sermon that have especially impressed her. In all respects she seems to be just what a clergyman’s wife should be. Very rarely—and then only in jest and by the way—does she mention the headmastership. Every day she becomes more dear to me. When I’m back at my desk, I sit dreaming of Charlotte, and find it hard to do any work. I have already told you how I would order my life. I believe that my love will free Charlotte from her worldly shackles and that she will come with me to my little gray cottage.”
At this Thea Sundler involuntarily emitted a cry.
“Yes, of course you were right,” he said. “I have been blind. Charlotte has been leading me toward a pit. Hoping to draw from me, in a moment of weakness, the promise to seek a mastership, she wished to prepare you and others for the change, should I decide to enter upon a new field of activity. But God has protected me.”
He went close up to Thea Sundler. He must have read in her face that she was enjoying his talk; that she was happy; enraptured. It irritated him that she should delight in this flow of rhetoric called forth by his suffering. A look of contempt spread over his face. “Don’t imagine that I am thankful to you for what you have told me,” he said.
Fru Sundler was terrified. He had doubled his fists and was shaking them at her.
“I don’t thank you for snatching the bandage from before my eyes. You should not be pleased at what you have done. I hate you for not letting me fall into the pit! I wish never to see you again!”
He turned on his heel and walked rapidly down the narrow path between Fru Sundler’s pretty rose borders out into the road.
Thea Sundler, utterly crushed, went back into her parlour. She cast herself upon the floor and wept as she had never wept in all her life.
CHAPTER IV
IN THE DEANERY GARDEN
It was only five-minutes’ walk from the church town to the deanery; but in those few minutes Karl Arthur thought of many stern and lordly things he would say to his betrothed.
“The time is come,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing shall stop me now. To-day we must arrive at an understanding. She must know that, much as I love her, nothing will induce me to strive after the worldly advantages which she seeks. I must serve my God. I cannot do otherwise; rather would I tear her from my heart.”
He felt proudly confident. Now, as never before, he had at his command words that would crush, stir, convince. His strong agitation had set up an inner shaking and thrown open the door to a chamber in his mind of which he had not, till then, been aware.
The walls of this room were covered with rich clusters and beautiful blooming vines. The clusters and vines were words—luscious, glorious, consummate words. He had only to come forth and take possession. All this wealth—an inconceivable wealth of words—was his.
He laughed at himself as he thought how he had had to cudgel his brains for ideas, in making up his sermons, and dig for words; yet all the while this “wealth” had been within him.
As far as Charlotte was concerned, things would be quite different after this. She had tried to lord it over him; but now all that was changed. He would talk and she listen; he would lead and she follow. Hereafter she should hang upon his words as did that poor wife of the organist. It meant strife, but he would never give in to her. Sooner than that, he would tear her out of his heart; yes, tear her out of his heart!
Just as he reached the deanery, the gates swung open, and an elegant carriage, drawn by four black horses, came rolling out.
He understood, of course, that Ironmaster Schagerström had been calling at the house, and it put him in mind of the remark Charlotte had let drop at the coffee party. It struck him in a flash that Schagerström had proposed to his fiancée. He dismissed the thought at once as utterly absurd, but all the same his heart contracted.
Was it not a most peculiar look the rich man had given him in passing? Was there not a sinister curiosity and, at the same time, compassion in that look?
Without doubt, he had guessed rightly. His heart stood still, everything went black to his eyes; he could barely drag himself up to the gatepost.
Charlotte had answered Yes. He would lose her and die of despair. While in the throes of an overwhelming anguish, he saw his fiancée come out of the house and hasten toward him. He noted the high colour in her cheeks, the bright look of her eyes, and the expression of triumph about her mouth. She was coming to tell him that she was to marry the richest man in the parish.
Such shamelessness! He clenched his fists, stamped his foot, and shouted out: “Don’t come near me!”
She stopped short. Was she really surprised, or only shamming?
“What is the matter with you?” she asked him coolly.
He quickly summoned his strength, and roared at her: “You know well enough! What was Schagerström doing here?”
When Charlotte grasped the fact that he had guessed Schagerström’s errand, she went right up to him and raised her hand as if she could have struck him in the face.
“So you, too, think I would break my word for a bit of gold and goods!” She gave him a look of contempt, then turned and walked away.
Anyhow, her words had allayed his worst suspicions. His heart gave a bound, and he felt his strength returning; he was able to follow after her.
“But he has proposed to you, hasn’t he?” he said.
She scorned to make reply. Now she squared her shoulders and held her head stiffly erect, as she walked on, past the house, down a narrow path which led to the garden.
Karl Arthur knew she had reason to be offended. If she had rejected Schagerström, she had done a splendid thing. He attempted to justify himself.
“You should have seen the face he put up as he drove past me. He didn’t look as though he had been repulsed.”
She held her proud head higher still, and quickened her steps. She did not have to speak, her bearing told him plainly enough that his company was not desired; that she was going this way because she wished to be alone.
He perceived more clearly now the devotion and self-sacrifice in her act, and so he continued to follow her.
“Charlotte!” he cried. “Darling Charlotte!”
She showed no sign of weakening, but swept on, down the garden path.
Alas, this garden, this deanery garden! Charlotte could not have directed her steps to a spot more rich in memories precious to both of them.
It was a garden laid out in the old French manner, with many intersecting walks bordered by thick, man-high hedges of lilac. Here and there in the hedge was a narrow opening, through which one passed either into a small bower containing a homely, moss-grown seat, or out upon an even grass plot encircling a solitary rose tree. Though not a spacious garden, nor perhaps a beautiful one, it was an ideal trysting place for lovers.
As Karl Arthur hastened on in the
