hear about Glory Goldie being an empress. On the whole it was perhaps best to humour her in this.
But one can understand it must have been hard for him who spent his mornings at the pier, surrounded by admiring throngs of people, who at every turn addressed him as "Emperor," to drop his royal air the moment he set foot in his own house. It cannot be denied that he found it a bit irksome having to fetch wood and water for Katrina and then to be spoken to as if he had gone backward in life instead of forward.
If Katrina had only stopped at that he would not have minded it, but she even complained because he would not go out to work now, as in former days. When she came with such things he always turned a deaf ear. As if he did not know that the Empress of Portugallia would soon send him so much money that he need never again put on his working clothes! He felt it would be an insult to her to give in to Katrina on this point.
One afternoon, toward the end of August, as Jan was sitting upon the flat stone in front of the hut, smoking his pipe, he glimpsed some bright frocks in the woods close by, and heard the ring of youthful voices.