[Listen]
And the wail of despair at the end of the verse was almost heartrending.
They listened until the sad strains had died away, and then Tante softly translated the words:
She turned impulsively to Katharine.
"But that is not for you, not for you," she said. "You will reach him, I know you will reach him—I feel it. I want you to reach him—something or other tells me that it must and will be so—that——"
The door of the balcony opened hastily, and Ragnhild came to Tante and held out both her hands to help her up.
"Two Englishmen have come and are asking for thee," she said.
"Men du milde Himmel!"[J] cried Tante. "My icebergs, of course!"
She almost ran to the hall, where she found Clifford and Alan standing together like the two forlorn creatures that they were.
"Velkommen, velkommen!" she cried. "I don't know where you've come from, whether from the bottom of the sea or the top of the air! Nor how you've got here! But velkommen, velkommen!"
Their faces brightened up when they saw her and heard her cheery voice with its slight foreign accent.
"Oh, Knutty, it is good to see you again," the man said.
"Yes, by Jove! it is ripping," the boy said.
"Come out into the balcony, dear ones," she said, taking them by the hand as she would have taken two children. "And I'll inquire about your rooms and your food. You look like tired and hungry ghosts."
Katharine was bending over the balcony, looking down fixedly at those wonderful rivers, and with the sound and words of that sad song echoing in her ears and heart. Then she turned round and saw them both; saw the look of shy pleasure on the boy's face, and of gladness on the man's. The music died away, hushed by the gladness of her own heart.
"Velkommen!" she said, coming forward to greet them. "I've learnt that much Norwegian, you see!"
CHAPTER VII.
Knutty was overjoyed at the return of her icebergs, and it was pathetic to see how glad they were to be with her again. She thought that, on the whole, they were the better for their journey; but when she questioned Clifford, he told her that Alan had not cared to be with him.
"He is much happier since he has returned and is not alone with me," Clifford said.
"And you?" asked Knutty.
"I am much happier too, Knutty," he said thoughtfully.
And he looked in the direction of the foss, where Katharine had just gone with the Sorenskriver.
"Ah," said Knutty, "you are a strange pair, you and your boy."
He made no reply; but afterwards said in an absent sort of way:
"I think I will take a stroll in the direction of the foss."
"Yes, I should, if I were you," said Knutty, with a twinkle in her eye. "The Sorenskriver will be so pleased to see you, I'm sure."
He glanced at her a little suspiciously, but saw only a grave, preoccupied expression on her naughty old face.
But when he had gone, she laughed to herself and said:
"Yes, there is decidedly daylight, not through a leper's squint, but through a rose-window! Only I must be careful not to turn it into black darkness again. I must see nothing and hear nothing, and I must talk frequently of Marianne—or oughtn't I to talk of her? Nå, I wonder which would be the best plan. If I do speak of her, it will encourage him to remember her; and if I don't speak of her it will encourage him to brood over her in silence. She always was a difficulty, and always will be until——And even then, there's the other iceberg to deal with—ah, and here he comes—made friends with Jens, I see, and no difficulty about the language—Jens never speaking a word, and Alan only saying something occasionally, like his father."
The two boys parted at the Stabur, where Ragnhild was standing on the steps holding a pile of freshly made Fladbröd. Alan looked up at her, took off his little round cricketing-cap, blushed, made his way over to the porch, and sat down by Knutty. And Ragnhild thought:
"That nice English boy. He shall have plenty of multebaer."
So she disappeared into the Stabur and brought out a plateful of multebaer, which she handed him with a friendly nod. He fell to without any hesitation, and Knutty watched him and smiled.
"Well, kjaere," she said, "and what do you think of this part of the world? Glad to be here?"
"Yes, Knutty," he answered. "And it is ripping to see you again."
"Am I so very 'bully'?" she said, in her teasing way.
"Yes," he said, smiling.
"Ah," she said, "I suppose I am!" And they both laughed.
"Jens and I are going fishing this afternoon up to a mountain lake over there," he said. "I wish you'd come too. Do, Knutty."
"Dear one," she answered, "I'll come with pleasure if you'll send over for one of the London cart-horses. Nothing else on this earth could carry me, and then I suppose he couldn't climb! You surely did not think of hoisting me up on one of those yellow ponies? No, I think I'll stop below and eat the fish you bring home. All the same, thank you for the invitation. Many regrets that age and weight, specially weight, prevent me from accepting."
There was a pause, and Alan went on eating his multebaer.
"Did you like your journey to America?" she asked, without looking up from her work.
"Yes," he answered half-heartedly, and his face clouded over. "But—but I was glad to come back."
"Well," she said, "that is what many people say. The New World may be good enough in its way, but the Old World is the Old World, when all is said and done. And you got tired of the Americans, did you?"
"Oh no," he said, "it wasn't that. But——"
He hesitated, and then he blurted out:
"I wish you'd been with us, Knutty. It would have been so different then."
"Nei, stakkar," she said. "You'll make old Knutty too conceited if you go on saying these nice things to her."
He had put down his plate of multebaer, and was now fiddling nervously with a Swedish knife that Knutty had given him. Knutty glanced at him with her sly little old eyes. She knew she was in for confidences if she conducted herself with discretion.
"Give it to me," she said, holding out her hand for the knife. "This is the way it opens—so—and then you stick it through the case—so—and then it's ready to stick anybody you don't like—so—in true Swedish fashion, with which I have great sympathy—there it is!"
The boy went on fiddling with the knife, and then he took his cap off and fiddled with that.
"Du milde Himmel!" thought Knutty. "These icebergs! Why do I ever put up with them?"
"Knutty," the boy began nervously, "I want so dreadfully to ask you something—about—mother. Was she—very unhappy—do you think? I can't get out of my head what Mrs Stanhope said. I tried to forget it—but——"
He looked up hopelessly at Knutty, and broke off.
Knutty gave no sign.
"Twice I nearly ran away from father," the boy went on. "I—I wanted to be alone—not with father—once at New York—and another time at Chicago. There were two fellows going out West from there, and—I wanted to be alone, not with father—and I thought I could get along somehow—other fellows do—and then I remembered how you said that he only had me—-and I stayed—but——"
He looked up again at Knutty, and this time she answered:
"I know," she said. "I understand."
"You don't think it beastly of me?" he said.
"No," she said, "not beastly at all; only very, very sad."
"You won't let father know I—I nearly left him?" Alan asked.
"No; you may rely on me," she answered gently. And she knew that she was speaking the truth, and that she would have no heart to tell Clifford. With her quick insight she saw the whole thing in a flash of light. She guessed that Mrs Stanhope had got hold of the boy, and planted in his heart some evil seed which had grown and grown. The difficulty was to find out exactly what she had said to him; and Knutty knew that Alan would be able to tell her only unconsciously, as it were, involuntarily. Her kind old heart bled for the lad when she thought how much he must have suffered, alone and unhelped. His simple words about wanting to get away from his father spoke volumes in themselves. And he seemed to harp on this, for he said almost at once:
"You see, I shall be going back to school, and then to college, and then to work."
"And then out into the world to make your name as a great architect," she said.
He smiled a ghost of a smile.
"Yes," he said; "but far away, Knutty, out in the colonies somewhere."
"Alan," she said suddenly, "you asked me about your mother—whether I thought she had been unhappy. I don't know; I never knew her well enough to be able to say. I thought she seemed happy when I saw her last—about two years ago, I think—and she was looking very beautiful. She was a beautiful woman your mother, and well set-up, too, wasn't she?"
"Yes," she boy said, and his lip quivered. He turned away and leaned against the pillar of the porch.
"Oh, Knutty," he said, turning round to her impetuously, "why did she die? Why isn't she here? There wasn't any need for her to die. She never would have died if father had been kinder to her, if we'd both been kinder to her; but—she was unhappy. Mrs Stanhope said she was unhappy: she told me all about it before we left England. I can't forget what she said—what she said about—about father being the cause of mother's death; that's what she meant—I know that's what she meant.... I can't get it out of my head. I never thought of it like that until she told me; but when she spoke as she did, then I knew all at once that—that—that there was something wrong somewhere about mother's death, and that I oughtn't to forget it, being her son—and—and she was fond of me—and——"
He broke off. Knutty had risen, and put her hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Kjaere," she said in a strained voice, "I did not know things were as bad as this with you. My poor boy."
She slipped her arm through the boy's arm and led him away from the courtyard, down past the cowhouse and the hay-barns and through the white gate.
Old Kari was grubbing about, singing her favourite refrain to call the cows back:—
Bedstemor was in her garden, giving an eye to her red-currant bushes, of which she was specially proud, and casting a sly glance round to see what the Swedish artist-lady was doing perched on that rock in the next field. She was only looking towards the Gaard and measuring the cowhouse in the air. Bedstemor thought there was no harm in that; and any way, these people had to do something.
The Sorenskriver was coming down from the birch-woods, alone and apparently in a disagreeable mood, for he pushed roughly on one side the little golden-haired daughter of one of the cotters who was playing on the hillside.
"These wretched Englishmen," he said, frowning. "Uff, they are always in the way, all over the world. And I was having such a pleasant time with her before this fellow came."
Katharine and Clifford were lingering near the foss. Katharine was making a little water-colour of the lovely scene. Through the trees one could catch a glimpse of the shining river and a bit of the bright blue sky.
"Yes," Clifford was saying, "my old Dane was wise to send us, and we were wise to come back. We were not happy together, Miss Frensham. But since we have returned the boy is happier, and—I am happier too."
Katharine, bending over her work, whispered to herself:
"And I—I am happier too."
But down by Knutty's mountain-ashes, near the black hay-barn, an old woman and a young boy sat, with pale, drawn faces.
CHAPTER VIII.
Gerda had pretended to hope that when Tante's English friends arrived on the scene, she would mend her strange ways, and no longer haunt the cowhouse and seek the companionship of old Kari and of Thea, who was so clever at making Fladbröd, and Mette, who had three fatherless babies and a dauntless demeanour which seemed to be particularly attractive to wicked old Knutty. But Tante was incorrigible, and would not for any one's sake have missed her evening visit to that august building. So after her sad talk with Alan, she stood and waited as usual, whilst Mette, that bright gay soul, called the cows down to the Gaard.
"Kom da, stakkar, kom da, stakkar!" ("Come then, my poor little dears!"), she cried merrily.
And Gulkind (yellow cheek), Brungaas (brown goose), Blomros (red rose), and Fjeldros (mountain rose) responded with varying degrees of bellowing and dilatoriness.
When they were safely in their stalls, the singing began. Thea had the softest voice, but Mette had a dramatic delivery. Old Kari acted as prompter when they forgot the words of the old folk-songs, and the cows went on munching steadily and switching their tails in the singers' faces, so that the music was mingled with strange discords of scolding and Knutty's laughter. And then Mette got up, and began to dance some old peasant-dance; and very pretty and graceful she looked, too, in her old cow-dress and torn bodice.
"Come, Thea!" she cried. "Let us dance the Spring-dance for the good Danish lady to see. Fjeldros and Brungaas can wait a few minutes."
"Nei, nei, nei!" cried old Kari. "It is not safe to dance in the cowhouse, Mette. Thou know'st the Huldre will come and throw stones in at the cows. Thou know'st she will come. Ja, ja, I have seen her do it, and the cows were killed. Ak, I am afraid. The Huldre will come."
"Perhaps," said Mette, winking mischievously at Tante—"perhaps it is better to be on the safe side. All the same, I'm not afraid of the long-tailed Huldre."
"Have you seen her often, Kari?" asked Tante.
"Three times," said Kari, shuddering, "and each time she worked me harm. She is mischievous and ugly, not like the beautiful green-dressed Huldre. I saw her once up at the Saeter, when I was alone and had made a big fire. She came and danced and danced before the fire. But I must not waste my time with thee. I must milk Blomros."
"Kari has been taken away by the mountain people," Mette said, winking again at Tante. "Thou shouldst tell the Danish lady."
But Kari buried herself under Blomros; and so Mette, still anxious to entertain her visitor, struck up with the pretty little folk-song, "Home from the Saeter."
[Listen]
When they had finished, Knutty looked round and saw Gerda standing listening.
"Now," said Knutty, "you will understand why I come to the cowhouse. It is my concert-room. Well then, my good friends, good-bye for the present."
"Come back to-morrow," cried Mette. "The milking goes so merrily when thou art here."
"And mind, no dancing!" said Knutty, smiling and putting up her hand in warning. "Remember the long-tailed one!"
Mette's merry laughter sounded after them, and was followed by her finale, the mountain-call to the goats:
"Kille bukken, kille bukken, kille bukken! lammet mit!" with a final flourish which would have made a real prima donna ill for a week from jealousy.
"Mette has got a temperament," said Knutty, still smiling. "Thank Heaven for that! Anything is better than your dead-alivers, your decaying vegetable world. No disrespect to you, kjaere, for you look particularly alive this evening; a nice flush on your face—whether anger or joy, no matter—the effect is the same—life."
"Ejnar and I have found some dwarf-birch," said Gerda, pointing to her green wallet.
"Ah, that is certainly a life-giving discovery," remarked Knutty.
"We've had a lovely afternoon together," continued Gerda, "and we've discussed 'Salix' to our hearts' content."
"Ah," said Knutty, "no wonder you look so animated."
"But just by the group of mountain-ashes we met Fröken Frensham," said Gerda, "and Ejnar left me. And I was angry. But as she had the Sorenskriver and your Englishman with her, I didn't mind so much. Oh, it isn't her fault. She doesn't encourage him; and she cannot help being attractive. But Ejnar——"
"Why, my child," said Knutty, "who ever heard of a live woman being jealous, generous, and just? You can't possibly be an animal—nor even a vegetable—you must be a mineral. I have it—gold!"
"Tante," said Gerda, "wait until you have a husband, and then you won't laugh."
"No, I don't suppose I should!" replied Knutty. "Other people would do the laughing for me."
"No," said Gerda. "They should not laugh at you in my presence, I can tell you."
"Ah," said Knutty, "you're pure gold, kjaere. There, don't fret about that wretch Ejnar. If he ran away from you, we could easily overtake him. He'd be stopping to look at all the plants on the wayside; and the lady, no matter who she was, would leave him in disgust. No self-respecting eloping female could stand that, you know. Come. There's the bell ringing for smoked salmon and cheese."
But although Knutty kept up her spirits that evening, she was greatly disturbed by her talk with Alan, and distressed to know how to help him. When she went to her room, she sat for a long time at the window, thinking and puzzling. Not a single helpful idea suggested itself to her. Her heart was full of pity for the boy and concern for the father. She reflected that it was in keeping with Marianne's character to leave this unnecessary trouble behind her: that all the troubles Marianne ever made had always been perfectly unnecessary. And she worked herself into a rage at the mere thought of Mrs Stanhope, Marianne's friend.
"The beast," she said, "the metallic beast! I'd like to see her whole machinery lynched."
After that she could not keep still, but walked up and down her big room, turning everything over in her mind until her brain was nearly distraught. Once she stood rigid for a moment.
"Had Clifford anything to hide about his wife's death?" she asked herself.
"No, no," she replied angrily. "That is ridiculous—I'm a fool to think of it even for a moment."
Her mind wandered back to the time of Marianne's death. She remembered the doctor had said that Marianne had died from some shock.
"Had Clifford lost his self-control that last night when, by his own telling, he and Marianne had some unhappy words together, and had he perhaps terrified her?" she asked herself.
"No, no," she said. "Why do I think of these absurd things?"
But if she thought of them—she, an old woman with years of judgment and experience to balance her—was it surprising that the young boy, worked upon by Mrs Stanhope's words, was thinking of them?
Knutty broke down.
"My poor icebergs," she cried. "I'm a silly, unhelpful old fool, and no good to either of you. I never could tackle Marianne—never could. She was always too much for me; and although she's dead, she is just the same now—too much for me."
She shook her head in despair, and the tears streamed down her cheeks; but after a few minutes of profound misery she brightened up.
"Nå," she said, brushing her tears away, "of course, of course! Why was I forgetting that dear Katharine Frensham? I was forgetting that I saw daylight. What an old duffer I am! If I cannot help my icebergs, she can—and will. If I cannot tackle Marianne, she can."
Her thoughts turned to Katharine with hope, affection, admiration, and never a faintest touch of jealousy. She had been drawn to her from the beginning; and each new day's companionship had only served to show her more of the Englishwoman's lovable temperament. They all loved her at the Gaard. Her presence was a joy to them; and she passed amongst them as one of those privileged beings for whom barriers are broken down and bridges are built, so that she might go her way at her own pleasure into people's hearts and minds. Yes, Knutty turned to her with hope and belief. And as she was saying to herself that Katharine was the one person in the world to help that lonely man and desolate boy, to build her bridge to reach the man, and her bridge to reach the boy, and a third bridge for the man and the boy to reach each other—as she was saying all this, with never one single jealous thought, there came a soft knock at her door. She did not notice it at first; but she heard it a few seconds later, and when she opened her door, Katharine was standing there.
"My dear," Knutty exclaimed, and she led her visitor into the room.
"I have been uneasy about you," Katharine said, "and could not get to sleep. I felt I must come and see if anything were wrong with you. Why, you haven't been to bed yet. Do you know it is two o'clock?"
"It might be any time in a Norwegian summer night, and I've been busy thinking," said Knutty—"thinking of you, and longing for the morrow to come when I might tell you of some trouble which lies heavy on my heart."
"Most curious," said Katharine. "I had a strong feeling that you wanted me. I thought I heard you calling me."
"I did call you," Knutty said, "none the less loudly because voicelessly. I wanted to tell you that Mrs Stanhope did see Alan before he left England. Your warning to my poor Clifford came too late. She took the boy and made him drink of the poison of disbelief."
Then she gave Katharine an account of her painful interview with Alan. Katharine had previously told Knutty a few particulars of her own encounter with Mrs Stanhope at the Tonedales, and she now, at Knutty's request, repeated the story, adding more details in answer to the old Dane's questionings. Long and anxiously these two new friends, who were learning to regard each other as old friends, discussed the situation.
"I cannot bear that the boy should be suffering in this way," Knutty said. "And I cannot bear that my poor Clifford should know. For he has come back happier—ah, you know something about that, my dear. And I am glad enough to see even the beginning of a change in him. Only it is pathetic that he, without knowing it, should be steering for some happiness in a distant harbour, whilst the boy should be drifting out to sea—alone."
"He shall not drift out to sea," Katharine said. "He must and shall believe in his father again."
"But, my dear, how are you going to manage that?" Knutty asked sadly.
"By my own belief," Katharine answered simply.
"You believe in him?" Knutty said, half to herself.
"Absolutely," Katharine answered, with a proud smile on her face.
"How you comfort me!" said Knutty. "Here have I been wrestling with plans and problems until all my intelligence had gone—all of it except the very best bit of it which called out to you for help. And you come and give me courage at once, not because you have any plans, but because you are yourself."
They were standing together by the window, and Katharine put her arm through Knutty's. They looked a strange pair: Knutty with her unwieldy presence of uncompromising bulk, and Katharine with her own special grace of build and bearing. She was clothed in a blue dressing-gown. Her luxuriant hair fell down far below her waist. The weird Norwegian moon streamed into the room, and shone caressingly around her. It was a wonderful night: without the darkness of the south and without the brightness of the extreme north; a night full of strange half-lights and curious changes. At one moment dark-blue clouds hung over the great valley, mingling with the mists in fantastic fashion. Then the blue clouds would give place to others, rosy-toned or sombre grey, and these two would mingle with the mists. Then the next moment the moon would reassert herself, and her rays would light up the rivers and fill the mists with diamonds. Then there would come a moment when mists and clouds were entirely separated; and between this gap would be seen, as in a dream, a vision of the valley beyond, mysterious and haunting. Verily a land of sombre wonder and mystic charm, this great Gudbrandsdal of Norway, with its legends of mortal and spirit, fit scene for weird happenings and strange beliefs, being a part of that whole wonderful North, the voice of which calls aloud to some of us, and which, once heard, can never be lulled into silence.
The two women stood silently watching the beauty of this Norwegian summer night, arrested in their own personal feelings by Nature's magnetism.
"Behold!" cries Nature, and for the moment we are hers and hers only. Then she releases us, and we turn back to our ordinary life conscious of added strength and richness.
Katharine turned impetuously to Knutty.
"He must and shall believe in his father again," she said. "I know how helpless boys are in their troubles, and how unreachable. But we will reach him—you and I."
"With you as ally," said Knutty, "I believe we could do anything."
"Poor little fellow, poor little fellow!" said Katharine tenderly.
As she spoke she glanced out of the window and saw some one coming down from the birch-woods. She watched the figure approaching nearer and nearer to the Gaard.
"There is some one coming down from the woods," she said. "How distinctly one can see in this strange half-light!"
"One of the cotters, perhaps," suggested Knutty.
"No," said Katharine, "it is the boy—it's Alan."
They watched him, with tears of sympathy in their eyes. They knew by instinct that he had been wandering over the hills, fretting his young heart out. They drew back, so that he might not see them as he passed up the garden.
They heard him go into the back verandah and up the outer stairs leading to his room.
They caught sight of his troubled face.
CHAPTER IX.
It was Katharine who proposed the expedition to a group of Saeters. She came down one morning in a determined frame of mind, and no obstacles could deter her from carrying out her scheme. F—— was about a day's journey distant from the Gaard, and Katharine had heard of its beauties from several of the guests, including the Sorenskriver. The difficulty was to get horses at the Gaard, for they were wanted in the fields, and when not required for work, they appeared to be wanted for rest. Solli did not like his horses to go for expeditions, and as a rule he was not to be persuaded to change his views. When asked, he always answered:
"The horses cannot go." And there the matter ended.
To-day also he said, "The horses cannot go;" and Katharine, understanding that entreaty was vain, made no sign of disappointment, and determined to walk. She invited Alan specially to come with her, and the boy, in his shy way, was delighted. Her manner to him was so genial that, spite of his trouble, he cheered up.
"The others may come with us if they like," she said to him; "but we are the leaders of this expedition. It is true that we don't know the way; but born leaders find the way, don't they?"
Ejnar declared he would go, and Gerda, still feeling injured, said she would stay behind. But Tante advised her to go and see that Ejnar did not run away with Katharine. The Sorenskriver refused rather sulkily, but was found on the way afterwards, having changed his mind and discovered a short cut. The little Swedish lady-artist accepted gladly, and the Swedish professor accompanied her as a matter of course, being always in close attendance on his pretty young compatriot. Clifford said he would remain with Knutty, but Knutty said:
"Many thanks. But I'm coming too. Do you suppose I've come to Norway to let others see Saeters? Not I."
"But, Knutty," he said, looking gravely at her, "you know we'd love to have you, but——"
"But you think it is not humanly possible," she answered, with a twinkle in her eye. "Well, I agree with you. If I walked, I should die; and if I rode, the horse would die! And as there is no horse——"
But just then Jens came into the courtyard leading Svarten, the black Gudbrandsdal horse, and Blakken, a sturdy little Nordfjording.[L] Jens hitched Svarten to the gig. Another pony was brought from the field hard by.
"The horses can go," said Solli, looking rather pleased with himself; and the little band of travellers, agreeably surprised, called out:
"Tusend tak, Solli!"
"Well, now, there are horses," Clifford said, turning to Knutty.
"Kjaere," she answered, "I may be a wicked old wretch, but I'm not as bad as that yet! I'll stay at home and read to Bedstemor out of the old Bible which Bedstefar bought in exchange for a black cow! Could anything be more exciting? But you go—and be happy."
"Happiness is not for me, Knutty," he said.
"No, probably not," she answered gravely. "But go and pretend. There's no harm in that."
"All the same," he said a little eagerly, "it is curious how much brighter and happier I do feel since we came here. It's the getting back to you, Knutty. That is what it is."
"Yes, I can quite believe that," replied Knutty. "There now. They are starting off."
But he still lingered in the porch.
"What sort of nonsense have you been telling Miss Frensham about my researches?" he said, smiling shyly.
"Oh," said Knutty, "I only told her you were engaged on some ridiculous stereo-something investigations. I didn't think it was anything against your moral character."
He still lingered.
"Do you know," he said, "I've been thinking that I shall enlarge my laboratory when I get back. I believe I am going to do a lot of good new work, Knutty."
"I shouldn't wonder," she answered. "A man isn't done for at forty-three."
"No, that's just it," he said brightly. "Well, goodbye for the present."
She watched him hasten after the others. She laughed a little, and congratulated herself on her beautiful discretion. And then she went over to Bedstemor's, and on her way met old Kari carrying a bundle of wood. Old Kari, who always plunged without preliminaries into a conversation, said:
"Perhaps that nice Englishwoman will find a husband here after all, poor thing. Perhaps the Englishman will marry her. What dost thou think?"
Meanwhile Clifford hurried after the Saeter pilgrims, and caught up with Gerda and Ejnar. Katharine and Alan were on in front, but he did not attempt to join them. But he heard Alan laugh, and he was glad. A great gladness seized him as he walked on and on. She was there. That was enough for him. Ah, how he had thought of her when he was away. She did not know. No one knew. It was his own secret. No one could guess even. No one would ever know that Alan's unhappiness was only one of the reasons for their sudden return. There was another reason too: his own unconquerable yearning to see her. He had tried to conquer it; and he had not tried to conquer it. He had tried to ignore it; and he had not tried to ignore it. He had said hundreds of times to himself, "I am not free to love her;" and he had said hundreds of times too, "I am free to love her." He had said of her, "She is kind and pitiful; but she would never love me—a broken-spirited man—never—never." And he had said, "She loves me." He had said, "No, no, not for me the joys of life and love—not for me. But if only in earlier days—if only——" And he had said, "The past is gone, and the future is before me. Why must I turn from love and life?"
But he had ended with, "No, no, it is a selfish dream; there is nothing in me worthy of her—nothing for me to offer her—nothing except failure and a saddened spirit."
But this morning Clifford was not saying or thinking that. He remembered only that she was there—and the world was beautiful. For the moment, all troubles were in abeyance. He scarcely remembered that the boy shirked being with him and went his own way in proud reserve. He had, indeed, scarcely noticed it since his return. If Alan went off with Jens, it was only natural that the two lads should wish to be together. And for the rest, the rest would come right in time. So he strode on, full of life and vigour, and with a smile on his grave face. And Gerda said:
"And why do you smile, Professor?"
He answered:
"The world is beautiful, Frue.[M] And the air is so crisp and fine."
Gerda, who enjoyed being with Knutty's Englishman, was glad that Ejnar was lingering behind picking some flower which had arrested his attention. She did not mind how far he lingered behind alone. It was the going on in front with Katharine which she wished to prevent! She said to Clifford:
"Your countrywoman is very attractive. I like her immensely. Do you like her?"
"Yes," said Clifford.
"She is not fond of chemistry, I think."
"No."
"Nor is she botanical."
"No," said Clifford.
"Nevertheless, she has a great charm," said Gerda. "Tante calls it temperamental charm. It must be delightful to have that mysterious gift. For it is a gift, and it is mysterious."
Clifford was silent. Gerda thought he was not interested in the Englishwoman.
"How blind he is!" she thought. "Even my Ejnar uses his eyes better. He knows that woman is charming."
Katharine was indeed charming that morning, and to every one. She had put little Fröken Eriksen, the Swedish artist, and the Swedish mathematical Professor, Herr Lindstedt, into the gig, so that they might enjoy a comfortable flirtation together. They laughed and greeted her pleasantly as they drove on in front.
"Tack!" they said, turning round and waving to her. They felt she understood so well.
Soon afterwards the Sorenskriver was found sitting on one of the great blocks of stone which formed the railing of the steep road down from the Solli Gaard.
"Good-morning," he said. "May a disagreeable old Norwegian join this party of nations?"
Katharine beamed on him, and spoke the one Norwegian word of which she was sure, "Velkommen!"
But she did not let him displace Alan. She kept the boy by her side, giving him the best of her kindness and brightness. She drew him out, heard something about his American journey, and listened to a long description of the ship which took him out and brought him home. He did not once speak of his father. And she did not speak of him. But she had a strong belief that if she could only manage to win the boy for herself, she could hand him back to his father and say, "Here is your boy. He is yours again. I have won him for you."
It was a joy to her to feel that she was working for Clifford Thornton. And with the pitiful tenderness that was her own birthright, she was glad that she was trying to help the boy. She knew she would succeed. No thoughts of failure crossed her mind. No fears of that poor Marianne possessed her. She made no plans, and reckoned on no contingencies. She had never been afraid of life. That was all she knew. And without realising it, she had a remarkable equipment for success in her self-imposed task. By instinct, by revelation, by reason of her big, generous nature, she understood Marianne: that poor Marianne, who, so she said to Knutty, could not be called unmerciful if she was ignorant—since mercy belonged only to true knowledge.
So she kept Alan by her side, and he was proud to be her chosen companion. She said:
"This is our show, you know. The other people are merely here on sufferance. And if the Sorenskriver says anything disagreeable about England, we'll wollop him and leave him tied up to a tree until we return."
"Or shove him down into the torrent," said Alan, delighted. "Here it is, just handy."
"Yes; but he has not begun yet," she answered. "We must give the poor man a chance."
"Don't you feel beastly angry when these foreigners say anything against England?" he asked.
"Beastly angry!" she replied with gusto.
He smiled with quiet satisfaction. He loved her comradeship of words as well as her comradeship of thoughts.
They passed over the bridge leading to the other side of the Vinstra gorge, stopped to rest at the Landhandleri (store-shop), and then began their long ascent to the Saeters. Up they went past several fine old farms; and as they mounted higher, they could see the Solli Gaard perched on the opposite ridge. The road was a rough carriage-road leading up to a large sanatorium, which was situated about three-quarters of the way to F——. As they mounted, the forest of Scotch firs and spruces seemed thicker and darker, being unrelieved by the presence of other trees, as in the valley below. Leafy mosses formed the carpeting of the forest, and a wealth of bilberries was accumulated in the spruce-woods; whilst the red whortleberry showed itself farther on in open dry spots amongst the pines which crept up higher than the Scotch firs—"Grantraeer," as the Norwegians call them. Then they, in their turn, thinned out, and the lovely birches began to predominate; so that the way through the forest became less gloomy, and the spirits of the pilgrims rose immediately, and Gerda sang. But, being Danish, she sang a song in praise of her native beech-woods! And the Sorenskriver joined in too, out of compliment to Denmark, but said that he would like to recite to the English people the poem about the beeches of Denmark, the birches of Sweden, and the fir-trees of Norway. The beeches were as the Danes themselves, comfortable, easy; the birches were even as the Swedes, graceful, gracious, light-hearted; and the grim firs were as the Norwegians, gloomy, self-contained, and sad.
"Therefore, Fröken," he said, turning to Katharine, "judge us gently. We are even as our country itself, stern and uncompromising."
"But grand, Herr Sorenskriver," said Katharine, "with nothing petty."
"Nei da!" he said, looking pleased. "It would be nice to think that this was as true of ourselves as of our mountains."
Then they glanced back at the snow-clad Rondane in the distance; and they came out into the open country, and saw the Jutenheim (the home of the giants) in front of them. They had left the region of the firs, pines, and birches, and reached the land of the dwarf-birch, the willow, and the persistent juniper. And here the rough carriage-road ended; for the sanatorium, where the fashionable Scandinavians were taking their summer mountain-holiday, was now only a few yards off. The saeter pilgrims had thought of dining there; but no one seemed inclined to face a crowd of two hundred guests. So the little company drew up by the side of a brook, and ate Mysost[N] sandwiches; the Sorenskriver, who continued in the best of good humours, assuring Katharine that this was an infallible way of learning Norwegian quickly. Alan was disappointed that he was not rude.
"Then we could go for him," he said privately to Katharine.
"Oh, perhaps he may even yet be rude!" whispered Katharine, reassuring him.
When they had lunched and taken their ease, they started once more on their journey, passing the precincts of the sanatorium in order to hire boats for crossing the beautiful mountain lake; for F—— was on the other side, perched high up on the mountain-slope. By rowing over, they would save themselves about two miles of circuitous rough road. Jens said that he would take the gig and the horses round by the road to meet the boat. Alan went with him, but he looked back wistfully at Katharine once or twice.
And now a curious thing happened. As Katharine and Gerda were standing waiting for their boat, the sound of English voices broke upon them.
"English," said Gerda. "That is a greeting for you."
"Well, it's very odd," said Katharine, listening; "but I've heard that voice before."
"Perhaps you think it is familiar because it is English," suggested Gerda.
"Perhaps," answered Katharine; but she was still arrested by the sound.
"I thought the Sorenskriver said that no English people came here?" she said.
"He said they came very rarely to these parts," Gerda replied. "One or two Englishmen for fishing sometimes; otherwise Swedes, Danes, Finns, Russians."
"I am sure I have heard that voice before," Katharine said. She seemed troubled.
"There they go, you see," Gerda said, pointing to two figures. "They were in the little copse yonder—two of your tall Englishwomen. How distinctly one hears voices at this height! Well, the Kemiker is waiting for us. Du milde Gud! Look at my Ejnar handling the oars! Bravo, Ejnar!"
"Come, ladies," called Clifford cheerily from the boat. "Let us be off before the Botaniker upsets the boat. He has been trying to reach a plant at the bottom of the lake."
When they had taken their places, Katharine turned to Clifford, who was looking radiantly happy, and she said:
"Row quickly, row quickly, Professor Thornton. I want to get away from here."
"Do you dislike the great caravanserai so much?" he said. "Well, you have only to turn round, and there you have the Jutenheim mountains in all their glory. Are they not beautiful?"
She looked at the snow-capped mountains; but for the moment their beauty scarcely reached her. She was thinking of that voice. When had she heard it? And where?
"The mountains, the mountains of Norway!" cried Clifford. "Ah, I've always loved the North, and each time I come I love it more passionately, and this time——"
No one was listening to him. Gerda and Ejnar were busy trying to see what was in the bottom of the lake, and Katharine seemed lost in her own thoughts. Suddenly she remembered where she had heard that voice. It was Mrs Stanhope's. The words rushed to her lips; she glanced at Clifford, saw and felt his happiness, and was silent. But now she knew why the sound of that voice had aroused feelings of apprehension and anxiety, and an instinctive desire to ward off harm both from the man and the boy.
For directly she heard it, she had been eager to hurry Clifford away, and relieved that Alan had gone on with Jens.
CHAPTER X.
So they rowed across the lake, he remembering nothing except the joy of being with her, and she trying to forget that any discord of unrest had broken in upon the harmonies of her heart. They landed on swampy ground, and made their way over rare beautiful mosses, ling, and low growth of bilberry and cloudberry. Ejnar and Gerda became lost to all human emotions, and gave themselves up to the joys of their profession. Long after all the rest of the little company had met on the rocky main road to the Saeters, the two botanists lingered in that fairyland swamp. At last Jens and Alan were sent back to find them, and in due time they reappeared, with a rapt expression on their faces and many treasures in their wallets. The country grew wilder and grimmer as the pilgrims mounted higher. The road, or track, was very rough, scarcely fit for a cariole or stol-kjaerre, and the Swedish mathematical Professor felt anxiously concerned about the comfort and safety of the little Swedish artist, who was a bad walker, and who therefore preferred to jolt along in the gig. But she did not mind. She laughed at his fears, and whispered to Katharine with her pretty English accent:
"My lover is afraid for my safeness!"
And Katharine laughed and whispered back:
"I hope you are having a really good flirtation with him."
"Ja, ja," she answered softly, "like the English boy says 'reeping good!'"
Grimmer and wilder still grew the mountainous country. They had now passed the region of the dwarf-birch and willow-bushes, and had come to what is called the "lichen zone," where the reindeer-moss predominates, and where the bushes are either creeping specimens, growing in tussocks, or else hiding their branches among the lichens so that only the leaves show above them. It seemed almost impossible to believe that here, on these more or less barren mountain-plateaus, good grazing could be found for the cattle during the summer months. Yet it was true enough that in this particular district the cows and goats of about fifty Saeters found their summer maintenance, about fifty of the great Gaards down in the side valleys of the Gudbrandsdal owning, since time immemorial, portions of the mountain grazing-land. The Sollis' Saeter was not in this region. It was fifty miles distant from the Solli Gaard, and, as Jens told the pilgrims, took two whole days to reach, over a much rougher country than that which they had just traversed.
"This is nothing," said Jens smiling grimly, when the Swedish lady was nearly thrown out of the gig on to Svarten's back. "We call this a good road; and it goes right up to the first Saeter. Then you can drive no more. Now you see the smoke rising from the huts. We are there now."
Jens, usually so reserved and silent, was quite animated. The mountain-air, and the feeling of being in the wild, free life he loved so much, excited him. He was transformed from a quiet, rather surly lad into an inspired human being fitted to his own natural environment. Gerda, looking at him, thought immediately of Björnson's Arne.
"You love the mountains, Jens?" she said to him.
"Yes," he answered simply. "I am always happy up at the Saeter. One has thoughts."
They halted outside the first Saeter, and turned to look at the beautiful scene. They were in the midst of low mountains. In the distance, across the lake, they could see the snow-peaks of the great Jutenheim range—the home of the giants. Around them rose strange weird mountain forms, each one suggestive of wayward and grim fancy. And over to the right, towering above a group of castle-mountains, peopled with strange phantoms born of the loneliness and the imagination, they saw the glistening peaks of the Rondane caught by the glow of the sun setting somewhere—not there. And below them was another mountain-lake, near which nestled two or three Saeters apart from the rest, and in which they could see the reflection of the great grey-blue clouds edged with gold. And above them passed in tumultuous procession the wonders of a Norwegian mountain evening sky of summer-time: clouds of delicate fabric, clouds of heavy texture: calm fairy visions, changing imperceptibly to wild and angry spectacle: sudden pictures of fierce and passionate joy, and lingering impressions of deepest melancholy,—all of it faithfully typical of the strange Norwegian temperament.
"One must have come up to the mountains," whispered Clifford to Katharine, "to understand anything at all of the Norwegian mind. This is the Norwegians, and the Norwegians are this."
And the grim old Sorenskriver, standing on the other side of Katharine, said in his half-gruff, half-friendly way:
"Fröken, you see a wild and uncompromising Nature, without the gentler graces. It is ourselves."
"And again I say, with nothing petty in it," said Katharine, spreading out her arms. "On a big scale—vast and big—the graces lost in the greatness."
"Look," said Jens, "the goats and cows are beginning to come back to the Saeters. They have heard the call. You will see them come from all directions, slowly and in their own time."
Slowly and solemnly they came over the fields, a straggling company, each contingent led by a determined leading lady, who wore a massive collar and bell. She looked behind now and again to see if her crowd of supernumeraries were following her at sufficiently respectful distances, and then she bellowed, and waited outside her own Saeter. The saeter pilgrims stood a long time looking at this characteristic Norwegian scene: the wild heath in front of them was literally dotted with far-off specks, which gradually resolved themselves into cows or goats strolling home in true Norwegian fashion—largissimo lentissimo! Even as stars reveal themselves in the sky, and ships on the sea, if one stares long and steadily, so these cows and goats revealed themselves in that great wild expanse. And just when there seemed to be no more distant objects visible, suddenly something would appear on the top of a hillock, and Jens would cry with satisfaction:
"See, there is another one!" He looked on as eagerly as all the strangers, very much as an old salt gazing fixedly out to sea. Then some of the saeter-girls came out to urge the lingering animals to hurry themselves, and the air was filled with mysterious cries of coaxment and impatience. At last the pilgrims went to inquire about food and lodging for the night.
"You may get it perhaps," Jens remarked vaguely. This, of course, was the Norwegian way of saying that they would get it; and when they knocked at the door of the particular Saeter which Jens pointed out to them, a dear old woman welcomed them to her stue (hut) as though it were a palace. She liked to have visitors, and her only regret was that she had not known in time to prepare the room for them in best saeter fashion. Meanwhile, if they would rest, she would do her utmost; and she suggested that the gentlemen should go down to the Saeter by the lake and secure a lodging there, and then they could return and have their meal in the stue here. She was a pretty old woman. Pleasure and excitement lit up her sweet face and made her eyes wonderfully bright. She wanted to know all about her visitors, and Gerda explained that they were Swedes, Danes, and English, and one Norwegian only, the Sorenskriver. She was deeply interested in Katharine, and asked Gerda whether the English Herr and the boy were Katharine's husband and son; and when Gerda said that they were only friends, she seemed disappointed, and patted Katharine on the shoulder in token of sympathy with her. Gerda told Katharine, and Katharine laughed. She was very happy and interested. She had forgotten the sound of that jarring voice. All her gaiety and bonhomie had come back to her. It was she who began to help their pretty old hostess. It was she who sprinkled the fresh juniper-leaves over the floor, throwing so many that she had to be checked in her reckless generosity. Then Gerda fetched the logs, and made a grand fire in the old Peise (stone fireplace), and almost immediately the warmth brought out the sweet fragrance of the juniper-leaves. The old woman spread a fine woven cloth over the one bed in the room. Then she bustled into the dairy and brought out mysost—a great square block of it, and fladbröd, and coffee-berries, which Katharine roasted and then crushed in the machine. When the table had been set, the old woman brought a bowl of cream and sugar, and the "vaffle" irons, and began to make vaffler (pancakes). She filled three large plates with these delicious dainties, and her eager face was something to behold. Finally she signed to Katharine, who followed her into the dairy, and came back carrying two wooden bowls of römmekolle—milk with cream on the top turned sour.
"Now," she said triumphantly, "everything is ready. And here come the Herrer. And now you will want some fresh milk. The cows have just been milked."
"No, no, thou hast done enough. I will go and fetch the milk," said the Sorenskriver, who was in great spirits still, and almost like a young boy. "Why, thou dear Heaven, I was a cotter's son and lived up at the Saeter summer after summer. This is like my childhood again. I am as happy as Jens!"
So off he went to the cowhouse at the other end of the little saeter-enclosure. He began to sing a stev[O] with the milkmaids. This was the stev:—