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penance, but you want to break your promise without
being censured? If a better man than I had passed
sentence, it would have been severer.”
“What have I done to you all that you cannot
leave me in peace? It is because I have money that
you persecute me so. I will throw it into the Löfven,
and who likes can fish it up.”
She hid her eyes in her hands and cried with
vexation.
This touched him; he felt ashamed of his severity,
and his voice grew caressing as he continued:
“Oh, child, forgive me, forgive poor Gösta Berling!
You know very well that no one minds what
I say or do! Who cares for such a wretch as I am?
Who cares for my anger? You might as well cry
over a gnat-bite! I was mad, but I wished to hinder
our most beautiful and richest girl from marrying
an old man. And now I have only hurt you.”
He sat down on the sofa beside her, and put his
arms round her, trying to support and raise her.
She did not draw back; she turned to him, and
throwing her arms round his neck, wept, with her
lovely head on his shoulder.
Ah, poet—strongest and weakest of men—it
was not about your neck those arms should rest.
“If I had known this,” she whispered, “I would
never have consented to marry old Dahlberg. I have
seen you for the first time to-day, and there is none
like you.”
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