Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Broby Parson
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parsonage gate, she was but twenty again, without either
sorrows or remembrances.
The beggar, standing gazing at her, saw her change
under his eyes from twenty to sixty, from sixty to
twenty again.
“The vicar will be at home in the afternoon,”
he said. “The gracious lady would do best to drive
down to Broby inn, and come again later. I can
answer for it that the vicar will be at home in the
afternoon.”
A moment later the calash rolled away, but the
beggar, gazing after it, trembled, and felt inclined
to fall on his knees and kiss the ruts the wheels had
made.
At noon, well dressed, with silk stockings and
brightly shining shoe buckles and ruffled shirt and
wristbands, freshly shaved and powdered, he stood
before the rector’s wife at Bro.
“A grand lady,” he was saying, “the daughter
of an earl. How can I ask her to enter my miserable
house? My floors are black, my rooms without
furniture, my ceilings green with damp and
mould. Help me, dear madam! Think of it! she
is the daughter of a great earl!”
“Say that you are not at home!”
“Dear madam, she has come forty miles to see
me. She knows nothing about me. Why, I haven’t
even a bed to offer her, not even a bed for her
servants!”
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