"What was the name of the dead friend?" Katharine asked indifferently. She wondered afterwards why she had asked. It was nothing to her. At least she believed at the moment that it was nothing to her.
"The name was Thornton—Marianne Thornton," Willy said. "I ought to know, considering I've heard it about a million times. Even my brain would retain it after that."
Katharine rose from the sofa.
"Let us join the others, Willy," she said; and she took a chair not far off from Mrs Stanhope. Willy followed her reluctantly.
"Never thought you'd want to listen to that shrew of a woman," he said. "Besides, what good does she do to her dead friend? The whole thing is past and gone. And, as for temperaments, I tell you——"
"Hush, hush!" said Katharine, with a slight flush on her face, "I want to hear what she says."
"Oh, I am never tired of talking about it," Mrs Stanhope was saying. "You see, she was my great friend, my dearest friend on earth. And to lose her in such sad circumstances has made me feel tenfold more bereaved than I should have felt if she had just passed away from ordinary causes and chances of everyday life. As for her husband, he deserves all the unhappiness which remorse can measure out to him. He wrecked and ruined my poor friend's life. She was high-spirited and full of noble emotions. She had a fine natural disposition which he never even tried to understand. He never spared a thought to her. His thoughts were for himself, his work, and his son. I will do him the justice to say that he loved his boy. But he never gave a thought to his wife. She had sacrificed everything to his temperament; she sacrificed herself, her friends, her social obligations, her personal inclinations, her very love for her boy. No woman could have given more. She was alone in the world. Her husband had put her out into the biting cold of loneliness."
She paused for a moment, and Willy Tonedale drawled out:
"But you did say once, Cousin Julia, that she had a most fearful temper. No fellow can stand that sort of thing for long."
Mrs Stanhope glanced at him sternly, and said:
"Could you imagine your temper improved under such conditions? She went to him sweet-tempered enough; and, if she became a little hasty as the years went on, it was only right that she should have won that protection for herself. I encouraged her. 'Let yourself be felt, Marianne,' I used to say."
"Poor devil of a man," whispered Willy, "if Marianne were anything like cousin Julia. By Jove! she must have made herself felt."
"It was temperamental strife," continued Mrs Stanhope, "and my poor darling was worsted. She was doomed from the beginning. She had no chance against that man's cruel neglect and selfishness. You had only to look at him to know that he had no emotions and no heart."
"That is not true," thought Katharine; but she remained silent, although increasingly stirred by Mrs Stanhope's incisive words.
"And," said Mrs Stanhope, "I know from my poor friend's confidences, how greatly she suffered from his unvarying unkindness. He killed her by a long series of tortures—temperamental tortures—and he must have given the finishing stroke to her on that last evening when, by his own confession at the inquest, they had had some miserable scene together, and he, no doubt to recover from his own outbreak of anger, went off riding, leaving her to right herself as well as she could. He knew that she had a delicate heart, and that she was always jeopardised by over-excitation. All this he knew well; and yet he never tried to make her life happy and calm. He never spared her anything. It was so like him to bring about a last access of unhappiness for her—and then leave her to die broken-hearted alone. I shall always say, that if ever a man killed a woman, Clifford Thornton killed his wife."
There was silence. Mrs Stanhope's words cut into every one's sensitiveness. Every one was suffering. But she herself leaned back as if resting from a newly accomplished task and well-earned triumph. She had raised her voice and testified once more against her dead friend's husband.
Then Katharine spoke.
"Well," she said, "it is a pitiful story; but nothing and no one will ever make me believe that Professor Thornton is a cruel man. He may have made mistakes, and probably did do so, being only human; but it is impossible to believe anything worse of him than that."
They all turned to her. Her face was flushed. There was a gleam in her eyes, and a curious tenseness in her manner. She looked as one who had divined some advancing danger, and was standing ready to ward off the evil from some friend loved and defenceless except for her.
"Do you know Professor Thornton, Kath?" Willy and Margaret exclaimed. "You never told us."
"I have met him," she answered. "I believe he is incapable of cruelty—physical, mental, or temperamental—quite incapable of it."
"I have known him for twelve years," said Mrs Stanhope in her steely voice. "And you?"
"I have known him for three days," said Katharine, undaunted. "But with what you would call 'temperamental knowledge,' Mrs Stanhope. I do not believe he ever said one unkind word to any one."
"He is lucky to inspire such faith in a stranger," Mrs Stanhope remarked. "He is lucky to have such a staunch defender."
Katharine looked at her steadily for a moment, and then said:
"It is well for him that he has even a stranger to defend him, if you go about the world saying that he murdered his wife."
"You are scarcely accurate, Miss Frensham," Mrs Stanhope said, flushing. "I did not use that word."
"I am as accurate as the ordinary outside world would be in the circumstances," said Katharine.
"Ah, you are right there," drawled out Willy Tonedale. "The outside world knows nothing about temperamental tortures and temperamental murders, and all that sort of confounded subtleness. Torture is torture, and murder is murder to the outside world of ordinary dense people like myself—and others. I ought to see that man and warn him against you, cousin Julia—'pon my soul, I ought."
"Oh, there will be no need, Willy," she said with a short, nervous laugh. "No doubt Miss Frensham will do it instead of you."
Every one had stood up, by silent consent dissolving the meeting. Mrs Tonedale, Margaret, Willy, and the three or four visitors now looked towards Katharine again, wondering how she would meet Mrs Stanhope's parting thrust. She met it quite simply. She said:
"I will gladly warn him. Though I daresay he does not need to be warned. For at least Mrs Stanhope does not stab in the dark, does she?"
And directly she had spoken these words, she thought of the young boy, and a wave of sympathetic anxiety swept over her. Supposing that this woman did stab in the dark; supposing that out of mistaken loyalty to her dead friend's memory, she believed it to be a solemn duty to tell her version of the story to the young boy—Marianne's son—what then—what then? She was obviously such a bigot that she was capable of doing anything to forward the cause which she had at heart.
At that same moment Mrs Stanhope was saying to herself:
"The boy shall know—the boy shall know—it is only fair to my poor Marianne's memory that he should learn the true history of his mother's unhappy life."
The two women glanced at each other, and each read the other's thought. Then, after a hasty leave-taking, Mrs Stanhope hurried away. Katharine had an uneasy feeling that she ought to have followed her to her very door, and thus have made sure that Marianne's avenging colleague wrought no harm that afternoon to the boy and his father. She attempted several times to go, but was prevented by her friends, who wished to hear some of the details of her three years' travels.
"I believe you want to chase cousin Julia and give her a ducking in the Serpentine," said Willy. "By Jove, I should like to see it!"
Katharine laughed.
"Willy," she said, "you're really becoming quite electrically intelligent. What is the cause of it?"
"You are, my dear," he said. "And also that adorable female relative of mine always rouses my indignation. Shades of my ancestors, what a tongue! How she would yarn to the boy if she ever got hold of him alone."
"That is what I've been thinking," Katharine said, turning to him earnestly. "It would be too cruel."
"But why should you mind?" he said. "After all, they are nothing to you—just strangers—that's all. Can't let yourself be torn in pieces for strangers. Better do it for me instead. My word, Kath, but you did speak up for him well."
"Did I?" she asked, with a sudden thrill in her voice.
Willy Tonedale glanced at her and saw a light on her face which had never shone for him—never.
And the cold crept into his faithful heart.
CHAPTER X.
Mrs Stanhope went on her way home fiercely indignant with this stranger who had dared to defend Clifford Thornton. In her own unreasoning anger she felt doubly fierce towards him for daring to have a defender. She had loved Marianne always, and she had disliked him always. She was of limited understanding—like all bigots. She knew nothing, and wished to know nothing about his side of the case. All she knew was that he had made her poor Marianne miserable, and had brought about her death. All she hoped now was that he might be miserable himself, for ever and ever. In memory of her dear, dead friend, she determined that her hand should always be against him. It was a simple creed, and therefore primitive and strong, like all primitive instincts. She knew even less than Marianne about sensitive brains, delicate nervous organisms, and the surcharged world of thought and imagination. When she spoke about temperament, it was as though a blacksmith were working at a goldsmith's goblet: as though a ropemaker were working at a spider's web. She honestly believed that Marianne had been sacrificed to him. She could not realise that Marianne was made of coarser fibre than Clifford Thornton. She knew nothing about Marianne's birth, antecedents, and environment. She was quite unequipped with delicate understanding of human nature to judge between any two people—much less two married people—that unfathomable twin-mystery. But she did judge, and she condemned him without any reservations. And she thought of Marianne's son, and resolved in her own mind that he, too, should judge his father and condemn him.
"It is only right," she said to herself repeatedly, "that the boy should know, and should carry in his mind a tender memory of his mother. His father will tell him only cruel things about her. She shall not have that injustice done to her."
She did not take into account the tenderness of Alan's years; she had no instincts of mercy and pity for his young thoughts, and his young birthright of forgetfulness. She did not stop to imagine that Marianne herself would have wished him to be spared. It never entered her mind that Marianne herself would have said:
"Let the boy be—he is only a boy—let him be—what does it all matter now? and he is so young still—let him be."
She never thought of that. She filled a cup of poison ready to put to his lips at the first opportunity: the poison of disbelief and doubt.
"I must find some means of seeing him," she said to herself. "Marianne shall not have the injustice of being misinterpreted."
Full of these thoughts she paused before going into Hyde Park.
"Shall I walk through the Park, or shall I go straight to St. James's Mansions?" she asked herself. "I think I will go straight home. I am tired."
But after she had advanced a few steps, she turned back and passed into the Park, impelled to do so against her will. It was a charming evening at the beginning of April. The spring had come early, and the borders were gay with flowers. A young boy came along, whistling softly. He stopped to look at some of the beds, and then went on again. After all, he thought, it was not so bad going for this journey to Japan. And all the fellows had said they envied him. And father was better already. And that was a bully new camera they had bought to-day. And, by Jove, he had enjoyed himself yesterday. And——
He looked up and saw Mrs Stanhope.
"Alan," she said in her steely voice, which had always jarred on him. His face clouded over. His heart sank. He had always disliked her.
"Alan," she said, "I have wanted to see you. I was thinking of you this very moment. I was by your mother's grave yesterday. Shall we sit down here? It is not cold this evening."
She had kept his hand, and led him to the nearest bench. He disengaged his hand, and shrank a little from her. She did not notice that.
"Yes," she repeated. "I stood by your mother's grave yesterday. It is a beautiful stone, simple but beautiful."
"Father and I liked it," the boy said a little nervously. "We—we went there to say good-bye before—before going away, you know."
"Ah," she said, "you are going away then? Are you going to leave 'Falun'?"
"Yes," he said, "for a few months. Father is not well."
There was a pause, and then she said suddenly:
"Alan, you will never forget your dear mother, will you? She died in such a sad, sad way—it breaks one's heart to think of it—doesn't it?—all alone—without a kind word—a kind look—nothing—no one near her—no one to help her—alone."
The boy bit his lips. Something pulled at his heartstrings.
"You must always think lovingly of her," she continued. "You must always think the very best of her. She was a grand, noble woman who had not been understood. When you are older, you will see it all clearly for yourself—see it with your own eyes, not with any one else's eyes, and then you will know how unhappy she was, and how sad she was all—all the days of her married life. Poor darling, she was lonely in life and lonely in death—you must never forget that—you must be loyal to her—you, her son. You were good to her; you loved her; you would have loved her more if—if your father had allowed you, Alan."
The boy's face was rigid.
"Father never stopped me from loving mother," he said, half to himself.
"Ah," she said bitterly, "when you are older you will understand it all only too well. And meanwhile be loyal to her memory—you, her son."
The boy's face softened again. The tears came into his eyes. The appeal to his sonship touched him deeply. He said nothing, but Mrs Stanhope realised that his silence was charged with grief; for she saw the tears in his eyes, the flush on his face, and the quivering of his mouth.
"Alan," she went on, "and the pity—the pity of it all. She might be here with us now—there was no reason for her death; it is that which makes it so sad. If she had had some terrible illness, one might be comforted a little by her release; but to be cut off like this—suddenly—and in this sad, sad way—ah, how your poor father must tear his heart to remember that he had angry words with her that night—to think that but for that unfortunate incident she might be alive this very moment—to think——"
She stopped suddenly, for she had already said more than she intended. Alan turned his face to her. The flush had gone now. He looked deadly pale.
"Father was always, always good to mother," he said, in a strained tone of voice. "You were not always with us. You couldn't know."
"No, no—of course I could not know all," she said soothingly; and again she put her hand on his arm. And again he freed himself.
"But this I do know," she continued with great gentleness, "that you have lost a noble and unselfish mother who loved you with her whole heart—more than you ever knew. But I knew. I knew all her hopes and fears and ambitions for you; and I knew, too, how she yearned for the time when you would love her more and more, and understand her more and more. For a mother clings heart and soul to her son, Alan. If he does not love her, she mourns always, always."
She rose from the bench; and he rose too, his young heart torn and his young spirit troubled. He stood there looking down on the ground, overpowered with many emotions.
"Good-bye, Alan," she said. "And remember you have a friend in me. Come to me in trouble, and I will not fail you—for your dear mother's sake."
She left him, and he lingered for a moment scratching the ground with his stick. Then he went on his way to the Langham. He was not whistling now. He ran up against an old gentleman.
"Look out where you're going, my boy!" the old man said angrily. "Dreaming, I suppose. Boys didn't dream in my time. I've no patience with this generation."
At the hotel he saw Katharine, who was standing in the hall giving some instructions to the porter. She had just come back from the Tonedales, whom she had left as soon as she could. She had been thinking of him all the time, of him and his father and that metallic woman; and she could not rest until she was back again at the Langham, mounting guard, as it were, over these strangers who had come so unexpectedly into her life. She greeted the boy and spoke some kindly words, which brought a faint smile into his face.
But he slipped away from her, and locked himself up in his room.
CHAPTER XI.
Katharine spent that night wondering what she could say to Professor Thornton to warn him against Mrs Stanhope's biting tongue. She felt that she must warn him, even at the risk of seeming to intrude on the privacy of his personal concerns. She believed that it would be the part of a coward to shirk the task, and yet she dreaded to undertake it. She said to herself a hundred times over that there was no reason why she should interfere; they were nothing to her—these strangers, their troubles, their tragedy were nothing to her. That was the common-sense way of looking at the whole matter. They had their own lives to live. And she had hers. In a day or two their chance companionship would be a thing of the past. Why should she be troubled about them? Willy Tonedale was right. One could not take every one's burden and carry it. Ah, there was no common-sense about the matter; but there was something else, something infinitely more compelling than calm reason—the heart's insistence.
"I must tell him," she said. And her heart was lighter when she decided that. Then came the difficulty of deciding what to say. She did not solve that problem. She fell asleep and dreamed, and when she awoke, she said:
"What was it I dreamed I said to him? Ah, I remember I said that——Ah! it has gone again."
But it came back to her when she stood with Clifford Thornton alone in the reading-room. She made no preliminaries, she offered no excuses; she behaved exactly as though nothing else could be done by her in the circumstances, as though he and she were in some desolate region alone together, and she saw some terrible danger threatening him, and cried:
"Look out! Beware!"
"Professor Thornton," she said, "yesterday I met an enemy of yours. It sounds melodramatic, perhaps, to speak of an enemy. Nevertheless, that was what she appeared to me. You probably know who she is—a Mrs Stanhope. But you cannot know how she speaks of you. No one could imagine it, unless one heard it for oneself."
His drawn face seemed to become thinner as she spoke.
"She has always disliked me," he said in a painfully strained voice.
"It is not merely dislike, it is malice," Katharine said. "It would not matter so much if you were by yourself in the world. But there is the boy to think of. Keep him away from her. She might poison his heart against you. It would be cruel for him, and cruel for you."
The expression of intense anxiety on the man's face filled Katharine's heart with pity.
"Ah," he said, as if the words were torn from him. "That is the bitterness of it; he might turn against me simply and solely because he could not understand; he——"
He broke off and looked at Katharine hopelessly. He appeared to be appealing to her for help in his distress; she could almost have heard his voice saying:
"What shall I do—what shall I do? Help me."
But the next moment his pride and reserve got the better of his momentary weakness. He gathered himself together. He asked for no details, and made no attempt to justify himself in her eyes. He did not even give a passing thought as to how much or how little she knew of his sad story. He felt instinctively that she believed in him.
He came across to her, and leaned over the table by which she was standing.
"It was beautiful of you to warn me," he said quite simply. "I know it could not have been easy. But it was the act of a true friend."
Then he went away. And Katharine, alone with her thoughts, threw herself into the arm-chair and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER XII.
Clifford Thornton passed on from that moment to a new chapter in his heart's history. He was too stern with himself to yield without a struggle to even any secret locked-up happiness; and so he tried to turn from the thought of Katharine Frensham as from something altogether out of his horizon. But, against his wishes, bright hopes sprang up within him. Unbidden and harshly rebuked possibilities of joy pressed themselves importunately on him. A fair vision of a fresh life rose before him. He dispelled it angrily, and returned to his former self, with the old tyranny of Marianne chafing him, and the added anxiety concerning his young son's love and loyalty. Nevertheless, he had passed on. He was of course too proud to ask Katharine what accusation Mrs Stanhope had brought against him, and too reserved to thank her the next morning for her words of warning. He did not even tell her that he had made up his mind to take an earlier boat to New York, and thus remove Alan from Mrs Stanhope's influence. His secret belief that he was responsible for Marianne's death made him morbidly anxious to keep Alan away from any one who might come between them. And Katharine Frensham's allusion to Mrs Stanhope's attitude towards him made him doubly apprehensive of her powers of making mischief. He knew that she had unceasingly stirred up strife between himself and Marianne, and he considered her capable of at least making the attempt to cause a breach between himself and his son. He knew that she disliked him, and that she believed he had always been hard and unkind to poor Marianne. Many a time Marianne herself had said to him:
"Julia at least appreciates and understands me; she at least knows of my unhappiness and your unkind indifference."
What would she say to Alan if by chance he passed her way? Alan, too, had always disliked her; he, too, had felt that she was an enemy to his father and himself; nevertheless she would certainly be able to influence him, for the very reason that his mother had died in circumstances of great sadness, and generous young hearts remember only the best things of the dead. Marianne would conquer as she had always conquered, and the boy's heart would turn from his father.
Clifford was greatly troubled.
"I must have my boy's love, I must have his loyalty," he said. "I cannot do without it. I desire with all my heart that he should think lovingly of his mother; but he must not, shall not turn from me. I have done nothing to deserve that he should not love me. He shall not see that woman if I can help it. She shall not have the chance of saying one word against me. His dear young heart shall keep its love and trust. The sadness of this tragedy in our lives will pass from him; it is passing from him even now. And the wound which I, in my selfishness, inflicted, shall be healed with a love which father never gave to son before. He must and shall believe in me. If I have missed other things, at least I will wrest this from life. She may say what she likes to the whole world, but not to him; he would not understand. If he were older, I would take my chance of his belief or disbelief. But the young judge and are hard."
Then in the midst of his distress he remembered Katharine, and again that vision rose before him. He tried to turn from it, but in vain.
"She believed in me," he said. "Whatever that woman may have said to her, she believed in me."
He went back to the hotel buoyed up in spite of himself, and found Alan moping in the reading-room. The boy looked miserable, and appeared to have no heart for anything that was suggested. Clifford remembered that he had been quiet at breakfast, and had eaten nothing. He had slipped away, evidently wanting to be alone. His father glanced at him with some uneasiness.
"What's the matter?" he asked kindly.
"Nothing," said Alan a little roughly, and he turned away with a slight flush on his face.
"Well, we shall soon be off," Clifford said. "I have changed our berths for a week earlier. In a fortnight we shall be in New York; then on we go to San Francisco, and so on to Japan. Knutty was right to send us away from 'Falun.' We shall both feel better for the change. I shall get rid of my moods and become quite a jolly companion for you. We'll have such splendid times. Won't we?"
"Yes," said Alan, but without any ring in his voice.
The father stood looking sad and puzzled.
"I am just going out to buy some books," he said. "Come, too?"
Alan shook his head.
"No, father," he said. "I thought I'd like to read."
Clifford nodded and went out.
"It will be all right between us when we are off on our travels," he thought. "We ought to have started long ago. I am glad I have berths for an earlier date. It will be better for him, and for me. And yet——"
He made a gesture of impatience with himself.
"It is high time that I took a journey," he said sternly.
He bought several dry treatises on scientific subjects, a new book on architecture for Alan, and a brochure on Alan de Walsingham. He was greatly pleased with this.
"Alan will be glad," he said. And then he found an amusing book about balloons, also for Alan. And after this he saw a Baedeker for Norway and Denmark.
"I should like Miss Frensham to have that from me," he said, as he handled it dreamily.
He hesitated over it, put it aside sternly, then went back to it, hesitated again, and finally bought it. He had a guilty smile on his face when he carried it off.
"After all, why not?" he said in excuse to himself.
Knutty would have been glad to know that he had allowed himself to go even thus far. Surely again she would have whispered, "I see daylight!"
He passed along Oxford Street, stopping now and then to look at the shop windows. He was thinking all the time what he should buy for Alan. He went back armed with books, chocolates, new penknives, sketch-blocks, some fresh kind of printing-paper, and a little pocket microscope.
The buying of that guide-book had exhilarated him astonishingly. He had the uplifting joy that afternoon of believing in himself; and because he believed in himself, he was feeling for the moment that all things were possible to him: to keep his boy's love, to take a reasonable view of poor Marianne's death, to mend his torn spirit, to lift his head, to lift his heart, and being free from harassment, to use to better advantage the gifts of his intellect, and—to pass on. He knew that this mood would change, but whilst it was on him he was grateful and almost jubilant.
"What should we poor mortals do unless we did believe in ourselves sometimes?" he said. "It is our moments of self-confidence which carry us through our years of self-doubting."
He came in like a schoolboy, tremendously pleased with his shopping, especially with that guide-book. He hurried to the reading-room, but Alan was not there; and so he hastened to the boy's bedroom, where he found him moping as before. One by one, with unconcealed eagerness and triumph, Clifford displayed his treasures. Alan did not seem to care. He scarcely looked at them, and even the pocket-microscope aroused no enthusiasm in him. Clifford gave no sign of noticing the boy's indifference and ungraciousness; but he was disappointed, and longed to tell Knutty. In the evening Alan was still in the same mood, and Clifford made up his mind to speak to him in the morning. They were both so reserved, that speech was not easy to either of them when it had to do with their inmost thoughts; and Clifford knew that Alan was suffering, not sulking. He let the boy go off to bed alone, and sat in the reading-room by himself.
All the old sadness came as a wave over him, and swept everything else from him. There was a rift in the lute; he had been conscious of it ever since Marianne's death. Knutty had laughed at his fears; but even she had noticed the boy's strained manner, and had tried to ease the tension. And then for a time things had gone better, and Alan had come nearer to his father again, back, indeed, to the old tender comradeship so dear to both of them. But now he was retreating once more. Clifford knew by instinct that Marianne was between them: Marianne in all her imperiousness, tenfold more imperious because of her tragic death.
An hour or so went by, and Clifford still lingered, given over to sad memories and anxious fears. Two or three people came in, glanced at the evening papers, and hurried away. He did not look up. But when Katharine opened the door, he knew. In spite of himself he came out of his sad reveries; in spite of himself a passionate gladness seized the man's heart. He forgot Marianne, forgot Mrs Stanhope. He forgot Alan. He forgot everything.
He threw all his former life, with its failures and burdens, to the winds, and rushed recklessly on, free for the moment—gloriously free—with the song of spring and hope resounding in his ears and urging him onwards, onwards!
He rose at once and went to meet her.
"Ah," he said. "I must just go and fetch that book about Denmark. I want to tell you several things about my old Knutty's country. I will not be one moment gone."
He hurried away, leaving her, too, with the song of love and life and hope echoing around her. Her loneliness had passed from her.
He ran up the stairs to his bedroom, found the book, and was just running down again, when he paused outside his boy's room, which was opposite to his own.
"I will slip in and see if he is asleep," he thought. "Then my mind will be easier about him."
He opened the door gently, treading as softly as a loving mother might tread who has come in the stealth of the night to see if all was well with the beloved bairns; to touch each one on the dear head, as in blessing, to smile at each one and then creep out again, satisfied and comforted. Alan was sleeping, but restlessly. The bedclothes were thrown off him, and he was murmuring something in his dreams. His father bent over him and covered him up. He did not wake, but went on, whispering a few disconnected words. Clifford bent to listen, and he heard, "Mother ... Mrs Stanhope...." Then there came a sort of sob. The man's heart stood still. He waited with bowed head. The boy was dreaming of his mother. Was he perhaps remembering in his dream how he used to come and say to his father, "Mother has been with Mrs Stanhope to-day"? That was the only comment on Marianne which ever passed between father and son; it was their code, their signal of danger. Was it that? Or what was it? What was troubling him?
Suddenly the thought flashed through the man's mind:
"Has he seen that woman somewhere?"
And again the old miserable fear took possession of him. He longed to kneel down by the side of the bed and beg his little son to tell him everything that was in his heart, so that nothing and no one might ever come between them. He knew that when the morrow came he himself would be too proud and reserved to ask, and his boy too proud and reserved to own to any secret grief, however great. He had been like that himself as a boy—he was scarcely any different now—he, a grown man; he understood so well this terrible stone wall of reserve which the prisoners themselves would fain pierce. Supposing he were to waken the boy now and ask him, this very moment? Perhaps it would be easier to tell, this very moment.
He did not waken him after all; for Alan's restlessness subsided suddenly, and he passed into quiet sleep. So Clifford stole out of the room and stood waiting at the top of the staircase, in doubt as to whether he should go down or not. At last he went down, impelled against his will. Katharine saw at once the change of expression on his face.
"I feel greatly troubled, Miss Frensham," he said in his half-reluctant way. "My boy has been unhappy all the day, and now he is talking in his sleep about—about that Mrs Stanhope. After what you told me, I hope with all my heart that she has not seen him."
"Oh no, no. It can only be a coincidence," Katharine said.
"Do you really think so?" he said, with a faint smile on his troubled face.
"Indeed I do," she answered emphatically.
"Ah," he said, "the worst of it is that I do not believe in coincidences. There is a secret threadless thread of communication running through the whole region of thought and feeling and event."
"Then I must find something else to say to you," Katharine said, still undaunted.
And she looked at him, and for the very life of her she could not keep back the words which came with a rush to her lips:
"Believe in yourself more, Professor Thornton, as I do."
CHAPTER XIII.
After a few days Clifford Thornton and his boy started for New York, and Katharine was left once more alone in heart and spirit. She had no idea of the great struggle which had been going on in the man's mind: a double encounter with the past tragedy of his life and the future possibilities of love and happiness. When he said goodbye to her, there seemed to be no sign of regret over the parting which had come as a matter of course. She could not know that behind his impenetrable manner was concealed a passionate longing which appalled him by its insistence and intensity. She could not know that his hurried departure was out of sternness to himself, as well as out of consideration for the boy's well-being. She could not know that once, twice, several times he had nearly thrown up the whole journey for the sake of staying longer near her—in her presence. If she could have known this, she would have been comforted. But she only saw that a grave, sad man had gone back to his past. There had been a moment of travelling on; for that moment they had travelled together. But now the brief journey was over. She lived it all over again: she went through the pleasant meetings, the grave impersonal talks, the sudden passings on, the sudden retreats: the feeling of fellowship, the feeling of aloofness: her championship of him to Mrs Stanhope: her championship of him to himself: her entire belief in him openly expressed direct to him.
"My belief in him waits for him whether he wants it or not. And I am glad that he knows it," she said to herself proudly.
But in her heart of hearts she knew that he wanted it. If she had not known it, she might, for all her brave show of spirit, have regretted her impulsive outcry.
But she regretted nothing—nothing except that he had gone. She thought of the men who had wanted to marry her, men unburdened with sad histories and memories, men to whom life had been joyous, and circumstance favourable. She had pushed them all aside without a single pang. But this stranger, who was no stranger, and who was claimed by his past, Katharine yearned to detain. But he had gone.
She gathered herself together to pass on. She looked about for a flat, and found what she wanted across Westminster Bridge, in Stangate. There she established herself, and began to see some of her old friends, and take a fresh survey of London. Katharine was intensely patriotic, and having been three years from home, was eager to see once more the favourite sights and places to which absence had lent a glamour of love and romance. She spent hours in her own surroundings: by the Embankment, in the Abbey, round about the Houses of Parliament. She sat in the Abbey, enjoying the dim light and hushed silence of the Past. Lonely thoughts did not come to her there. There, the personal fades from one. One is caught up on wings. And if the organ should play, the throb of the outside life is stilled.
She haunted Trafalgar Square. She watched the Horse Guards change sentry. She went down to the City, sat in St Paul's, visited the Guildhall. Her friends laughed lovingly at her.
"Ah!" she answered; "go and live out of the old country for a few years, and if you don't feel a thrill when you return, you are not worthy of having been born in England."
She went down to the Natural History Museum. She spent hours there, lingering in the Mineral-room, where she had been with Clifford Thornton and his boy. It comforted her to be there. She went over all the beautiful things he had pointed out to her; she recalled how an unknown mysterious subject had become as a romance full of wonder and interest.
She had meetings with the three devoted musicians, lunching with them at restaurants representative of their respective nationalities. Ronald did not go with her.
"No use asking 'brother,'" said Signor Luigi, waving his arms and giving a sort of leap in the air. "Maccaroni of my native land! I will do the rôle of the adorable lady—the Signora Grundy!"
"No use asking 'brother,'" said Monsieur Gervais. "'Brother' is a grand gentleman now, and goes to 'Princes.' He has the stiff necks now."
"No use asking 'brother,'" said Herr Edelhart. "'Brother' likes not to come without madame his wife, and madame does not love the quartette, does not admire my wunderbar tone. Donner wetter! what a tone I have!"
Katharine laughed with them and at them, and loved to be in their company, but her heart was far away; and in the midst of the fun, her thoughts went straying to that man who had come in that unexpected way into her life—and gone. She fretted, and there was no one in whom she could have confided. Ronnie was too much taken up with his own affairs and his passionate adoration of his wife to have any real mental leisure for her. Katharine saw that great love, even as great sorrow, shuts the whole world out. She knew herself excluded from his inner shrine, whilst his outward social surroundings were increasingly uncongenial to her. She was troubled about him, too. He looked harassed, and had lost the old lightheartedness of three years ago. She tried in her kindly way to probe him; but in vain. She turned away sadly, recognising that she was no longer his confidante, and he was no longer hers.
She was happier with the Tonedales; and to them she went from time to time during those sad weeks, and continued to sit to Willy for that eternal portrait of Mary, Queen of Scots.
"Thank Heaven, Kath," he said one day, "you still have some leisure. No one has any leisure nowadays. Even Margaret has got dragged by the scruff of the neck into what my delightful cousin Julia calls 'a strenuous life.' Always at something, always doing something for some one who doesn't want that something done; always working at some cause. Great Scott, Kath! I don't mind you going into business so much, but if you take up a Cause, I shall commit suicide! Darling cousin Julia is great on Causes, you know. Good Heavens! What a tongue that woman has! If Causes want tongues, then she ought to get permanent employment without any difficulty. By Jove! though, you gave it to her that day, didn't you?"
Katharine had arrived in a state of great depression on that afternoon; and when Willy began speaking of Mrs Stanhope, her thoughts turned at once to Clifford Thornton, and her face became full of grief. Willy noticed the change in her expression, but went on painting silently. When he looked at her again, he saw tears in her eyes. He put down palette and brush and came to her. He saw at once that something was wrong with her, and all his kindest feelings of concern sprang up to protect her.
"Why, Kath," he said, "what's the matter with you? Any one been unkind to you? By Jove! I'll let them know if they have. They won't do it a second time. You should have heard me bullyragging cousin Julia. I gave her a bit of my mind for being so disagreeable to you the other day. What is wrong, Kath? Tell me, my dear."
She looked at him in a forlorn way.
"I am unhappy, Willy," she said; "that's what is wrong."
"Well, you might at least tell me what it is, my dear," he said. "You know I would do anything to help you. Anything on earth."
"You cannot help me," she said listlessly. "It is something I have to fight out in myself, old fellow."
He glanced at her, and then said:
"I believe we have known each other twenty years, Kath."
She nodded assent.
"Then I think the least you can do for me, if you can't love me, is to let me be your best friend," he said. "We all know that Ronnie is so taken up with Gwendolen that he has no thought for any one else just now. But I—I have no wife. And my mind is at leisure, and my brain too—such as it is—and always at your service, as you know."
"If only I had a profession," Katharine said. "That has been my mistake all along, Willy. Every one ought to have a calling—no matter what it is; and it won't fail them in moments of poverty and trouble and—and desolation."
"So you are feeling desolate," he said sadly, "I knew you would when you came back and realised that Ronnie was married. I dreaded it for you."
"It is not only that," she answered, "though I have felt that bitterly. But——"
"Well?" he said, turning to her.
"I should like to tell you, Willy," she replied tremblingly—"but it is not fair on you."
"I know what it is," he said quite quietly, but with a sudden illumination on his face. "You have fallen in love with that stranger, Professor Thornton, Kath."
There was no answer, no sign. Katharine sat rigid and speechless.
"It would be fairer to tell me," he said, "fairer and kinder. Believe me."
"Yes; I have fallen in love with the stranger," she answered gently; and as she thought of him afresh, the tears streamed down her cheeks.
Willy Tonedale watched her a moment.
"Well, my dear," he said, "I can't pretend to be glad; but, of course, you had to love some one sooner or later—even I knew that."
"I wish I had something else to tell you, Willy," she said simply, "something to make you happy; but I can't help myself, can I?"
"No, my dear," he said in a low voice. "'The wind bloweth where it listeth.' And you have never been anything except your own frank splendid self to me."
"It came over me the moment I saw him," Katharine said, half to herself. "I knew nothing about him, but I seemed to have come suddenly out of a lonely wilderness—such a lonely wilderness—and found him. Then I heard part of his history, and it filled me with great pity, as it does now. And then we met again in the hotel. It was so strange that we should meet there, each knowing nothing of the other. And yet it seemed natural to be together; it seemed almost to be the continuation, not the beginning, of something. And then—that's all, Willy. He has gone his way."
"He will never forget you," Willy said dreamily. "He could not if he wished."
"I suppose if I were a well-balanced sort of person," Katharine went on, "with the regulation mind which a regulation woman is supposed to have, I ought not to have allowed myself to think twice of him—him so recently bereaved of his wife. And, having allowed it, I ought to be prepared to receive the reproaches of all the British matrons in the world. I know all that, and yet I have not been able to help myself, Willy, though I've been ashamed, too."
"There was no reason for you to be ashamed," he said. "She had died and gone her way before you even saw him. Don't be miserable about that, Kath. You could not do anything mean or horrible if you tried till Doomsday."
"How you believe in me, Willy!" she exclaimed. "That makes me ashamed. But it is a great comfort, too."
"Kath," he said sadly, "I knew that you loved him when you spoke up for him to cousin Julia. Your face told me that."
And then there was a silence between them. Willy had lit a cigar, and he walked up and down the studio, his eyes fixed on the floor. At last he raised his head, and stood still in front of her.
"And what are you going to do now?" he asked.
"Oh, I am going to gather myself together somehow," she replied, with something of her old vivacity. "One has to live."
"Yes, yes, you must do that, and you must take comfort and courage," he said. "He cannot forget you."
"But Willy," she cried, as though in sudden pain; "but he is a man sad and overburdened—a man with a broken spirit—perhaps if things had been different—but now——"
Willy came nearer. His face was pale and his eyes were a little dim.
"Look here, Kath," he said, "you take my word for it, you were not born for unhappiness. By Jove! and you shan't have it either. You were meant for all the best and brightest things in the world, and, by Jove! you shall have them. I'll help you to get them—we'll all help you to get them; you must have anything you want—any one you want, only you mustn't be unhappy. I can't stand that—never could stand that—always was a fool about you, Kath—always shall be one—never could change if I wanted to; don't want to—unless—unless I could have been the man with the broken spirit."
Then Katharine forgot about herself and remembered only Willy. All her kind and generous feelings broke through the barrier of her grief. She sprang to her feet, brushed away her tears, and turned to him with impetuous eagerness.
"Willy," she said, "I've been a selfish brute pouring out my troubles to you in this way—poor old fellow! What have I done to you in return for your faithful kindness of all these years? Given you pain and disappointment and sadness, and never a glimmer of hope, and now my own selfish confidence about my feelings for another man. What can I do to ease your kind, unselfish heart? I know there is not much I can do—but there must be something. Let me do it, whatever it is."
A tumult came into Willy's heart. A light came into his eyes. He quenched the light; he quelled the tumult for her dear sake.
"There is one thing you can do for me, Kath," he said in a voice which trembled; "don't ever regret you trusted me and told me. You couldn't have told every one. It had to be the right person. Don't take that from me. And, you see, I knew. I knew by instinct. So don't reproach yourself. You've never been anything else except a brick to me ever since I can remember you."
She shook her head in deprecation of his praise, and said gently:
"I will never regret that I trusted you, Willy."
"Thank you, my dear," he said, with more of his old drawling manner again. "And now let's have another shot at my immortal masterpiece. That's right, Kath. Dry your eyes. Pull yourself together like Mary Queen of Scots did on the scaffold. By Jove! she must have been a stunner! I shall never believe that when her head dropped off, it was the head of a wizened-up old woman. If that was the truth, I don't want the truth. By Jove! here's tea. Margaret has gone off to a Cause, and mother has gone to a dentist and then to a Christian Science meeting. Those Christian Scientists pretend they can do without doctors, but they stick to the dentists right enough. No, I'll pour out the tea, Kath. You stay where you are, on the scaffold—I mean the platform. My word, what a brain I have! It isn't only slow, but it's so deucèd confused, isn't it?"
So he tried to cheer her; and when he took her to her home that afternoon, she had regained her outward composure, and felt all the better for having had the blessing of a true friend's kindness. His last words were, "Don't you dare to regret that you trusted me."
But when he was alone, his face looked ashen and sad, and his eyes had a world of grief in them. For that evening, at least, Willy Tonedale, his beautiful features illuminated by love and loss, might well have stood for the portrait of a man with a broken spirit.
And whilst he was passing through his hour of sadness, Katharine was reading a letter from the Danish botanists, Ejnar and Gerda Ebbesen, Knutty's nephew and niece. They wrote in answer to her letter to say that they had left Denmark and were spending their holidays at a Norwegian farm. They suggested that she might be inclined to bring the botanical parcel to them there. Their aunt was with them, and she was most interested to hear that Miss Frensham had made the acquaintance of her Englishman and his boy.
"I shall go," Katharine said. "There is nothing to prevent me."
"I shall see the old Dane whom he loves," she said, with a glow of warmth in her heart.
In a few days she packed up and went to Norway.
PART II.
IN NORWAY.
CHAPTER I.[C]
Fröken Knudsgaard pretended to grumble a good deal at having to leave Copenhagen and go to Norway with Gerda and Ejnar. But there was no help for it. It was a time-honoured custom that she spent the whole summer with her nephew and niece. It was true that they saw each other constantly all through the year, for Tante lived opposite the Orstedpark, and the botanists, who lived at Frederiksberg, passed that way every time they went to the Botanic Museum and Library, and would never have neglected to run in for a chat. Sometimes, also, they lunched with her in her cosy little home, where, in the spring, she saw the limes of the Boulevard unfold their tender leaves, and where in summer she watched the sun disappear in the north-west behind the trees. It was indeed a pretty little home, made, so she said, wickedly comfortable by her Clifford's kindness.
But these fragments of companionship were not considered enough by the botanists; and summer was the time when they claimed Tante for their own, whether she liked it or not. But of course she liked it; only she felt it to be her duty as a healthy human being to have a permanent grievance.
"Don't talk to me about giving up my grievances," she said. "All right-minded people ought to have them. Rise above them, indeed! Thank you! I don't want to rise above anything!"
However, after the usual formality of grumbling, Tante was charmed at the prospect of having a change. Ejnar had set his heart on going to the Gudbrandsdal to find a particular kind of shrub which grew only in one district of that great valley. He was a gentle fellow, except where his botanical investigations were concerned. But if any one thwarted him over his work, he became quite violent. Tante Knudsgaard used to look at him sometimes when he was angry, and say in her quaint way:
"Kjaere, one would think you were an anarchist instead of a harmless botanist. One would think you spent your days with dynamite instead of with innocent flowers and mosses, which don't explode."
Gerda, also a botanist, and just as clever and distinguished as her husband, wished specially to go up to Tromsö, to find some particular kind of saxifrage, growing nowhere in Europe except on the Tromsdalstind.
But Tante struck.
"No," she said. "You don't get me to go up there within the Arctic circle. I've had quite enough of icebergs this spring with my two poor icebergs in England. Poor darlings! I suppose they have reached America by now. I ought to be hearing soon."
"I cannot imagine why you made them go so far," Gerda said.
"When people are in trouble they must always go a long way," said Tante. "Even if they come back the next moment."
"You might have sent them to Tromsö," Gerda remarked, with a grim smile. "That is almost as far. And then we could all have gone and found the saxifrage. You would have been willing enough to go if you had had your Englishman with you."
"Perhaps; who knows?" replied Tante. "The human heart is a wayward thing. I think you have never heard me say otherwise. But why not go to Tromsö by yourself, dear one? You won't feel at all lonely if you have the companionship of the saxifrage. You won't miss Ejnar and me in the least. You won't want to come back the next moment after you have left us. Oh, no! You won't miss us."
"No," answered Gerda, giving her a hug. "But you would miss me. And Ejnar would be wretched if he hadn't me to quarrel with."
"Yes, you must have your quarrels," said Tante gravely. "All well-conducted botanists would go to perdition without two or three quarrels a-week. You must stay, Gerda, if only for the sake of science. Only, give in without a mortal battle this time, and let us go peacefully to the Gudbrandsdal. Ejnar has the dynamite-look on his face. He has set his heart on that shrub. Heaven and St Olaf help us! We must get it!—even if we have to scale mountains. Imagine me scaling mountains, dear one. Have pity on me, and come and help!"
Gerda gave way; a mortal battle was avoided, the dynamite-look disappeared from Ejnar's gentle face, and all three started off for Norway in good spirits and admirable tempers. Ejnar was a tall man, thin, and dark for a Dane. He looked rather 'comatose,' as Tante called him, except when his botanical emotions were aroused. Then he sprang into life and became an inspired being, with all the sublime beauty of intelligence on his face. He only cared for botany, Gerda, and Tante Knudsgaard. He did not positively dislike music, and did not always go out of the room when Gerda sang. He was a silent fellow, and scarcely ever laughed, except over his work, and then sometimes he would give forth peals of hearty laughter most refreshing to hear and quite boyish. That was when he had done some satisfactory bit of difficult classification. Gerda, being musical as well as botanical, was rather more human. She was of middle height, slight, and wonderfully fair, with an abundance of fair hair, and a pair of glacier-blue eyes. She sang gloriously in a wild, untrained manner which thrilled through every one except Ejnar. He had, however, the greatest and most generous admiration of her knowledge as a botanist, and was most particular that every paper with which she had helped him, should bear her name as well as his. In fact, in his way he loved her dearly. Their quarrels were entirely scientific, never human. In their simple way they led an almost ideal life, for they were free to work in an untrammelled fashion at the subjects they loved, Ejnar holding no official position in connection with his work, but being sleeping partner in his brother's glove-factory in Christianhavn. They were very happy together, and although Gerda had a restless theory that it was ridiculous to be always together, she had been utterly miserable on the one occasion when she had gone off alone, and had returned the next day. Tante, remembering this, teased her continually, of course; and when the good ship brought them to Christiania, she said to her:
"Are you quite sure you are not wanting to go off to Tromsö alone? You could come back the next minute, you know, quite easily."
"Nå," answered Gerda gaily. "I prefer to stay and be teased!"
They saw the sights of Christiania, spending most of the time in the Botanical Department of the University; and then took the train up to the Gudbrandsdal, the largest and most fertile valley in Norway. They had engaged rooms for themselves at a large Gaard (farmhouse) owned by rich peasants of noble lineage, who in the summer months took a few guests into their spacious dwelling-place. The Gaard had a splendid situation, lying on the mountain-side, about two thousand feet above sea-level, and commanding a far-stretching view of the great valley, which was spread out generously below, dotted with hundreds of farms, and with two shining rivers flowing on separately, meeting each other, and then passing on together. Looking down on all those homesteads, one was reminded all the time of the words of the Norwegian poet, who sings of Norway, the land of a thousand homes. Red Gaards, being new buildings added to the original family-home of many generations: bright red, standing out boldly and picturesquely against the grain fields and the green of the firs and birches. Dark-brown, almost black Gaards, burnt to their deep dye by the ever-working hand of Time. Fine old Gaards, not built of puny slices of wood with which builders content themselves in these mean-spirited days; but fashioned of entire tree-trunks, grand old fellows of the giant forests of the past. Dense masses of firs and birches: down in the valley and advancing boldly up the mountain-sides, and lining the deep gorges of the side-valleys as well, and pressing on to a quite unreasonable height, from a conventional point of view, firs and birches contending all the time as to which should climb the higher. Waterfalls here and there, catching the sunlight and sending forth iridescent jewels of rarest worth. Hundreds of grass-grown roofs, some with flowers and some even with a fir or two amidst the grass. White bell-towers to every storehouse, with the bell to summon all the labourers to food and rest. Countless fields of grain of every kind: some of it cut and fixed on sticks at regular intervals, so that a regiment would seem to be waiting the word of command: ready and immovable: a peaceful region of warfare. And a warfare in reality, too, a hard nature being the enemy.
Then those wonderful rivers: one of them coming straight from a glacier and therefore unmistakable, even though the changing clouds might give to it varying shades of colour. Grey and glacier, blue and glacier, rose and glacier, black and glacier, white and glacier, golden and glacier. And the other river, not less beautiful because less complex. And the two together winding through the valley: now hidden from sight, now coming into view again, now glistening in the far distance, and now disappearing finally—no—one more glimpse if one strains the eye—one more greeting, and then, farewell—they have gone their way!
And the snow mountains—not very near, and not very snowy just now; but, for all that, the glory of the country, the very desire of one's heart, the shrine of one's secret and mysterious longings.
CHAPTER II.
Both the botanists and Tante were delighted with the place. Tante, who adored limitless space, had not quite liked the idea of coming to a valley.
"You know I have always hated restraints of any kind, dear ones," she said. "And even at the age of seventy, I desire to continue in the straight path of blessed uncontrol. Valleys make me shudder a little—like conventions! Bah!"
But even she was content when she saw the immense proportions of her prison.
"Well," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "there is space and freedom enough for me, for a little while. All is well with me, dear ones. Go and find your shrubs and be happy. It is true that you have brought your poor stout relation to a place on the mountain-side where she can neither go up nor down. Nothing could have been more cruel. But no matter. She will look at the view and try to feel chastened by patience and all the other dull virtues. And she will go on knitting socks for the dear English soldiers. They will never get them, of course. Still, she will do her best for them, hoping that King Red Tape will allow them to be delivered. Yes, dear ones, hasten to your shrubs and have some stimulating quarrels over them. Tante is content for a minute or two."
And she really was happy, and deeply interested in the owners of the Gaard, rich landowners, Bönder, aristocrats of Norway, direct descendants of kings and chieftains—Vikinger, in fact; proud and reserved: proud of their noble lineage, and reserved of feeling and in manner, and yet, when tactfully approached, capable of the greatest kindness and appreciative understanding: dignified in behaviour, and refined in form and feature, bearing on them, indeed, the royal seal of good birth and good breeding. The Solli family was one of the oldest and noblest in the valley, and had the most important and most highly decorated and carved pew in the old brown church. There were three girls: stately Ragnhild, lovely Ingeborg, and gentle little Helga, the pet of the family. And there were two sons, Karl and Jens. Karl, being the elder, would in time inherit the Gaard, paying his brothers and sisters a share, and giving to his father and mother mysterious dues called Föderaad. But as Solli and his wife were strong and active, and Karl was not even betrothed, there was no occasion for the older people to retire; and meanwhile an older couple still, the grandparents, were eking out their lives in the comfortable old black dower-house in the court of the Gaard. Grandmother (Bedstemor) had never wanted to retire, and bore on her face a settled look of disappointment which had been accentuated by the coming and going of twenty years. Grandfather (Bedstefar) had been ailing for many years. He lay in the big bedroom of the black house, and waited for the caressing hand of Death.
Solli's wife, whose Christian name was Inga, and who in accordance with custom was called Mor (mother) Inga, was, in her stately way, greatly attracted to the old Danish lady, and told her many interesting details about the Gaard. Tante had such perfect tact, and was such a comfortable easy creature to be with, that she found herself soon en rapport with the family. A glass of gooseberry-wine, followed on the next day by some corn-brandy, seemed to indicate that a delightful acquaintanceship was ripening; and when Mor Inga took her to the Stabur (the storehouse), that most sacred precinct of every self-respecting Norwegian Gaard, and showed her the treasures and mysteries of Norwegian housekeeping, every one felt that Fröken Knudsgaard "had arrived." Even the disagreeable old magistrate (Sorenskriver)[D] from S——, one of the eight or ten guests, admitted that.
"She has seen the Stabur," he said, with a grim smile, and he actually forgot to help himself first to cheese, but passed her a few delicate shavings; a sure sign from him of even passing respect.
After an introduction to the Stabur, any other honour on earth was easy of attainment; and no one was surprised to learn that Ragnhild was going to put up her loom and teach the Danish lady to weave. And Mor Inga fetched great-grandmother's old painted spinning-wheel from the top room of the Stabur and put it in the little balcony which overlooked the courtyard; and she brought some fresh wool from the wool-room—another sacred spot—and sent for old Kari, who was especially clever at carding the wool. And Tante sat and knitted, whilst old Kari carded the wool and Mor Inga span. This was Tante's first introduction to old Kari, eighty years old, and full of fairy lore.
"Ah," whispered Mor Inga to Tante, "Kari can tell thee many stories of the Gudbrandsdal if she likes. But it must be in secret, when there is no young person near to laugh and disbelieve. One day thou shalt give her a little coffee in a packet—all for herself—and then thou wilt hear all sorts of things."
But to-day Kari only carded the wool, smiling amusedly at being in the company of the big Danish lady, who spoke to her so kindly and treated her as though she were a lady herself and not an old parish-woman who had no home of her own. Ja, ja, that was very nice, and Kari scratched her head, and smiled more and more, until even the furrows on her grim old face were filled up with smiles, and her eyes seemed almost young and very bright.
"Ah," said Tante, with a friendly nod, "I know some one who has been very pretty. Oh, I have eyes—sharp, sharp eyes. I can see!"
And Mor Inga laughed and said:
"Kari was beautiful, and she could dance too. They say that in the old days no one could dance the spring-dance like Kari."
"Nei, nei!" said Kari, smiling more and more still. And her thoughts wandered back to her Ole—dead these twenty years and more. He had always said that no one could dance like Kari.
All this kept Fröken Knudsgaard busy; and indeed her distractions increased as the days went on. Sometimes she sat in the balcony which looked over the splendid view, and, seized by a sudden enthusiasm for nature, watched the ever-changing colours of the rivers, and the shadows on the hillsides, and listened to the music of the waterfall down below in the Vinstra gorge. But she did not pretend to be able to live on Nature's great wonders alone. She was delightfully candid about it.
"No, my dear ones," she said to Ejnar and Gerda, "I am the wicked product of a beautifully wicked world. I need my fellow-sinners. It would never have contented me to lie flat on my stomach looking for flowers and grasses, and so forth. Nor would it have been desirable for me. I should never have got up!"