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CHAPTER X
The house seemed very quiet that spring day when the
sound of horses’ hoofs had died away in the distance.
In the flurry of leave-taking, the doors had been left open;
the table was still set after Ulrik Frederik’s breakfast, with
his napkin just as he had crumpled it at his plate, and the
tracks of his great riding-boots were still wet on the floor.
Over there by the tall pier-glass he had pressed her to his
heart and kissed and kissed her in farewell, trying to
comfort her with oaths and vows of a speedy return.
Involuntarily she moved to the mirror as though to see whether it
did not hold something of his image, as she had glimpsed it
a moment ago, while locked in his arms. Her own lonely,
drooping figure and pale, tear-stained face met her
searching glance from behind the smooth, glittering surface.
She heard the street door close, and the lackey cleared
the table. Ulrik Frederik’s favorite dogs, Nero, Passando,
Rumor, and Delphine, had been locked in, and ran about
the room, whimpering and sniffing his tracks. She tried
to call them, but could not for weeping. Passando, the tall
red fox-hound, came to her; she knelt down to stroke and
caress the dog, but he wagged his tail in an absent-minded
way, looked up into her face, and went on howling.
Those first days—how empty everything was and dreary!
The time dragged slowly, and the solitude seemed to hang
over her, heavy and oppressive, while her longing would
sometimes burn like salt in an open wound. Ay, it was
so at first, but presently all this was no longer new, and
the darkness and emptiness, the longing and grief, came
again and again like snow that falls flake upon flake,
until it seemed to wrap her in a strange, dull hopelessness,
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