Glory Goldie had not asked how her father was getting on. She supposed, of course, that he was still working at Falla. Katrina knew she would have to tell the daughter of the father’s condition, but kept putting it off. Anyway, the little girl had brought a freshening breeze into the hut and the mother felt loath to put a sudden end to her delight at being home again.
While Glory Goldie was helping unload the wagon, half a dozen children came to the gate and looked in; they did not speak; they only pointed at her and laughed—then ran away. But in a moment or two they came back. This time they had with them a little faded and shrivelled old man, who strutted along, his head thrown back and his feet striking the ground with the measured tread of a soldier on parade.
“What a curious looking figure!” Glory Goldie remarked to the driver as the old man and the youngsters crowded in through the gate. She had not the faintest suspicion as to who the man was, but she could not help noticing a person who was so fantastically arrayed. On his head was a green leather cap, topped with a bushy feather; round his neck he wore a chain of gilt paper stars and crosses that hung far down on his chest. It looked as though he had on a gold necklace.
The youngsters, unable to hold in any longer, shouted “Empress, Empress!” at the top of their voices. The old man strode on as if the laughing and shrieking children were his guard of honour.
When they were almost at the door of the hut Glory Goldie gave a wild shriek, and fled into the house.
“Who is that man?” she asked her mother in a frightened voice. “Is it father? Has he gone mad?”
“Yes,” said Katrina, the tears coming into her eyes.
“Is it because of me?”
“Our Lord let it happen out of compassion. He saw that his burden was too heavy for him.”
There was no time to explain further, for now Jan stood in the doorway, and behind him was the gang of youngsters, who wanted to see how this meeting, which they had so often heard him picture, would be in reality.
The Emperor of Portugallia did not go straight up to his daughter but stopped just inside the door and delivered his speech of welcome.
“Welcome, welcome, O queen of the Sun! O rich and beautiful Glory Goldie!”
The words were delivered with that stilted loftiness which dignitaries are wont to assume on great occasions. All the same, there were tears of joy in Jan’s eyes and he had hard work to keep his voice steady.
After the well-learned greeting had been recited the Emperor rapped three times on the floor with his imperial stick for silence and attention, whereupon he began to sing in a thin, squeaky voice.
Glory Goldie had drawn close to Katrina. It was as if she wished to hide herself, to crawl out of sight behind her mother. Up to this she had kept silence, but when Jan started to sing she cried out in terror and tried to stop him. Then Katrina gripped her tightly by the arm.
“Leave him alone!” she said. “He has been comforted by the hope of singing this song to you ever since you first became lost to us.”
Then Glory Goldie held her peace and let Jan continue:
“The Empress’s father, for his part,
Feels so happy in his heart.
Austria, Portugal, Metz, Japan,
Read the newspapers, if you can.
Boom, boom, boom, and roll.
Boom, boom.”
But Glory Goldie could stand no more. Rushing forward she quickly hustled the youngsters out of the house, and banged the door on them. Then turning round upon her father she stamped her foot at him. Now she was angry in earnest.
“For heaven’s sake, shut up!” she cried. “Do you want to make a laughingstock of me by calling me an empress?”
Jan looked a little hurt, but he was over it in a twinkling. She was the Great Empress, to be sure. All that she did was right; all that she said was to him as honey and balsam. In the supreme happiness of the moment he had quite forgotten to look for the crown of gold and the field marshals in golden armour. If she wished to appear poor and humble when she came, that was her own affair. It was joy enough for him that she had come back.
The Flight
One morning, just a week from the day of Glory Goldie’s homecoming, she and her mother stood at the Borg pier, ready to depart for good and all. Old Katrina was wearing a bonnet for the first time in her life, and a fine cloth coat. She was going to Malmö with her daughter to become a fine city dame. Never more would she have to toil for her bread. She was to sit on a sofa the whole day, with her hands folded, and be free from worry and care for the remainder of her life.
But despite all the promised ease and comfort, Katrina had never felt so wretchedly unhappy as then, when standing there on the pier. Glory Goldie, seeing that her mother looked troubled, asked her if she was afraid of the water, and tried to assure her there was no danger, although it was so windy that one could hardly keep one’s footing on the pier. Glory Goldie was accustomed to seafaring and knew what she was talking about.
“These are no waves,” she said to her mother. “I see of course that there are a few little whitecaps on the water, but I wouldn’t be afraid to row across the lake in our old punt.”
Glory Goldie, who did not seem to mind the gale, remained on the pier. But Katrina, to keep from being blown to pieces, went
