“There should still be another packet somewhere or other,” he said, scratching his head; and he began to rummage every receptacle to find it.
“It must be in this last packet!” she thought; and she determined to leave him in peace, and let him come himself and tell her. And while she waited for this salvation for them both, she suddenly regained her pride and peace of mind. She went on her errands up to the farm, tall, with slow steps, bare-headed in the sun, her hair like a crown above the pale, beautiful face. Perhaps after all her husband’s enemies would be disappointed.
That day was the first on which she had not thought: “I wonder how little Bias is now!” And as regarded her father—it was a great trouble and sorrow, but it no longer caused a bad conscience.
At dinner-time she went and listened at his door. She heard the rustling of paper, but she dared not disturb him to say that dinner was ready, although she had got some unusually good meat to-day, that she knew he would like.
At last he came out, quite pleased and satisfied. He had not found it yet, but he was so sure that he would have it before the evening. The decided promise nearly turned her head with joy. Sleepless nights and emotion had unhinged her, and while they dined she was childishly gay. Oh no, he should be let off having to tell her, if only it came to light that evening; and she drank to his health in water, and put her finger in his glass to change his water into wine for him; and while she laughed over this, the tears stood in her eyes.
She was on thorns all the afternoon; but he had asked to be left alone, and he should be.
At last he opened the door, and said, smiling: “Here it is, Karen!”
Once more she started up with the cry of “Henry!” Then she ran to him, seized the paper from him, and began to run through it. Ah, yes! It was written a couple of years ago, and mentioned a good dinner, and further on—yes, there it was! There it was!
She hung upon his neck, took his head between her hands and held it from her while she murmured: “Why don’t you kiss me? Why don’t you fly up to the ceiling? Oh, I shall faint!” She had to take the paper to read it once more. But—but—a cold shiver suddenly ran through her. This handwriting—it—it was so suspiciously like Wangen’s own. She looked quickly up at him, but she dared not say anything.
“When I produce this in court,” he said, smiling, “I think it will be enough.”