Since her death he had been cut off from all social intercourse. No one cared whether he lived or died. None invited him to their homes. It looked as if people had merely tolerated him for his wife’s sake. When he yearns for laughter and merriment, when he would like to sit down to a well-served dinner and talk with cultured people, he has no place to go. When the holidays come round, with their long leisure hours, when he would like to escape from the deadly monotony of the farmhouse, he does not know what to do with himself.
There is just one place in the world where he can go for a bit of a taste of the old life, and that place is Mårbacka, whence he had brought his wife. He knows what they think and feel there—that he had made her life very unhappy. They actually believe that he tormented her to death. Nevertheless, he journeys thither thrice a year for the great holiday festivities. But for these visits to Mårbacka his life would be intolerable.
The silver bell rings out a loud plaint. The Colour-Sergeant has just dealt his little horse a stinging blow. Life has many bitter fruits, which one must take. It seems quite proper that the horse should share the pain of his master.
*****
If the little Mårbacka children had not known by any other signs that Christmas was at hand, they would have guessed it when Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt appeared.
They were overjoyed when they saw his horse and cutter coming up the driveway. They raced through the house shouting the glad tidings, and rushed out on the steps to greet him, crying Good-day and Welcome. They fetched bread for his horse and carried his lean carpet-bag, embroidered in cross-stitched leaves and flowers, down to the Lieutenant’s office, which the Sergeant was to occupy.
It was remarkable that the children were always so glad to see Colour-Sergeant von Wachenfeldt, for he never brought them any goodies or presents. But they must have thought him a part of Christmas, which no doubt accounted for their joy. Anyhow, it was well they were friendly, for the grown folk made no ado over him. Fru Lagerlöf and Mamselle Lovisa did not go out to receive the guest, and it was with rather a heavy sigh the Lieutenant put down his Värmland News, and arose from his rocker to go and meet him.
“Well, well, so you’re here again, Wachenfeldt!” he said, as he stood on the steps. After putting a few queries as to the state of the roads and the journey, he conducted his brother-in-law to his room, where he cleared out a drawer of his chiffonier and made place in the wardrobe; then he went off with his children, leaving the guest to himself.
With each visit of the Colour-Sergeant memories of the Lieutenant’s dead sister became more and more poignant. She was the eldest child; she had cared for him when he was a little chap, had dressed and undressed him, and coddled him. He had loved her best of all his sisters, had been more proud of her than of the others. And then she had to go and fall in love with a worthless fellow like this Wachenfeldt! She was both beautiful and noble, and as good and true as she looked. She had always been sunny, and had brightened the lives of those about her. She had striven to the last breath to keep her home; the husband had only wasted and squandered. She would not let her family know how hard she had it, lest they should come to her aid. So she broke under the strain when she was barely forty.
It was a sad and distressing tale, and the Lieutenant, while this was seething in him, could not be cordial to Von Wachenfeldt; he had therefore to take a long walk to let his indignation cool a bit.