The Fisher Girl

IV.

ONE AND ANOTHER.

One day after the Confirmation Petra went over to Odegaard's sisters, but she soon saw that this must have been a mistake on his part, for the pastor went by as though he never saw her, and the daughters, both older than Odegaard, received her stiffly. They satisfied themselves with giving a bare account from their brother of what she was now to do. The whole of the forenoon she was to be engaged in household duties at a house in the suburbs of the town, and in the afternoon to go to the sewing school; she was to sleep at home, and take breakfast and supper there.

She acted according to this arrangement, and found it agreeable enough as long as it was new, but afterwards, and especially when summer came, she began to get tired of it, for she had been accustomed in summer to sit up in the forest the whole day long, and had read in her books, which from the depths of her heart she now missed, as she missed Odegaard, as she missed conversation. The consequence was that at last she took it where it was to be found. About this time a young girl entered the sewing school, called Lise Let, i.e. Lise, but not Let; for that was the name of a young cadet, who had been at home one Christmas, and betrothed himself to her on the ice, while she was only a child at school. Lise vowed it was not true, and cried if any one named it; nevertheless, she went by the name of Lise Let. The little, active Lise Let often laughed and often cried; but, whether she laughed or cried, she thought about love. A perfect swarm of new and curious thoughts soon filled the school; if a hand was reached out for the scissors, it was to go a courting, and the scissors said, yes, or gave a refusal. The needle was bethrothed to the thread, and the thread sacrificed herself stitch by stitch to the heartless tyrant; she who pricked her finger, shed her heart's blood, and to change needles was to be unfaithful. If two of the girls whispered together, it was about something remarkable that had happened to them; soon two more began to whisper, and then two again; each one had her confidant, and there were a thousand secrets: it was impossible to stand it.

One afternoon at dusk, in a fine drizzling rain, Petra, with a large handkerchief over her head, stood outside her mother's house, and peeped into the passage, where a young sailor was standing, whistling a waltz. She held the handkerchief together with both her hands tight under her chin, so that only her eyes and nose could be seen, but the sailor saw she was winking at him, and he went quickly out where she stood. "I say, Gunnar, will you go a walk?"--"But it rains!"--"Tut, is that anything!" and so they went to a small house higher up the mountain. "Buy me a few cakes,--those with the icing!"--"You are always wanting cakes."--"With the icing!" He came out again with them; she stuck one hand out from under the handkerchief, took them in, and went on again, eating as she went. When they had got just above the town, she said as she gave him the cake: "I say now, Gunnar! we have always thought so much of each other, we two; I have always liked you better than any other boys! You don't believe it? But I assure you, Gunnar! And now you are second mate and can soon take a ship; it seems to me you should get engaged Gunnar! Dear, why don't you eat the cake?"--"I have begun to chew tobacco."--"Well, what do you say?"--"Oh! there's no hurry for that!"--"No hurry? And you go away day after to-morrow?"--"Yes, but am I not coming back again?"--"But it isn't certain that I shall have time then, and you don't know where I shall be either,"--"It should be to you, then?"--"Yes, Gunnar, you might have understood that, but you were always slow, that was why you were only a sailor, too."--"Oh! I'm not sorry for that, it's quite nice to be a sailor."--"Yes, to be sure,--your mother has ships. But what do you say now? You are so dull!"--"Yes, what shall I say?"--"What shall you say? Ha-ha-ha, perhaps you won't have me!"--"Ah! Petra, you know quite well I will; but I don't think I can trust you."--"Yes, Gunnar, I shall be as true, as true!"--He stood a minute still; "Let me see your face, Petra!"--"What for that?"--"I want to see if you really mean it."--"Do you think I go and trifle with you, Gunnar?" She was vexed and lifted the handkerchief.--"Well, Petra, if it is to be right regular earnest, then give me a kiss upon it, for one knows what that means."--"Have you lost your wits?" She drew the handkerchief over, and went on.--"Stay Petra, stay! You don't understand.--If we are engaged--" "Oh! nonsense with you!"--"Yes, but I know what is customary, and as far as experience goes, I beat you hollow. Remember all that I have seen."--"Yes, you've seen all like a simpleton, and you talk as you've seen."--"What do you mean by being engaged, then, Petra? I may surely ask about that! There's no meaning in running up and down hill after each other!"--"No, that's true enough." She laughed, and stopped. "But listen now, Gunnar! While we stand here and puff--huf!--I'll tell you how lovers do. Every evening as long as you are here, you must wait outside the sewing school and go home with me to the door, and if I am out anywhere else, you must wait in the street till I come. And when you go away, you must write to me, and buy things to send me. To be sure: we must exchange rings, with your name in one and mine in the other, and then the year and the day; but I have no money, so you must buy them both."--"Yes, I'll do that; but--" "Now, what about 'but' again?"--"Good heavens! I only meant I must have the measure of your finger."--"Yes, that you shall have directly;" and she picked up a straw and bit off the measure: "Now don't lose it!" He wrapped it in paper, and put it in his pocket book; she watched him till the pocket book was hidden again. "Let us go now, I'm tired of standing here."--"But, I must say I think it rather flat, Petra!"--"Very well, if you won't, it's all the same to me!"--"Certainly I will, it's not that; but shan't I even so much as get hold of your hand!"--"What for that?"--"As a sign that we're really engaged."--"Such nonsense, does that make it more certain? You can have my hand, anyhow; here it is! No thank you, no squeezing, sir!"--She drew her head within the handkerchief again, then suddenly she lifted the handkerchief with both hands, and her face came full into view. "If you tell any one, Gunnar, I shall say it is not true, so you know!" She laughed, and went on down the hill. A little after, she stopped, and said: "The sewing school will be over to-morrow at nine, so you can go and stand at the foot of the garden."--"Very well."--"Yes, but now you must go!"--"Won't you, then, even give me your hand at parting?"--"I don't know what you are always wanting with my hand,--no, you won't get it now. Good bye!" she cried, and away she sprang.

Next evening she arranged it so, that she was the last at the sewing school. It was nearly ten when she left, but when she had passed through the garden, Gunnar was not there. She had imagined all sorts of misfortunes, but not this; she was so much offended, that she waited, merely to give it him in earnest, when at last he did come. Besides she had good company as she walked up and down; for the merchants' singing club had just begun to practise with open windows, in a house near by, and a Spanish song, that mild evening, lured her thoughts till she was in Spain, and heard her praises sung from the open balcony. Spain was her great longing, for every summer came the dark Spanish ships into the harbour, the Spanish songs into the streets, and upon Odegaard's walls, hung a row of pictures from Spain; perhaps he was there again now, and she was with him! But in the same minute she was called home again, for there, behind the apple tree, was Gunnar coming at last; she rushed towards--not Gunnar, but the one returned from Spain, the light hat over the light hair. "Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed the light laughter, "so you take me for another?" She denied it eagerly, hastily, and began to run in her vexation, but he ran after, talking incessantly whilst he ran very quickly, and with that mixed accent that people get when they use several languages. "Yes, I can easily keep you company, for I'm a capital runner,--it won't help you,--I must speak to you,--it is too quiet here, people are dead, but you are not dead, I can see. I must speak to you; I am here for the eighth evening."--"For the eighth evening!"--"The eighth evening; ha, ha, ha, I would gladly go for eight more, for we two suit each other, don't we? It's no use, I shan't let you slip, for now you are tired, I can see."--"No, I'm not."--"Yes, you are."--"No, I'm not."--"Yes, you are! Talk, then, if you are not tired!"--"Ha, ha, ha!"--"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Yes, that's not to talk," and so they stopped. They exchanged a few witty words, half in jest, and half in earnest; then he began to speak in praise of Spain, and one picture followed another, till he ended in cursing the little town at their feet. The first, Petra followed with beaming eyes; the second tingled in her ears, while her eyes moved up and down over a gold chain that hung twice round his neck. "Yes, this," he said hastily, and drew out the end of the chain, to which a gold cross was fastened, "see, I took it with me to-night, to show at the singing club; it is from Spain. You shall hear its history." Then he related: "When I was in the south of Spain, I was present at a shooting match, and won this prize; it was handed to me at the festival with these words: 'Take this with you to Norway and give it to the most beautiful woman in your country, with the respectful homage of Spanish Cavaliers.' Then followed shouts, and processions, the waving of banners and the clapping of cavaliers, and I received the gift."--"No, how splendid! Tell more, more!" broke in Petra, for her imagination already pictured the Spanish feast, with the Spanish colours and songs, and the dusky Spaniards, standing under the vines in the evening sunlight, sending their thoughts to the most beautiful woman in the land of snow. He did as she requested; he increased her longing with new recitals, and, as if transported to that wonderful land, she began humming the Spanish song she had just heard, and, little by little, to move her feet to its time. "What! You can dance the Spanish dance?" he cried.--"Yes, yes--yes!" she sang in dancing time, snapping her fingers to imitate the castanets, and making some rapid steps upon the spot where she stood, for she had seen the Spanish sailors dance!--"You shall have the gift of the Spanish Cavaliers," cried he, in ecstacy, "you are the most beautiful woman I have met." He had taken the gold chain from his own neck, and had lightly thrown it once or twice round hers before she came to understand it. But, when she understood it, she was suffused with the deep scarlet, peculiarly her own, and the tears were about to burst forth, so that he, falling from one surprise into another, did not know what more to do, but felt that he ought to go, and went.

At twelve o'clock with the chain in her hand, she still stood at the open window of her little room. The summer night lay gently over town and fiord and distant mountains; from the street the Spanish song sounded again, for the club had gone home with young Yngve Vold. Word for word it could be heard, about a beautiful wreath. Two voices only sang the words, the rest hummed the guitar accompaniment.

When she awoke in the morning she had been in a forest where the sun shone in on every side, where all the trees were those they called "golden rain," their long yellow tassels hanging down and almost touching her as she passed. Soon she remembered the chain, she took it and hung it over; then she put a black handkerchief over the white, and the chain over that, as it showed better upon black. She sat up in bed and kept looking at herself in a little hand mirror; was she indeed so beautiful? She stood up to do her hair and then look at herself again, but remembering that her mother knew nothing about it, she hastened to go down and tell her. Just as she was ready, and was about to hang the chain round her neck, it occurred to her what her mother would say, what everybody would say, and what she should answer when they asked her why she wore such a costly chain. The question being a very reasonable one, it returned again and again, till at last she drew forth a little box in which she laid the chain, put the box in her pocket, and, for the first time in her life, felt herself poor.

She did not go where she ought to have done that forenoon; for above the town, near the spot where she had got the chain, she sat with it in her hand, with a feeling as if she had stolen it.

That night, at the foot of the garden, she waited still longer for Yngve Vold than she had done the foregoing evening for Gunnar: she wanted to give him the chain back. But as the ship that Gunnar was going with, had the day before unexpectedly weighed anchor, because it had got a splendid cargo in the next town, so Yngve Vold, the owner of the vessel had to set out to-day on the same errand; he had other business to transact at the same time, therefore he was away three weeks.

In these three weeks, the chain was gradually transferred from her pocket to a drawer in the closet, and from there again to an envelope, and the envelope to a secret corner; and during the time she herself made one humiliating discovery after another. For the first time she became aware of the distance that separated her from the ladies of the higher classes; they could have worn the chain without any one asking the why and the wherefore. But to one of these, Yngve Vold would not have ventured to offer the chain without, at the same time, offering his hand; it was only with the Fisher Girl he could do that. But if he wished to give her anything, why then not something she could have some use for; he had meant to scorn her so much the more, by giving her what she could never use. The story of "the most beautiful" must have been a fable; for had the chain been given her on that afternoon, he would never have come in secret, and at night time. Vexation and shame gnawed themselves so much the deeper in, as she had ceased to confide in any one. No wonder, then, that the first time she met him again, him in whom centred all these vexatious and shame-filling thoughts, she should blush so deeply that he misinterpreted it, and when she saw that, blush deeper still.

She turned her steps quickly home again, snatched up the chain, and, although it was scarcely light, she seated herself above the town to wait for him; now he should get it back! She felt sure he would come, because he also had blushed at seeing her, and he had been away the whole time. But soon these same thoughts began to tell in his favour; he would not have blushed if he had been indifferent to her; he would have come before if he had been at home. It began to get rather dusk; for in these three weeks the days had shortened quickly. But at nightfall our thoughts often change. She sat close above the road among the trees; she could see without being seen. When she had been there some time, and he did not come, conflicting thoughts began to rise; she listened now in anger, now in fear; she could hear every one who came, long before she saw them, but it was never him. The little birds that half asleep changed their perches among the leaves, could frighten her, she sat so breathlessly; every sound from the town, every noise took her attention. A large vessel was weighing anchor, and the sailors were singing; it would be tugged out in the night, to get the good of the first morning breeze. She longed to go too, out upon the great sea. She caught up the song, the clinging stroke of the capstan gave raising power, whereto, whence? There stood the light hat upon the road just in front of her, she sprang up with a shriek, and frightened at what she had done, she ran, and in running she remembered she ought not to have done so; it was one mistake upon another, so she ran with all her might. But shame and agitation overpowered her, he was just behind, and she cast herself down among the trees. When he got up to her, she breathed so heavily that he could hear every breath, and the same power that in her intrepidity she had exercised over him last time they met, she still possessed as she lay there in an agony of fear; he bent over her, and whispered "Do not fear!"

But she trembled still more. Then he kneeled down beside her and took her hand, but slowly, for he himself was afraid. At the first touch of his hand she sprang up as if burnt with fire--and off again--whilst he remained standing.

She did not run far, for she had not power, her temples throbbed, her bosom heaved, she pressed her hands against it, and listened. She heard a step in the grass, a cracking among the leaves,--he was coming, and straight towards her. He saw her? No, he did not see,--Yes, good heavens, he saw!... no, he went by--Then she sank down weak and exhausted.

After a long time she got up and began to go slowly down the mountain, then stopped and went on again, as though without any aim. On reaching the road, there he was waiting for her; she had been walking as if in a fog and had not observed him before. He rose; a slight cry escaped her, but she did not stir, she merely put her hands before her eyes and wept. Then he whispered again: "I see you love me!--I love you!--You shall be mine!--You don't answer?--You cannot!--But trust me, for from this hour you are mine!--Good night!" and he gently touched her shoulder.

She started, as before a sudden flash of lightning,--a shade of anxiety passed over, but it lightened again; this was indeed a marvel.

As fully as Yngve Vold had occupied her thoughts during the last three weeks, she was now turned round. He was the wealthiest man in the place, and of the oldest family; he would raise her up to him regardless of all considerations. This was something so different from her thoughts during all this time of vexation and suffering, that it might well begin to make her happy! And she grew happier and happier as she realized her new position. She felt herself every one's equal, and all her longings were about to be fulfilled. She saw Yngve Vold's finest vessel bedecked as the flag-ship on her wedding day, and, amid the salute of the minute gun, and fireworks, take them on board to bear them to Spain, where the wedding sun was glowing.

When Petra awoke next day, the girl came up to tell her it was half-past eleven o'clock; she felt ravenously hungry, eat her breakfast and wanted more,--complained of headache and weariness, and soon fell asleep again; on awaking about three in the afternoon, she felt quite well. The mother came up and said she had undoubtedly slept away an illness, for she used to do so herself; but now she must get up and go to the sewing school. Petra was sitting upright in bed, and leaned her head upon her arm; without getting up she answered that she was not going to the sewing school any more. The mother thought she must be still a little dazed, and went down to get a parcel and a letter that a sailor boy had brought. There were the gifts already! As soon as she was alone, Petra, who had laid down again, got up in haste and opened the parcel with a certain solemnity; it contained a pair of French shoes; a little disappointed she was putting them aside, when she felt them heavy in the toes; she put her hand into one of them and drew forth a small parcel folded in fine paper; it was a gold bracelet; in the other was also a parcel, carefully wrapped up; a pair of French gloves,--and in the right hand she found a scrap of paper containing two plain gold rings. "Already!" thought Petra, her heart beat as she looked for the inscription, and read in the one, sure enough: "Petra," with the date, and in the other: "Gunnar." She turned pale, threw the rings and all the rest on the floor as though she had burnt herself, and hastily opened the letter. It was dated "Calais;"--she read:

"Dear Petra,

We had a fair wind from the sixty-first to the fifty-fourth degree of latitude, and afterwards got here under a strong side wind, which is unusual even for better vessels than ours, which is a fine craft under full sail. But now you must know that all the way I have been thinking about you, and about that which last occurred between us two, and am grieved that I could not see you to bid you good-bye. I went on board very vexed about it, but have never forgotten you since, except now and then in between, for a sailor has hard times of it. Now we have got here, and I have used all my wages to buy you presents as you asked me, and the money I got of mother, too, so I have none left. But, if I get leave, I shall come as soon as the gifts, for as long as it is secret, there is no certainty about others, especially young men, of whom there are many; but I will have it certain, so that no one can excuse himself, but beware of me. You can easily get a better one than me, for you can get any one you choose, but you can never get a truer, and that is me. Now I will conclude, for I have used up two sheets, and the letters are getting so large; it is the worst thing I have to do, but I do it, nevertheless, as you wish it. And so in conclusion I will say, that I hope it was earnest; for it was not earnest, it was a great sin, and will bring misfortune upon many.

Gunnar Ask,

Second Mate, 'Norwegian Constitution.'"

Overwhelmed with fear, she jumped out of bed and dressed herself. She felt as if she must go out, where there was counsel to be had somewhere; for all had become obscure, uncertain, dangerous. The more she thought about it, the more tangled the thread became; some one must help to unravel it, or she never could get loose! But in whom dare she confide? There could be no one but the mother. When after a hard struggle she stood beside her in the kitchen, afraid and almost weeping, but determined to give complete confidence, that the assistance might be complete, the mother said without looking round, and therefore without observing Petra's face: "He has just been here; he has got home again."--"Who?" whispered Petra, holding fast for support; for if Gunnar were really come, all hope was lost. She knew Gunnar; he was dull and good-natured, but let him once get vexed, and he grew frantic. "You must not be long in going there," he said.--"There?" shuddered Petra, she jumped to the conclusion that he must have told her mother all about it, and then what would happen?--"Yes, to the Rectory," said the mother. "To the Rectory? Is it Odegaard that has come home?"--The mother turned round now: "Yes, who else?"--"Odegaard!" cried Petra, and the storm of joy cleared the air in an instant: "Odegaard has come, Odegaard, oh! he has got back!" she was out at the door and up over the fields. She rushed on, she laughed, she cried aloud; it was him, him, she wanted; if he had been at home, this trouble would never have come! With him she was safe; if she only thought upon his lofty beaming countenance, his mild voice, even upon the quiet rooms, rich in images, where he dwelt, she grew more peaceful, and a sense of security came over her. She took a moment to collect herself. Landscape and town were bathed in a stream of light, on that early autumn night, the fiord especially shone with a radiant splendour; out there in the haven, the last smoke was curling up from the steamer that had brought Odegaard. Oh! simply to know that he was at home again, did her good, and made her resolute and strong; she prayed to God to help her that Odegaard might never leave her more. And just as her heart was raised in this hope, she saw him coming towards her; he had known which way she would take, and had come to meet her! This touched her, she sprang towards him, grasped both his hands and kissed them; he felt ashamed, and seeing some one coming in the distance, he drew her with him up among the trees, away from the road; he held her hands in his, and she said the whole way: "How delightful that you have come! No, I can hardly believe it is you, oh! you must never go away again! Do not leave me, no, do not leave me!" Here her tears began to flow, he drew her head gently towards him; he wished to soothe her, for it was needful for his own sake that she should be calm. She crept close to him, as the bird under the wing that is lifted for it, and she did not wish to come forth any more.

Overcome by this confidence, he put his arm round her, as if to provide her the shelter she sought; but hardly had she perceived this, when she lifted her tearful face, her eyes met his, and all that can be exchanged in a glance, when penitence meets love, when gratitude meets the joy of the giver, when yes meets yes, followed in quick succession. He embraced her and pressed his lips against hers; he had lost his mother early, and kissed for the first time in his life; it was the same with her. They could not release themselves, and when at last they did, it was only to embrace once more. He was trembling, whilst she was radiant and blushing; she threw her arms round his neck; she clung to him like a child. And when they seated themselves, and she could play about his hands, his hair, his breast-pin, neckerchief, all these that she had been accustomed to regard respectfully from a distance, and when he bade her say "thou" and not "you," and she could not, and when he would tell her how rich she had made his poor life from the first hour, how long he had fought against it, that he might not check her with this, nor let himself be paid thus, and when he noticed that she was unable to understand or gather a word of what he was saying, and when he himself also no longer found any meaning in it; when she wanted to go home with him at once, and he had laughingly to bid her wait a few days, and then they would go away altogether,--when they felt, when they said, whilst they sat among the trees, with the fiord, and mountains, and evening sun before them, whilst the horn and song sounded far in the distance, that this was happiness.

V.

A MISTAKE.

When Odegaard rung for his coffee next morning, he was informed that Yngve Vold, the merchant, had already called twice to see him. It annoyed him to have to hold intercourse with a stranger just then, but one who sought him so early must have an important errand. He was scarcely dressed before Yngve Vold came again. "You are surprised, I dare say? So am I. Good morning!"--They shook hands, and he laid his light hat upon the table. "You rise late, I have been here twice before; I have something important at heart, and I must speak with you!"--"Take a seat if you please!" he seated himself in an easy chair.--"Thank you, thank you, I would rather walk, I am too excited to sit. I am quite beside myself since the day before yesterday, stark mad, neither more nor less; and it is your doing, partly!"--"Mine?"--"Yes, yours. You brought the girl forward, no one thought about her, no one noticed her except you. But now I have never seen, no, as true as I live, never seen anything so matchless, anything so--well isn't it? No, over the whole of Europe I have never seen such a cursedly curly-haired wonder,--have you? I got no peace, I was bewitched, she was mixed up in everything, I went away, came back again, impossible.--isn't it? Didn't know at first who she was ... the Fisher Girl, they said,--the Senorita they should have called her, the gipsy, the witch; all fire, eyes, bosom, hair,--what?--sparkling, hopping, laughing, trilling, blushing,--something----! Ran after her, you see, up among the trees in the forest, calm evening, ... she stood, I stood, a few words, song, dance,--and then?... well then I gave her my chain, as true as I live, a minute before, I had never thought of it! Next time, same place, same chase, she was afraid, and I;--well,--would you believe it? I could not say a single word, dare not touch her; but when she came back again, would you think it? I proposed to her, I had not thought about it a second before. Now yesterday I was proving myself, stayed away from her, but then faith and soul I'm mad, yes,--I CANNOT, I MUST be with her; if I don't get her I shall shoot myself slap out, there, that's the history. I don't care what my mother says, nor the town, it's no place, no place at all,--she must go away, you see, away, far away from here, she must be 'comme il faut,' go abroad, to France, Paris, I pay, and you arrange. I might go with her myself, live elsewhere, not stay any longer in this little hole; but the fish you see! I'd like to make something out of the place, but it's all in a torpor, no thought, no speculation, but the fish? They don't know how to manage the fish; the Spaniards complain, it must be done in a fresh way, new drying, new curing, the town must rise, business make headway, the fish!--Where was it I left off? the fish, the Fisher Girl,--that suits well: the fish, the Fisher Girl, ha, ha, ha,--to be sure: I pay, you arrange, she shall be my wife, and then----"

Further he did not get; during the conversation he had not observed Odegaard, who had now risen, deathly pale, and stood over him with a fine Spanish cane. The astonishment of the latter is not to be described; he avoided the first strokes. "Take care," said he, "you may hit me!"--"Yes, I may hit you! you see: Spanish, Spanish cane, that suits too!" and the strokes fell over shoulders, arms, hands, face, anywhere and everywhere; the other rushed about the room: "Are you mad, have you lost your reason;--I will marry her!"--"Out!" cried Odegaard, his strength failing him, and down went the light haired, away from this madman, and was soon standing in the street calling up after his light hat. It was thrown out of the window to him; a heavy fall was heard, and when they went up, Odegaard lay unconscious upon the floor.

All this time Petra was sitting up in her bedroom half dressed, and could not get further the whole day long. Every time she attempted it, her hands sank down upon her lap. Her thoughts bent down as an ear of corn fully ripe, as clustering campanulas in the fields. Calmness, security, waving visions, lay over the airy castles in which she dwelt. She recalled the meeting of yesterday, every word, every look, every touch of the hand, every kiss; she would follow the whole way from the meeting to the parting, but never get to the end; for every single remembrance vanished away in a dream, and all dreams returned again with fair promises. But sweet as were these thoughts, she turned from them to think where she had left off; and as soon as she remembered, she was again carried off into the land of the wonderful.

As she did not come down, the mother concluded that Odegaard having returned, she had begun to study again; she had her meals sent up, and was left alone the whole day. When evening came, she got up to make herself ready to go to meet her beloved; she put on the best she had,--the things she had worn at the confirmation; they were not much, but that she had not felt until now. She had but little sense of the elegant, but she was inspired with it to-day: one thing made another look ugly till the right ones were selected, and even then the whole was not beautiful! To-day she would have given worlds to have been the most beautiful,--with the word a remembrance glided in, which she waved away with her hand; nothing, no nothing should come near that might disturb her. She went about quietly putting her room in order, as it was not yet time to go. She opened the window and looked out; warm, rosy clouds lay encamped over the mountains, but a cooling breeze was wafted in with a message from the forest near by. "Yes, now I'm coming! now I'm coming!" She went back once again to the looking-glass to study her bride-like feelings.

Then she heard Odegaard's voice down stairs with the mother, heard that he was being directed the way to her room; he had come to fetch her! A feeling of bashful joy took hold of her, she looked round to see if all was in order for him; then she went to the door. "Come in!" she answered softly to the low tap, and stepped back a little.

As an icy shower over her, as if the earth gave way beneath her, was the impression of the face that met her in the door! She staggered back to get hold of the bed-post; her thoughts slipped from one abyss to another; in less than a second she had fallen from earth's happiest bride to its greatest sinner; she heard it thunder out of that face: in time and eternity he could not forgive her!

In scarcely audible tones he whispered: "I see it, you are guilty!" He leaned against the door and held fast to the lock, as if without that he could not stand. His voice trembled; the tears rolled down his face, though his countenance was perfectly calm.

"Do you know what you have done?" and his eyes crushed her to the earth. She did not answer,--did not even weep; she was paralysed by a complete and hopeless inability,--"Once before, I gave my heart away, and he to whom I gave it, died through my fault. I could not rise above this sorrow, unless one should reach over me and give me the wealth of a whole heart again. This you have done,--and you have done it hypocritically!" He stopped: two or three times he tried in vain to begin again, then with a sudden pang of pain: "And all that I have stored up during these years, thought upon thought, you have had the heart to overturn as though it were an image of clay! Child, child, could you not understand that I was building up myself in you? Now it is past! Can you not now comprehend it: all that I have given, the very warmest, the very depths of my heart, lost as flame in the winter air, no token left?--Who are you, unhappy child?--I believed you to be my most sacred treasure, but alas; you are more than profaned!"--He wept in the bitterness of his grief.

"No, you are too young to comprehend it," he said again; "you know not what you have done.--But yet you must understand," he exclaimed, "what it is, when that which shines upon our lives, that which we believe can yield the flowers and fruit we look for, proves nothing but an enormous deception!--Tell me, what have I done to you that you COULD do anything so cruel? Child, child, had you but told me it yesterday! Why, why, did you lie so fearfully?--It must be my fault, mine, who have instructed you,--have I then forgotten to speak about truth! No,--then where have you thus learnt it?"

She heard him, and it was altogether true. He had tottered to a chair in the window to lean his head against a table standing beside it. He started up again, he wrung his hands, a sob of pain escaped him, then he sank down and was still. "And I, who am not able to help my old father," he said as if to himself, "I CANNOT, I have no calling, I also am to have help from no one, all to be broken in pieces before me, all and everybody forsake me." He was unable to speak more, his head lay in his right hand; the left hung powerlessly down; he looked as though he could not move,--and thus he remained sitting and said nothing. Then he felt something warm against the hand that was hanging down, and startled, he drew it away, it was Petra's breath; she was on her knees beside him, her head bent down, now she folded her hands, and looked up to him with an inexpressible entreaty for mercy. He looked down at her, and neither of them turned away. Then he lifted his hand preventingly against her, as if he felt within him a voice of persuasion that he would not hear,--bent hastily down for his hat that had fallen on the floor, and went quickly to the door; but still more quickly she stopped the way before him, she cast herself down, grasped hold of his knees, and nailed her eyes into him, but all without a sound; he both saw and felt that she was struggling for life. Then his old love was too strong, he bent down once more over her, and with an expressive look, but one that was full of pain, he threw his arms round her and drew her up to him. Yet once more she lay upon his breast, but it groaned and sighed within, like an organ after the last stroke, when there is still air, but no more tone. Again and again he pressed her to his heart;--for the last time! He left her with a passionate cry; "No, no!--you can abandon yourself, but you cannot love!" He was overwhelmed with emotion: "Unhappy child, your future I cannot guide; may God forgive you that you have ruined mine!" He went past her, she did not move, he opened the door and shut it again, she did not speak;--she heard him on the stairs, she heard his last step on the flagstone and down the road,--then she was released, and gave one cry, a single one, but with this came the mother.

When Petra came to herself again, she was lying in bed undressed and well nursed; before her sat the mother with her arms upon her knees; her head in both her hands, and eyes of fire fastened upon her daughter. "Have you read enough with him now?" she asked:--"Have you learnt something?--What is it you are going to be now?"--Petra answered with an outburst of grief. The mother sat and listened to this for a long time, then said with strange solemnity: "May the Lord heartily curse him!"--The daughter started up: "Mother, mother! Not him, not him, but me, me,--not him!"--"Oh; I know them! I know who should have it!"--"No mother, he has been deceived, dreadfully deceived, and that by me, me--it is I who have deceived him!"--She told the whole story hurriedly and sobbing; he must not for a moment be misjudged; she told about Gunnar, and what she had asked of him, how she had hardly understood at the time, what she was doing; next about Yngve Vold's unlucky gold chain, that had taught her so much, and got her so fearfully entangled, and then about Odegaard, how on seeing him, she had forgotten all else. She could not understand how it had all happened, but this she did understand, that she had sinned deeply against them all, and especially against him who had taken her up, and given her all that one human being can give to another. After sitting long silent, at last the mother said: "Then you have committed no sin against ME? Where have I been all this time that you have never said a word to me?"--"Oh! mother, help me, don't be hard on me now; I feel that I shall suffer for it as long as I live; but I shall pray to God that He will let me soon die!--Dear, dear God," she began, as she folded her hands and looked up to Heaven, "dear, dear God, hear me, I have already forfeited my life; there is nothing more for me, I am not fit, I do not know how to live, then, dear God, I pray Thee suffer me to die!"--But Gunlaug, who had hard words uppermost, stifled them, and laid her hand on the daughter's arm, to take it down from such a prayer: "Govern your feelings, child, do not tempt God;--we must live even if it is painful." She drew several heavy sighs and rose up; she had no consolation to offer. The daughter had no doubt now given her entire confidence, but it was too late. Gunlaug never more set foot within that little attic chamber.

Odegaard had taken an illness, that seemed likely to be a dangerous one, so his old father had gone up, and made his study beside him, saying to all who begged him to spare himself, that he could not do it; his work was to watch over his son, each time he lost one of those whom he loved better than his father.

It was thus that matters stood when Gunnar came home.

He frightened his mother by showing himself long before the ship he sailed with,--she thought it was his ghost, and his acquaintances were not much better. To all their curious inquiries, he could give but an unsatisfactory reply. They, however, soon got a better one, for the very day that he came, he was turned out of Gunlaug's house, and that by Gunlaug herself. "Never let me see you here again," she called out, to him on the doorstep, so that it could be heard far and near, "we have had enough of this now!" He had not gone far, before a girl overtook him with a parcel; she had another as well, and made a mistake, and Gunnar found in his a heavy gold chain; he stood looking at it a minute, and turning it over; he had not understood Gunlaug's fury before, but he understood still less why she should send him a gold chain. He called the girl back, she must have made a mistake, and she asked as she gave him the other parcel if it was this. The parcel proved to contain his gifts to Petra. Yes, that was it; but who was to have the gold chain? "Yngve Vold, the Merchant," replied the girl, and went her way. Gunnar stood musing: Yngve Vold the Merchant? Does he give presents?--and Gunlaug has stumbled upon them! Then it is HE who has stolen her from me,--Yngve Vold,--but he shall----his vexation and excitement must have vent, some one must be thrashed, and it proved to be Yngve Vold.

To relate shortly: the unhappy merchant was once again attacked quite unexpectedly, and that upon his own door step. He ran into the office to escape from the infuriated man, but Gunnar ran after him. The clerks rose up "en masse" against him, but he kicked and struck on all sides; chairs, tables, and desks were overthrown; letters, papers, and journals flew about like dust; help came at last from Yngve's warehouse, and after a hard fight, Gunnar was turned into the street.

But here the battle began again in earnest. There were two ships lying on the quay, and one of them was from abroad; being about noon, when the sailors were at liberty, they were glad to join in the fun; they rushed into the fight, crew against crew, many others were sent for, and came running at double quick pace; labouring people, women and children drew up, till at last there was no one who knew why or against whom they were fighting. In vain the captains cursed; in vain the citizens commanded that the only policeman should be sent for: he was just then out on the fiord, fishing. They ran to the magistrate, who was also postmaster; but he had locked himself in with the post that had just arrived, and answered out of the window, that he could not come; his assistant was at a funeral, they must wait. But as they could not wait, several shouted, and especially frightened women, that Arne the blacksmith should be sent for. This being decided by the worthy citizens, his own wife was despatched to seek him, "for the policeman was not at home." He soon came, to the mirth of the school boys; he made a few strokes among the crowd, picked out a burly Spaniard, and struck him promiscuously against the rest.

When all was settled, there came the magistrate with a stick; he found a few old women and children, talking on the field of battle; these he sternly commanded to go home to dinner, which he also did himself.

But the next day he began to look into the matter, the investigation was continued for a time, though no one had the slightest idea who had been the aggrieving parties. One thing, however, all were agreed upon, that Arne the blacksmith had been mingled in the fray, as they had seen him striking on all sides with the Spaniard. For this Arne had to pay one specie dollar fine, for which his wife, who had led him into it, got sundry blows the second Sunday after trinity, which she might well remember. That was the only judicial consequence of the fray.

But it had other consequences. The little town was no longer a quiet town, the Fisher Girl had put it in commotion. The strangest rumours were set afloat,--arising from angry jealousy at her having been able to win to herself the best head in the place, and its two wealthiest matches, besides having several in the background; for Gunnar had grown by degrees into "several young men." Soon there arose a general moral storm. The disgrace of a great street brawl, and sorrow in three of the best families rested on the head of the young girl who had been but half a year confirmed; three engagements at one time, and one of them with her teacher,--her life's benefactor! Indignation might well boil up. Had she not been, from a child, an annoyance to the town, and for all that, had she not had its expectancy manifested in gifts when Odegaard took her up, and had she not now scorned them all, crushed him, and following the instincts of her nature, thrown herself recklessly on a course that would lead to her being an outcast from society, with the gaol for old age?

The mother must have been to blame too; in her sailors' house the child had learnt to be giddy. They would no longer bear the yoke that Gunlaug laid upon them, they would no longer tolerate them, neither mother nor daughter, they would unite to drive them away.

One night a crowd gathered on the bank; there were sailors, who owed Gunlaug money, drunken labourers, for whom she would not procure work, young lads, to whom she would not give credit, and the better class in the back ground. They whistled, they shouted, they called for The Fisher Girl, for Fisher Gunlaug; by and bye a stone was thrown against the door, then another in at the attic window. They did not go away until after midnight. Behind the windows all was dark and still.

The next day not a soul looked in to Gunlaug, not even a child went past, up the hill. But at night the same riot again, only that now all were there without distinction. They broke all the windows, they tore up the garden, and trampled down the shrubs, they threw the young fruit trees about, and then they sang:--

They called especially for Gunlaug, they would have been mightily pleased to have heard her matchless fury rage.

Gunlaug was sitting within, and heard every word; but she kept silence; one must be able to bear something for the sake of one's child.