“The stamp on the last letter that I wrote you, dear Gurth, is hardly dried, yet I must write again and tell you that which for the last month I have tried to conceal. Now it is useless. My father will bring a new wife to fill my mother’s place in two months from now. A hateful woman who has in some strange way gained power over and fascinated him, but who does not wish me in the house, for my father is urging, nay, almost commanding, my betrothal to Hans Kraus, the brewer’s son, whom I have seen hardly twice, and whose mother is arranging the matter for him.
“In vain I protest and remind him of our betrothal. He insists that your mother will surely win you back, as she is making great efforts to discover where you are. He will not hear of my going out to service. I know that you will say, ‘Come to me, and we will be married,’ but knowing your plans and your agreement with your employer, this I will not do until Christmas comes again. One thing is possible, if you will undertake it. You are, of course, known in your village as a working-man. There must be some one there who wishes a young, strong woman to do housework, sewing, anything, in short,—you know my hands are used to work of all kinds. Find some lady who will pay my passage money, to be taken out in service, and I will come. Thus I, too, shall be independent. I can sometimes see you, and when we then marry at Christmas, no one will know that we are not as we seem, and we shall begin on a sure footing. Do not attempt to stop me, dearest. Let me also work.
“Your Andrea.”
This letter cut Waldsen to the heart as well as stirred his pride, and his first impulse was to return at once to Denmark for Andrea. Then he considered all the threads that must be unravelled, the dispersal of many plans so nicely made, and he paused, perplexed. Andrea clearly did not realize that he was not really a servant even in name, and that he could not allow her to fill a drudge’s place in some farm-house.
Stop! why should he not consult Margaret? She might suggest something, and, at least, her advice would be in accord with local custom, so that neither he nor Andrea would be criticised in future by those among whom they were to live. He wrote a few comforting lines to his betrothed, which he prepared to post that night that the letter might go by the next day’s steamer, for he had the habit, that a man bred in a large city seldom loses, of noting the coming and going of the iron monsters that bind the continents.
It was after one o’clock when he went downstairs, shoes in hand, and nearly three when he returned from his six-mile walk, after dropping his letter through the well-worn slit in the post-office door. The stairs creaked provokingly as he made his way up. He heard a slight noise and saw a light under Margaret’s door, which, as he passed by, opened, and Margaret herself peered out, shading her candle with her hand, and looking down the hall. She almost screamed when she saw Gurth so near, and said quickly, with a catch in her breath: “I heard a noise and thought the stair door had blown open. Are you ill? Can I do anything for you?” He looked at her a moment as she stood there in her loose wool wrapper, her hair hanging in long braids, and it seemed like an answer to his perplexity. His heart whispered, Trust her, consult her, and he said gravely, “I am not ill, I thank you, and you can do something for me, but not to-night.”
Then Waldsen slept the sleep of deep fatigue, but Margaret, misunderstanding wholly and wakeful with happiness, threw herself on her knees by her bed and, falling asleep, stayed in this position until the sun cast streaks across the room and scattered the mist that betokened the final breaking up of winter.
The March days flew by rapidly, and it was almost April. The willows were showing yellow stems, and the river swirled under them with new fervour. Hepaticas bloomed in the wood edges, while violets crept along in the sheltered garden border; bluebirds purled about the mill, while the kingfishers quarrelled over the pond. At every meal Waldsen brought the account of some new bird or unknown flower, until the Deacon was almost vexed, and told him in a sternly parental way that he would never make his salt, but fill his farm with brakes and briers, growing strawberries for robins and raspberries for catbirds; but Margaret only smiled, treasuring every leaf he brought, and spent much time out of doors watching the messengers of spring that she never before had noticed, feeling that life was good.
Easter came in middle April, and the little church at Glen Village was to be decorated with flowers. The day before, Gurth went into town with a load of feed, stopping on his way at the post-office, and found a letter from Andrea that made him resolve to act at once.
On his way home he bought two pots of blooming lilies, which he placed on Margaret’s table in the sitting-room, as an Easter gift to the home. As she thanked him, bending over the flowers, he said, “Miss Margaret, a while ago I said that you could do something for me. I have come to ask it now, but before I speak there is much that I must tell you, so that you may understand.” Margaret, making a gesture of assent, stood clinging to the curtain for support, still bending over the lilies.