III
One evening, a week after Signa's wedding, Emil was kneeling beforea box in the sitting-room, packing his books. From time to timehe rose and wandered about the house, picking up stray volumes andbringing them listlessly back to his box. He was packing withoutenthusiasm. He was not very sanguine about his future. Alexandrasat sewing by the table. She had helped him pack his trunk inthe afternoon. As Emil came and went by her chair with his books,he thought to himself that it had not been so hard to leave hissister since he first went away to school. He was going directlyto Omaha, to read law in the office of a Swedish lawyer untilOctober, when he would enter the law school at Ann Arbor. Theyhad planned that Alexandra was to come to Michigan--a long journeyfor her--at Christmas time, and spend several weeks with him.Nevertheless, he felt that this leave-taking would be more finalthan his earlier ones had been; that it meant a definite break withhis old home and the beginning of something new--he did not knowwhat. His ideas about the future would not crystallize; the morehe tried to think about it, the vaguer his conception of it became.But one thing was clear, he told himself; it was high time that hemade good to Alexandra, and that ought to be incentive enough tobegin with.
As he went about gathering up his books he felt as if he wereuprooting things. At last he threw himself down on the old slatlounge where he had slept when he was little, and lay looking upat the familiar cracks in the ceiling.
"Tired, Emil?" his sister asked.
"Lazy," he murmured, turning on his side and looking at her. Hestudied Alexandra's face for a long time in the lamplight. It hadnever occurred to him that his sister was a handsome woman untilMarie Shabata had told him so. Indeed, he had never thought ofher as being a woman at all, only a sister. As he studied her benthead, he looked up at the picture of John Bergson above the lamp."No," he thought to himself, "she didn't get it there. I supposeI am more like that."
"Alexandra," he said suddenly, "that old walnut secretary you usefor a desk was father's, wasn't it?"
Alexandra went on stitching. "Yes. It was one of the first thingshe bought for the old log house. It was a great extravagancein those days. But he wrote a great many letters back to the oldcountry. He had many friends there, and they wrote to him up to thetime he died. No one ever blamed him for grandfather's disgrace.I can see him now, sitting there on Sundays, in his white shirt,writing pages and pages, so carefully. He wrote a fine, regularhand, almost like engraving. Yours is something like his, whenyou take pains."
"Grandfather was really crooked, was he?"
"He married an unscrupulous woman, and then--then I'm afraid hewas really crooked. When we first came here father used to havedreams about making a great fortune and going back to Sweden topay back to the poor sailors the money grandfather had lost."
Emil stirred on the lounge. "I say, that would have been worthwhile, wouldn't it? Father wasn't a bit like Lou or Oscar, washe? I can't remember much about him before he got sick."
"Oh, not at all!" Alexandra dropped her sewing on her knee. "Hehad better opportunities; not to make money, but to make somethingof himself. He was a quiet man, but he was very intelligent. Youwould have been proud of him, Emil."
Alexandra felt that he would like to know there had been a man ofhis kin whom he could admire. She knew that Emil was ashamed ofLou and Oscar, because they were bigoted and self-satisfied. Henever said much about them, but she could feel his disgust. Hisbrothers had shown their disapproval of him ever since he firstwent away to school. The only thing that would have satisfied themwould have been his failure at the University. As it was, theyresented every change in his speech, in his dress, in his point ofview; though the latter they had to conjecture, for Emil avoidedtalking to them about any but family matters. All his intereststhey treated as affectations.
Alexandra took up her sewing again. "I can remember father whenhe was quite a young man. He belonged to some kind of a musicalsociety, a male chorus, in Stockholm. I can remember going withmother to hear them sing. There must have been a hundred of them,and they all wore long black coats and white neckties. I wasused to seeing father in a blue coat, a sort of jacket, and when Irecognized him on the platform, I was very proud. Do you rememberthat Swedish song he taught you, about the ship boy?"
"Yes. I used to sing it to the Mexicans. They like anythingdifferent." Emil paused. "Father had a hard fight here, didn'the?" he added thoughtfully.
"Yes, and he died in a dark time. Still, he had hope. He believedin the land."
"And in you, I guess," Emil said to himself. There was anotherperiod of silence; that warm, friendly silence, full of perfectunderstanding, in which Emil and Alexandra had spent many of theirhappiest half-hours.
At last Emil said abruptly, "Lou and Oscar would be better off ifthey were poor, wouldn't they?"
Alexandra smiled. "Maybe. But their children wouldn't. I havegreat hopes of Milly."
Emil shivered. "I don't know. Seems to me it gets worse as itgoes on. The worst of the Swedes is that they're never willingto find out how much they don't know. It was like that at theUniversity. Always so pleased with themselves! There's no gettingbehind that conceited Swedish grin. The Bohemians and Germans wereso different."
"Come, Emil, don't go back on your own people. Father wasn'tconceited, Uncle Otto wasn't. Even Lou and Oscar weren't when theywere boys."
Emil looked incredulous, but he did not dispute the point. Heturned on his back and lay still for a long time, his hands lockedunder his head, looking up at the ceiling. Alexandra knew that hewas thinking of many things. She felt no anxiety about Emil. Shehad always believed in him, as she had believed in the land. Hehad been more like himself since he got back from Mexico; seemedglad to be at home, and talked to her as he used to do. She hadno doubt that his wandering fit was over, and that he would soonbe settled in life.
"Alexandra," said Emil suddenly, "do you remember the wild duck wesaw down on the river that time?"
His sister looked up. "I often think of her. It always seems tome she's there still, just like we saw her."
"I know. It's queer what things one remembers and what things oneforgets." Emil yawned and sat up. "Well, it's time to turn in."He rose, and going over to Alexandra stooped down and kissed herlightly on the cheek. "Good-night, sister. I think you did prettywell by us."
Emil took up his lamp and went upstairs. Alexandra sat finishinghis new nightshirt, that must go in the top tray of his trunk.