Clara threw up her chin. 'Oh, you don't know me as well as you think. I won't cut away.
Sometimes, when I'm with father, I feel like it. But I can hold out as long as the Ericsons can. They've never got the best of me yet, and one can live, so long as one isn't beaten. If I go back to father, it's all up with Olaf in politics. He knows that, and he never goes much beyond sulking. I've as much wit as the Ericsons. I'll never leave them unless I can show them a thing or two.'
'You mean unless you can come it over them?'
'Yes--unless I go away with a man who is cleverer than they are, and who has more money.'
Nils whistled. 'Dear me, you are demanding a good deal. The Ericsons, take the lot of them, are a bunch to beat. But I should think the excitement of tormenting them would have worn off by this time.'
'It has, I'm afraid,' Clara admitted mournfully.
'Then why don't you cut away? There are more amusing games than this in the world.
When I came home I thought it might amuse me to bully a few quarter sections out of the Ericsons; but I've almost decided I can get more fun for my money somewhere else.'
Clara took in her breath sharply. 'Ah, you have got the other will! That was why you came home!'
'No, it wasn't. I came home to see how you were getting on with Olaf.'
Clara struck her horse with the whip, and in a bound she was far ahead of him. Nils dropped one word, 'Damn!' and whipped after her; but she leaned forward in her saddle and fairly cut the wind. Her long riding skirt rippled in the still air behind her. The sun was just sinking behind the stubble in a vast, clear sky, and the shadows drew across the fields so rapidly that Nils could scarcely keep in sight the dark figure on the road. When he overtook her he caught her horse by the bridle. Norman reared, and Nils was frightened for her; but Clara kept her seat.
'Let me go, Nils Ericson!' she cried. 'I hate you more than any of them. You were created to torture me, the whole tribe of you--to make me suffer in every possible way.'
She struck her horse again and galloped away from him. Nils set his teeth and looked thoughtful. He rode slowly home along the deserted road, watching the stars come out in the clear violet sky.
They flashed softly into the limpid heavens, like jewels let fall into clear water. They were a reproach, he felt, to a sordid world. As he turned across the sand creek, he looked up at the North Star and smiled, as if there were an understanding between them. His mother scolded him for being late for supper.
V
On Sunday afternoon Joe Vavrika, in his shirt sleeves arid carpet slippers, was sitting in his garden, smoking a long-tasseled porcelain pipe with a hunting scene painted on the bowl. Clara sat under the cherry tree, reading aloud to him from the, weekly Bohemian papers. She had worn a white muslin dress under her riding habit, and the leaves of the cherry tree threw a pattern of sharp shadows over her skirt. The black cat was dozing in the sunlight at her feet, and Joe's dachshund was scratching a hole under the scarlet geraniums and dreaming of badgers. Joe was filling his pipe for the third time since dinner, when he heard a knocking on the fence. He broke into a loud guffaw and unlatched the little door that led into the street. He did not call Nils by name, but caught him by the hand and dragged him in. Clara stiffened and the colour deepened under her dark skin. Nils, too, felt a little awkward. He had not seen her since the night when she rode away from him and left him alone on the level road between the fields. Joe dragged him to the wooden bench beside the green table.
'You bring de flute,' he cried, tapping the leather case under Nils' arm. 'Ah, das-a good'
Now we have some liddle fun like old times. I got somet'ing good for you.' Joe shook his finger at Nils and winked his blue eye, a bright clear eye, full of fire, though the tiny bloodvessels on the ball were always a little distended. 'I got somet'ing for you from'--he paused and waved his hand-- 'Hongarie. You know Hongarie? You wait!' He pushed Nils down on the bench, and went through the back door of his saloon.
Nils looked at Clara, who sat frigidly with her white skirts drawn tight about her. 'He didn't tell you he had asked me to come, did he? He wanted a party and proceeded to arrange it. Isn't he fun? Don't be cross; let's give him a good time.'
Clara smiled and shook out her skirt. 'Isn't that like Father? And he has sat here so meekly all day. Well, I won't pout. I'm glad you came. He doesn't have very many good times now any more. There are so few of his kind left. The second generation are a tame lot.'
Joe came back with a flask in one hand and three wine glasses caught by the stems between the fingers of the other. These he placed on the table with an air of ceremony, and, going behind Nils, held the flask between him and the sun, squinting into it admiringly. 'You know dis, Tokai? A great friend of mine, he bring dis to me, a present out of Hongarie. You know how much it cost, dis wine? Chust so much what it weigh in gold. Nobody but de nobles drink him in Bohemie. Many, many years I save him up, dis Tokai.' Joe whipped out his official corkscrew and delicately removed the cork. 'De old man die what bring him to me, an' dis wine he lay on his belly in my cellar an' sleep. An'
now,' carefully pouring out the heavy yellow wine, 'an' now he wake up; and maybe he wake us up, too!' He carried one of the glasses to his daughter and presented it with great gallantry.
Clara shook her head, but, seeing her father's disappointment, relented. 'You taste it first.
I don't want so much.'
Joe sampled it with a beatific expression, and turned to Nils. 'You drink him slow, dis wine. He very soft, but he go down hot. You see!'
After a second glass Nils declared that he couldn't take any more without getting sleepy.
'Now get your fiddle, Vavrika,' he said as he opened his flute case.
But Joe settled back in his wooden rocker and wagged his big carpet slipper. 'No-no-no-no-no-no-no! No play fiddle now any more: too much ache in de finger,' waving them,
'all-a-time rheumatic. You play de flute, te-tety-tetety-te. Bohemie songs.'
'I've forgotten all the Bohemian songs I used to play with you and Johanna. But here's one that will make Clara pout. You remember how her eyes used to snap when we called her the Bohemian Girl?' Nils lifted his flute and began 'When Other Lips and Other Hearts,' and Joe hummed the air in a husky baritone, waving his carpet slipper. 'Oh-h-h, das-a fine music,' he cried, clapping his hands as Nils finished. 'Now 'Marble Halls, Marble Halls'! Clara, you sing him.'
