The Fisher Girl

VIII.

AT THE RURAL DEAN'S.

Quite late in autumn, among the mountains in Bergen's shire, where the land is sheltered and fruitful, there are occasionally days almost like summer. On such afternoons, the cattle, even if they have already begun with the winter feeding, are again let out into the pasture; they are well fed and frisky, and when they are driven home at night, the scene is lively. Thus they came down over the mountain track, cows, sheep, and goats, bellowing, butting, and skipping, their bells merrily ringing, and were just approaching the farm as Petra was driving by. It was a beautiful day, the window panes in the long white wooden buildings glittered in the sun, and above the houses, towered the mountains, so thickly covered with firs, birch, ash, bird cherry, rowan trees, and the projecting rocks with juniper bushes, that the houses seemed quite sheltered by them. Facing the road, in front of the house, was a garden, apples, cherry, and plum trees flourished in abundance; red and black currant, and gooseberry bushes grew along the walks and fences, and above all, towered some grand old ash trees with their broad and stately crowns. The house looked like a nest half hidden among the branches, out of reach for everything but the sun. But just this seclusion awakened a longing in Petra, and when she heard it was the deanery, she exclaimed: "I must go in here!" and pulling in the reins, she turned along the garden.

A couple of Finnish dogs rushed out upon her as she drove into the farm yard, a large square, enclosed with buildings, the cattle stall opposite the house, another wing of the house to the right, and to the left the brewery, wash house, and labourers' room. The farm yard was now full of cattle, and in the midst of them stood a lady, tall and elegant; she wore a tight fitting dress, and a little silk handkerchief over her head; round about and above her^[2] were goats, white, black, brown, and parti-coloured, all with their little bells sounding in harmony; she had a name for each of her goats, and now she had something nice for them in a dish, which the milkmaid continually replenished. Upon the low step leading from the house to the farm yard, the rural dean was standing with a plate of salt, and in front of him were the cows licking the salt out of his hand and off the step where he strewed it. The dean was not a tall man, but compact, with short neck and short forehead; the bushy eyebrows lay over eyes that did not often look straight before them, but now and then cast a flashing glance aside. His thick grey hair was cut short, and stood up on all sides, it grew down over his neck nearly as much as on his head; he wore no neckerchief, but a shirt stud; in the front the shirt was open,--one could see his hairy bosom; neither was it buttoned at the wrists, so the shirt cuffs came down over the small, powerful hands, now all licked over by the cows; both hands and arms were shaggy. He glanced sharply from the side, at the stranger lady who had alighted, and made her way between the goats to where his daughter was standing. It was impossible, for the noise of the cattle, dogs, and bells, to hear what they were saying, but now both the ladies were looking at him, and with the goats around them they came towards the step. The herdsman, on a sign from the dean, began to drive the cattle away. Signe, his daughter, called out: (Petra was struck with the harmony of her voice,) "Father, here is a lady travelling, who would like to rest a day with us."--"She shall be welcome!" cried the dean in reply, gave the dish to the lad, and went into his study, in the right wing of the house, apparently to tidy himself. Petra followed the young lady into the passage, which was more properly a hall, it was so light and broad; the driver boy was dismissed, her things carried in, and she herself shewn into a side room opposite the study, where she took off her things, and went out again into the passage, to be further shewn into the dining room.

What a large light room! Nearly the whole wall fronting the garden was windows, the middle one opened as a door to the garden. The windows were broad and high, reaching almost to the floor, and they were full of flowers, plants stood upon stands here and there in the room, and instead of curtains was interwoven ivy, hanging from two small hedges of flowers up in the frame above. As there were bushes and flowers on every side, growing up the walls, and on the greensward before her, it seemed like a conservatory in the midst of the garden; and yet one had not been a minute in the room, before the flowers were no longer seen; for the church standing by itself on a hill to the right was what one saw,--the blue waters reflecting its image, coursed sparkling on so far away between the mountains that one could not tell whether it was a lake, or an arm of the sea curving in. And then the mountains themselves! Not single, but chains of mountains, each one rearing its mighty front behind the other, as if the boundary of the world.

When Petra withdrew her eyes, everything in the room seemed hallowed by the scene without; it was pure and light,--a frame of flowers for a magnificent picture. She felt surrounded by some unseen presence, observing her deportment, yea, even her thoughts; she went round the room, without being conscious of doing so, and touched the things. Suddenly she caught sight of the life size portrait of a lady smiling down upon her from over the sofa, facing the light. She was sitting with her head a little to one side, and folded hands, her right arm rested on a book, on the back of which, in distinct letters, was inscribed: "Sabbath Hours." Her light hair and fair complexion, shed radiance, imparting a Sabbath peace to all around her. Her smile was grave, but the gravity was affection. She seemed as though she could draw everyone to her in love; she seemed to understand all, for in everything she saw only the good. Her countenance bore traces of delicacy, perhaps this delicacy had been her strength, for there could be no one who dare abuse it. A wreath of everlastings hung above the frame; she was dead.

"That was my mother," she heard softly behind her, and she turned,--it was the daughter, who had gone out and now came in again. The whole room, seemed as it were, filled with the portrait, everything was adapted to it, and the daughter was its quiet reflection; she seemed a little more silent, a little more reserved. The mother received the glance of all, and gave hers fully in return, the daughter bent hers down, but in both there was the same peace and mildness. She had also her mother's figure, but without a trace of weakness,--on the contrary, the bright colours in her tight-fitting dress, in her apron, and little silk neckerchief fastened with a Roman pin, cast a glow of freshness over her face, and yielded a charm, which made her at once the daughter of the portrait, and the nymph of the place. As she was walking there among the mother's flowers, Petra felt a strong drawing towards her; in the presence of such a woman, and in such a place, everything good must grow;--dare she but step within! She now doubly felt her loneliness; her glance followed Signe incessantly, Signe felt it and tried to evade it, but it did not help, she felt embarrassed, and stooped down over the flowers. At last Petra discovered her impropriety, she felt ashamed, and would have apologised, but there was something in the neatly arranged hair, the fine forehead, and the dress, that bade her be cautious. She looked up at the mother; her, she could already have embraced! Was it not as if she were bidding her welcome. Dare she believe it? No one had ever looked thus at her before; it seemed to say that she knew all that had happened to the wayfarer, and would yet forgive her. Forbearance, she stood in need of, and she could not take her eyes from this benevolent glance,--she put her head to one side, like the portrait, she folded her hands like it, and almost without knowing it, she exclaimed: "Oh let me stay here!" Signe rose and turned towards her, she could not answer for amazement. "Do let me stay here!" begged Petra again, advancing a step towards her: "It is delightful!" and her eyes filled with tears.

"I will ask my father to come," said the young lady. Petra watched her till she passed within the study door, but as soon as she was alone, she was afraid at what she had done, and she trembled when she saw the dean's astonished face at the door. He came a little better dressed than before, and with a pipe in his mouth; he held fast hold of it, taking it from his lips at every whiff, and emitting the smoke in three puffs, each with a little smack; he repeated this two or three times, as he stood before Petra in the middle of the floor, not looking at her, but as if waiting for her to speak. She dare not before this man repeat her request; he looked so austere. "You wish to stay here?" he asked, and he gave her a quick bright side glance. Her terror made her voice tremble a little: "I have no place to go to."--"Where are you from?" In a low tone she gave the town and her own name. "How did you get here?"--"I do not know, ... I am seeking ... I can pay for myself, ... I, ... Yes, I don't know," she could say no more for a minute, then she took fresh courage and continued: "I will do everything you tell me, if only I may stay here, and not have to go further ... and not have to ask any more." The daughter had followed her father in, but remained standing by the stove, where without looking up, she was fingering the dried rose leaves that lay there. The dean did not reply, one could only hear the puff of his pipe, as he looked alternately at her, Petra, and the portrait. Now the same thing may give two very different impressions: while Petra was praying that the portrait might influence him to lenience, he thought it whispered: "Protect our child; take no stranger in to her!"--He turned with a sharp side glance to Petra: "No, you cannot remain here!"

Petra turned pale, drew a deep heavy sigh looked round hesitatingly,--and then rushing into a side room, the door of which stood half open, she threw herself down beside a table, and gave full vent to her grief and disappointment! Father and daughter looked at each other; this lack of manners,--rushing into another room without a word, and then sitting down by herself, was only a counterpart of her former proceeding,--coming in from the road, begging to stay with them, and bursting into tears when she did not get permission. The dean went after her, not to speak to her, but to shut the door. He came back quite flushed, and said in a subdued tone to the daughter, who was still standing by the stove: "Have you ever seen her equal?--Who is she? What is her object?"--The daughter did not at once reply, and when she answered it was in a still more subdued tone than the father's.--"She goes the wrong way about, but there is something very remarkable in her."--The dean paced up and down, looking towards the door; at last he stopped and whispered: "She cannot be altogether in her right mind?"--and as Signe did not answer, he came nearer and repeated more decidedly: "She must be crazy, Signe, half-witted; that is the remarkable about her."--"I don't think so;" replied Signe, "but she is certainly very unhappy," and she bent down over the dried rose leaves with which she was still toying.

The tone of the voice, as well as the movement would have been in no way striking to another; but it changed the father at once, he walked a few times up and down, looking at the portrait; at last he said, very slowly: "You mean, because she looks unhappy,--that mother would have bidden her stay?"--"Mother would not have given any answer for two or three days," whispered the daughter, bending lower over the roses. The gentlest reminder of her up there, when the daughter brought it thus before him, could make that hairy lion head as mild and gentle as a lamb's. He felt the truth at once, and stood like a school boy caught in a trick; he forgot to smoke and walk up and down, and after a long time he whispered: "Should I bid her remain a few days?"--"You have already answered her."--"Yes, but it is one thing to receive her altogether, and another to let her stay here a few days."--Signe seemed to be pondering the matter, and said at last, "Do as you think best." The dean would prove the matter yet once more, as he paced the room again, smoking hard. At last he stopped: "Will you go in, or shall I?"--"It will certainly do most good if you go," said the daughter and looked mildly up.

He was just going to turn the door handle, when a loud peal of laughter was heard from within,--then silence and again another roar. The dean, who had turned back, went forward again, the daughter after him; for there must be something the matter with the one in there.

When the door opened, they saw her sitting just where they had left her, but with a great book open before her, over which she had thrown herself without knowing it. Her tears had trickled down on to its leaves; she observed it, and was about to dry them, when her eye caught sight of an expression of the juicy sort, which she remembered from the street days of her childhood, but which she had never thought to see in print. In her amazement, she forgot to weep, but buried herself in the book,--what an absurd book it was!--She read with open mouth, it grew worse and worse, so low, but so irresistibly amusing, that it was impossible to give up, she must read on; she read, till she forgot all else, she read away both sorrow and hunger, both time and place--with old Father Holberg, for him it was. She laughed, she roared--even now when the pastor and his daughter were standing over her, she did not observe how grave they were, she never thought of her request, but laughed and asked: "Whatever is this, whatever in the world is this?" and she turned to the title page.

Then she grew pale, looked up at them, and down again in the book at the well-known characters; there are things that strike the heart like a cannon ball, things that we believed to be hundreds of miles away, we see straight before us,--here on the first page was written: "Hans Odegaard." Blushing crimson she cried: "Is the book his,--is he coming here?" she got up.--"He has promised to do so," answered Signe,--and now Petra remembered, that there was a minister's family in Bergen's shire, whom he had met abroad.--She had travelled only in a circle, she had come just in his path. "Is he coming directly? Perhaps he is here now?" she would at once fly further.--"No, he is ill," said Signe.--"Yes, that is true, he is ill," said Petra, painfully, and sank down.

"But tell me," exclaimed Signe, "is it possible you can be----?" "The Fisher Girl!" put in the pastor. Petra looked up entreatingly at them. "Yes, I am the Fisher Girl," she said.

But her they knew quite well; for Odegaard had talked of nothing else. "That is another matter," said the dean,--he perceived there was something wrong, needing a little friendly help;--"stay here as long as you will, we shall help you!" Petra looked up in time to see the warm look Signe gave him in thanks; this did her so much good, that she went across, and took both Signe's hands, saying, though bashfully: "As soon as we two are alone, I will tell you all!"

One hour after, Signe knew Petra's whole history, which she at once communicated to her father. On his advice, Signe wrote the same day to Odegaard, and continued to do so; as long as Petra was in their house.

When that evening Petra laid down to rest, in the soft eider down, in a warm room with crackling birch wood in the stove, and the New Testament laid between the two lights on the white toilet table,--she thanked her God, as she took the book, for all, the evil as well as the good.

As a young man, the dean with an ardent temperament and talent for oratory, had wished to study for the ministry; his parents, people of wealth, had been against it; they would have preferred to see him choose what they called an independent position; but their opposition served only to increase his zeal, and when he had graduated, he went abroad to study further. During a preliminary stay in Denmark, he used often to meet a lady, who belonged to a religious sect not sufficiently strict for him, and to whom he was therefore opposed: he sought continually to influence her, but the way in which she looked at him, thereby bringing him to silence, he could never forget during the whole of his sojourn on the continent. When he returned, he at once visited her. They had a good deal of intercourse, and grew in intimacy, till at last they became engaged, and were soon after married. And now it was evident that each of them had their own private thoughts; he had purposed to draw her over with all her simple grace, to his gloomy teaching, and she had been so innocently certain of being able to win his power and eloquence over to the service of her church. His first most cautious attempt was met by her first most cautious:--he drew back, disappointed, mistrustful. She saw it at once, and from that day he watched for her next attempt, while she did the same for his. But neither of them tried it again, for both had become afraid: he was afraid of his own passionate nature, and she, lest by a vain attempt, she might spoil her opportunity of influencing him; for she never gave up hope,--she had made it the aim of her life. But it never came to a conflict; for where she was, such could not be; yet to his active will, his repressed emotions, he must give vent, and so it happened every time he entered the pulpit and saw her seated below. The members of his church were drawn in with him as in a whirlwind, he excited them, and soon they him. She saw it, and sought to give rest to her foreboding heart in deeds of benevolence,----and later, when she became a mother, in the daughter, on whom she lavished her tenderness, physical and mental, and bore her to her quiet hours. There she gave, there she took, there in the child's innocence, she watched over her own great child, there she held the feast of love, and from there she returned to him in his strictness, with the united mildness of a woman and a Christian;--it was impossible for him to say anything that could wound her then. He might indeed love her above all else on earth, but he grew more sorrowful, the more he became convinced that he could not help her in the matter of her salvation. With a mother's quiet right, she withdrew the child also from his religious instruction; the child's songs, the child's questions soon became a new and deep source of pain to him,--and now when his violent agitation had excited him to hardness in the pulpit, his wife only received him with the greater mildness as they walked home together. The eyes spoke, but the mouth not a single word. And the daughter clung to his hand, and looked at him with eyes that were the mother's.

All sorts of subjects were discussed in this house, only not that which was the root of all their thoughts. But at length this strain could be born no longer; she smiled still, it is true; but only because she did not venture to weep. When the time drew near that the daughter must be prepared for confirmation, and consequently by the right of his office, he could draw her as quietly over to his instruction, as hitherto the mother had held her in hers, the anxiety rose to its height, and after the Sunday when the noting down of the candidates for confirmation was announced, the mother became ill, like we are when wearied out. She said smilingly, that she could not walk any more, and a few days later, also smilingly, that how she could not sit. Though she could not speak to the daughter she would yet have her always beside her, for she could see her. And the daughter knew what she would most like; she read to her out of The Book of Life, and sang to her the hymns of her childhood, the new and peaceful hymns of her fellow believers. It was long before the dean realised what was here preparing; but when he did realise it, he lost the threads, he could only keep his thoughts to one point,--to hear her say something to him, just a few words, but she was not able to do it; she could no longer speak. He stood at the foot of the bed, and watched, and prayed; she smiled upon him, till he fell on his knees, took the daughter's hand and laid it in the mother's, as if he said: "Here, you take her,--with you she shall ever remain!" Then she smiled as never before,--and in that smile she passed away.

After this, it was long before the dean could be led into conversation; another was appointed to perform his duties,--he himself wandered from room to room, from place to place, as though seeking something. He went about quietly; when he spoke it was in a subdued tone, and it was only by adopting the whole of this silent method, that little by little, the daughter could share his society. But now she helped him in his search, every word of the mother's was recalled,--what she would have wished, became their guide for the future. The daughter's communion with her, that to which he himself had been a stranger, was now lived over again;--all was gone over afresh from the first hour the child could remember; the mother's hymns were sung, her prayers were prayed, the sermons she had thought most of, were read over one by one, and her explanations and observations upon them, lovingly remembered in faith. Thus roused to activity, he felt a desire to visit the place where he had found her, there, in the same manner, to follow in her footsteps. They went, and in making her life entirely his own, he partly recovered. Himself a new beginner, he took an interest in every new effort around him, the great, the small, national, political,--which gave him back much of his own young life. His powers streamed in again, and with them his longings,--now he would preach the Word so that it would prepare for life, and not alone for death!

Before he again shut himself in with his beloved work in his mountain home, he felt a desire to take an enlarged view of the world elsewhere. They therefore continued their journey further, and had now many pleasing remembrances.

Among these people lived Petra.

IX.

APPREHENSIONS.

One Friday, a few days before the Christmas of the third year, the two girls were sitting together in the evening twilight, and the dean had just come in with his pipe. The day had passed as most others during these two years; a walk began the mornings, after breakfast an hour's practising, next languages or other studies, and then a little occupation in household duties. In the afternoon, each in her own room, Signe busy to-day in writing to Odegaard, after whom Petra never enquired, even as she never would speak of the past. Towards dusk, a sledge drive, and now they were in, to converse or sing, or later to read aloud. For this the dean always joined them. He read remarkably well, and his daughter not less so; Petra learnt the style of both, and especially their pronunciation. The tone of Signe's voice and accent was so pleasing to her, that it rang in her ears when she was alone. Petra held Signe in such high estimation, that the fourth part a man would have taken for ardent love; she often made Signe blush. By the dean or Signe reading aloud every evening, (Petra was not to be persuaded to do it;) they had gone through the chief poets of Scandinavia, and besides had read many of the best works in foreign literature; the drama was preferred. Just as they were about to light the lamps this evening to begin, the kitchen maid came in and said, that there was some one outside who had a message for Petra. It proved to be a sailor from her native place; her mother had enjoined him to seek her, as he was going in that direction, he had now come seven miles out of his way, and must hasten back, as the vessel would be sailing. As Petra wanted to talk with him, she went part of the way along the road, for he was a dependable man whom she knew. The evening was rather dark, and there was no light from the windows except in the wash house, where they were having a great wash; there was no light on the road, and the road itself could scarcely be seen, till the moon rose over the mountains; but Petra went boldly on into the forest, though there were weird shadows cast among the branches. One piece of intelligence especially had enticed her to go with him: the sailor had told her that Pedro Ohlsen's mother was dead, whereupon he had sold the house, and moved up to Gunlaug, where he occupied Petra's room. This was about two years ago, yet the mother had never named a word about it. Now, however, Petra could judge who it was that had written the letters for her mother, a question she had often asked, but always in vain; for every letter concluded with these words: "and a greeting from the one that writes this letter." The sailor had it in charge to ask her, how long she was going to stay at the deanery, and what she intended to do afterwards. Petra replied to the first that she did not know, and to the second that he must tell the mother, there was only one thing she wished in the world, and if she did not get it, she would be unhappy all her life; but just now she could not say what it was.

While Petra was talking to the sailor, the dean and Signe were sitting in the dining room, talking about her to whom they were both very much attached. Then the steward came up, and after giving in his report for the day, he asked, if either of them knew, that the young lady living with them went up and down from her room by a rope-ladder at nights. He had to repeat it three times before either of them could conceive what he meant; for he might as well have told them that she went up and down on the moonbeams. It was dark in the room, and now it became perfectly still; not even the sound of the dean's pipe. At length, with a certain dull clink in his voice, he asked: "Who has seen it?"--"I have; I was up attending to the horses, it would be about one o'clock."--"She went down by a rope ladder?"--"And up again."--Again a long silence. Petra occupied the room above, that looked on to the farm yard; she was alone there, no one except her had a room on that side of the house, so there could be no mistake who it was.--"It may have been in her sleep," said the steward about to withdraw.--"She could not make the rope-ladder in her sleep," said the dean.--"No, that was what I thought too, therefore I judged it was best to tell it to him, father; I have not mentioned it to any one else."--"Is there any one that has seen it besides you?"--"No,--but if he, father, doubts the matter, let the rope-ladder itself be the witness; if it is not there, I must have been wrong."--The dean rose up quickly. "Father!" begged Signe.--"Bring a light," said the dean in a way that did not allow of any opposition. Signe lit it herself. "Father!" she begged once more, as she gave it him.--"Yes, I am her father too, as long as she is in my house; it is my duty to look into it,"--he went before with the light, Signe and the steward after.

Everything was in order in the little room; only a whole row of books lay open on the table in front of the bed, one on the top of the other. "Does she read at night?"--"I don't know, but she never puts her light out BEFORE one o'clock." The dean and Signe looked at each other,--they separated at the deanery about ten or half-past, and they re-assembled again in the morning at six or seven.--"Do YOU know anything about it?" Signe did not reply. But the steward who was down on his knees in the corner, seeking, answered from there: "She certainly is not alone."--"What is that you are saying?"--"No, there is always some one with her, talking to her; they often speak very loud; I have heard her both plead for herself and threaten. She must be in the hand of some evil power, poor thing!" Signe turned away; the dean had grown deathly pale.--"And here is the ladder," said the steward, he pulled it out, and got up. Two clothes lines were fastened together by a third, tied in a hard knot, then carried across and fastened in a knot about half a foot below, then back, and so on till the ladder was long enough. They examined it carefully.--"Was she long away?" asked the dean.--The steward looked at him, "How, away?"--"Was she long away, when she came down?"--Signe stood and shivered from fear and cold.--"She did not go anywhere, she went up again."--"Up again? Then who went away?"--Signe turned, and burst into tears. "There was not any one with her that evening, it was yesterday."--"Then there was no one on the ladder except her?"--"No."--"And she went down and up again directly?"--"Yes."

"She has been proving it then," said the dean, and drew a long breath as if relieved.--"Yes, before she let any one else go," added the steward. The dean looked at him: "Then do you mean this is not the first she has made?"--"No, otherwise how could people have got up to her?"--"Have you known a long time that some one came to her?"--"Not before this winter, when she began to burn her lamp at night. It never struck me before to go down there."--"Then you have known it the whole winter," said the dean severely; "why have you not told me before?"--"I thought it was some one belonging to the house that was with her;--but when I saw her on the ladder last night, it struck me it might be some one else. If it had struck me before, I should have mentioned it before."--"Yes,--it is clear enough she has deceived us all!" Signe looked up imploringly. "She should not have a room so far away from the others," observed the steward, rolling up the ladder. "She should not have a room beneath my roof," said the dean, and went; the others followed.

When he had gone down, and set the light away from him on the table, Signe came and threw herself into his arms,----"Yes, my child, this is a fearful disappointment." Shortly after, Signe was sitting in the sofa corner, with a pocket handkerchief before her eyes, the dean had lit his pipe, and walked quickly up and down. Suddenly there was a scream from the kitchen, and they heard the servants run up stairs, and rush along the passages overhead; they both hastened out: Petra's room was on fire! A spark must have fallen from the light in the corner, for the fire had sprung from there, and in a moment blazed along the wall-paper, and reached the wood work of the window, when it had been observed by some one passing by, who had run into the wash house and told them about it. The fire was soon put out; but in the country, where everything has its even routine from one year's end to another, any sudden interruption causes great excitement. The fire is their worst, most dangerous enemy, never out of their thoughts, and when he thus comes in the night, thrusting his head up over the precipice, and licking greedily after his prey, they tremble, and do not regain composure for weeks, some not even for life.

When after this, the dean and his daughter again stood together in the dining room, the lamps having been lit, they both felt there was something ominous in the thought, that Petra's room had thus been destroyed, and all traces of her burnt out. At the same moment, they heard her clear voice, calling and questioning; she sprang up and down stairs, ran from the attic to the passage, from the passage to the kitchen, and finally came rushing in with her things on: "Heavens! my room is burnt!" No one answered, and in the same breath, she asked: "Who has been there? When did it happen? How did the fire break out?" The dean now replied, that it was they who had been there: they had been looking for something; he gave her a penetrating look. But Petra did not give the slightest sign of finding this anything wonderful, nor did she betray any fear for what they could have found. She did not even suspect anything wrong when Signe did not look up from the sofa; she attributed it to her fright from the fire, and she never ceased asking, how it had been discovered, put out, who had got there first, &c., and as she got no answer quickly, she ran out as she had come in. But she soon came rushing in again, having partly taken off her things, and told them how she had seen the light herself, and run so fearfully, but was so glad now to find it was no worse. So saying, she took off the rest of her things, carried them out, and coming in again, she seated herself at the table, talking incessantly, of what this and that one had said and done, the whole place indeed was turned upside down, and it was very amusing. As the others continued silent, she expressed her regret that it had spoilt the evening for them; for she had been looking forward with so much pleasure to "Romeo and Juliet," which they were then reading aloud; she was going to ask Signe that very evening to read that scene over again, that she thought the finest of all: the parting of Romeo and Juliet on the balcony. In the midst of her chattering, one of the girls from the wash house came and said that they were short of clothes lines, there was one bundle missing. Petra grew suddenly red and got up; "I know where it is, I will go for it," she went a few steps, then remembering the fire, she stopped: "Goodness, it will be burnt! it was in my room!" Signe had turned towards her, the dean took a full view from the side: "What do you do with clothes lines?" He breathed heavily, he could scarcely speak. Petra looked at him, his fearfully grave look made her half afraid, but the next moment it made her laugh, she strove a minute against it, but looking at him again, she burst into such a hearty fit of laughter that she could not stop;--there was no more of a troubled conscience in it, than in a rippling brook. Signe heard it in her voice and sprang up from the sofa: "What is it, what is it?"--Petra turned round, laughed and hopped about, she ran to the door, but Signe stopped the way: "What is it, Petra, tell me?" Petra ran behind her as if to hide, but continued to laugh immoderately. No, guilt does not behave so, now the dean could see that too;--he who stood on the point of bursting into a rage, hopped down into laughter instead, and Signe after him; nothing in the world is more catching than laughter, and especially laughter that is entirely incomprehensible. The vain attempts which now the dean, now Signe made to get to know what they were laughing at, only made them laugh the more; the maid, who was standing waiting, at last could resist it no longer, and began to roar; she had that extraordinary laughter as though it came from a pit with hoisting and heaving; she felt, herself, that it did not suit to fine furniture and people, so she hastened to the door to give free vent to it in the kitchen. Of course she took the contagion with her there; soon a whole volley of laughter poured in from the kitchen, where they knew still less what they were laughing at, and this made the laughter in the dining room break out anew.

When at last they were almost done up, Signe made a last attempt to get to know the cause: "Now you must tell me!" she exclaimed, holding Petra's hands.--"No, not for the world!"--"Yes, but I know what it is!" she said: "and my father knows as well!" Petra screamed and slipped loose, but on reaching the door, Signe caught her again, then Petra turned to free herself, she would get away at any price, she laughed while she struggled, but there were tears in her eyes; then Signe left loose,--Petra ran, and Signe after her, till they reached the room of the latter. There they embraced each other, "Mercy! do you really know?" whispered Petra.--"Yes, we were up in your room with the steward, who had seen you,--and we found the ladder!"--Fresh screams, and fresh flight, but this time only to the sofa corner, where she hid herself Signe came, and bending over her, she whispered in her ear, all about their journey of discovery, with its pleasing consequences;--that which an hour ago had cost her both tears and fears, seemed now so amusing that she told it with humour! Petra listened and stopped her ears, looked up and hid herself by turns. When Signe had finished, and they were sitting together in the darkness, Petra whispered: "Do you know how it is? It is impossible to sleep at ten o'clock, when we go to our rooms, that which we have read has far too much power over me. So I learn it by heart, all the best pieces,--I know several scenes, and read them aloud to myself. When we came to Romeo and Juliet, it seemed the most delightful thing upon earth; I grew wild, I must try that with the rope ladder, I had never thought anyone could go up and down on a rope ladder.... I got hold of some ropes,--and there that fellow was standing below and watching me!--Yes, but it is nothing to laugh at, Signe, it is so boyish, I shall never be anything else than a boy,--and now to-morrow I shall be a laughing stock for the whole neighbourhood." But Signe, who had begun to laugh again, kissed her, gave her a clap, and ran out, saying: "No, I must tell father!"--"Are you mad, Signe!"--and away they rushed. The dean was just coming out to see what had become of them, and they nearly knocked him over; Signe told him the whole story.

After tea where she was duly teased by the dean, Petra, by way of punishment, was to recite what she knew by heart. It proved to be a fact that she knew all the most celebrated scenes and not only one part in them, but all. She recited as if she were reading, now and then she was almost on fire, but then she would suddenly check herself. The dean had hardly observed this, before he would have a little more expression, but it only made her more shy. The recitation continued several hours; she knew the comic scenes as well as the tragic, the playful as well as the serious;--her memory both astonished and amused them, she laughed, and told them only to try her.

"I wish the poor actors had but the eighth part of the memory you have!" said Signe.--"God preserve her from ever being an actress," said the dean, at once becoming earnest.--"But father, you don't suppose Petra has any idea of such a thing?" said Signe laughing: "I have always observed that any one educated from youth up in the poetry of his language, has no longing at all to go upon the stage, while those who do not know much about poetry till they are grown up, revel in the thought of it, it is the longing of poetry, a longing all at once awakened in them that impels them."--"That is very true; it is not often that a really educated person will go upon the stage."--"And still more seldom one poetically educated," said Signe--"Yes, if it occurs there is a want in the character, which allows vanity and levity to get the upper hand. In my travels abroad, and also when studying, I became acquainted with many actors, but I have never known, and I have never heard of any one knowing an actor, who led a really Christian life. I have seen that they have felt themselves called, but there is something restless and unsatisfying in their occupation; they have found it impossible to collect themselves--even long after they have left it. If I have spoken with them about it, they have admitted and lamented it, but yet they have at once added: 'But we may console ourselves with the thought that we are not worse than so many others.' But this is what I call poor consolation. A life that does not in any way build up our spiritual manhood, is a sinful life. The Lord help them, and may He keep pure hearts away from it!"

The next day, Saturday, the dean as usual was up before seven, went his morning round among the labourers, and then going further, he returned in daylight. As he was going past the house to the farm yard, he saw an open exercise book, or something of the sort, which must have been thrown out of Petra's window the evening before, and not found, because it was the colour of the snow. He took up the book, and carried it in with him to his study; in opening the leaves to dry them, he saw it was an old French exercise book, in which verses were now written. He never thought of reading the verses, but he caught sight of the word, "Actress," written all over,--even in the verses themselves ... He sat down to examine it.

After repeated erasures and corrections, he came at last to the following rhyme, which though not copied, could still be read:

And a little below the following:

Under this, was a verse, in imitation no doubt, of a poem they had read a few months before:

And after repeated corrections, marks and notes:

Then distinctly and clearly, the following letter:

Finally in large letters, written distinctly and several times over, the following verse; she might have found it somewhere, and wanted to learn it by heart:

There was a great deal more, but the dean did not read it.

Then it was to be an actress that she had entered his house, and taken instruction from his daughter. It was with this secret aim, she was so eager to hear them read aloud, and then afterwards learn by heart. She had been deceiving them the whole time; even yesterday, when she seemed to be telling them everything, she was hiding something: when she seemed to laugh so innocently, she was lying.

O this secret purpose! That which the dean had so often condemned in her presence, SHE embellished with the calling of God, and dared to ask His blessing upon it! A life of appulance and frivolity, of jealousy and passion, of idleness and sensuality, of lies and growing unprincipledness, a life over which the vultures gather, as over a carcase, was that to which she longed to attach herself, and prayed God to consecrate! And it was to this life, that the dean and his daughter had helped her forward in the quiet parsonage, under the watchful eyes of the awakened church.

When Signe, bright and cheerful as the winter morning, came in to greet her father, she found the study entirely filled with tobacco smoke. This was always a sign of trouble, but especially so early in the morning. He did not speak a word to her, but gave her the book,--she saw directly it was Petra's; a shadow of the mistrust and pain of yesterday, came over her, she dared not look at it; her heart beat so violently that she was obliged to sit down. But the same word that had attracted the dean's attention, caught hers too; she must see more, so she read on. Her first feeling was one of shame--not for Petra,--but because her father had seen it too.

But she soon experienced the deep mortification, that comes when we find ourselves deceived by one we love. For a moment, the one who has been able to do it, seems greater, more ingenious, wiser than we, yea, he may even glide into the mysterious. But soon the mind is aroused in indignation; integrity is strengthened by the powers which are not secret, though they are unseen: we feel able to defy a hundred cunning devices; we DESPISE, what at first caused us mortification.

Petra had seated herself at the piano in the dining room, and now they heard her singing:

And then a storm swept over the instrument, and out of it burst the following song:

No, this was too much for the dean, he snatched the book from Signe's hand, and rushed to the door; this time she did not hold him back. He went straight to Petra, threw the book on the piano before her, turned, and strode across the room; when he came back, she had risen, and pressing the book to her heart, she looked all round with a confused expression. He stopped to give her his full mind, but his anger at the thought that for more than two years he had been made use of by this wily girl, and especially that his warm-hearted, affectionate daughter had been duped by her, came so forcibly before him, that he did not at once find words,--and when he did find them, he felt they were too hard. After striding once more across the floor, and once more coming opposite to her, his face scarlet, he turned his back, and without a word walked into his study. When he came there, Signe was gone.

All that day they kept to their own rooms. The dean dined alone, neither of the girls appeared. Petra was in the housekeeper's room, which had been alloted to her since the fire; she sought all over for Signe to explain to her, but in vain: she could not be at home.

Petra felt this to be a decisive moment in her life. Her most secret thoughts had slipped from her, and they would try to exert an influence over them, which she could not bear. She knew best herself, that if she relinquished this object, she would be driven at the mercy of the winds. She could be light-hearted with the light-hearted, and confidential with the confidential, hopeful in everything, but it was in the strength of that secret purpose,--that some time she would be able to secure that after which her powers were yearning. To confide in any one, after that first baulking attempt at Bergen,--no, she could not do it, not even in Odegaard himself! She must be alone in it, until her aim had grown so strong, that it could bear to hear the doubts that would be breathed upon it.

But now it had happened otherwise: the dean's fiery red face looked continually down upon her scared conscience.--She must save herself!--She sought for Signe more earnestly and hurriedly in the afternoon, but still she was not to be found. The longer one whom we seek hides from us, the greater we depict the cause of separation, and thus it was, that at last she made herself believe it had been treachery against Signe, secretly to use her friendship for that which Signe thought to be a sin. The omniscient God must be her witness, that this view of her conduct had never struck her before; she felt herself a great sinner.

Just as before at home, she now stood with the feeling of a great sin upon her conscience, of which a moment before, she had no suspicion. That that terrible experience might be repeated, augmented her vague fear to terror; she saw before her a future of unhappiness. But in proportion as her own guilt increased, Signe's image stood forth in purity and disinterested attachment.

It had grown dark, wherever Signe had been she must have got home. She ran down the passage leading to the wing where Signe's room was; the door was locked,--a sign that she was there. Her heart beat as she took hold of the handle, and begged again: "Signe, let me speak to you!--Signe, I cannot bear it!"--Not a sound; Petra bent down to listen, and knocked again: "Signe, oh Signe, you don't know how unhappy I am." No reply; long listening, still none. If one gets no answer, one doubts at last if anyone is there, even if one knows there is someone, and if it is dark, one gets afraid. "Signe,--Signe! if you are there, be merciful,--answer me,--Signe!" All was silence; a cold shiver came over her. The kitchen door opened, and quick steps were heard in the court yard below. This gave her a thought, she would go out herself, get up on the ledge on the wall of the wing, and go round the whole building to get to the other side where it was very high. She would see Signe.

It was a bright starlight night, the mountains stood in sharp outline, the snow sparkled, the dark footpaths only increased the sharpness of the light; from the road the sledge bells were sounding, she felt inspirited, and sprang up on the ledge. She tried to hold fast by the outside boarding of the house, but she lost her balance and fell. Then she rolled an empty cask against the wall and got up from it on to the ledge. By moving hands and feet together, she could get about half a foot at a time; it required a strong hand to keep fast; she could not get well hold for the boards were scarcely an inch thick. She was afraid lest any one should see her, for they would naturally connect it with the rope ladder. If she could but get away from this side that faced the farm, and out on to the cross wall; but when at last she did get there, a new danger awaited her; there was nothing before the windows, and she had to stoop down, in great fear of falling, every time she passed them. The long wall was very high, but there was a gooseberry hedge to receive her if she fell; she was not afraid. Her fingers tingled, her muscles quivered, but on she went. A few steps more and she would reach the window. There was no light in Signe's room, and the blind was not drawn down; the moon was shining full in, so she would be able to see into the farthest corners. This gave her fresh courage, she reached the window ledge, and at last could get a full hold and rest; as she got near, her heart began to beat so that it almost took her breath, but as it only grew worse by waiting, she must make haste--so she suddenly leaned right against the window. A sharp cry answered from the room. Signe had been sitting in the sofa corner, she sprang on to the floor, and with both arms warding off the fearful apparition, she rushed out of the room.

In a moment Petra realised what her unfortunate freak had done;--this figure against the window, this thoughtless repulsive boldness--; her image henceforth would be a constant terror to Signe; she lost consciousness, and fell with a piercing shriek.

The people in the house had run out on hearing Signe's scream, but found nothing,--another scream,--the whole farm was astir; they sought, they called, but in vain; it was purely accidental that the dean came to look out of the window in Signe's room, and in the moonlight saw Petra buried in the bushes. It was with great difficulty they could get her extricated and carried up; she was taken into Signe's room, as the housekeeper's was cold, she was undressed and put to bed. Some of them bathed her hands and neck, while others made the room warm, light and comfortable. When she came to herself, and looked about, she begged to be left alone.

The quiet comfort of the room, the fine white dimity that draped the window, dressing table, chairs and bed, reminded her at once of Signe. She thought of her pure loveliness, her mild voice that flowed milk white, her delicate feeling for the thoughts of others, her gentle benevolence. She had shut herself out from all this; she must soon leave the room, and probably the house. And where to then? She could not expect a third time to be taken up from the highway, and if she could, she would not; for it would end only in the same way. No human being could have confidence in her; whatever the cause, she felt that it was so. She had not got a step further, she never could get further; for without the confidence of her fellow creatures, she could not succeed. How she prayed, how she wept! She fell back and wrung her hands in an agony of mind, till she was fairly exhausted and slept.

In her sleep, everything became snow white, and by-and-by lofty; she had never before seen so high and so brilliant a glitter of millions of stars.