[Listen]
(The milkmaids answered)—
He returned with two jugs of milk. A merry laugh sounded after him, and he was smiling too. The saeter-door was divided into two parts, and he shut the lower half to keep out the draught; and when the old woman tried to slip away, leaving her guests to enjoy themselves in their own fashion, he said:
"No, no, mor, thou must stay." And every one cried out:
"Thou must stay."
So she stayed. She tidied herself, folded a clean white silk kerchief crosswise over her head, and took her place at the table, dignified and charming in her simple ease of manner. Many an ill-bred low-born, and ill-bred well-born society dame might have learnt a profitable lesson from this old saeter-woman—something about the unconscious grace which springs from true unself-consciousness. And she smiled with pride and pleasure to see them all doing justice to the vaffler, the mysost, the fladbröd, and the römmekolle. She was particularly anxious that the English lady should enjoy the römmekolle.
"Stakkar!" she said. "Thou must eat the whole of the top! Ja, saa, with sugar on it! It is good. Thou canst not get it so good in thy country? Thou hast no mountains there, no Saeters there? Ak, ak, that must be a poor sort of country! Well, we cannot all be born in Norway."
And she laughed to see Alan pegging away at the vaffler.
"The English boy shall have as many vaffler as he likes," she said. "Wilt thou have some more, stakkar? I will make thee another plateful."
It was a merry, merry meal. Every one was hungry and happy. The Sorenskriver asked for some spaeke-kjöd (smoked and dried mutton or reindeer) which was hanging up in the Peise. He cut little slices out of it and made every one eat them.
"Otherwise," he said, "you will know nothing about a Norwegian Saeter. And now a big piece for myself! Isn't it good, Botaniker? Ah, if you eat it up, you will be inspired to find some rare plants here!"
Then they all drank the old saeter-woman's health.
"Skaal!" they said.
And then Clifford said:
"Skaal to Norway!"
And the Sorenskriver said:
"Skaal to England!"
And the botanists said:
"Skaal to Sweden!"
And the Swedish professor said:
"Skaal to Denmark!"
Then the Sorenskriver added:
"Would that all the nations could meet together up at the Saeter and cry 'Skaal!'"
And at that moment there came a knock at the door, and a little man in English knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket asked for admittance.
"English, Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, German?" asked the Sorenskriver.
"Monsieur, je suis un peintre français," said the little man, somewhat astonished.
"Then Skaal to France!" cried the merry company, draining their coffee-cups.
The Frenchman, with that perfect tact characteristic of his nation, thanked them in the name of his country, his hand on his heart; and took his place amongst these strangers, at their invitation. And then they gathered round the fire and heaped up the logs. Katharine never forgot that evening: the five nations gathered together in that quaint low room built of huge tree-trunks roughly put together, with lichen and birch-leaves filling in the crevices: the curious mixture of languages; the fun of understanding and misunderstanding: the fragrance of the juniper: the delightful sense of good fellowship: the happiness of being in the presence of the man she loved: the mysterious influence of the wild mountains: the loosening of pent-up instincts and emotions. Years afterwards she was able to recall every detail of the surroundings: the Lur (horn) hanging on the wall, and in those parts still used for calling to the cattle; the Langeleik (an old kind of zither) in its own special recess, seldom found missing in real old Norwegian houses, silent now, but formerly playing an important part in the saeter-life of bygone days; the old wooden balances, which seemed to belong to the period of the Ark; the sausages and smoked meat hanging in the Peise; the branches of fir placed as mats before the door; the saeter-woman passing to and fro, now stopping to speak to one of her guests, now slipping away to attend to some of her many saeter duties. Then at an opportune moment the Sorenskriver said:
"Now, mor, if we heap on the logs, perhaps the green-dressed Huldre will come and dance before the fire. Thou hast seen the Huldre, thou? Tell us about her—wilt thou not?"
But she shook her head mysteriously, and went away as if she were frightened; but after a few minutes she came back, and said in an awed tone of voice:
"Twice I have seen the green-dressed Huldre—ak, and she was beautiful! I was up at the Saeter over by my old home, and my sweetheart had come to see me; and ak, ak, the Huldre came and danced before the fire—and she bewitched him, and he went away into the mountains and no one ever saw him again."
"And so," she added simply, "I had to get another sweetheart."
"Aa ja," said the Sorenskriver. "I expect there was no difficulty about that."
"No," she answered, "thou art right."
And she beat a sudden retreat, as though she had said too much; but she returned of her own accord, and continued:
"And the second time I saw the Huldre it was on the heath. I had gone out alone to look for some of the cows who had not come home, and I saw her on horseback. Her beautiful green dress covered the whole of Blakken's back, and her tail swept the ground. And Blakken flew, flew like lightning. And when I found the cows, they were dying. The Huldre had willed them ill. That was fifty years ago. But I see her now. No one can ever forget the Huldre."
So the evening passed, with stories of the Huldre, and the Trolds, and the mountain-people of Norwegian lore; for here were the strangers in the very birthplace of many of these weird legends, all, or most of them, part and parcel of the saeter-life; all, or most of them, woven out of the wild and lonely spirit of mountain-nature.
And then the little company passed by easy sequence to the subject of visions and dreams. Some one asked Katharine if she had ever had a vision.
"Yes," she answered; "once—once only."
"Tell it," they said.
But she shook her head.
"It would be out of place," she answered, "for, oddly enough, it was about God."
"Surely, mademoiselle," said the Frenchman, "we are far away enough from civilisation to be considered near enough to God for the moment?"
But she could not be induced to tell it.
"You would think I was a religious fanatic," she said. "And I am neither fanatical nor religious."
"Ah," said Ejnar, "I hope I may have a vision tonight of what is in the bottom of that lake we crossed over."
"You did your very best, Professor, to include us all in that vision of the bottom of the lake," said Clifford quaintly.
"My poor Ejnar, how they all tease you!" said Gerda.
"I think," said Katharine, "the Kemiker ought to know better, being himself a scientific man. Probably if he were piloting us all down a mine, he would not care what became of us if his eye lit on some unexpected treasure of the earth-depths."
"Noble lady," said Ejnar, smiling; "I perceive I have a friend in you, and the Kemiker has an enemy."
Clifford Thornton looked into the fire and laughed happily.
Then Gerda said:
"Twice I have dreamed that I found a certain species of fungus in a particular part of the wood; and guided by the memory of my dream, the next day I have found it. Have you ever found anything like that in a dream, Professor Thornton?"
Clifford looked up with a painful expression on his face.
"I always try my very hardest never to dream, Frue," he answered.
"And why?" she asked.
"Because up to the present we appear to have no knowledge of how to control our dreams," he replied.
"But if we could control them, they would not be dreams," said Katharine.
"So much the better then," answered Clifford; "they would be mere continuations of self-guided consciousness in another form."
"But it is their utter irresponsibility and wildness which give them their magic!" cried the French artist. "In my dreams, I am the prince of all painters born since the world began. Mon Dieu, to be without that! I tremble! Life would be impossible! In my dreams I discover unseen, unthought-of colours! I cry with rapture!"
"In my dreams," said the Swedish mathematician, "I find the fourth dimension, the fifth dimension, the hundredth dimension!"
"In my dreams," said the Sorenskriver, waving his arms grandiosely, "I see Norway standing by herself, strong, powerful, irresistible as the Vikinger themselves, no union with a sister country—nei, nei, pardon me, Mathematiker!"
"Why, you would take away the very inspiration of the poet, the very life of the patriot's spirit," said Katharine, turning to Clifford.
"You are all speaking of the dreams which are the outcome of the best and highest part of ourselves," said Clifford, speaking as if he were in a dream himself. "But what about the dreams which are not the outcome of our best selves?"
"Oh, surely they pass away as other dreams," she answered.
"But do you not see," he said, "that if there is a chance that the artist remembers the rapture with which he discovered in his dream that marvellous colour, and the patriot the joy which he felt on beholding in his dreams his country strong and irresistible, there is also a chance that less noble feelings experienced in a dream may also be remembered?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
"Mon Dieu!" he said. "We cannot always be noble—not even in our dreams. I, for my part, would rather take the chance of dreaming that I injured or murdered some one and rejoiced over it, than lose the chance of dreaming that I was the greatest artist in the world. Why, I have murdered all my rivals in my dreams, and they are still alive and painting with great éclat pictures entirely inferior to mine! And I am no worse for having assassinated them and rejoiced over my evil deeds in my dream."
"Probably because there were no evil consequences," Clifford said. "But supposing there had been evil consequences, what then?"
"But you do not seriously believe that there is any such close relationship between dream-life and actual life, between dream-cause and actual effect?" asked Gerda.
"I do not know what I believe about it, Frue," he answered. "Some day science will be able to explain to us the mysterious working of the brain in normal life, in dream-life, in so-called death: and the connecting links."
He had risen as he spoke, as though he, even as the old saeter-woman, had let himself go too much, and now wished to slip away quietly. But they all rose too, and the Sorenskriver said:
"We have spent a true saeter-evening, communing with mysteries. The spirit of place has seized us, the mountain-spirit. But if we do not soon get to rest and sleep dreamlessly, we shall have no brains left us in the morning for yet another mountain mystery—the making of the Mysost!"
"Tak for maden" (thanks for the meal), he added, turning to the old saeter-woman.
"Tak for maden!" cried every one in a pleasant chorus.
"And tak for behageligt selskab!" (thanks for your delightful company), he said, turning to all his comrades.
"Tak for behageligt selskab!" cried every one.
Then the men went off to the Saeter down by the lake; and Katharine, Gerda, and the little Swedish artist arranged themselves for rest as well as they could in a rough saeter-stue. The two of them were soon asleep; but Katharine lay on her bench in the corner watching the fire, listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking of Clifford Thornton.
"Dreams, dreams," she thought. "Why should he dread to dream? And his face was full of pain when he said that he tried never to dream. Ah, if I could only reach him—sometimes we seem so near—and then——"
Katharine slept.
But in the morning she was up betimes, and out in the early freshness and crispness. She was alone on that wild expanse. There was deep stillness all around her. Silently, softly the magic mists were caressing the mountains. The stars were losing their own brightness in the brightening skies. The sun was breaking over the distant snow-peaks of the Giant range. She was alone with Nature. And Nature set her free.
"My belovèd!" she cried. "My life was as grey as this great dreary wild until your presence glorified it. You broke in upon my loneliness—the bitterest loneliness on earth—a woman's heart-loneliness,—you broke in upon it so that now nothing of it remains—scarcely the memory. Have no fear, my belovèd. I will gather up your past life and your past love with reverential tenderness. I have no fear. My love for you and my belief in you shall conquer everything."
Clifford Thornton was mounting from the Saeter down by the lake-side. He came out joyously into the freshness and crispness of the early morning. He was alone on that wild expanse. There was deep stillness all around him. Silently, softly the magic mists were caressing the mountains. The stars were losing their own brightness in the brightening skies. The sun was breaking over the distant snow-peaks of the Giant range. He was alone with Nature. And Nature set him free.
"My love!" he cried. "I fling the past behind me at last. There are no barriers—none—none. Fool that I was to think I was not free. Free! I am as free as these vast stretches of wild country, free as this mountain air. Do you know, will you ever know, oh, you must know, my own belovèd, that I am yours—yours, unutterably yours. Shall I ever clasp you in my arms and know that you are mine?"
Then suddenly he saw Katharine in the distance, and she saw him. She was moving towards him as he was moving towards her. He hastened to meet her with a tornado of wild gladness in his heart.
But when they came face to face they stood in silence, as when they had first met on the evening of the quartette.
He was the first to find words.
"Don't let us go back," he said; "let us go on—let us go on—the morning is still young—and there is no gladness like the gladness of the early morning. What do you think?"
"No gladness like the gladness of the early morning," she repeated joyously.
So they passed on together, over the wild and stony heathland, in the direction of the Rondane mountains: he with a song in his heart, she with the same song in hers.
"Isn't it glorious to be up here?" he cried. "I feel like the Sorenskriver himself—a silent, surly fellow suddenly turned light-hearted and eloquent. Knutty always said I ought to have been a Norwegian."
"And I feel like Jens," said Katharine, "an inspired person, with grand, big thoughts in my mind, which I shall lose on my way down to the valley again. Ak, ak!"
"What was your vision?" he asked. "Will you not tell me?"
"If you wish," she answered; "but it is not worth telling, really. I have never told any one. I don't know how I came to let those words slip out last night."
"Tell me," he said, turning to her.
"Well," she said, "I was going to have a slight operation to my mouth, and some anæsthetic had been given to me. I was trying my very hardest to keep my consciousness to the last millionth of a minute, when I saw a look of great mental suffering and tension on the surgeon's face. And I said to myself, 'I will be merciful to the man, and I will make a sacrifice to him of what I value most on earth at this moment: the tiny remaining fragment of my consciousness. He will never know, and no one will ever know; all the same, from my point of view, it is a deed of infinite mercy.' So I let myself pass into unconsciousness an infinitesimal instant of time sooner than I need have done. I heard him say, 'Now!' Suddenly I found myself in a vast region, which seemed limitless, which seemed to consist of infinite infinities which one nevertheless could see were finities blending with each other imperceptibly."
Katharine stood still a moment.
"And I realised," she continued, "how little I had ever known about the proportion of things, how little my mind had ever grasped the true significance of finities, which here were certainly infinities. I felt entirely bewildered, and yet wildly excited. Ever since I can remember, great space has always excited me. And suddenly, whilst I was wondering where to go, what to do, whom to reach, I saw a woman near me—a beautiful woman of so-called ill-fame. And she cried out to me:
"'This is heaven, and I am straining upwards, upwards, upwards through all the infinities until I reach God. For it takes the highest to understand the lowest.'
"And I went with her, and a dim vision of God broke upon me, and I knew no more. But I came back to consciousness, saying, 'For it takes the highest to understand the lowest.'"
She paused a moment, and then said:
"If I had been thinking of God, I could better understand why I had that vision."
"You had been thinking of God," he answered. "You had thought of mercy and sacrifice, of an inappreciable quantity and quality from a finite point of view; and that led you to think unconsciously of the different aspect and value of things when seen and understood by an infinite mind unbounded by horizons. If there is a God, that must be God—the greatest and highest mind which understands the lowest grade of everything: religion, morals, morals, religion."
"But it is not you who should have a vision of that kind," he added. "You do not need it. It should come to those who cannot see beyond their prison wall. It might make them wish to break through it and see the open space, and still more open space, and still more open space. But you, who have the free spirit, you were surely born in the open space; no petty narrow horizon for you, but a wide and generous expanse."
"Alas!" she said, "you are imputing to me virtues which I have not!"
"They are not virtues," he answered. "They are part of your temperament; born with you, not acquired."
She smiled at his praise. It was very sweet to her. He smiled too. He was proud that he, a prisoner of silence, had had the courage to say those words to her. And on they went together, he with a song in his heart, and she with the same song in hers. Once she thought to ask him why he tried never to dream; but she glanced at his grave face lit up with happiness, and she grudged that even a passing shadow of pain should mar the brightness of the morning. And once, perhaps at that same moment, he himself thought of his dreams, and felt, by sudden inspiration, that one day, one day he would be able to open his heart to her—the woman born in the open space—and tell her the history of his burdened mind. The thought flashed through him, and brought, not memories of the past, but hopes for the future.
At last they turned back to the Saeter, and realised they had come a long way: far away from the beat of the cows and goats. But after a spell of solitude, they met a few of the wandering creatures, who stopped to look at them and inquire in loud chorus what right they had to venture on these private pastures. And after a time they came upon more stragglers; and then they made out a black cow in the distance, immovable and contemplative; but, on closer inspection, it proved to be Ejnar examining some new-found treasure! As they approached he called out to them:
"What have you brought back from your long walk?"
"Nothing, nothing," they cried together.
"Well," he answered, looking at them pityingly, "how foolish to go for a long walk, then!"
They laughed, passed on, and found Gerda standing scanning the distance.
"Did you see my Ejnar?" she inquired. "It is time for breakfast, and the Sorenskriver has been singing in the Lur to call every one in. Listen, there it is again! The Sorenskriver is in great good spirits again this morning. He is like a big boy."
He was like a big, good-natured boy at breakfast too. Alan confided to Katharine that he thought the old chap was behaving awfully disappointingly well.
"He hasn't been disagreeable one single moment," Alan whispered. "And look here, he has given me this Lap knife. Isn't it jolly of him?"
"I think that we shall all have to give him a vote of thanks instead of wolloping him and tying him to a tree," whispered Katharine.
"Oh, but there's all the way back yet," said Alan quaintly. And then he added, "I say, you'll let me come along with you again, won't you?"
"Of course," she answered, her heart going out to the boy. "Of course; we are the leaders of this expedition, and must take our followers safely home."
He blushed in his boyish way, and slipped away with a happy smile on his young face. He did not know it, but he admired and liked Katharine tremendously. He did not realise it, but he always felt, after he had been with Katharine, that his old love and longing for his father began to tug at his heart. He went and stood by him now in front of the Saeter, and slipped his arm through his father's.
"It's splendid up here, isn't it, father?" he said.
"Yes, Alan," answered the man joyfully, as he felt the touch of his boy's arm.
It was the first time for many months that the boy had crept up to his father in his old chum-like fashion. Katharine watched him, and knew that for the moment they were happy together, and that she had begun and was carrying on successfully her work of love and healing for the boy as well as for the man.
"It is a morning of happiness," she said to herself; and when the merry little Swedish artist came into the saeter-hut and showed her the sketch which she had been making of the interior, she found the Englishwoman as gay as herself.
"Why," she said to Katharine, "you look as if you was having the flirts as well as me! What do you think of my sketch? Not bad? I give it perhaps to my lover." Then she danced round the room singing a gay Swedish melody.
The old saeter-woman laughed, clapped her hands, and cried:
"Ja vel, it is good to dance when one is young and happy!"
And then the Sorenskriver blew the Lur again to summon every one to the cheese-making.
"Mor," he said, "thou must show us everything, so that all these foreign people may remember the only right way to make the best cheese in the world."
So they went into the dairy, and saw all the different kinds of bowls and pans, and rows of square blocks of Mysost kept there to settle into solidarity. Each block weighed about ten pounds, and Katharine was amazed to hear that it took the milk of forty goats to make one of these cheeses a-day. Then they saw the infernal machine which separates the milk from the cream, and the Sorenskriver, still acting as general showman, poured a vessel of fresh rich milk into the iron ogre, whilst Katharine, under directions, turned the handle, and made the mighty beast to roar and screech. Every one's nerves were set on edge. Ejnar dashed wildly from the hut; but was collared by Alan and Jens, for the Sorenskriver cried out:
"Don't let the Botaniker go off by himself. We shall never find him, and our time is getting short."
And then they went to the other little hut where the cheese was being made. There were two large open caldrons over the great stone-oven, and two pretty young saeter-girls (saeter-jenter) were busily stirring the contents of the caldrons. They told Gerda that one caldron contained cream and the other milk, from which the cheese had first been taken by mixing it with yeast. And the pigs got the rejected cheese. Then the two liquids were heated slowly for about four hours, being stirred unceasingly, and when they were on the verge of boiling, they were mixed together. Meantime they both looked and tasted like toffee, and smelt like toffee too.
"And now you have seen the true and only Mysost, mine Damer og Herrer," said the Sorenskriver dramatically. "Now you know the two secrets of Norwegian greatness—the Mountains and the Mysost!"
And he half meant it, too, although he laughed. And the old saeter-woman quite meant it.
"Ja, ja," she said proudly, and inclined her head with true Norwegian dignity.
Then they packed up and paid. The paying was not quite an easy matter. The old saeter-woman made no fixed charge, and appeared not to want to take any money. The Sorenskriver had a twinkle in his eye when he settled up. He knew that, in accordance with Norwegian peasant etiquette, she would appear to be indifferent to the money, accept it reluctantly, and then probably not consider it enough! However, he managed this delicate task with great skill, and began to arrange for returning to the Solli Gaard. But none of the company were anxious to be off. They lingered about, strolling, talking, laughing. The French artist was making a small water-colour of the picturesque interior of the stue. And he wanted to come with them too, if they could wait a little. The old saeter-woman gave Katharine a large cow-bell.
"It has rung on these mountains a hundred years and more," she said. "Thou shalt have it. It is for thee, stakkar. I like thee. Thou art beautiful and kind. It is a pity thou art not that Englishman's wife."
She beckoned to Gerda to come and translate her words, and the three women laughed together. Gerda said in a whisper:
"It is a good thing that the Kemiker is out of the way. He would be astonished, wouldn't he? I don't think love is much in his line, is it? Why, he is less human even than my poor Ejnar—if indeed such a thing is possible!"
But Katharine stooped down and kissed the old saeter-woman.
"Tusend, tusend tak!" she said. She rang the bell, and then pointed to the old woman and then to her own heart. She attempted some Norwegian words of explanation, too, most of them wrong—which added to the merriment. The Sorenskriver translated them.
"When I ring the bell, I shall think of you."
A few minutes later Katharine, Alan, and Clifford were sitting on the great blocks of stone outside the saeter-enclosure, when Alan said:
"Hullo! Here are two people coming up the road—two ladies. They have alpenstocks. What bosh! Any baby could get up here."
"Probably they are on their way to some real climbing," Clifford said. "You know the Norwegian women walk and climb a great deal in the summer. I always think of little Hilda Wangel in Ibsen's 'Master-builder' when I see them with their stocks and knapsacks. You remember she came straight from the mountains to the Master-builder's office—'the young generation knocking, knocking at the door.' Ah, and that reminds me about Ibsen's 'Peer Gynt.' We must not leave the Gudbrandsdal without making a pilgrimage to Peer Gynt's home. Jens has been telling me about it. That ought to be our next outing. Will you come?"
"I am ready for anything," Katharine answered.
"Hullo!" said Alan; "English voices. We ought to get up and wave a Union-Jack."
The voices came nearer and nearer. Katharine heard that same hard, metallic tone which had distressed her on the previous evening. She was distressed now. She looked from father to son and son to father. They had not yet recognised that voice. But they understood instinctively that some disturbing element had come into their atmosphere. They stood up. Katharine rose. They were on either side of her. The next moment Mrs Stanhope and her companion appeared on the top of the ridge, and stood face to face with them. For one brief moment they were all too much astonished to utter even an exclamation of surprise. They merely looked at each other.
Then Mrs Stanhope stepped forward, and held out her hand to Alan. She ignored the presence of Clifford and Katharine, and made straight for the boy.
"Alan," she said in her kindest way, "who would have thought to find you up here?"
"This is my dear friend's son," she said, turning to her companion. "You know how often I have spoken of Marianne to you."
Slowly, reluctantly the boy left Katharine's side, and took the hand held out to him.
"I thought you were far away in America," Mrs Stanhope said.
"We have come back," the boy answered simply.
"Ah me," she said, with a glance at Clifford and Katharine. "The dead are soon forgotten."
And she added:
"Well, dear boy, some other time we must have another long talk together. And remember I am always waiting for you—for your dear mother's sake."
And she passed on, but they heard her saying aloud to her friend:
"And that is the woman I told you about. She amuses herself with men and throws them over, just as she threw over Willy Tonedale, my poor infatuated cousin. And now she is amusing herself with this widower. She might have had the decency to wait a little longer until poor Marianne——"
Katharine hurried after the two women.
"How dare you, how dare you speak of me in that way?" she said in a voice which trembled with passion. "Some day you shall answer to me for it. If we were not in a foreign country, you should answer to me for it now."
"It is good of you to put it off until we are in our own country," said Mrs Stanhope, with a forced laugh. But she looked uneasy, for Katharine's flushed and angry face was not reassuring.
At that moment the Sorenskriver, the Swedish mathematical Professor, the little Swedish artist, and the Frenchman came out of the stue.
"Well," asked the Sorenskriver, "are we all ready? Thou art not glad to leave the Saeter, Jens. Nor am I. But all good times must come to an end. Nei, da, Fröken Frensham! Are we leaving just when you have found compatriots? That is too bad."
"Oh, I think I can do without them for the present," Katharine said, with a laugh. She had composed herself outwardly, but inwardly she was consumed with anger and mortified pride. But her moral courage did not forsake her, although she knew that Mrs Stanhope had deliberately tried to put her at a disadvantage with that man and that boy. But she trusted them. She returned to them, and said, with a wistful smile on her face:
"I heard her voice down by the lake-side. That was why I felt distressed. I knew she would spoil our happiness—yours—the boy's—mine."
"She has always spoilt our happiness," the boy said.
"Always," said the man—"always."
Then Alan did an unexpected thing.
"Come along," he said impulsively, putting his arm through Katharine's. "Never mind what she says. Let's get away from her. Come along, father."
Clifford looked at his boy wistfully.
"You two go on ahead," he said. "I don't want you ever to see her, Alan. She has never been a friend to us. But I must see her—for our own pride's sake."
"Father," cried the boy, "I have seen her once since—since mother died; you didn't know it, but I have seen her—just before we left for America."
"I might have known it," said Clifford.
They watched him walk back to the stue. He turned and waved to them to move on. Gerda and Ejnar joined them, and the Sorenskriver called out:
"Do not wait for the Kemiker. He has gone back to help his compatriots, who cannot speak any Norwegian. Farvel, mor, and tak for alt!" (Thanks for everything).
"Farvel, farvel!" the old saeter-woman cried, waving to them all; and then she followed Clifford into her stue, where Mrs Stanhope and her friend were seated on the bench. She sank down in her chair, tired.
Clifford took off his hat, and stood, a tall proud figure.
"I have come back to tell you, Mrs Stanhope," he said very slowly, "that I have never even thought it worth my while to attempt to shield myself against your malignant tongue. But I shall shield my friend whom you have just insulted. And I shall shield my boy. You shall not get hold of him and attempt to influence him against me. If you attempt to see him again, I warn you that I will make direct inquiry concerning all the damaging words you have said against me, and I will prosecute you to the bitter end for defamation of character; to the bitter end, Mrs Stanhope; at the cost of all the suffering to my pride."
She had never before confronted him, and a feeling of vague uneasiness about some of her indiscreet words seized her. For once in her life her ready tongue failed her.
"You have always been our evil genius," he went on. "Time after time my poor Marianne and I could have got nearer to each other but for you. But you shall not be my boy's evil genius. You shall not come between him and me."
Mrs Stanhope still did not speak. She was tired, bewildered.
"And," he said, "I would warn you, too, that it is unwise of you to try to belittle Miss Frensham in the presence of her friends."
Mrs Stanhope still gave no sign. His quiet, deliberate manner intimidated her. For one moment there was a painful silence, to which the saeter-woman put an end.
"Be so good as to tell them to go," she said to Clifford. "I do not want any more guests now. I am tired. Tell them to go to the third Saeter away from here."
He told them, with a ghost of a grim smile on his drawn face; and they could see for themselves that the old saeter-woman wished to be rid of them. She was pointing dramatically in the direction of the third Saeter. They rose to go.
"You do not appear to have much belief in your son's belief in you," Mrs Stanhope was able to say as they passed out of the stue.
"My dear Julia," her friend said, "I really advise you to remain speechless for the rest of our visit to a Norwegian Saeter! Surely you don't want two libel-suits! You know, my dear, I've always said your indiscretion——"
They passed out of hearing. Clifford took leave of the old saeter-woman, and went to join his companions.
"Alas!" he thought, "she was able to find the right weapon with which to wound me."
Meantime Katharine and Alan were waiting for him. The boy had thrown himself down on the ground, and seemed lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly he said to her:
"How did you know it was her voice? You have never seen her—have you?"
"Yes," Katharine answered. "I have seen her once before, Alan, when she said cruel and slanderous things against your father. Every one was shocked. No one believed."
"No one believed," Alan repeated to himself.
"No one could believe such things of a man like your father," Katharine answered without looking at him. "Even I, a stranger to him, knew they must be untrue. I thought to myself at the time what a curse it must be to be born with a tongue and a mind like Mrs Stanhope's. Much better to be a sweet old saeter-woman like the old woman up there."
"What was it she said about father?" the boy asked with painful eagerness.
"I think you know," Katharine replied gently.
And just then Clifford came towards them. Alan got up and ran to meet him.
"Father," he cried, "I want to tell you everything she said to me. I've tried dozens of times, but——"
"I know, Alan," Clifford said tenderly. "You are even as I have been all my life—a prisoner of silence. We will have a long talk when we get home."
It was a glorious day: with bright warm sunshine, cold, crisp air, and a sky of unbroken blue. And all around stretched the great and wonderful distances, less mysterious in the frankness of the morning, but always possessed of mystic influence and eloquent bidding. But the harmony of the day was gone for Clifford, Katharine, and Alan; the gladness of the expedition was over for them. Still, they took their part with the others, and did their best to hide their own sad feelings. The returning pilgrims passed over the wild heathland, through the low and luxuriant growth of brush, juniper, and stunted willow, through the birch-woods and pine-forests, and so downwards, downwards, their faces set towards the Rondane mountains and their backs to the great Jutenheim range. Gerda sang, Ejnar was rescued from swamps, the French artist sketched, and the little Swedish lady flirted with him, for a "changeling," so she told Katharine! The Mathematiker sulked, Katharine comforted him, and Alan kept close to her, whilst Clifford strolled along, sometimes with them, sometimes alone, and sometimes with Gerda, who loved to get him to herself. The Sorenskriver had left his geniality behind at the Saeter. He became quieter and quieter, until he reached his normal condition of surliness. Jens, however, remained in a state of mountain-exhilaration all the way home, and, encouraged by sympathetic listeners, told stories of frightful Trolds living in the mountains, and of the occasions when he himself had seen apparitions of men, women, and horses fading into nothing on near approach.
"Ja, vel," he said, "at this very water-trough where Svarten is now drinking, I have seen half a dozen horses standing and barring the road; but when I came near, they have disappeared. Ja, ja, I've even heard them being whipped, and heard the noise of their hoofs striking the ground."
He told a story of a man he knew who had once seen several men, all black and all wearing top-hats, "just like church-people," standing on a stone-heap down in the valley. He shouted to them, but they did not answer, and then he was foolish enough to ask them to show him their backs.
"Now," said Jens, "you know they have not any backs, and he had scarcely pronounced the words when he fell in a dead faint. This was about six o'clock in the evening; and two hours later he regained consciousness and found himself lying near his own home. As it was in the valley that he met these people, they must have carried him up home. He is very grave and quiet now, and you will never hear him making fun of the Huldre-folk."
It was late in the afternoon when the travellers reached the Gaard. The flag had been hoisted and was flying at half-mast. Knutty came out to meet them, and said, "Velkommen tilbage" (Welcome back).
And then she added:
"Jens, Bedstefar is dead."
CHAPTER XI.
The silence of death rested on the Gaard, and every one went about softly in courtyard and house. The visitors had asked Mor Inga whether or not she wished them to leave; but her message was that they might stay if they pleased. Nevertheless, two or three of them, who resented the presence of death, took themselves off at once; but their places were filled up by a party of mountaineers who had come down from the Dovrefjelde. One of them, so Knutty told her dear ones, was a Finnish botanist, and he had found some rare flowers which had much excited him. Knutty had a great deal of news to give; and it was obvious that she had not been having a dull time.
"I began by reading the Scriptures to Bedstemor out of that remarkable book bought in exchange for a black cow," she said, with a twinkle in her eye. "That was truly enlivening, wasn't it? Then a lone, weird man and his dog came down from the mountains. He had been fishing. He had been on two Polar expeditions and his dog on one. The dog had just that superior look and manner about him which would seem to proclaim that he had been on the way to the North Pole. He seemed to be saying the whole time, 'Don't dare to stroke me in that familiar way. I have been on a Polar trip!' The man was more human, and told me a great deal. Then the old Foged (under-magistrate) from the valley came to inquire about Bedstefar. I flirted with him, and we drank aqua-vitæ in the arbour. Also I had my musical entertainment in my usual concert-hall, the cowhouse. Also, Mor Inga was good enough to tell the milkmaids that they might dance for me in the fladbröd-room. And beautifully they danced, too! Their feet scarcely touched the floor! And then, dear ones, this morning I had a great joy—a joy of joys—an English book to translate, but not a novel, nor a problem play—nothing about the sexes for once. Dear heaven, what a relief!—no—a book defending and explaining the English people, written by a just and patriotic man, and to be translated into all the Continental languages. And I am to do it into Danish. Ah, I am a happy old woman—kille bukken, kille bukken, sullei, sulleima! Nå, I long to finish it at once, and throw it at the Sorenskriver's head!"
"We must deal gently with the Sorenskriver," said Katharine. "He has been an old dear. He has been the life and soul of the Saeter expedition. And he has not said one word against England."
"Because the old coward is afraid of the British lioness," Knutty said, smiling at her. "You should have seen her, my Clifford, in the early days here, standing up to the Sorenskriver and the fur-merchant from Tromsö and overcoming them. And as for Ejnar, she has quite quelled him too. We don't hear anything nowadays against Kew Gardens."
They all laughed, and handled the book each by turn almost lovingly. The author would have been touched if he could have seen that little group in a foreign land bending over his book, and thinking of him with pride and gratitude.
"And if we feel grateful," Katharine said, "we, merely temporary and willing exiles in a foreign country, imagine what the feelings of enforced and permanent British exiles will be. I always have a great sympathy with Britishers who have burnt their boats and are obliged to live under a foreign flag. I would like to ship them all home."
"You would ship home many broken hearts," Clifford said.
"Well, the place for broken hearts is home," Katharine answered.
"I cannot say that the Saeter expedition has exhilarated any of you," remarked Knutty. "And you have not told me anything about it yet."
"You have been talking so much yourself, Tante," Gerda remarked.
"Kjaere," returned Knutty; "surely thou dost not wish me to be a prisoner of silence like my Clifford?"
Her words brought Alan's impulsive outburst to the remembrance of both Clifford and Katharine. They looked at each other. The boy was not there.
"Knutty," said Clifford, "we saw Mrs Stanhope up at the Saeter."
"Well," she said, "you do say astounding things when you do speak."
He smiled gravely.
"Yes," he replied, "we saw Mrs Stanhope up at the Saeter."
But at that moment Ragnhild came into the verandah and touched Knutty on the shoulder. She had not been crying, but she had on her pretty face that awed expression which the presence of death in a community gives to even the most unemotional. For death is a shock, and the mystery of it holds us under its influence whether we be willing or not.
"Fröken," she said, "Bedstemor is asking for thee. No one will do except only thee. And they have carried Bedstefar into the other house. And Mor is very tired. Thou wilt come, ja?"
Tante went off with Ragnhild, and she had no further chance that evening of talking with Clifford. But Katharine told her details of that strange encounter up at the Saeter, and ended up by saying naïvely:
"And you know, Knutty, part of what Mrs Stanhope said is true, for I have flirted tremendously in my time. At least, my brother always says so."
"Well, my dear," Knutty said, embracing her, "and a good thing too! A woman is not worth her salt if she does not know how to flirt. But all women do know, though they call it by different names—taking an interest in—making slippers for—embroidering waistcoats for—doing mission work for—and so on, in an ascending scale of intensity, you know, from the slipper business onwards and upwards to the postchaise, or, I suppose we ought to say, motor-car in these advanced days. Don't regret your flirtations! They have made you what you are—a darling! Believe the word of a wicked old woman."
"I don't regret them!" Katharine said, as she went off to bed, laughing quietly.
But the next morning Clifford gave Tante an account of the meeting with Mrs Stanhope; and in the gentlest way possible Knutty confessed to him that she knew Alan had been suffering and grieving over certain vague ideas which Mrs Stanhope had planted in his mind when she saw him a day or two before they sailed for America. Knutty did not tell him what these ideas were; and he did not ask. But she described to him how Katharine and she had seen the boy coming down from the hills in the middle of the night, and how they had yearned to help him back to happiness and ease of spirit.
"Then you knew that Alan had been worked on by Mrs Stanhope, and yet you never gave a hint to me?" Clifford said.
"Ah," Knutty answered, "I had no heart to tell you. You were happy. It is such a long time since I have seen you happy. I had no heart to wound you."
"Alas!" said Clifford, "I have been thinking only of myself."
And he turned away from Knutty.
"It was not so at first," he said, as he turned to her again. "At first I thought only about my boy, whom I had hurt and alienated by my selfish outbreak just before his mother's death. I did all in my power to woo him again. I grieved over his growing indifference to me. I said in the bitterness of my heart, 'Marianne is between us.' On our travels I tried to forget and ignore it. But I longed to return; for there were no results of happiness to him or me from our journey and our close companionship. When we were on our way home, my heart grew suddenly lighter. And since that moment, I have been thinking only of myself—myself, Knutty. I have scarcely noticed that the boy did not want to be with me. I have not wanted to be with him. I have been forgetting him."
"But we have not been forgetting him, she and I," Knutty said gently. "Don't grieve. Every right-minded human being ought to have a spasm of self occasionally."
He smiled and stooped down to kiss her kind old hand.
"And you saw the little fellow wandering about in the silence of the night?" he asked sadly.
Knutty nodded.
"That stabs me more than anything," he said. "He is like me, Knutty. I have taken most of my own sorrows out into the stillness of the night."
"Yes, kjaere," Knutty answered. "He is like you. It is a good thing for me that I am not going to live long enough to know his grown-up son. Three of exactly the same pattern—ak!—I couldn't stand that in one lifetime!"
They were sitting on Tante's verandah, where she had established herself with her writing-materials, her English dictionary, and the book which she was translating.
"Have I really been such a burden to you?" he said a little wistfully, playing with her pen.
"Ja, kjaere," she said, with a charming old smile. "You have been one of those heavy burdens which are the true joy of silly old women like myself."
And then she added:
"But for you, my spirit would be like a piece of dried fish in the Stabur. Things being as they are, it is much more like one of those tender fresh mountain-trout which Jens and Alan are going to catch for poor Bedstefar's funeral. So be of good cheer, Clifford. You have done me only good. All the same, three of you, no thank you! But I have always yearned over the first—and I find myself yearning over the second—yearning over that little chap! Ak, that metallic beast of a woman! I'd like to break up her mechanism."
Clifford rose.
"Knutty," he said, "I have not asked you what she said, because I want Alan to tell me himself. I am going to find him now."
When he reached the door of the verandah he paused.
"At least there is one thing that she could not have put into his heart and head," he said, "because she did not know it—no one knows it—not even you, Knutty, although I have tried to tell you times without number. But it didn't come; and so the weeks have worn into months."
"Kjaere," she said, in real distress, "have you still anything on your mind about poor Marianne?"
"Yes, Knutty," he answered, and he went away.
"Ak, ak," she said to herself, "It's just like that wretched Marianne to be immortal."
She sat there puzzled and grave, but eventually made a great effort to throw off worrying thoughts, and to focus her mind on the translation-task.
Meanwhile Clifford passed up to his room thinking of his boy. He saw him wandering on the hillside in the silence of the night. The picture which thus rose before his mind's eye, touched him to the quick.
"We must put it all right between us," he said, "once and for all."
Then his door opened, and Alan came in.
"Father," he began shyly.
"My boy," Clifford said—and he put his hand on Alan's shoulder—"I can't bear to think of you wandering about in the night alone, unhappy and uncomforted. What is it that you have against me? What is it that has been rankling in your mind? What is it that has made you drift farther and farther away from me—I, alas! doing nothing to help you back to me? I know Mrs Stanhope says unkind and unjust things against me; but I never cared what she said, until I knew that my boy had turned from me. Now I care."
"Oh, father," Alan cried, with a ring of distress in his voice, "I've been so unhappy. I've tried to tell you dozens of times. You don't know how I've longed to come and tell you."
"Yes, I do know," Clifford answered. "For I have tried to ask you time after time, and could not. One night, before we started for America, I bent over your bed, heard you sobbing in your dreams, and nearly woke you to ask you what was troubling you—but I could not. It is awfully hard for shut-up fellows like you and me to reach each other, isn't it? But let's try now, this very moment; let's break the ice somehow. Tell me everything, without fear and reserve; tell me everything; nothing can wound me so much as being without our dear chumship."
Then the boy told him everything, bit by bit, in detached fragments; now with painful effort, now with sudden ease. Clifford listened, his heart grey. He had not expected the story to be as bad as this. He heard that the boy had been terribly upset by his mother's death following immediately on their conversation that day, when Clifford told him that he intended to separate from Marianne. He had brooded over that. It was so sad to think that his father had wanted to get rid of his mother, and that she had died, alone, and no one caring. He had brooded over that. Not at first, but after he had seen and spoken with Mrs Stanhope. He had tried to forget what Mrs Stanhope said about his father having been unkind to his mother, about his father having been the cause of his mother's death. He could not forget it. He did not understand exactly what she meant; but he had thought about it hours and hours, and he remembered he had seen in the papers that his father had said at the inquest that mother and he had had unhappy words together that very evening; and then—and then all sorts of dreadful thoughts had come into his mind, and he could not drive them away, and——
He stopped and looked at his father, who had begun to walk up and down the room.
"Go on, my boy," Clifford said gently.
And the boy went on pitilessly, with the ruthlessness of youth, which is unconscious, involuntary. As he gathered courage and confidence, he felt the wild relief of freeing himself from his pent-up condition. And he told his father he had begun to wonder more and more how his mother had died—how she had died—and then he had remembered what Mrs Stanhope had said to him about his sonship; he couldn't forget that—his sonship—and he did not feel he ought to go on loving his father if there was any doubt about the manner of his mother's death—no son could stand that—and yet he had always loved his father so awfully, so awfully, and he could not believe that he would have done anything to hurt his mother; and yet he did not know—everything seemed so strange and wrong—and he was so very unhappy, and the journey did not make things better for him, for these dreadful thoughts were at the back of everything he saw and heard—even on the sea, on that bully steamer; and twice he had nearly run away—he wanted to get away by himself, away from his father—yes, away from his father, because he could not bear to be with him and feel——
He stopped again. Clifford stood still. His face was ashen.
"Go on," he said, almost inaudibly.
And Alan went on, and told his father how he had tried to leave him and could not, and how he had tried to come and pour out his heart to him and entreat him to say that it was not true what Mrs Stanhope had said. But he could not. And old Knutty had urged him to come. But he could not. And then, he did not know why, but lately he had been feeling happier again, happier each day, and he had not been thinking so much about—about his mother's death. And they had all been so jolly up at the Saeter, until that beastly woman had come and spoilt everything; she always had spoilt everything for them, and he hated her when he saw her again, just as much as he ever used to hate her—and he hated her for saying those beastly things against Miss Frensham, who was such a brick, and——
A pang of jealousy shot through the man's heart.
"Ah," he said to himself bitterly, "he is up in arms for her."
"And, oh, father," cried the boy passionately, "I hate myself for believing what she said against you—I don't know how I could have thought anything bad of you; but I have, nearly the whole time since she spoke to me about—about mother's death; and, oh, I've been so unhappy."
He had been sitting on the edge of his father's bed; and now, as if he had suddenly come to an end of his powers of telling, he flung himself lengthwise on the bed and turned his face to the wall.
For one moment Clifford hesitated. He would have given anything on earth to have eased his mind then and there by telling the boy all the circumstances of poor Marianne's tragic death. The old conviction that he was responsible for Marianne's death assailed him once more. The old battle between common-sense and morbid sensitiveness raged within him. Was he responsible for Marianne's death? Was he not responsible for Marianne's death? Was it his duty to tell the boy? Was it his duty to spare the boy? Would it not be cruel to the boy to burden him with a knowledge which he could not understand, and cruel to himself to risk being hated and shunned by his own son? And for what—for what?—for a fiction woven from the fine, frail threads of morbid conscientiousness. But in spite of everything—oh, the luxury of opening his locked-up heart—now—this moment!
Then a vision of the boy wandering alone on the hill-side in the silence of the night rose before him.
He went and sat on the bed where the boy lay, with his face turned to the wall. He put his hand on Alan's arm.
"Alan," he said, "be comforted. There was nothing unnatural in your mother's death; nothing which I humanly speaking, could have prevented. Her heart was weak—weaker than she herself knew; but I knew—that was why——"
He paused; for the dead are despots, and must not be spoken against.
"That was why I had always tried to keep her tranquil," he said.
The boy did not stir.
"I know what you have been thinking," Clifford went on. "I understand. It was only right for you to have turned from me if such a terrible thought had taken possession of you. If you had not done so, you would not have been worthy to be called a mother's son. I know well how the thought grew in your mind. It grew imperceptibly until it reached this terrible size, didn't it?"
The boy moved his head in silent assent.
"But now you must get rid of it," Clifford said quietly, "because it is not true. Your mother and I were not always happy together; things were not always easy for her, nor sometimes quite easy for me, and I made many mistakes, and I know I must have been very trying to her—often—often—one thinks of all those mistakes when it is too late. But, whatever I did do, or failed to do, I swear to you solemnly, that I never meant to be unkind to her."
Alan turned impulsively round, threw his arms round his father's neck, and whispered:
"Oh, father, I know you never were unkind to her."
CHAPTER XII.
Clifford was deeply wounded. It was all so much worse than he had expected. The injury to the boy, the injury to himself wrought by Mrs Stanhope, surpassed in reality his own vague anticipations of ill. But, as usual, he hid his feelings under his impenetrable manner, and to Knutty he only said:
"Knutty, Alan has been able to open his heart to me. And I have been able to tell him that—that I did not kill his mother."
"Oh, my dear one," she cried, "you have suffered, both of you."
"It will be all right now for him," Clifford answered.
"And for you?" she asked anxiously.
"It will be all right for me later," he said. "I am going for a long walk to think things over and pull myself together. And, Knutty, I want you to tell Miss Frensham that I thank her with my whole heart for urging the boy to come to me this morning. I cannot speak of it myself just now. But you will tell her."
Knutty watched him climb up the steep hillside, pass the different barns, and disappear into the birch-woods.
"Nå," she said, "it is the best plan for him to go and have it out by himself with Nature, which he loves, to help and sustain him."
Later on she found Katharine, and gave Clifford's last message.
"Those were his last words, kjaere," she said. "I don't grudge them to you one little bit. If you had not bewitched that boy, we should not be one single step forrader. It was all too much for me. Seventeen stone cannot bewitch any one. I know my limitations as well as my weight."
"Seventeen stone can stand solidly by like a fine old fortress," said Katharine, giving her a hug.
"That metallic beast!—that metallic beast!" Knutty exclaimed. "She is fifty times worse than poor Marianne. Marianne was merely an explosive substance. She was a pretty bad explosive substance, I will own. But she had some kind of a heart. Mrs Stanhope has only some sort of artificial clockwork contrivance. But I'd like to tear even that out. Ak, ak, how hot it is! Fat people will go to heaven when they die, I feel sure; for they've had all their roasting on earth!"
"There is thunder in the air," Katharine said, as she fanned Tante with an English newspaper. "I am sure we are in for a storm. I hope Professor Thornton will not go far. Alan is out, too. He went off with Jens a few minutes ago, down to the valley, to the Landhandleri. He has been talking to me about his mother, Knutty. We had a stroll together before breakfast, and then it was I told him that——"
Katharine paused.
"That he would never forgive himself if he were to lose his father before he had told him what his trouble had been."
Knutty put down her knitting.
"Why did you say that?" she asked.
"I don't know," Katharine answered. "It came into my head, and I felt something had to be done to help the boy through the barrier of silence at once."
"Before it was too late, you meant?" Knutty said, looking distressed.
"Yes," replied Katharine simply.
"Well," said Knutty, in her own generous way, "I am glad he knew you did it."
But they were not to be allowed to have further private conversation that afternoon; for Bedstemor, now recovered from the first shock of Bedstefar's death, came across from her own house to the Gaard. Ragnhild hurried out to the porch, and begged Fröken Knudsgaard to keep Bedstemor by her side and prevent her from making a descent on the kitchen, where already great preparations were going on for the funeral feast.
"Bedstemor is going to give trouble!" Ragnhild whispered. "Thou knowest she likes to have everything very, very grand. She wants us to do twice as much as we are doing. Ak! There she comes now. Wilt thou not keep her and talk with her? Let her tell thee again about her marriage, and how she danced her shoes through on her wedding-day."
Knutty captured Bedstemor, and the old lady sat in the porch and talked of poor Bedstefar.
"A ja," she said quaintly, "he is dead at last, poor man. He was two years dying. It seemed a long time." Then she added mysteriously:
"God has been very good to me. And I feel very happy."
"Aha, that is a good thing," said Knutty. "Nei, nei, Bedstemor, don't go and make yourself hotter in the kitchen. It is terribly hot this afternoon. Stay here with me and tell me about your wedding. Tell me the history of this old, old family. And is it true, Bedstemor, that when you were fifteen, you were carried off by the mountain-people? Tell me all about it. You can trust me. I won't breathe a word to any one."
So in this way Bedstemor was kept quiet, entertained and entertaining by speaking of herself and old days, and old ways. She told Knutty about Föderaad, the legal dues paid to the parents by the eldest son who takes over the management of the Gaard. Knutty learnt that Föderaad varied in different families; but in the Solli family it meant the possession of five cows, eight sheep, sixteen sacks of grain annually, a two-year-old calf for killing each autumn; also a pig, and a potato-field, or else the payment of 60 kroner a-year. Bedstefar's death would deprive Bedstemor of rather less than half this Föderaad; she would have three cows, five sheep, half the quantity of grain, half the value of the potato-field, and, of course, pig and calf entire; and the dower-house with all its belongings undisturbed.
But the moment arrived when Bedstemor could no longer be deterred from going into the Gaard which had once been hers, and making straight for the kitchen, in a masterful manner born of reawakened memories of ownership. Then Mor Inga came out and had a cry; but Tante patted her on the back and whispered cheering words which brought a smile to Mor Inga's tearful face.
"Ja," said Mor Inga, "thou art right, thou. One can never please one's relatives. It is stupid to expect to do so. It was a wise remark. Thou good Danish friend of mine!"
She told Tante that the old order of things was passing away, even in the more remote parts of the valley; but as Bedstefar belonged to the old order, he was to be buried according to the "gammel skik" (the old custom). But they intended to reduce the number of feast-days to the lowest number compatible with the dignity of the family and due honour to the dead—about four days; only in that case it would be necessary to show more than ordinarily lavish hospitality, so that none of the guests might feel that the family had not the means nor the desire to entertain them right royally. The kitchen had already become the scene of increased industry; and Ragnhild would soon be cooking countless jellies and innumerable fancy biscuits. No cakes were to be made; for, according to custom, the guests would bring them on the day of the funeral, or send them the day before. A sheep, an ox, and a calf were to be killed that very evening, and some one would be sent to bring back fresh Mysost from the Saeter. And two days before the burial, Jens and a fair-haired cousin Olaf would go up into the mountains to bring back a good supply of trout from the lake. Mor Inga reckoned that they would need about two hundred pounds. Then the main dwelling-house and all the brown houses would have to be thoroughly scoured and put in order.