Chapter VI

The great book was out, a kingdom, a little humming world of moods, voices and visions. It was sold, read and laid aside. Some months passed; when autumn came Johannes flung off a new book. What now? His name was instantly on every one's lips, fortune followed him; this new book was written far away, far from the events of home, and it was still and strong as wine:

"Dear reader, here is the tale of Didrik and Iselin. Written in the good season, in the days of small sorrows, when everything was easy to bear, written with the very best intention about Didrik whom God smote with love...."

Johannes was in a foreign country, no one knew where. And more than a year passed before any one heard.

* * * * *

"I thought I heard a knock," said the old Miller one evening.

And his wife and he sat still and listened.

"No, it was nothing," she said after a while; "it's ten o'clock, it will soon be night."

Several minutes passed.

Then there came a hard, decided knock at the door, as though some one had plucked up courage to do it. The Miller opened. Outside stood the young lady from the Castle.

"Don't be alarmed, it's only me," she said with a shy smile. She walked in; they offered her a chair, but she did not sit down. She had only a shawl over her head and on her feet little low shoes though it was not yet springtime and the roads were not dry.

"I only wanted to tell you that the Lieutenant is coming this spring," she said; "the Lieutenant, you know, my fiancé. And perhaps he will shoot woodcock out here. I thought I'd give you word about it, so that you shouldn't be alarmed."

The Miller and his wife looked at the young lady in surprise. They had never before had notice when visitors at the Castle were to shoot in the woods and fields. They thanked her humbly; how kind it was of her!

Victoria went back to the door.

"That's all I wanted. I thought as you were old people there was no harm in letting you know."

The Miller answered:

"So good of you, Miss. And now you have got your little shoes wet."

"No, the road's dry," she said shortly. "I was taking a turn round here anyhow. Good-night."

"Good-night."

She raised the latch and went out. Then she turned in the doorway and asked:

"By the bye--Johannes, have you heard from him?"

"No, nothing from him, thank you for asking. Nothing."

"I suppose he'll be coming soon. I thought you might have heard."

"No, not since last spring. Johannes is in foreign parts, it seems."

"Yes, in foreign parts. He is well. He writes himself in a book that he is in the days of small sorrows. So he must be well."

"Oh yes, oh yes, God knows. We are waiting for him."

"Perhaps he is better off where he is, since his sorrows are small. Well, that's his affair. I only wanted to know whether he was coming home this spring. Good-night again."

"Good-night."

The Miller and his wife followed her out.

They saw her return to the Castle with her head held high, stepping over the puddles in the muddy road with her thin shoes.

A day or two after a letter arrived from Johannes. He was coming home in a little over a month, when he had finished another new book. He had got on well all this time, his new work went rapidly, all life had been surging through his brain....

The Miller betook himself to the Castle. On the way he found a pocket handkerchief marked with Victoria's initials; she had dropped it the other evening.

Miss Victoria was upstairs, but a maid offered to take her a message--what was it?

The Miller declined. He would rather wait.

At last Victoria came. "I hear you want to speak to me?" she said, opening the door of a room.

The Miller went in, handed her a handkerchief and said: "And then we have had a letter from Johannes."

A bright look passed over her face for an instant, a brief instant. She answered:

"Thank you very much. Yes, the handkerchief is mine."

"He is coming home again," the Miller went on, almost in a whisper.

Her look turned cold.

"Speak up, Miller; who is coming?" she said.

"Johannes."

"Johannes. Well, what then?"

"Oh, why--we thought I ought to tell you. We talked about it, my wife and I, and she thought so too. You were asking the day before yesterday if he was coming home this spring. Yes, he's coming."

"Then I am sure you must be glad," said the young lady. "When is he coming?"

"In a month."

"I see. Well, there was nothing else?"

"No. We only thought, as you had asked.... No, there was nothing else. It was only that."

The Miller had dropped his voice again.

She went out with him. In the passage they met her father and she said to him as they passed, aloud and in a casual tone:

"The Miller tells me Johannes is coming home again. You remember Johannes, don't you?"

And the Miller went out of the Castle gate and promised himself that never, never again would he be such a fool as to listen to his wife when she wanted to poke her nose into secrets. He'd let her know that.