It was near midnight
when he returned to Kvaerk, where Aasa sat in
her high gable window, still humming the weird
melody of the old ballad.
By what reasoning Vigfusson arrived at his
final conclusion is difficult to tell. If he had
acted according to his first and perhaps most
generous impulse, the matter would soon have
been decided; but he was all the time possessed
of a vague fear of acting dishonorably, and it
was probably this very fear which made him do
what, to the minds of those whose friendship
and hospitality he had accepted, had something
of the appearance he wished so carefully to
avoid. Aasa was rich; he had nothing; it was
a reason for delay, but hardly a conclusive one.
They did not know him; he must go out in the
world and prove himself worthy of her. He
would come back when he should have compelled
the world to respect him; for as yet he had done
nothing. In fact, his arguments were good and
honorable enough, and there would have been
no fault to find with him, had the object of his
love been as capable of reasoning as he was
himself. But Aasa, poor thing, could do nothing
by halves; a nature like hers brooks no delay;
to her love was life or it was death.
The next morning he appeared at breakfast
with his knapsack on his back, and otherwise
equipped for his journey. It was of no use that
Elsie cried and begged him to stay, that Lage
joined his prayers to hers, and that Aasa stood
staring at him with a bewildered gaze.
Pages:
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212