Nevertheless, when her botanists came back from their wanderings, with their green tin wallets full of mystic treasures unguessed at by the uninitiated, she was eagerness itself to know whether they had had "good hunting." And when Gerda said:
"Wicked old Tante, you know you are interested in these things," she answered gaily:
"No, no; but I have accepted my fate. Since my best beloved ones are all scientific sillies, I have to appear to be interested in what they do."
She felt it to be her duty to secure, on behalf of science, a big study for her botanists, and Mor Inga let her have a vast room in one of the out-buildings.
"They must have plenty of room to quarrel in," she explained to Mor Inga. "Everything goes so much more easily if there is generous space."
"And," she added to herself, "it is my experience that scientific people are safer caged up in their laboratories and studies. You know they are all right then. When they are wandering about, they might get lost; but when they are shut up, they are comparatively safe, barring brain fever and explosions, of course."
So she caged her botanists, and felt herself free to amuse herself with human nature whilst they were immersed in the study of nature.
"Well, then, good-bye for the moment," she said, when she shut them up for the first time. "I will now go and have a few disagreeable words with that horrid Sorenskriver, who dislikes my belovèd English. I will go and sit quite near him, and knit my stockings for the dear English soldiers. That annoys him beyond everything. What a delight to see his irritation! Poor Sorenskriver! He suffers, and I enjoy. That is the way in life, and very amusing too. My poor dear ones, what a pity you cannot have a little fun too. Well, I suppose you do get it through your microscopes."
But they had a great deal of fun in a quiet way. No one could be long with Tante without catching a little of her gaiety; and even Ejnar was heard to laugh sometimes over matters which had nothing to do with his work. And Gerda left her cage and went singing in the birchwoods above the Gaard, and along the mountain paths. She was content, too, and had forgotten about the saxifrage. And Tante attempted short little strolls along the easiest road, and always stopped by the black hay-barn near the group of mountain-ashes, which rejoiced her eyes. Here she sat down and took out her opera-glasses, really to observe the clouds, though she pretended always to be looking at the numberless Gaards and barns which covered the hillsides and mountain-slopes. But once she forgot her rôle of indifference to nature, and cried enthusiastically to Gerda:
"By St Olaf! I never saw such soft clouds in my life, nor such colours! And just look at the reflection in the rivers, Gerda. Sapristi, how beautiful!"
"What is this I hear?" cried Gerda. "Tante admiring nature!"
"Oh, that's a big Gaard—that yonder," said Tante, correcting herself with a twinkle in her eye. "I wonder what the name is, and how many cotters they have, and how many children, how many cows up at the Saeter, how many goats, how many cheeses they make, how many sheep they have; whether Bedstefar and Bedstemor are alive, and whether they have as comfortable quarters as our Bedstefar and Bedstemor. Ah, and that reminds me that I am drinking coffee with Bedstemor this afternoon. Help me up, Gerda, and don't stand staring at that cloud as though you had never seen one in your life before."
So Tante drank coffee with picturesque old Bedstemor in the old dower-house of the Gaard.
The principal dwelling-place of the Gaard had been considerably added to in modern times. The old part was in the middle, and new wings had been built on either side, a whole new storey with a slate roof added, and a new balcony and porch. So that the Gaard proper, in which Mor Inga reigned, was a curious mixture of the old and the new: the new part being painted pink, and the old part keeping its ancient glory intact. But Bedstemor's house was untouched by modern hands; in fact, all the houses which formed part of the settlement were just as they had been for two or three hundred years. Bedstemor's house was the largest of them all. There were about eight or nine others, all black or dark brown, all with their roofs covered with long grass, amongst which grew poppies, corn-flowers, and forget-me-nots. They were grouped together round the courtyard, as quaint and picturesque a sight as one might see anywhere. The Stabur stood somewhat apart from the other buildings, and was raised above the ground by tree-trunks which looked like elephants' legs. The Stabur had a conceited, self-contained look after the manner of all true Staburs. It seemed to be saying all the time, "Behold me, I am the Stabur!" The possession of a white bell-tower on its grass-grown roof, and of an old carved door, encouraged its self-importance, and gave it an air of distinction not enjoyed by the other houses. Still, they had their tall white chimneys; and it is obvious that one cannot have everything in life. And some of them also had a more picturesque situation than the Stabur: creeping up the hill, indeed, as though they were thinking of climbing up into the woods, but had stopped to rest by a mountain-ash, or by a graceful birch; whilst others, mounting higher, came to a standstill at last and were used for storing wood. Then there were hay-barns of various sizes and shapes, the most characteristic being those with sloping bridges leading up to the top floor. And last, not least, there was the great cowhouse, forsaken now except for five or six cows which had not gone up to the Saeter. And Ingaros, the most beautiful cow of all, christened after Mor Inga, was sulking partly because she had not gone up to the Saeter, but chiefly because she, the belle of the Gaard and the authorised leader of the herd, had been deprived of her noble collar and bell. Some wretched upstart of a creature was wearing it, so that she might be sure to come home to her calves.
Ingaros had Tante's profound sympathy. She visited her in the cowhouse at milking-time, and exchanged a few understanding greetings with her. Old Kari was milking her and singing a soothing little song, something about a saeter-girl who lost all her cows, and she danced and they all came back again, and then she sang and sang till they ran away again! Tante stood and listened delightedly to the clear, sweet voice of the old woman.
"Ja, ja, Kari," she said, "I believe I have some coffee-berries in my pocket. Such a song deserves a good cup of coffee."
"Stakkar!"[E] said Kari, smiling with delight. "Thou art a kind one, although thou art not Norwegian. Thou shalt hear all the tunes I know."
It was a hot afternoon. Ejnar and Gerda had had a quarrel over "Salix." Ejnar's face wore the dynamite expression, and Gerda was white with anger. Her glacier eyes looked like the eyes of a polar bear, and she was moving her head to and fro in a manner which always meant rebellion. On these occasions she longed for a divorce.
"Give me a divorce at once!" she cried tragically both to Ejnar and Tante.
"My dear one," remarked Tante soothingly, "I don't keep divorces ready in my pocket; and you know Ejnar never has even a handkerchief in his pocket. You should have a divorce at once if we had one handy. Be reasonable. Have I ever denied you anything in this world? Of course you should have one instantly."
Ejnar was silent; but his expression was quite enough to blow up all the royal palaces and personages in the universe. Tante herself did not feel too amiable that afternoon. She had had an angry discussion with the Sorenskriver and another man, a Norwegian fur-merchant, about England; and she was shocked to hear them say things against the English which she knew to be not only untrue, but venomously unjust.
"Why," she said, flourishing her knitting-needles, "even the greatest criminal has some redeeming features. And as with criminals, so with countries. But you leave England no virtues: not one."
The men shrugged their shoulders. It was so obvious to them that England had no virtues. It was so obvious to them that they, who had never been to that detestable country, knew far more about the character of the people than this ridiculous old Danish woman who had spent about twenty years amongst the barbarians. Tante was ruffled. And Ejnar, being in a disagreeable mood, had chimed in too against this much-abused nation.
"Ja," he said in his quiet way, "it is a barbarous country, this England. I know nothing about politics, thank heaven, nothing about wars and so forth. But this I can tell you: that England is the only country which refused to exchange botanical specimens with our Botanical Museum. The barbarian director wrote a rude letter."
"I've told you a dozen times, Ejnar, that it was all probably owing to Red Tape," replied Tante angrily. She could have shaken Ejnar.
"And pray what is this Red Tape?" asked the Sorenskriver contemptuously.
"It is an invisible thread which no one has been able to cut, so far," said Tante. "Every one knows it is there and deplores its presence. If it could once be cut, it would shrivel away, and one of England's dangers would be gone."
"Then you admit she has dangers?" asked the fur-merchant, triumphantly rubbing his hands.
"Ja, ja," said Tante Knudsgaard; "but the greatest of them is Red Tape. She suffers from it in everything—both in war and in peace. But she will overcome all her difficulties and emerge."
"Never, never!" said the Sorenskriver and fur-merchant joyfully together. "Her day is gone."
"Then her twilight and her night will be like the glorious midnight sunlight of your north," said Tante, turning to the fur-merchant who came from the north.
"Pyt!" said the fur-merchant scornfully, and went away.
"Sniksnak!" said the Sorenskriver impatiently.
Tante made no reply, but went on knitting; and in a few minutes finished a sock, which she spread on her knee, and then added it to a great pile beside her on the seat of the courtyard verandah, where every one was awaiting the arrival of the letters.
"That makes twelve pairs for those brave English soldiers," she said, half to herself. And the Sorenskriver moved nearer to the horrid spectacle, attracted to the spot against his own wishes. Tante laughed silently; but, all the same, she was ruffled. Every one was more or less cross.
Solli was worried about the crops, for there had been no rain for a long time, and both corn and potatoes threatened to fail. Also, there was a shortage of water, and that made him anxious about fire. Also, Bedstefar was more ailing than usual, and the doctor had been sent for. Bedstemor came over from her house, sat near Tante, and grumbled a little because Bedstefar was so obstinate about the doctor. But she cheered up when a Swedish lady, an artist, one of the guests, praised her quaint, old-fashioned head-gear, and wanted to take a photograph of her pretty old face.
"Ah," said Bedstemor, "many people have wanted to take a picture of me."
And then every one laughed, and said:
"Ja, Bedstemor, we can well believe it!"
That seemed to put every one in better spirits again; and soon beautiful Ragnhild came out of the kitchen with a bundle of letters and papers, and was the centre of an eager circle. Ejnar stood apart, near the Stabur, not being concerned with human affairs. But Ragnhild had a letter even for him, and took it to him herself. She and all the peasants had a great respect for scholarship.
"There is a letter for the professor. Will he care to have it?" she said gently.
She handed it to him in her own charming way, and even Ejnar was pleased; for Ragnhild was the object of great admiration amongst the men, although she kept them at a distance. And all the women, too, admired her, and were glad when she came amongst them. Tante gave her a good hug when she dropped several letters and papers into her lap, and got in return an affectionate pat of approval on the back.
"Thou hast more than thy share of letters to-day," she said. "I shall give thee none to-morrow."
"I don't want any more!" cried Tante, who had just glanced at one of her letters. "Only think, Ragnhild, some dear friends of mine are coming here. I should like to dance the Halling dance. Help me up, kjaere. I want to dance over to the Botaniker. No use calling to him. He never hears human sounds."
Then gaily the pretty girl and the old Danish woman went arm-in-arm to the Stabur, near which Ejnar and Gerda were standing, their heads buried in a letter. They looked up when they saw her, and cried:
"Such news! such news! It has come from America. She will bring it to us at once. We have only to write and say where we are."
"And I, too, have something coming from America," cried Tante. "My Clifford and his boy!"
"Only think, Tante, that valuable botanical parcel at last!" cried Gerda wildly.
"Only think, my poor icebergs home again!" cried Tante, putting her arm round each of them. "What could be more delightful! Your dried-up flowers and my frozen-up human beings! Let us all be friends again and have some aqua vitæ. I feel at peace even with that wretched old magistrate!"
"Oh, Gerda," said Ejnar, "what joys are before us! Just think of it—the Mariposa lilies and the Romney poppy at last!"
When they had all calmed down a little, Tante read Katharine Frensham's letter, and learned that she wished to bring the botanical parcel as soon as she knew whether Herr and Frue Ebbesen could receive her. She had heard from Professor Thornton that they were perhaps going to Norway. If they had already gone, she could just as easily come there. She added:
"It is curious that I, who knew nothing about Professor Thornton a few weeks ago, should all the time have been in communication with the nephew and niece of his dear Danish friend."
"Ja," said Tante, "waves—waves—wireless telegraphy, as always."
There was a sentence in Clifford's letter which struck Tante as being a remarkable thing for him to have written.
"I have become acquainted with a Miss Frensham," he wrote, "to whom I have given a letter of introduction to you—though she will scarcely need it, being, as she is, on a botanical errand to Ejnar and Gerda, and therefore to you. But I desired not to be left out in the cold where she is concerned."
"Well," reflected Tante, "that is a remarkable thing for an iceberg to say."
And she read the sentence several times in order to make sure that she had caught the meaning. The rest of the letter ran thus:—
"Dear Old Knutty,—Alan and I are coming back, and we shall come and find you somewhere and somehow. We have not been happy together. There is a shadow between us—that shadow which I always feared,—and he has something against me in his young heart which makes easy and close companionship impossible. We have both suffered. There was a man of my own age with his son, a boy of Alan's age, on board. I used to look at them with hungry eyes. They had such a good understanding between them; there were no shadows there. He was a great traveller, an ornithologist. And his boy thought he was the finest hero on earth, and worshipped him. I would not wish that; but I would only ask that Alan should believe in me again, as in the old days before—before Marianne's death. It will be good to hear your voice again, even if you do scold me for throwing over Japan. But, under present conditions, it is waste of money and waste of heart-fibre. Alan will be happier without me. Perhaps you won't scold me after all, Knutty. You are such a wise old Knutty; and I still think you were wise to send us in spite of everything."
"Of course I was wise to send you, my poor Clifford," Knutty said, as she read the letter over and over again in the quiet of her beautiful big bedroom, with its lovely views of the valley, the wood, and the grass-roofed houses. "Of course I was wise to send you—even if you came back the next moment. That doesn't matter. It is the starting-off which counts. My poor boy, I won't scold you. My good, gentle-hearted Clifford. You ought to have had a heart as tough as Knutty's. You would not have wanted to gnaw it then; no temptation then. My poor boy!"
She rubbed two or three tears away from her cheeks, and tapped the floor impatiently with her foot.
"Bah!" she said; "that Marianne, I never could bear her!"
And then something prompted her to turn once more to his letter, and she read the words, "But I desired not to be left out in the cold where she is concerned." A faint smile came over Knutty's face. It disappeared, came again, stayed, deepened and deepened.
"By St Olaf, I believe I see daylight!" she cried.
So Katharine started off to Norway, taking the boat from the London Docks. By a curious chance Mrs Stanhope was on board too, and the presence of this bigot, Marianne's friend, Clifford Thornton's enemy, stirred Katharine to her depths. They had bowed stiffly, and then had contented themselves with glaring at each other.
It was a rough passage, and they were the only two women who did not retreat to their cabins. They sat side by side, in silence, in a sheltered part of the boat, having no choice to go elsewhere.
But although no words were spoken between them, an active warfare went on unceasingly: encounter after encounter, and the victory to neither.
The voyage came to an end, Christiania was reached, and the two women went, each her own way; each thankful to be free of the other.
But Mrs Stanhope, without knowing it, had sown fresh seeds of love and protection in Katharine's heart for Clifford Thornton. More than ever her thoughts turned to him. More than ever she found herself weaving a fancy fabric of happiness and love. Then she rent it in pieces and began it over again. She had to begin it again each time she had destroyed it, and each time some new beauty was added.
And thus busy with her work of destroying and restoring, the train bore her past beautiful Lake Mjösen, the biggest lake in Norway, and into the Gudbrandsdal, where she at once made the acquaintance of the river Laagen, the glacier river which Knutty, Ejnar, and Gerda were learning to love in their upland Gaard. She thought of them as old friends. It seemed to be quite natural that she was coming to them. She longed to see Knutty. She knew that she would not have one minute's shyness with Clifford's old Dane.
But she had not any idea how eagerly she was awaited. Tante was most impatient to see her, and kept on murmuring to herself, "By St Olaf, I see daylight through a leper's squint!" And when asked to explain these mysterious words, she only said:
"Keep to your own department, botanists. Don't interfere with the section marked human nature."
And Ejnar and Gerda were wild with delight, and even spoke soft words together about "Salix." Of course they only looked upon Katharine as the bringer of the parcel: having no value in herself, being, as it were, only a base instrument. It made no difference to them whether she was fair or dark, tall or short, agreeable or disagreeable, electric or soporific, with an attractive aura or an antipathetic personality.
"What on earth does it matter so long as she brings the parcel safely?" said Ejnar, in answer to Tante's repeated, "I wonder whether."
"That sort of thing matters very much to people who are alive," replied Tante sternly. "Of course to people who are prematurely dead, like botanists, nothing matters except the parcel. My belovèd Ejnar, I am delighted to see you so happy; but I must entreat you not to sing. You are frightening the horse; he looked round then to see whether an ostrich was driving him. And you observe we are on the most dangerous part of the cliff. Don't let us have an accident until we have embraced the parcel and received the bringer of it with indulgence.—And do remember to thank her, Gerda. And don't let Ejnar ask for the parcel the minute he sees her. Let us show the English barbarian woman that we know how to behave.—Ah, here we are on the level. Now, Ejnar, you can sing as much as you please. What a curious voice—not human! The sort of voice you would expect a decaying plant to have. But how happy you must be! You don't often sing, I think."
"Ja, I am very happy," said Ejnar, smiling radiantly. "I only sang once before in my life, after Gerda accepted me, when I was alone in the woods."
"A good thing she didn't hear you, or else she might have changed her mind," remarked Tante.
"Dear ones, dear ones," said Gerda, "here is the train. Oh, Ejnar, how I hope we shall not quarrel over the parcel. I know we shall, though."
They hurried out of the carriage, all of them in a state of great excitement, and Tante, very red and hot, but her face beaming with kindness and pleasant expectancy. She looked up and saw Katharine standing at the window.
"That is Miss Frensham," she said.
"How do you know?" said Gerda and Ejnar. "You've never seen her."
"Instinct, stupid ones!" answered Knutty breathlessly. "Of course it is Miss Frensham. Come along now, and remember to say nothing about the parcel, Ejnar."
Then she pressed forward, and just as Katharine was stepping out of the train, she put out her hand and said: "Welcome, Miss Frensham. I am Fröken Knudsgaard, and these are my botanists—your friends. We are so glad to see you."
"Ja, ja!" cried Ejnar and Gerda.
"And I to see you," Katharine answered. "It is like coming to see old friends. And I have the parcel quite safely here in my little travelling-box. I put it there so that there might not be one moment's delay. For, of course, you must be feeling impatient. I am sure I should."
With those simple but magic words Katharine immediately won her way into the botanical hearts of the botanists; and Knutty, looking at her dear frank face and delightful appearance, felt a glow of pleasure such as she had not been conscious of for many long years.
Then the clever Norwegian ponies, those yellow little fellows, full of mountain-wisdom and resource, drew the carriage slowly up the winding road which led to the Solli Gaard. Like all true Norwegians, they did exactly what they wished: rested when they wished, and went on when they wished: went very near the edge when they felt so inclined, or paused to drink of the brook running into the hollow tree-trunk placed there for their benefit. As Knutty said, they allowed plenty of time to look at the graceful birches which crept up from the valley, lined the hillside, were shimmering in the sunlight, trembling in the breezes, and sending out their own delicious fragrance laden with subtle sweetness.
"Ja, ja," said Knutty, "the birches are at their best to-day, to welcome the Englishwoman to beautiful Norway!"
The contents of the parcel exceeded the botanists' wildest expectations. They were radiantly happy over it, and delighted with Katharine. She had stamped herself on their minds as a woman of sense, who had understood that the parcel had been the entity and herself the non-entity.
"Obviously a person of discernment," Ejnar remarked several times to Tante, who laughed secretly when she observed that the impersonal botanist was beginning to show distinct signs of human appreciation as well. He even left his study once or twice, and came to sit with the ladies on the balcony, bringing his long pipe with him. He did not speak much, of course, and when he did he never touched on human affairs. But Katharine had seen these flowers, and in an unscientific but vivid way she could tell him a little about them, and a great deal about the botanists who had sent the precious gift. Gerda and he listened with rapt attention while she described to them the Colorado botanists' herbarium. She told them that they were rich, but that they did not care for a grand house. They lived in a small 'frame house,' and had built a princely herbarium, which, together with their wonderful botanic garden, was the chief feature of their property.
"They do not care about human grandeur," Katharine said, in conclusion.
"That is as it ought to be," exclaimed Ejnar and Gerda approvingly.
"All the same," remarked Tante, "I would prefer to inhabit that herbarium, and put the stupid dried plants in the cottage. But then I know I have a base human soul. Always have had—isn't it so, dear ones?"
"Yes, yes," said Ejnar and Gerda. "And you've always liked comfort."
"Yes," replied Tante—"good English comfort. Give me good English comfort and mange tak![F] Let me be base and comfortable, like my darling, much-abused English people."
"Are you really so fond of them, Fröken Knudsgaard?" Katharine said warmly; for every one feels a glow of pleasure at hearing one's country praised in a foreign land.
"Ja, I love them," Knutty replied, smiling at her; "and I spend half my time in fighting their battles. Even here I have several deadly conflicts every day with a Norwegian magistrate and a fur-merchant from the north. But now you've come, you can defend your own country much better than I can. But I shall always be delighted to help."
"Ja, she loves them," said Gerda. "And that Englishman of hers is the only person for whom she cares in the whole world. Ejnar and I have been jealous of that Englishman ever since I can remember."
"I have told you hundreds of times that it is absurd to be jealous of an iceberg," Knutty said, with a twinkle in her eye.—"You know, Miss Frensham, they are speaking of my dear Clifford Thornton, whom I've known and loved ever since he was seven years old. There is no one like him on earth——"
"Ak," said Gerda, "if she begins to talk to you about her Englishman, all is lost. Don't encourage her, Fröken. Take my advice. Tell us something more about the Colorado botanists and their garden. Moreover, the Englishman is soon coming himself. That will make her happy."
"He is coming," Katharine said eagerly, turning to Tante; "he is coming here?"
"Yes," said Tante, nodding at her.
And the quick old Dane glanced at her and saw how the light of a great happiness had come into her eyes.
"Yes," Tante said; "he has given up the journey to Japan, and I suppose he and his boy will be here in a week or so."
"In a week or so?" Katharine repeated, as though she could scarcely believe it.
Then, with a gaiety which delighted them all, she turned impulsively to the botanists and continued telling them all the details she could remember of that wonderful garden and the interesting collection of cactuses, and the different kinds of pepper-trees. And Gerda and Ejnar, entranced, kept on saying:
"Ja, and what more?" And Tante kept on thinking:
"Surely I see daylight! But, good heavens, what can we do to get rid of these botanists? Wretched creatures! Why don't they go back to their study provided so thoughtfully by me? And what a darling she is, and how delightful to look upon, and with a fine temperament. Simple and easy as a child. Built on a big scale, mind and body. Like the Gaard itself. Ja, ja. And then to think of that Marianne! Ak, what a brute I am! Never mind. Let me remain a brute! Oh, those botanists! If only they would go to their study and quarrel about the Mariposa lily, or cactuses, or salix, or something. And just look at Ejnar! He is becoming human. He is leaving the vegetable and entering the animal kingdom. By St Olaf, he has picked up her handkerchief! Ah, and here is Ragnhild coming to the Stabur to ring the bell for dinner. Nå, after dinner, we can have a talk about my Clifford."
So after dinner Tante took entire possession of Katharine, but much against the botanists' wishes. And Gerda said privately:
"Well, at least, don't bore her by talking about your Englishman all the time. You yourself saw how glad she was to get away from a subject which could not possibly interest her, and to continue to talk to us about Arizona and Colorado."
In answer Tante had a mysterious attack of laughter, and gave Gerda a specially affectionate hug; and, having assured her that she would use moderation, walked off with Katharine to show her, so she said, the principal sights of the Gaard, and to introduce her to some of her intimate friends, all of whom were interested in the arrival of the Englishwoman, the first English person they had ever seen. Knutty was proud that Katharine had such a fine appearance and such a charming way with every one. The Sollis, Johann himself, and Mor Inga, in their grave, reserved fashion, were kindly to her; and Karl, a most unemotional creature, was quite excited when she spoke some German to him. Bedstemor arrived on the scene, having heard that an English guest had come to the Gaard; and when Katharine was presented to her, she greeted her with great dignity, and said to Tante:
"She is nice looking, this Englishwoman. But thou shouldst have seen me when I was young."
This was translated to Katharine, who said to Tante:
"Tell her that I can see her in my mind's eye as a beautiful young girl; but she has not forgotten how to be beautiful in her old age."
Bedstemor was gratified, patted her on the back, and told her that she might come one day and drink coffee with her and see her wedding-cap.
Then she was introduced to old Kari, whom they passed on their way to Tante's favourite resting-place, an old black barn near a group of mountain-ashes. Kari was standing outside the great cowhouse; she looked at Katharine critically, seemed to approve of her, and said:
"She is nice looking, and strong too. She could do a good day's work in the fields. And how many children has she got?"
"Well, I suppose she has not any," laughed wicked old Tante. "She is not married."
"Perhaps she will find a husband here," said Kari reflectively.
"Perhaps she will," laughed Tante; and she was passing on when Kari came a little nearer to her and said mysteriously:
"If thou wilt come into the cowhouse to-morrow, I think I can tell thee something thou wilt like to hear—about the Huldre,[G] the beautiful long-tailed one—but thou must come alone. And I will sing to thee again very willingly, for thou art a kind one. And to-morrow Mette makes Fladbröd.[H] If thou dost wish to see her make the Fladbröd, thou shalt most certainly. Ja, and Mette can sing too. Thou shalt hear her also."
Then she nodded and disappeared into the cowhouse. Tante and Katharine paused for a moment to look at the picturesque winter-house of the seventy cows, and its long, grass-grown roof, its two bridges leading up to the top floor, where some of the hay was stored, and its most curious gap in the centre of the upper floor, through which one could see enclosed in a great oblong frame the valley below, the rivers, and the distant mountains. Tante pointed out this beautiful picture to Katharine and said:
"You know, I really enjoy Nature very much, although I pretend not to do so just to tease Ejnar and Gerda. Ah, they are dears, both of them. It was good of you to come and bring them their parcel. You do not know how eagerly you have been looked for—by them and by me. Of course they wanted their parcel; but I had another reason for being eager to receive you. May a wicked old woman tell you something some day?"
"Tell me now," Katharine said, turning to her.
"Well," said Tante recklessly, "it may be only an old woman's fancy; but he said in his letter that you did not really need a letter of introduction to me, since you were coming to see Ejnar and Gerda, and therefore me."
"But he felt that he could not be left out in the cold where you were concerned."
"Did he say that?" asked Katharine, with a tremor in her voice.
"Yes," answered Tante; and they strolled on together in silence until they came to the hay-barn on the hillside, near the mountain-ashes, Tante's terminus. There they sat, still in silence, but with their hearts and thoughts charged with the remembrance of Clifford Thornton. It was a long silence, probably the longest which Knutty had ever endured without impatience; for an instinctive comradeship had sprung up between her and this Englishwoman in whose eyes the light of love had come when Clifford Thornton's name was spoken. They were both glad to be together, and they knew it. At last Knutty said:
"My dear, since we are both thinking of him all the time, shall we not speak of him?"
And Katharine looked up and answered simply:
"Yes, let us speak of him."
So they spoke of him: Knutty with warm affection and pity; Katharine with sympathetic interest. That was all. She spoke of him as one traveller might speak of another traveller, both of them having met on some mountain-path in a distant land, spoken some words of greeting, and then passed on. That was all the personal part she thought she put into it.
But Knutty listened, and heard distinct unspoken words.
Katharine spoke a fair amount of German, and some of the guests at the Gaard spoke a little English. The fur-merchant from Tromsö spoke English well; but he scorned at first to show any sign of friendliness to any one from such an abominable country; and the Sorenskriver was consistently careful not to be betrayed into the most primitive form of politeness to this Englishwoman. He knew, of course, that she spoke and understood German; and he went out of his way on several occasions to make in his aggressive voice disparaging remarks about England, using for this purpose the language of Germany. At first Katharine took no notice; but after a day or two of quiet forbearance she said to him at dinner, fearlessly but politely:
"Herr Sorenskriver, you insult my country every time we sit down to dinner. I am sure you do not intend to insult me personally. But you see, Englishwomen love their country passionately, although they may know and share its faults. May I ask you to use the Norwegian language, which I do not understand, when you feel particularly insulting? If, however, you want to discuss England with me, then let us speak German together; and I will tell you all I know, and listen to all you have to say. That is quite another matter. Then you shall say all you have to say against us; and I will answer you if I can, and bear with your criticisms if I cannot."
Her words were so simple, her manner was so direct, and her own temperamental charm was so irresistible, that England, personified in her, went up twenty-five per cent. in every one's estimation. There was quite a stir amongst the guests; they all left off eating their beloved cloudberries (multebaer), of which the Norwegians think so much, and turned expectantly to the Sorenskriver. The gruff old Norwegian did something unexpected, both to himself and the whole company.
"Ah," he said, "you carry your flag better than I carry mine, Fröken. You are right and I am wrong."
Then he lifted his half-filled glass and turned to her with an almost shy smile on his face.
"Skaal!"[I] he said.
"Skaal!" she answered, raising her glass too, and smiling at him.
"Bravo—skaal to them both!" said every one with one accord; and no one was surprised afterwards to see the Englishwoman and the Sorenskriver strolling off together in the direction of the foss in the birch-woods above the Gaard.
Katharine had conquered him, and the fur-merchant was the next person to capitulate. He was heard saying to the Swedish professor that, when all was said and done, the English were people of spirit, and whatever their politics might be, they were honourable people to trade with. Ejnar, too, forgot for the moment about the barbarian authorities at Kew Gardens, and gave such remarkable signs of wanting Katharine's companionship, not at all from botanical reasons, that Gerda began to complain to Tante that he was neglecting his work and not taking the least interest in the Romney poppy. And once he came back from a short expedition which he himself had planned, leaving poor Gerda to look for the little rare plant which was the object of the expedition. He said he was tired and wanted to go home; and he fetched his long pipe and established himself in a corner of the verandah where Tante and Katharine were sitting. Gerda came back angry and wanted a divorce; but Tante laughed and said to her:
"Don't be with him. It is only an aberration. It won't do you or him any harm. He will soon be ready to quarrel with you over the Romney poppy. And you cannot possibly be angry with her. She knows nothing about it. Every one likes her; she wins every one. It is her nature; her temperament; her aura. If she has won the Sorenskriver, she could win the most ferocious Trold ever heard of in Norwegian lore. Don't be angry with anybody. I think I ought to be the one to be angry. He always interrupts our conversations. And you always want her when you can get her. Everybody wants her. Even Bedstemor likes to talk with her. I can scarcely get a word in. Poor old Tante."
"You wicked old woman, you were talking to her for hours yesterday," said Gerda, laughing.
"Nå," said Tante, "yesterday is not to-day."
"I cannot think what you want to talk to her about," said Gerda.
"There are other subjects besides the 'botanik,'" remarked Tante sternly.
"And, after all, you are both strangers," said Gerda.
"Strangers very often have a great deal to say to each other," answered Tante. "Ah, and here she comes. Now I insist on you dragging your wretched Ejnar off to your study and keeping him there. Have a quarrel. I mean a real botanical quarrel. Do, kjaere. You have not had one for quite two days. Talk about Salix. That is always a safe subject for a quarrel. And you need not be afraid that I will bore the barbarian woman. I will speak only of subjects which interest her."
No, Katharine was not bored. She drifted to Tante on every possible occasion; and they spoke on many different subjects, but always ended with Clifford Thornton. It was curious how he came into everything. If they began about the customs of the peasants, they finished up with Clifford and his boy. If they started off with Bedstefar's illness, which was becoming more and more serious, they ended with Clifford Thornton. If they spoke of England, it was natural enough that they should speak of Tante's Englishman. If they spoke of America, it was natural enough that Clifford and his boy should slip into the conversation. And if they spoke of Scandinavia, and especially of little Denmark, where he and his boy would soon be arriving, it was natural enough to refer to the two travellers now on their way home to Europe.
"Ja, ja," said Tante, "he always loved the North. I, who taught him, took care about that. And his father before him had loved the North. That was why I was chosen to be the little lad's governess; because I was a Dane—and not a bad-looking one either in those days, let me tell you! Yes, I was chosen out of about ten Englishwomen. I shall never forget that day."
"Tell me about it," Katharine said eagerly; and the old Danish woman, nothing loth, put down her knitting and gazed dreamily out on the great valley below. It was about six in the afternoon. All the other guests had finished their coffee and left the balcony, and Katharine and Tante were in sole possession. There were no sounds except the never-ceasing roar of the foss in the Vinstra Valley.
"It was many years ago," Tante said,—"about thirty eight, I think. He was seven years old when I was called to look after him. I journeyed to a desolate house in the country, in Surrey, and waited in a dismal drawing-room with several other ladies, who were all on the same errand. A tall, stern-looking man came into the room, greeted us courteously, but scanned us closely. And then he said, 'And which is the Danish lady?' And I said, 'I am the Dane.' And he said, 'Do you speak English very badly?' And I said, 'No, I speak it remarkably well.' And he smiled and said, 'Ah, you're a true Dane, I see. You have a good opinion of your powers.' And I said, 'Yes, of course I have.' Then I went with him alone into his study, another depressing room, and we had an interview of about an hour. I saw he loved the North. It was a passion with him. He was a lonely impersonal sort of creature; but his face lit up when he spoke of the North. He asked me to wait whilst he spoke with the other ladies. Lunch was served in the dining-room; and those of us who were not being interviewed, tried to enjoy an excellent meal. But every one was anxious, for the salary was exceptionally high, indeed princely. When all the interviewing was over, he did a curious thing; but I thought it considerate and kind to the little person for whose care he was providing. He went upstairs and brought down to us a desolate-looking little boy, and said:
"'Clifford, my little son, one of these ladies is going to be good enough to come and take care of you. I wonder which is the one you would like best of all.'
"The little fellow shrank back, for he was evidently shy; but he looked up into his father's stern face, and knew that he had to make an answer. Then very shyly he glanced round, and his eye rested on me.
"'That one, father,' he said, almost in a whisper.
"So that was how I came to be his governess. He knew what he wanted when he chose me. I have always wished that he could have known just as cleverly what he wanted when he chose his wife—that poor Marianne."
And here Tante paused, and gave that sort of pious regulation-sigh which we are always supposed to offer to the memory of all dead people, good, bad, or indifferent.
Katharine waited impatiently. She longed to know something about that dead wife. She longed to know something of Clifford's childhood, of his youth, his early career—but chiefly of that dead wife: whether he had loved her, whether she had loved him. She did not try to conceal her eagerness. She bent forward and touched Tante's hands.
"Tell me about her," she said. "I have only heard what Mrs Stanhope said of her."
"Ah," said Knutty, "she was her friend. If you have only heard what Mrs Stanhope said, you have heard only unjust things about my Clifford."
"Yes," replied Katharine, "and believed them to be impossible, and told her so."
"My dear," said Knutty warmly, "you have a mind that understands. Well, about this Marianne. She has gone her way, and I suppose custom demands that one should speak of her respectfully. But I cannot help saying that she had a Billingsgate temperament. That was the whole trouble. She had a great deal of beauty, and something of a heart. Indeed, she was not bad-hearted. I always wished she had been a downright devil; for then my poor Clifford would have known how to decide on a definite course of action. I own that I often wished she would run away with another man. But of course he would have forgiven her. Bah! It was so like her not to run away. Excuse me, my dear. But I have never learnt not to be impatient, even with her memory; for she preyed on his kindness and his great sense of chivalry. I don't know where she originally came from, and whether it was her original entourage which gave her the Billingsgate temperament, or whether it was just her natural possession independent of surroundings. I did not see her until he had married her. When I saw her, I knew of course that it was her physical charm with which he had fallen in love. It could not have been her mind. She had none."
Knutty paused a moment, took off her spectacles to clean them, and then continued:
"He married her in Berlin, and took her to Aberystwith College, where he was Professor of Chemistry for two years. Alan was born there. Then his father died and he gave up teaching. He settled down at 'Falun,' his country-house, and devoted himself to research-work: as far as she would let him. But she was jealous of his work, and I believe did her best to thwart it. I saw that as the time went on. He used to come over to Denmark partly to see me, and partly on his way to Sweden, which is a grand hunting-ground for mineralogists. He had always been interested in mineralogy; indeed, as a child he played with minerals as most children play with soldiers. Well, one morning he walked into my room unexpectedly and said, 'Knutty, I came to tell you I've discovered a new mineral. You know I've had a lot of disappointments over them; but this one has not cheated me. He is a new fellow beyond all doubt. And I felt I must have some one to be glad with me.' That was all he said; but there was something so pathetic about his obvious need of sympathy that I felt sure things were not going well with him at home. When I went over to stay with them, I understood. I had not been three days at 'Falun' before I discovered that Marianne had this unfortunate temperament, the very worst in the world for his peculiar sensitiveness and his curiously delicate brain. I knew his brain well. As a child, if not harassed, he could do wonders at his studies. But he needed an atmosphere of peace, in which to use his mental machinery successfully. I learnt to know this, and I gave him peace, dear little chap, and spared him most of the petty tyrannies which the grown-up impose on youngsters. But Marianne could give him no peace. Peace was not in her; nor did she wish for it; nor could she understand that any one wished for it. Life to her meant scenes: scenes over anything and everything. Day after day I saw the delicate balance of his brain, so necessary for the success of his investigations, cruelly disturbed. But to be just to Marianne, she did not know. And if she had been told, she would not have understood. I tried to hint at it once or twice; and I might as well have spoken in the Timbuctoo original dialect. I did not even offend her. She did not even understand that much of this foreign language. It was all hopeless. Her aura was impossible. So I said 'Farvel,' and I never went to stay with them again for any length of time. But occasionally I went for a day or two to please him. I saw as time went on, that he was getting some comfort out of the boy. That was a comfort to me. But I also saw that the brilliant promises of his early manhood were being unfulfilled. I heard that his scientific friends wondered and mourned. They did not know the disadvantages with which he had to cope. Probably they would not have allowed themselves to be thus harassed. But he was not they, and they were not he. And, after all, a man can only be himself. And if he is born with a heart as well as a brain, and with an almost excessive chivalry for the feelings of other people, then he is terribly at the mercy of his surroundings.
"Yes," she repeated, "at the mercy of his surroundings. And poor Marianne had no mercy on him: none."
"But if she had no understanding, then it was not that she was unmerciful, but only ignorant," Katharine said gently.
"Yes, yes; but it works out the same," Tante answered.
"Not quite," Katharine replied. "It makes one think more mercifully of her."
"Why, that is precisely the sort of thing he says!" Knutty exclaimed.
"Is it?" said Katharine, flushing up to her very eyes. And at that moment there came a sound of sweet melancholy music from the hillside.
"That is Gerda," whispered Tante. "That is one of her favourite Swedish songs—how sweet and melancholy it is."
They listened, arrested and entranced. The stillness of the evening and the pureness of the air made a silent accompaniment to Gerda's beautiful voice.