Pr An CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Joseph Whitmore Barry dramatic library THE GIFT or TWO FRIENDS OF Cornell University 1934 Cornell University Library PT 8817.A7 1890 Arne and The fisher lassie / 3 1924 026 308 928 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924026308928 BOHirS NOVELISTS' LIBRARY. BJORNSON'S TALES. ARNE AND THE FISHER LASSIE. By BJPNSTJERNE BJORNSON. TRANSLATED FROM THE NORSE WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY WALTER LOW. LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1890. CHISWICK PRESS ;— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. THE author of " Arne " and " The Fisher Lassie " has essayed well-nigh every kind of literary composition — the short story, the prose idyl, the novel, the lyric, the epic drama, the stage-play ; he has been for many years past a prominent figure in Scandinavian politics and has had a great share in all the social, educational, and economical movements that have been going on in his country for the last thirty years or more : ^ prose-writer, poet, politician, reformer, philosopher, it is only in the first character that we have to do with him here : nevertheless, a brief state- ment of the principal events in the life of a man of whom it has been well said that he is equally " national leader and national bard, and so thoroughly Norse that to men- tion his name is to unfurl, the flag of Norway " should not be without interest. Some three-score years ago, the pious and stout-hearted Lutheran pastor of Kvikne had a little son born to him. The pastorate of Kvikne lies in a wild rough district of the Dovre Mountains, and the people were wild and rough ' The biographical details in the following pages are chiefly taken from Bjornson's story of " Blakken," and from a Swedish sketch of Bjbrnson's life and works, by " L. B.," published by Bonnier, of Stock- holm. BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. as tlie land they dwelt in ; for many years there had been no pastor there before Bjornson's father went among them, and that was perhaps why (says Bjornson himself in his " Blakken," a tale of his childhood) he got the post — " for men trusted him to manage a boat in a storm." The parsonage, half-way up the mountain, was a lonely, deso- late spot : winter reached it so early, and tarried so late, that the new-mown hay in autumn-time, and tender young crop in spring alike stood in danger of burial beneath the snow. The good pastor (though himself a hardy moun- tain-born native of those parts) must often needs wear a mask to protect his face from being frost-bitten, as he journeyed to outlying districts of his large cure, though perhaps he did not carry pistols with him into the church as his predecessor had done, to guard against human foes. The little boy (as he tells us in "Blakken ") would often sit on the table and look down into the dale, looking long- ingly at the lads sliding along on their skates over the frozen river in the winter, or in summer playing merrily in the fields ; no human playmates came to him so far up the mountains, so he made friends of Blakken the horse, of the little dog "who taught me to steal sugar," and of a cat who one day suddenly walked into the kitchen and so frightened him (for he had never seen a cat before) that he rushed to his parents " pale as a corpse, crying out that a great mouse had walked up from the cellar." There was the pig, too, to whom the little boy gave a silver spoon, to teach him to eat properly, which resulted in the pig's endeavouring to eat his food with a spoon in one sense, certainly. Pig, dog, and cat followed the little boy about in his rambles, and helped him to " kill time well enough, more especially as we all four often took a nap together." Two other of Bjornson's early reminiscences of his first home may find place here before we bid adieu to the good pastor. His son relates how a certain swaggering bully BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. sought out the priest on his arrival at Kvitne, " to teach him the ways of the people." However, he found, to his great dismay, that the " parson " meant to teach him his own way first. The village champion found himself hurled neck and crop out of the pastor's study, whence he came tumbling down the stairs : he picked himself up with all speed, and rushed away from the parsonage. Some- what later, when the Storthing instituted a sort of " school board " system in Norway, the pastor was the only member of the newly-elected body in Kvikne who was bold enough to attend the meeting convened for the purpose of dividing the parish into school districts, etc. His wife begged him not to go, for the parishioners, who thought that "the parson made the law," had gathered together to mob him and prevent him from executing it. Nevertheless, he went, and made out the chart and registers " alone and unaided," according to the best of his ability, among volleys of threats from the crowd ; but when he walked out again, with' the documents under his arm, they made way for him, and no man touched him. Tou can imagine my mother's joy, when she saw him come driving home again, quiet and earnest as ever." Such was Bjornson's father. When the little boy was six years old, his father received the living of Nsesset, in Eomsdal, a lovely valley on the west coast of Norway. It lies in the. middle of such scenery as Gunlaug in " The Fisher Lassie " was bom and lived ia, and which Bjomson loves to describe again and agaia. He has given us a beautiful picture of his physical and spiritual surroundings here in his poem to his father, in which the reader can hardly fail to be struck by the likeness between Signe's gentle, diligent mother (in " The Fisher Lassie ") and his own. From Nsesset he was sent, when twelve years old, to the grammar school at Molde, where, however, "he did not make much progress, and viii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. there were serious thoughts of sending him to sea, as unfit for books." However, in due time he went to the Uni- versity of Christiania, but there he gained no academic distinction. He had already began to write verses and to contribute to the newspapers, when, in 1856, at TJpsala, "he for the first time arrived at a clear understanding of his call to poetry." It was immediately after this that he went to Copenhagen, where he stayed a year, and wrote his first masterpiece " Synnove Solbakken," which ap- peared in 1857, and was followed next year by " Arne." "Folkslif-noveller," "Dorf-Novellen." " Village ISTovels " is the name given to this class of writing ; but, like many other names, it can hardly be of any use save for catalogue purposes. " Novels " they can scarcely be called, in the sense that we use the word in England, and " village " novels they certainly are not, if by that is meant that they have any afiinity with the works of Auerbach in Germany, or the widely different productions of Mr. Hardy in England. Bjornson's " village novels " are pictures drawn by a poet (who uses the prose form to express his thoughts) of the life among dwellers in forest, fjord, or valley. His "plots" (especially in "Arne," "Synnove," " A Happy Lad," etc.) are of the slightest kind, perhaps because he gives us an artistic picture of life, instead of a series of " realistic " photographs. Nor has he chosen to fetter his imagination by preaching any particular set of views, or his artistic faculties by constant analysis of the motives of his characters ; sometimes, when he thinks fit, his creations (e.g. Arne) are introspective as Hamlet himself, at others naive {e.g. Margit) as Dr. Primrose. His " moral " and his " purpose " (I do not speak here of Ms later productions) you must find out for your- self, if you think it worth while; even if one feeling concerning the earthly rewards and punishments of the good and evil men do here seems to some to permeate all BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. his earlier writings, yet Bjornson neTer fashions his work to make it square with his theory : rather, the theory appears to he the natural deduction from the things he has seen and lets us see. "The Fisher Lassie" (which with "Ame" makes up the present volume) belongs to a few years later date (1868) than "Arne," hut the above remarks apply to it as well. It is, however, somewhat more complicated in its plot, and ambitious in its aim ; but the poetical, unornate style, the manly simplicity of expression, the purity of treatment, is the same in each. In these two (as in all his prose work) the lyric strain is ever present, often breaking out in actual metrical form ; while his power of drawing a "dramatic situation" will not be denied by those who call to mind the death of Nils in "Arne," or the theatre scene in "The Fisher Lassie," when Petra finds out " the greatest calling on earth." It is necessary to put a limit to this preface, so I shall content myself with a bare enumeration of his works. His " Polkslivnoveller " have for the most part been mentioned,, viz., " Synnove," " Arne," " A Happy Boy," and " The Fisher Lassie." We add to these a number of short stories ("Blakken," "Thrond," "The Father," ."A Perilous Wooing," etc.), and two later novels, " Captain ManZana " (an Italian story) and "Magnhild," a work scarcely worthy of its author. His play- writing (he has on, two occasions directed a theatre) began with " Valborg," which he wrote in his student days, and sent to the manager of a theatre for representation. It was accepted, but before it was put on the stage the author grew dissatisfied with it and destroyed it. "Between the Battles," "King Sverre," and " Sigurd Stembe " have become national dramas, while a poetical comedy, " The Honeymoon " (" Dr. Nygifte ") is one of his most successful pieces. To under- stand his later works it is necessary to enter into his Hfe BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. as a liberal agitator, as well as the change that has come over his views of religion. That we shall not do here : we shall content ourselves with quoting the remark of the writer in an American review, who tells us that Bjornson " began to own the responsibility to the larger life about him in "The Bankrupt," "The Editor," "The King," "The Grieve," etc. His more recent works, in consequence, deal with " problems," " the same law for the woman and the man," " miracles " — which last, however, serve as a founda- tion for one of his most poetical plays, " Beyond Man's Powers " (" Over ^vne "),■ — " heredity," etc. He is praised for his "frankness" (by the authority quoted above) in his later works, and for his studies in the problem of heredity, &c. (la " Flags in the Town and the Haven ") ; but though all his works are notable — nearly all great — there are some who think that his earlier works (re- garded as literature, not as implements of social reform or studies in scientific morality) far surpass those of his riper years. "Come back again, dear Bjornson, come back, and welcome shall you ever be among us," wrote " one of many " ^ at the time (1879) when the great writer had cast aside his old religious belief, and betaken himself to new paths. Many there are who must wish he would " come back " to his older ways of writing. Of my work as translator in making this version, little need be said: I have endeavoured to always faithfully render Bjornson's meaning, and trust that I have for the most part succeeded. The delicate beauty of Bjornson's style would, of course, be far less evident in any translation than in the original, — at any rate, I am sufB.ciently aware of my own inability to preserve it, and this remark applies naturally with still greater force to the songs and snatches ' In " Oplandenes Avis : " quoted by " L. B." ut supra. BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xi of song througliout the volume. Tor the more successful Tersions of some of the verses in " Ame " (viz. " The Little Lamh," "The Parish and the Wood," "The Sunshiny Day," " The Wonderful Song," etc.) I am indehted to my wife. W. L. CONTENTS OF ARNE. CHAPTER p^Qg I. Pbologue 3 II. Kampen 7 III. The Wedding 17 IV. Daybreak 27 V. Upland Knut 35 VI. Aene's Stoey 41 VII. Self-Repeoach 4g VIII. Eli 53 IX. A Nutting Paety 62 X. At BoENk 76 XI. Between Life and Death 89 XII. Aene's Song 98 XIII. Maegit's Confession 105 XIV. By the Black Watee 115 XV. Aene's Teeasuee 123 XVI. " After Many Days " 138 CONTENTS OP THE FISHER LASSIE. CHAPTER PAGE I. GUNLAUG OF THE HiLL 3 II. Petra's Childhood 13 III. Petea's Teachee 24 IV. A Chain of Gold 37 V. Petea's Lovers Meet 55 VI. Petea's Flight 68 VII. " The Geeatest Calling on Eaeth " . . .82 » VIII. SiGNE AND HeE PAEENTS 100 IX. -Smoke, Fiee and Snow 115 X. A Day of Enlightening 136 XI. Petea's Conseceation 161 XII. The Cuetain Rises 181 ARNE. 6 ARNE. herself very dirty in her fall, but she got up and brushed off the earth. And now on they went again, growing more and more, right up over the side, in sunshine and in rain. " What's aU this about now ? " said the Eavine, when the summer sun rose above them, the dew-drops glittered on them, the birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare frisked hither and thither, and the ermine hid himself with a shrill cry. Then came the day when the Heather got one eye over the edge of the ravine. " Oh ! how lovely, how lovely, how lovely ! " she cried, and on she dashed. " Dear me ! " said Juniper, " what can it be that Heather sees ? " and she pushed on till she too could peep over. " Oh ! how beautiful ! " burst from her, and she, too, sped on. " What's up with Juniper to-day, I wonder ? " said the Fir, making long, quick strides beneath the summer sun. Presently he stretched up on his toes and peeped over. " Oh, how glorious ! " he cried, aU. Ms leaves and prickles standing on end with amazement ; he struggled up over the ledge, got a firm footing, and was off after the other two. " What can it be they all see there that I can't ? " quoth the Birch, lifting her skirts well up, and tripping after them. She got her whole head above the ledge all at once. " Oh, look, look ! — if there's not a great wood of Firs and Heather, and Juniper ajid Birches upon the common there waiting for us ! " cried the Birch, shaking her leaves in the sunlight till the dew-drops trickled sparkling ofE. "Yes," said Jumper, "that's what comes of persevering ! " CHAPTEE n. IT was up at Kampen that Ame was born. His mother was Margit, the only child at the little farm among the crags. When she was eighteen, she stopped too long at a dance one evening ; her friends had gone ofE without her, so Margit thought the way home would be just as long for her, whether she waited till the end of* the dance or no. Thus it came about that Margit remained sitting there till Nils Skreedder,' the fiddler, suddenly laid aside his instrument, as was his wont when he had had more than enough to drink, left the dancers to hum their own tune, took hold of the prettiest girl he could find, and letting his feet keep as good time to the dance as music to a song, jerked ofE with the heel of his boot the hat of the tallest man in the room. '' Ho ! " laughed he. As Margit walked home that night, the moon was making wondrous sport over the snow. When she got to the loft where she slept, she could not help looking out at it again. Taking ofE her bodice, she stood with it in her hand ; she felt that she was getting cold, so she quickly took off her things and dived far down beneath the coverlet. That night Margit dreamed of a great red cow that had got into their field. She strove to drive it out, ' i.e. tailor. 4 ARNE. to do it, it may well be we," said the Fir ; he grasped his shaggy beard, and looked across at the Birch. " What do you think ? " he said. The Birch looked warily up at the rocky wall : so heavy it lay above her,, that she scarce felt able to draw breath. " In God's name let us clothe it," said the Birch, and there was none other to help than these three, so they took it upon themselves to clothe the ravuie-side. The J.uniper led the way. When they had gone a little bit of the distance, they met the Heather. The Juniper was about to go by. " No, let's take the Heather, too," said the Fir. So the Heather went with them. Before long the Juniper began to slip. " Catch hold of me," said the Heather. Juniper did so, and where there was only a tiny crevice the Heather put ia one finger, and where the Heather once put a finger in, there the Juniper worked ia her whole hand. On they clambered upward, the Fir slowly following them, and the Birch labouring after. "But it's Grod's own work," said the Birch. Now the Eavine began to ponder what sort of live creatures it could be that were clawing and creeping up her. When she had thought over it for a couple of hundred years or so, she sent down a Uttle streamlet to have a look. It was in the spring-flood days, and the brook slipped on and on till it came to the Heather. " Heather, dear Heather, can't you let me by ? — I am so little ! " said the Streamlet. The Heather was very busy ; she just raised her head and went on with her work again. Under her darted the Streamlet, and out and on again. " Juniper, dear Juniper, can't you let me by ? — I am so little ! " The Juniper gave her a scrutinizing glance ; but as the PROLOGUE. Heather had let her by, she couldn't be doing much harm if she did the same, she thought. On darted the Streamlet, on and down again, till she came to where the Pir stood, gasping for breath, on the steep hill-side. " Fir-tree, dear Fir-tree, can't you let me by ? — I'm so little ! " said the Streamlet, ,and she kissed his foot, and be- haved so humbly, yet daintily, that he felt quite abashed, and made way. But the Birch drew aside of her own accord, before ever the streamlet asked. " Hi, hi, hi! " laughed the Streamlet, growing bigger and bigger. " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed the Streamlet, still growing. " Ho, ho, ho ! " as she grew greater stiU, and hurled Heather and Juniper, and Fir and Birch flat on their faces and their backs, up and down the craggy boulders. The Eavine sat pondering many a hundred year whether it had not made her smile that day. It was clear enough : the Eavine did not wish to be clothed. The Heather was so much put out that she turned quite green again, and then went on. " Pluck up your heart!" said the Heather. Juniper had got half up to look at the Heather, and went on getting up for so long that at last she was quite upright. She ran her hand through her hair, set out again on her way, and bit so fast hold of the crags that she thought the Eavine could not help being aware of it. " If you won't hold me, I'll hold you, at any rate ! " was what she meant. The Fir bent his toes a bit, to see if they were still sound ; raised himself on one foot, and found it all right ; raised himself on the other, which was unhurt, too ; and then stood up on both. He looked round him to see — firstly, where he had been ; secondly, where he had fallen ; and thirdly, whither he was to go. Then he began to jog along again, and behaved as if he had never tumbled down in his life. The Birch had made 6 ARNE. herself very dirty in her fall, but she got up and brushed off the earth. And now on they went again, growing more and more, right up over the side, in sunshine and in rain. " What's all this about now ? " said the Eavine, when the summer sun rose above them, the dew-drops glittered on them, the birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare frisked hither and thither, and the ermine hid himself with a shrill cry. Then came the day when the Heather got one eye over the edge of the ravine. " Oh ! how lovely, how lovely, how lovely ! " she cried, and on she dashed. " Dear me ! " said Juniper, " what can it be that Heather sees ? " and she pushed on till she too could peep over. " Oh ! how beautiful ! " btirst from her, and she, too, sped on. " What's up with Juniper to-day, I wonder ? " said the Fir, making long, quick strides beneath the summer sun. Presently he stretched up on his toes and peeped over. " Oh, how glorious ! " he cried, all his leaves and prickles standing on end with amazement ; he struggled up over the ledge, got a firm footing, and was ofE after the other two. " What can it be they all see there that I can't ? " quoth the Birch, lifting her skirts well up, and tripping after them. She got her whole head above the ledge all at once. " Oh, look, look ! — if there's not a great wood of Firs and Heather, and Juniper and Birches upon the common there waiting for us ! " cried the Birch, shaking her leaves in the sunlight till the dew-drops trickled sparkling off. " Yes," said Juiliper, "that's what comes of persevering ! " CHAPTEK n. KAMPEN. IT was Tip at Kampen that Ame was born. His mother was Margit, the only child at the little farm among the crags. When she was eighteen, she stopped too long at a dance one evening ; her friends had gone off without her, so Ma.rgit thought the way home would be just as long for her, whether she waited tDl the end of the dance or no. Thus it came about thai Margit remained sitting there till Nils Skrsedder,' the fiddler, suddenly laid aside his instrument, as was his wont when he had had more than enough to drink, left the dancers to hum their own tune, took hold of the prettiest girl he could find, and letting his feet keep as good time to the dance as music to a song, jerked ofE with the heel of his boot the hat of the tallest man in the room. " Ho ! " laughed he. As Margit walked home that night, the moon was making wondrous sport over the snow. When she got to the loft where she slept, she could not help looking out at it a^ain. Taking ofE her bodice, she stood with it in her hand ; she felt that she was getting cold, so she quickly took ofE her things and dived far down beneath the coverlet. That night Margit dreamed of a great red cow that had got into their field. She strove to drive it out, ^ i.e. tailor. 8 ARNE. but, try as she might, she could not stir from the spot. The cow stood there quietly eating, getting fatter and fuller, and every now and again looking up at her with great heavy eyes. Next time there was a dance in the parish Margit was there. She did not care much to dance that evening ; she sat listening to the music, and it seemed strange to her that others did not want to do so too. But when the playing ceased the fiddler rose, and wanted to have a dance. He went straight across to Margit Kampen. She was scarcely aware of anything, but she was dancing with Nils Skrsedder ! Before long the weather grew wanner, and there was no more dancing that spring. Margit was so taken up with a little lamb of theirs that had fallen ill, that her mother thought she was going almost too far. " It's only a lamb, after all," she said. " Yes," replied Margit, " but it's in pain." It was long since she had been to church ; she had rather her mother went, she said, and one of them must stop at home. One Sunday, however, when the summer was getting on, the weather was so fine that the mother thought the hay might well be left out for another day and night, and so they could both go. Margit had notMng much to say against it, so she put on her things; but when they got within hearing of the church bells she burst into tears. The mother turned pale as death. They went on, the mother in advance, Margit following ; they listened to the sermon, joined in the hymns, heard the prayers out, and waited for the bells to peal out the end of worship before they got up to go. But when they were in the room at home again, her mother threw both her arms round her. " Hide nothing from me, my child ! " she cried. Winter came again, but Margit danced no more. Nils Skrsedder went on playing, drank more than formerly, and KAMPEN. 9 wound Tip each party by dancing 'with, the prettiest girl there. It was now said for certain that he could get whichever he wished of the daughters of the richest farmers in the place ; some even added that Eli Boen herself had offered Viinfi the hand of her daughter Birgit, who was sick for love of him. But just about this time it was that a child of the cotter's daughter at Kampen was brought to be christened. It was given the name of Arne, and its father was said to be Nils Skrsedder. The evening of that day Nils was at a great wedding feast : there he drank aU he could. He would not play, but was dancing the whole time, and could scarcely endure any one else being on the floor. But when he came to Birgit Boen and asked for a dance, she refused. He gave a short laugh, turned on his heel, and took hold of the first best girl at hand. She, too, held back. He looked down at her — a little, dark creature, who had sat looking intently at him ; she was now quite pale. He bent lightly over her and whispered : " Won't you dance with me, Karen ? " She did not answer ; he repeated his question. Then she replied, whispering as he had done : " The dance might go further than I should like." He drew slowly back till he got to the middle of the floor, then he gave a sudden spring, and danced the " Hailing " alone. No one else danced : all stood silently looking on. Then he went into the barn, laid himself down, and wept. Margit sat at home with the little boy. She heard about Nils, and how he went from dance to dance ; she looked at the child and wept, looked at him again and was glad at heart. The first thing she taught the boy to say was " Papa," but she dared not do so when the mother — 10 ARNE. or rather grandmotlier, as she was henceforth called — was anywhere near. The consequence of this was that it was the grandmother whom the hoy called " Papa." It cost Margit much trouble to teach him not to do so, and this helped to make him sharp and quick at a very early age. He was not very long before he learnt that Nils Skraedder was his father, and as he was then at an age when all that is out of the common is attractive, he soon got to know what sort of man Nils Skrsedder was. The grandmother had strictly forbidden Nils ever being mentioned ; her great aim in life was to get her little Kampen made into a regular farm, so that her daughter and her daughter's son might be secure. She took advantage of the landlord's poverty to buy the ground, and every year she paid ofE a portion of the money, working like a man, for she had been a widow now for fourteen years. Kampen was big> and grew bigger, so that now it supported four cows and sixteen sheep, besides having half share in a horse. Nils Skrsedder, meanwhile, was still going about the parish ; his business was not so profitable now as it used to be, partly because he took less trouble about it, and partly because he was not so well liked as of old. He . devoted himself all the more to playing the fiddle, and this was often the occasion of his giving himself up to drink, which led him into quarrels and stormy days. There were some who heard him complain of his lot. Arne might have been about six years old when he was one winter's day playing at sailors on his bed : he had put up the white counterpane for a sail, and sat steering with a ladle. His grandmother was sitting spinning, busy with her own thoughts. Every now and then she would nod her head, as if to hold fast the thing she was thinking of. Then the boy knew that she was taking no notice of him, so he began to sing, just as he had heard it, a song about Nils Skrsedder, coarse and low as it was : KAMPEN. H " If you've chanced but a day's length among us to dwell, You have surely of Nils, our brave tailor, beard tell. " If it's more than a day you've been here in our town, Then of com-se you know how he knocked BuUy-Knut down ; "And that off his own barn-roof he pitched Ola Per, With a ' Next time, take food when you fly thro' the air.' " When Hans Bugge was getting so mighty a fame. That the land and the water resounded his name, " In his pride he bragged ' Tailor ! now say, if you dare. Where you'll lie, and I'll spit, and your head shall be there.' " ' Just come here,' answered Nils, • within reach of my arm 1 Don't you know that mere swagger can't do any harm ? ' " So they met : the first grapple proved neither the best, And the hot-headed fellows prepared for the rest. " At the second round, Bugge lost foothold and fell. Have a care to the game, Hans ! j'ou'U need to play well ! " But the third time Nils flings him bead-down on the stones In his blood, as he jeers ' Spit away, lad ! ' Hans groans." The boy sang no farther; but there were tvr.o verses more, which his mother had not taugjit him : "A tree's shadow bast seen o'er pure shining snow pass ? Our Nils hast thou seen, when he speaks with a lass ? " Our fine Nils hast thou seen as he lords it in dance ? Then away from him. Maid, e'er befall thee mischance." These two verses the grandmother knew, and they cam© the more vividly back to her now, just because they were left missing. She said nothing to the boy, but to the mother she said : 12 ARNE. " That's right : let the boy know all your shame ; but don't forget the last two verses ! " Nils had now so given himself up to drink that he was no longer the man he used to be. There were many folks who thought it would soon be all over with him. Kow it happened that there were twQ Americans visiting the place, and they heard that there was a bridal near at hand ; at once they felt a desire to see it, and observe the customs of the people. Nils was playing there. They gave a thaler each to the fiddler, and asked for the " Hailing." No one would take upon himself to dance it, spite of all entreaties. One after another begged Nils himself to dance it; he was the best of them, after all, they said. The more he refused, the more they pressed him, till at last they were all urging him to dance, and that was just what he wanted. He handed his fiddle to another man, laid aside jerkin and cap, and stepped, smiling, into the midst of the group. All the old anxious attention was on Mm now,. and that gave him back his former vigour again. The onlookers pressed round him as closely as possible — those in the background mounted on tables and chairs — and girls strained to look over each other's heads. Foremost among these was a tall lass, with light, tawny- brown hair, blue eyes set deep beneath a broad brow, and a mouth with long curving lips that were often smiling, and were generally a little awry — it was Birgit Boen. Nils saw her as he cast his eyes up towards the rafters. The music struck up : utter silence fell upon aU. Nils threw himself into the dance. He bounded over the floor, glided up the room in time to the music, with his body bending towards the ground, swayed now to one side, now to another, crossed his legs suddenly beneath him, sprang up again, made as if to throw himself over, and then glided along again all aslope. The fiddle was wielded by a doughty hand. The music grew more and more fierce. KAMPEN. 13 Nils threw his head further and further back, and suddenly struck the heam above him ■with his heel, so that the dust came showering down on those below. There were shrieks of wonder and laughter around him, and the girls stood looking at him as if unable to draw breath. The music burst in upon them, and spurred him on anew with more and more energy. Nils by no means held back ; he threw out his limbs, hopped in time to the music, gathered him- self up as if for another leap, then, instead of taking it, glided forward again aslant as before, till, just as he saw no one was expecting it, he dashed his heel against the rafter overhead, and again and again turned a somersault, now forward, then backwards — and stood erect and motion- less on his feet. That was enough. The fiddle gave out a trill and a flourish, and then a few wavering deep tones ; finally, these died away in a single long bass note. The lookers-on dispersed about the room : the breathless still- ness gave way to quick, loud talk, mingled with shouts and laughter. Nils was standing by the wall ; the Americans came over to him with their interpreter, and gave him five thalers apiece. Then there was silence once more. The Americans spoke for a moment or two with their interpreter. Then the latter asked him if he would go with them as their servant ; he should have whatever wa^es he asked for. " Where am I to go ? " asked Nils, while aU the people pressed up to him as close as they could. " Out into the world," was the answer. "When ? " asked Nils, looking round him, with shining eyes, which encountered those of Birgit Boen, and held them fast. " In a week, when they come back," he was answered. " Maybe I shall be ready then," said Nils, weighing his two five-thaler pieces. He had leant one arm on the shoulder of the man standing next to him, and now was 14 ARNE. trembling so that the latter tried to make him sit down on a bench. " O, that's nothing ! " answered Nils, and he staggered for a step or two over the floor. Then he turned quickly, and called for a jig. All the girls had pressed forward. He looked round at them slowly and deliberately, and then went over to one in a dark frock — it was Birgit Boen. He stretched forth his hand, and she put out both hers. He gave a laugh, drew back, put his arm round a girl standing beside her, and danced off with hilarious glee. The blood rushed to Birgit' 8 neck and face. A tall, quiet-looking man stood j ust behind her ; he took her hand, and danced away, close after Nils. The latter saw it, but perhaps it was only from carelessness that he danced so hard up against them, that the man and Birgit fell to the ground with a heavy fall. Birgit got up, crept aside, and burst out bitterly weeping. The quiet-looking man got up more slowly and went straight up to Nils, who was still going on dancing. " Ton must stop a bit," said the man. Nils paid no heed, so the other took him by the arm. Nils tore himself loose and looked him in the face. " I don't know you," he said, with a smile. " No ; but you've got to know me now," said the quiet- looking man, and struck him straight over the eyes. Nils, who was not expecting anything of the kind, fell with a dull, heavy thud right against the sharp comer of the stone grate. He tried to rise again, but could not — his back was broken. At Kampen, things had undergone a change. The grandmother had been ailing of late, but as soon as she perceived it, she began to work even harder than before to get together the money for paying off the last instalment of the debt due on the farm. " Then," she said, " you and the boy will have all you KAMPEN. 15 need ; but if. ever you let anyoDe in to waste it for you, I shall turn round where I lie in my grave." Late in the autumn, she had had the satisfaction of being able to jog up to the former owner with the remains of the debt ; and a happy woman was she when she sat in her chair at home again, and said : " Well, that's done now ! " But that very day she was stricken with mortal sick- ness. She had to take to her bed, and never left it again. Her daughter buried her in the churchyard, where there was room for the sleepers, and set up a fine head- stone, on which were graved her name, her age, and a verse of one of Kingo's hymns. A fortnight after the funeral, the grandmother's black gown was made into clothes for the boy, and as he stood in them, he looked as grave as if she were come back to life again. Of his own accord, he went to the clasped book with big print that his grandmother had read and sung out of every Sunday ; he opened it, and found her spectacles lying there. These the boy had never been allowed to touch all his life ; now he took them timidly up, put them on his nose, and looked through them at the book. All was misty. " That's a very funny thing," thought the boy ; " it was with them that grandmother used to read God's word." He held them up to the light, to see what was the matter with them — and there lay the spectacles on the floor ! He was very frightened, and, as the door at that moment began to open, it seemed to him as if grandmother must be just about to come in ; but it was his mother and six men, who, with much noise and tramping of feet, carried in between them a litter, which they set down in the middle of the room. The door stood long open behind them, so that the cold air came into the room. 16 ASy^E. On the litter lav a man with black hair and a pale face. The mother walked about, weeping. '• Lay biTn carefully dotm on the bed," she besought them, and helped them to do so. But all the while the men were mofing about with him, there was a noise of something being crushed under their feet. " Ah, thaf s only grandmother's spectacles," thought the boj ; but he did not say it. CHAPTEE III. THE WEBDIlfG. THIS was in the spring-time, as we have said. A week after the day that Nils Skraedder was taken to Margit Kampen's, came a message from the Americans that he was to hold himself in readiness. He happened just then to be lying writhing in dreadful pain; he bit his teeth together and cried out : " Let them go to the devil ! " Margit stood still by his bed, as if she had nad no answer. He noticed it, and a moment after, in a weary voice, he repeated : " Let them go ! " Later on in the winter, he had got so far better that he could sit up, though his health was ruined for all his days. The first time he really got up, he drew forth his violin and tuned it, but it worked him up to such a pitch of excite- ment that he had to go back to bed again. He was very silent now, though easy to get on with, and as time went on he began to read with the boy, and to do work in the house ; but he never went out, nor did he talk with people who came to see him. At first, Margit used to tell him news about things in the parish ; but after it he would fall into a fit of gloomy depression, so she gave it up. c 18 ARNE. Wlien spring came, lie and Margit began to sit up later than before, and talk together after their supper. The boy was at those times sent off to bed. Somewhat later in the spring,. their banns were given out in church, and they were shortly after very quietly married. He took part of the work in the fields, and looked after everything sensibly and without fuss. To the boy, Margit said : " There is both help and comfort in him for us. Now you must be good and obedient, and do all that you can for him." Margit had been a buxom lass through all her trouble ; her face was ruddy and her eyes very large, and they looked the larger for the ring that had come round them. Her mouth was firm, and her face round, fresh, and healthy looking, though she was not very strong. Now she looked nicer than ever before, and she was constantly singing, as was her wont when she was at work. Now it happened one Sunday afternoon that father and son had gone out, to see how things were getting on ui the fields. Arne was frisking merrily along by his father, aiming hither and thither with a bow and arrows, which Nils himself had made for the boy. Thus going along, they got on to the road that led from the church and the parsonage into what was known as " The Plain." Nils sat down on a stone by the wayside and was soon lost in thought ; the boy darted about in the road, and ran after his arrows, moving in the direction of the church. " Take care ! " cried the father, " don't go too far away !" Suddenly the boy stopped short in his agile movements, as if he were listening. " Father ! " he shouted, " I hear music ! " The man listened too ; there was the sound of fiddles, and of loud and merry shouts, accompanied by the clatter of horses' hoofs and the rumbling of carriage wheels ; it was a bridal troupe coming back from the church. THE WEDDING. 19 " Come here, boy ! " shouted the father, and Ame knew rem his voice that he must come at once. Nils had suddenly risen, and drawn back behind a great tree. The boy followed. " Not here — ^there ! " And the boy fled behind a clump of alders. Already the train of carriages was tumiag the comer by the birch copse, and they came galloping along : the horses were white with foam, and men and women merry with drink were shouting and singing ; father and son counted carriage after carriage ; there were in all fourteen. In the first sat two fiddlers, and the bride-march rang out through the clear, dry air : a boy stood up behind them, driving. Next came the bride, with a wreath on her head, sitting up erect and bright in the rays of the sun ; she was smiling, with her lips curved sUghtly to one side ; by her side was a man in blue clothes, with a gentle, cheerful face. A long procession followed ; men sitting on women's laps, little lads perched up behind them, drunken folks driving, half- a-dozen pulled along by one horse ; in the last vehicle came the caterer, holding a cask of brandy on his knees. They sped by, shouting and singing, and dashed headlong down the hill. The noise of the fiddlers, the shouts of merri- ment, and the rattling of wheels was borne back through the cloud of dust that followed them, then melted into one single sound, which gave place to a dull murmur, and finally died away. Nils was still standiag motionless, when he heard a rustle behind him ; he turned round ; it was the boy who had crept forth again. " Who was that, father ? " But Ame started as he saw the gloom on his father's face ; he stopped for a moment, waiting for an answer, and then remained standing still when he got none. At last his patience gave out, and he ventured to speak again. " Sha.U we go ? " he murmured. 20 ARNE. Nils seemed still to be looking after the bridal train, but now he pulled himself together, and began to move. Arne followed him. He put an arrow to his bow, shot it away, and ran off after it. " Don't tranjple the grass down ! " said Nils, sternly. The boy let the arrow lie where it was, and came back again. Presently, though, he forgot, and whilst the father stood still again, he threw himself down on the meadow, and began turning somersaults. " Don't trample the grass down, I tell you ! " cried Nils, and pulled the boy by the arm as if he meant to dislocate it. After that, the boy followed his father in silence. Margit stood in the doorway waiting for them ; she had just come back from the cow-house, where she must have been hard at work, for her hair was all untidy, her linen was soiled and stained, and her clothes were in the same state ; but she smiled as she stood there in the doorway. " Some of the cows got loose," she said, " and did some mischief, but they're made fast again now.'' " Can't you manage to look a bit decent of Sundays ? " growled Nils, as he thrust by into the sitting-room. " Tes. Now that work's over, it's time to get tidy," said Margit, as she followed him. Immediately she began to change her clothes, singing as she did so ; for Margit sang well, though at times she was a trifle hoarse. " Stop that row ! " shouted Nils, from the bed on which he had thrown himself, and Margit was silent at once. Just then in rushed the boy. " There's a great black dog," he cried, "that's come run- ning into the yard — a great ugly thing — — " " Be quiet, boy ! " yelled Nils, getting half off the bed to stamp with one foot on the ground. " Curse it, the devil must be in the brat ! " he mumbled, as he drew up his feet again. The mother gave the boy a threatening glance. " Can't you see," she said, " father's not in good spirits ?" THE WEDDING. 21 " Won't you have strong oofEee with syrup ? " she went on to Nils, trying to coax him iato good humour again. This was a beverage that the grandmother had liked, and the others too. Nils had no liking for it, but he used to driak it all the same, because the others did so. " Won't you have some strong coffee and syrup ? " she repeated, for he had not answered the first time. Nils raised himself on his elbows : "Do you think," he screamed, "I'U swallow that muck?" Margit was dumb with astonishment : she put her hand on the boy, and went out with him. They had various things to do out of doors, and so they did not come back tin supper-time. Nils was not within doors. Ame was sent out to the fields to call him in, but he could not find him anywhere. They waited till the food was nearly cold ; but when they had finished supper Nils was not yet back. Margit began to grow anxious ; she sent the boy to bed, and sat down to wait. A little after midnight, in came Nils. " Where have you been, dear ? " asked she. "That's no business of yours," he answered, and sat slowly down on the bench. He was drunk. From that day, Nils was constantly going down to the town, and each time he came back agaia tipsy. " I can't stop in here with you," he cried once, when he came in. She began to answer him with gentle words, but he stamped upon the fioor, and bade her be silent. If he was drunk, that was her fault, he said. If he was wicked, that was her fault too. If he was a cripple and a miserable creature for aU the days of his life, that was aU the fault of her, and that confounded brat of hers. " Why," he cried, bursting into tears, " were you always coming after me, and hanging about me? What harm did I do you, that you could not leave me in peace ? " " But Heaven bless me and preserve me ! " said Margit, "was it I that came after you then ? " 22 ARNE. " Yes, that it was ! " he screamed through his tears ; and springing up he went on : " And now at last you've got it all as you wanted it ; I go crawhng about here from tree to tree ; every day I creep around, looking at my own grave. And I might have lived .grandly with the richest and finest girl in the place, I might have travelled as far as the sun travels, had not you and your confounded boy thrown yourselves in my way." " That was no fault of the boy's, at any rate," she said, trying to answer him. " If you won't hold your noise," he screamed, " I'll strike you ! " And he struck her. Next day, when he had slept ofE the effects of the liquor, he was ashamed of himself, and much kinder than usual to the boy. But he soon drank agaia, and then again he struck her ; at length he got to beating her each time he was tipsy. The boy wept and moaned, and then he got beaten too. At times, too. Mis was so wild with remorse that he could not stay within doors. Now, too, he began to yearn to go to dances again ; he played his fiddle as of old, and took the boy with him to carry the case. There Arne saw many things. The mother wept at the lad's constantly going to such places, but dared not say anything to the father. " Cling fast to God," she earnestly begged him, as she kissed him, " and learn nothiag wicked." But it was very cheerful and amusing at the dances, and here at home it was neither cheerful nor amusing. He turned more and more from her to his father : she marked it, and was silent. Arne picked up aU sorts of songs at these dances, and sang them afterwards to his father ; this amused the latter, and sometimes the boy was even able to make him laugh. This so flattered the lad that he took care to learn as many songs as possible ; soon, too, he got to see what sort his father liked best, and what it was in THE WEDDING. 23 them that he laughed at. If there was nothing of the sort in the song, the hoy put it in himself as well as he could, and so he early got used to putting words to music. Nils liked hest to hear jeering songs, and horrid ditties about folks who had risen to prosperity and power ; so that was the sort of thing that Arne sang. At length the mother wished to have him with her of an evening to help in the cow- shed ; he made all sorts of excuses to get off, but they proved unavailing, and he had to go with her. Then it was that she spoke earnestly to him of Grod and- all that is good, and ended, as she folded Mm in her arms, by tearfully begging and praying him not to grow up a bad man. The mother used to read with him, and the boy was most wonderfully quick to learn. His father was very proud of this, and got into the way of telliiig him^ especially when he had been driakiag — that he had his head. But at the dances Nils soon grew accustomed to ordering Arne, after he himself had had too much, to sing to the company. The boy sang one song after another, amid loud applause and laughter; the applause delighted the boy almost more than it did Nils, so that at last there was no end to the songs he learned to sing. Anxious mothers, hearing him, went to his own mother and told her, for the songs he sang were not fit for a boy. The mother took the boy aside, and bade him, in the name of G-od and aU that is good, not to sing such songs ; and now it seemed to the boy that^ his mother was against everything he dehghted in. He told his father for the first time what his mother had said. She had to suffer for it in conse- quence next time Nils got drunk, but after that, Arne never told him anything again. "What he had done came now vividly before the lad, and in his soul he besought God and her for forgiveness, for he could not bring himself to 24 ARNE. do so openly. The mother was as kind to him as ever, and this cut him to the heart. Once, however, he forgot himself. He had the power of mimicking anybody, especially as regards their way of speaking and singing. One evening, when he was amusing his father by this, his mother came in, and when she had gone out again it came into Nils' head to make the boy imitate his mother's singing. At first he refused, but the father, who lay on the bed, laughing so that his sides shook, persisted obstinately in his demand. " Well," thought the boy, " she's a good way ofE, so she won't hear it ; " and he sang just as she did at times when she was hoarse and inclined to tears. The father laughed so that it almost frightened the lad himself, and he left off of his own accord. Then Margit came in from the kitchen, looked mournfully and steadfastly at Arne, walked over to the dresser for a bowl, and went out again. Arne felt hot as fire throughout his whole body. She had heard it all, then ! He sprang down from the table on which he had been sitting, dashed out, and threw him- self down on the ground as if he would fain bury himself in it. He could not rest ; he sprang up, feeling he mu^t get further away. He rushed by the bam, and there behind it sat his mother, hemming a new and fine shirt for him. At other times she used to sing a hymn over her work when she sat thus; now she was not singing — not that she was weeping, either — she was just sitting still, sewing. But Arne could endure it no longer ; he threw himseK down on the grass at her feet, looted up at her, and sobbed passionately. The mother let her sewing fall, and put her two hands round his head. " Poor Arne ! " she said, and threw herself down beside him. He did not make an attempt to speak, but wept as he never had before. THE WEDDING. 26 " I knew quite well," said the mother, stroking his hair, " that you were good at heart." " Mother, you won't say No to what I'm going to ask you ? " was the first thing he could say. " That you know I never do," was the answer. He tried to check his tears, and then, with his head in her lap, he blurted out : " Mother, sing me something ! " " My dear, I can't, you know," she said ia a low voice. " Mother, sing me somethiag ! " implored he, " else I'll never believe that I'm fit to look at you again ! " She stroked his hair again, but made no sound. " Mother, sing, sing ! do you hear, sing ! " he sobbed out, " else I'll go far away and never come back home again." , And as he lay there, big boy of fourteen or fifteen as he was, with his head ia his mother's lap, she began to sing over him : " Lord, protect this little child, Playiug on the rugged shore. Bound him bid Thy Spirit mild Cast its bonds for evermore. Mighty waves nor treach'rous sand Tear him from that sacred band. Safe and blessed will he live, Praise to Thee and glory give. " Mother sits in anxious pain, Knowing not why thus he tarries ; Calls hiiti o'er and o'er again. No reply the stillness carries. Yet she knows, where'er the spot. Help divine forsakes him not. Far from angry wave and foam, Jesus leads him gently home." She sang several verses : Ame lay still, for a holy peace had fallen upon him, and under its sway he felt refreshed, 26 ARNE. and wearily restful. The last word that he heard dis- tinctly was " Jesus." It seemed to carry him into a great burst of light where twelve or thirteen voices sang clear ; and above them all he could hear his mother's. Sweeter music he had never known ; he prayed that it might be given him so to sing. It seemed to him that if he were to sing very softly, he too should learn how to do it ; so now he began to sing softly, and then more and more softly, until the music seemed well-nigh heavenly, and in his joy at this he pealed forth in loud tones — and all was at an end. He was awake again: he looked up and listened intently, but nothing struck on his ear, save the mighty, unceasLug noise of the waterfall, and the sound of the little streamlet which, with soft and constant murm^ur, flowed close by the barn,, The mother had gone ; but first she had laid beneath his head his jacket and the half- finished shirt. CHAPTBE IV. DATBEEAK. NOW that tte time had come for the cattle to be looked after in the woods, Ame wanted to tend them. Nils was against it ; as yet he had never taken part in such work, and he was now in his fifteenth year. But he pleaded his cause so well that it was decided ia the way he wished, and aU that spring, summer, and autumn he was only at home to sleep ; he was in the woods hy himself the livelong day. He took his books with him to the woods : he spent his time in reading and cutting letters on the bark of trees, in walking and thinking, in dreamy yearnings and singing ; but in the evening, when he got home, the father would often be drunk and strike the mother, cursing her and the place as he cried that once he had had the chance of travel- ling far away from it all. Then the boy was seized with a longing for travel. At home all was amiss, and his books increased his longing to depart — nay, sometimes the very air seemed to be calling him over the mighty mountains. Thus things were, when at midsummer time he fell in with Kristen, the Captain's eldest son, who had come to the woods with one of the farm lads for the horses, so as to ride back home. He was a boy a few years older than 28 ARNE. Arne, ligM-hearted and full of fun, eTer restless in aU his thoughts, but, notwithstanding, firm and steadfast of purpose. He spoke quickly and jerkily, and often of two things at a time ; he rode horses bare-backed ; shot birds on the wiag, and knew all about fly-fishing; in short, he seemed to Arne a very model in all thiags. He, too, was yearning to travel, and talked to Arne of far-ofi lands till they seemed to lie shining before him. He found out Ame's love of reading, and brought up to him books that he him- self had read, and when these were finished he got new ones. On Sundays he woiild come with geography and maps, and explain them to him, and Arne read so eagerly all that summer and winter that he grew quite pale and thin. In winter he got them to let him read at home, partly because he was to be confirmed next year, and partly be- cause he had a way of managing his father. He began, too, to go to school now ; but there he was most content when he could shut his eyes and call up to his mind his books at home. Henceforth, he had no companions among the peasant lads. The father's ill-treatijient of the mother increased with years, as did also his physical ailments and his drunken- ness. But when, spite of this, Arne had to sit at home and amuse him to get his mother an hour's peace, and to do so had often to talk in a way which now in his heart he despised, he began to loathe his father ; but this feeling he kept closely to himself, as he did his love for his mother. When he met Kristen their talk was of travel and books ; he said nothing — even to him — of how things were at home. But m.any a time when, after long, deep converse with him, he walked home alone, thinking of what would very likely be going on there, he burst into tears, and prayed to Grod among His stars so to order thiags that it should be granted him to journey forth before long. DAYBREAK. 29 In summer, EJristen and he were confirmed. Straight- way the former began to carry out his plans. His father had no choice but to let him go away and become a sailor. He gave Arne his boots, promised to write to him often, and travelled forth into the world. So now Arne was left alone. It was then that the longing to write songs came again upon him. But now he no longer patched up old ones ; he composed new songs, putting into them all his sorrowful feelings. But his heart was too heavy, it seemed to him, and his grief could not be pressed into verse. Through the long nights he lay sleepless, tiU at last it seemed quit6 certain to him that he could no longer endure his life there ; he must go away, he felt, and find Kristen, vrithout saying a word to anyone. But when he thought of his mother, and of what would become of her, he scarcely dared to look her in the face. One night at this time, he was sitting up very late, reading. Whenever he felt more depressed than usual, it was his books he fled to, never noticing that they only made him smart the more. The father was away at a wedding-feast, but was expected home that evening : the mother was tired and dreaded his return, so had gone to bed. Arne heard a dull fall in the passage, and started up: there was the noise of some heavy thing striking against the door. It was the father returning. Arne opened the door, and looked down at him. " Is that you, my bright boy ? " hiccupped Nils ; "then come and help your daddy up." Arne lifted him up and supported him to a bench, picked up the fiddle-case, brought it in too, and shut the door. "Ay, look at me, my bright boy," Nils rambled on. " I'm not much to look at now ; I'm no longer the Nils I 30 ARNE. once was. Let this warn you — I warn you — you — ^nev — never to touch brandy ; that's the very Devil, — the World, the Flesh, the Devil. ' He resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble and meek.' Alas ! alas ! what have I come to ! " He sat stni for a moment, and then sang through his drunken tears : " ' Jesus Christ, Redeemer mine, Help I need, so grant me Thine ; Deep in mire although I lie, Still Thine erring child am I.' " Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof ; but say but the word " He threw himself forward, hid his face in his hands, and sobbed convulsively. Long he lay thus, and then he began to repeat word for word from the Bible, as he had learnt it more than twenty years before : " But she came and begged Him, and said : Lord, help me ! But He answered and said : It is not meet to take the children's bread and cast it to the dogs. But she said : Tea, Lord : but the dogs eat of the crumbs that fall from the master's table." He relapsed into silence again, but wept more freely and less violently. The mother had long been awake, but had not da,red to look up ; but now, when she heard him weeping as one who had been rescued, she raised herseK on her elbows and looked up. But no sooner did Nils catch sight of her than he screamed : " Do you look up — you ! you want to see what you've brought me to, don't you ? Tes, this is what I look like ; just this — here before you ! " He began to rise, and she crouched beneath the coverlet. " No, no, don't hide your- BAYBREAK. 31 self! I'll find you soon enough," he said, and stretching forth his right hand, he began to fumble about with his forefinger. " Tickle ! tickle ! " he cried, and he drew aside the coverlet and put his forefinger on her throat. " Father ! " cried Arue. " Look how shrivelled up and lean you've got," Nils went on, " there's no flesh on you at all. Tickle ! tickle ! " The mother convulsively seized his hands with both hers, but she could not free herself from his grasp : she crouched in a heap beneath the coverlet. " Father ! " cried Arne again. " So ! there's some Ufe in you now, is there ? " Nils went on, unheeding. " What a sight she is when she wriggles, too! Tickle! tickle!" " Father ! " cried Arne once more, and the room began to go up and down. " Tickle, I say ! " screamed Nils. She let go his hands and gave herself up to her fate. " Father ! " shrieked Arne, and rushed to a comer of the room where stood an axe. " It's only obstinacy that keeps you from crying out," Nils went on. "You'd better take care, though ; such a funny thought's got hold of me now ! Come, come ! tickle, tickle ! " " Father ! " cried Arne for the last time. He laid hold of the axe, but stood stiU as if nailed to the floor ; for at that moment the father rose up, gave a piercing shriek, pressed his hand to his heart, and fell to the earth. "Jesus Christ" came to his lips, and then he lay quite stiU. Arne scarcely knew where he stood or what was happen- ing ; he almost expected the room to burst apart, and a flash from the heavens to fall upon it. Suddenly the mother began to draw long, deep breaths, as if she had freed herself of an incubus ; presently she raised her- 32 ARNE. self in the bed, and saw the father lying outstretched on the floor, and the son standing over him, axe in hand. " Merciful Heaven ! what have you done ? " she shrieked, as, springing out of bed, and throwing a garment round her, she drew near to him. Then something seemed to set free Arne's tongue. " He fell down by himself," he said, in a low tone. " Oh Ame, Ame, I don't believe you ! " cried the mother in an earnest, reproachful voice. " Now may Christ help you ! " And she cast herself upon the body, -with a burst of wailing. But now the boy began to emerge from his bewilderment, and he too fell on his knees. " Sure as I hope for mercy from God," he said, " he fell of himself, just as he stood there." " Then our Lord Himself has been here ! " said the woman quietly, and, crouching down, she gazed fixedly before her. Nils lay just as he fell, with stiffened limbs, and open eyes and mouth. His hands were near together, as if he had tried to fold them, but had not had time. " Come," said the mother, " you are strong ; help me to lift your father up, so that he may lie on the bed." They raised him up and laid him on it : she closed his eyes and mouth, straightened out his Umbs, and folded his hands. They both stood there looking at him. All that they had lived through before seemed not to have lasted so long, nor to have had so much in it as had the last hour. The Devil himself had been there, but so also had God ; the en- counter had been brief. All that had been was now over and done. It was now a little past midnight, and they had to watch by the dead till daybreak. Arne went to the hearth and DAYBREAK. 33 made a great fire ; the mother sat down beside it. And as she sat there she thought of the many evil days she had gone through with NUs, so that she thanked God in fever- fervent prayer for what he had done. " But all the same I had some happy days with him, too," she said, and wept as if in remorse for the thanksgiving that had just escaped her ; and before long she was taking all the blame upon herself, in that, for love of the dead, she had transgressed God's law, and broken her mother's commands ; and there- fore (she thought) it was right for her own sinful love to have been her'punishment. Ame sat down opposite to her. The mother glanced at the bed and said : " Ame, you must remember that it's for your sake I have borne it all," and she burst into tears, longing for a loving word to support her 'mid the flow of her own self-reproaches, and comfort her in all, the time to come. The boy trembled, but had nothing to say. " Tou must never leave me," she sobbed out. Then there came before his eyes all that she had been in the sorrowful past, and how unutterably lonely she would feel if, in return for aU her loving kindness to him, he were to forsake her now. " Never, never ! " he said, in a low, fervent voice ; he wanted to go over to where she sat, but felt as if he could not move. There sat both of them, weeping bitterly ; at times she prayed aloud, now for the dead, and again for herself and her boy ; then came the tears again, to be interrupted presently by supplications to Heaven, which again gave place to lamentation. At last she said : " Arne, you have a good voice ; sit a little way off and sing a hymn for your father." Straightway he seemed to find strength to do it. He got up, fetched a hymn-book, and kindled a fir-spKnter ; then, with the torch in one hand and the book in the other, D 34 ARNE. he stood by the head of the bed, and sang in a clear voice Kingo's 127th hymn : " Turn from us in grace Thine anger sore, Call us not Thy judgment seat before. Grant to us Thy servants, sinful-living, Thy forgiving ! " CHAPTER V. UPLAND KNtTT. ARNE grew up reserved and eliy ; he went on tending the cattle and making songs. Though he was in his twentieth year, he still went with the herds to summer pasture. He got the pastor to lend him books to read, and that was the only thing he cared for. The pastor urged him to become a school-teacher, saying that his faculties and learning ought to be turned to the advantage of the community. Ame did not answer at once, but on the following day, as he was driving his sheep to pasture, he made this song : " Little skipping Iamb of mine, Follow close the herd-bell's chime ; Though the road be steep and high. Listen to my guiding crj. " Little skipping lamb of mine, Keep for me that fleece of thine ; For my mother 'twill provide Garments warm in wintertide. " Little skipping lamb of mine. Keep your flesh all soft and fine ; You are chosen from the troop, As the lamb to make our soup.'' 36 ARNE. When in his twentieth year, he one day chanced to over- hear a conversation between his mother and the wife of the former owner of the farm. They disagreed about a horse that they owned in common. " I will wait and hear what Ame says," said his mother. " That sluggard ! " answered the other, " he'd just as lief as not have the horse wandering about all day in the woods, as he does himself, I dare say ! " Then the mother was silent, though she had spoken np well enough before. Ame turned as red as fire. Never had it occurred to him before that his mother should be put to shame on his account. " Though, perhaps," thought he now, " it may often have happened. But why had she never told him, then?" He kept thinking about it till it brought to his mind that his mother scarcely ever spoke to him ; but then he never spoke to her either. Indeed, whom did he ever speak to ? Many a Sunday, when he sat silent at home, he would have liked to have read aloud a sermon to his mother — her own eyes were not good enough, for she had done too much weeping in her life — but he could not bring himself to do it. Many a time, too, he would have liked to offer to read aloud from his own books, when all at home was silence, and it seemed to him that she must be finding it rather dull. But he could not bring himself to do it. " Well, well ! " he thought, at last, " I'll give up going to the woods with the cattle, and spend my time down here with mother." Firm in this resolve, he went to the woods, as usual, for a few days, drove the herds far and wide for pasture, and made this song meanwhile : " The parish is all restless, but there's peace in grove and wood, No beadle here impounds you, to suit bis crabbed mood j UPLAND KNUT. 37 No strife profanes mir little church, tho' there it rages high, But then we have no little church, and that perhaps is why ! " How happy is the woodland grove, despite the eager way The hawk will chase the sparrow that he chooses for his prey ; And tho' on some ill-fated thing the eagle swoops to ground, The little beast without it would a speedy grave have found. " One tree is conquered by the axe, while skyward rises one ; The fox has torn the lambkin ere the setting of the sun. The wolf has killed the little fox, now both are lying dead, For Arne shot the hungry wolf before the night had fled. " In valley and in woodland there are many things to see, But of one thing be you certain, that your sight unclouded be. I dreamed I saw a stripling — ^by his hand his father fell ; It seemed to me, I know not how, this thing was done in hell." He came home and told his mother that she must send to the Tillage and get a herd-boy ; he meant to look after the farm himself henceforth, he said. So it was settled ; and now the mother was ever about him, with tender admonitions not to overwork. She got into the habit, too, at this time, of giving him such dainty meals, that he often felt ashamed to eat them ; but he said nothing. There was a song in his heart whose burden was: "Over the mountains high ! " Somehow or other he could not finish it, chiefly because he wanted the refrain to come in every other line ; afterwards, he gave up that idea. But many of the songs he made got spread about among the people, who liked them well. There were some who would have been glad to talk with him, especially such as had known about him from his childhood. But Arne was shy of all whom he did not know, and disliked them ; chiefly because he believed they disliked him. At his side in all his field-work was a labourer, known as Upland Knut, a middle-aged man, who was in the habit of singing at times, but it was always the same song that he sang. When this had gone on for a couple of 38 ARNE. montlis, Arne felt impelled to ask Viim if he knew no other songs. " No," answered the man. Some days went by, and then, when the peasant was once more singing his song, Arne asked : " How did you come to learn just that one song ? " " Ah ! " replied the other, " so it happened " Arne went from him straight home. There sat the mother, weeping — a thing he had not seen her do since his father's death. He made as if he had not noticed it, and turned to the door again ; but he felt that the mother was looking at him mournfully, and had perforce to check his steps. " Why are you crying, mother ? " he said. For a moment or two, his words were the only sound in the room ; they seemed to keep repeating themselves to him, and he felt that they had not been gentle enough. " Why are, you crying, mother ? " he asked once more. " Ah ! " said the mother, weeping still more, " I don't really know." He stood silent for a while, and then he said, as boldly as he could : " There must be something you're weeping for." There was silence again, and Arne began to feel very guilty, although she had not reproached him, and he knew of nothing he had done to pain her. " I just felt fit to cry," said the mother, at length ; and 'then, after a pause, she added, "I'm so happy really at heart," and then she burst out weeping again. But Arne hastened out, and his heart bore him on to the ravine. He sat beside it, and looked down into it ; sud- denly, as he was sitting so, he began to weep. " If only I knew what these tears are for ! " said Arne. Up above on the new-ploughed field sat Uplands Knut, singing his song. UPLAND KNUT. 39 " Ingerid Sletten, of SUIegjord-mere, Had neither of silver nor golden store ; But hers was one treasure she valued far more, For a gift 'twas of old from her mother so dear. " Sure 'twas one of the plainest and simplest of things, Just a hood for her head made of soft wool, dyed bright ; But the thoughts of her mother that rose at its sight, Made it fairer to her than the treasure of kings. " So she took it with careful and reverent hand. And for full twenty years did she lay it aside : ' I will wear thee,' she said, ' when some day as a bride. Little hood, at the altar all joyous I stand.' " For thirty long years did it still lie aside, She feoring to spoil it or wear it away-; 'O my own little hood,' she would oftentimes say, ' In God's presence I'll wear thee one day as a bride.' " For forty long years it lay hidden away. And Ingerid thought of her mother so dear ; ' Thee, my poor little hood,' cried she, ' never, I fear, Shall I wear, if I wait for the glad bridal day.' " And her heart it was heavy with tears and with teen, As she went to the box, forth her treasure to draw. She looked at its place — that was all that she saw. For there was not a thread of the hood to be seen." Arne sat listening, as if music had fallen on his ear from the mountains far away. He went up to Knut. " Have you a mother ? " he asked. "No." " Have you a father ? " " Ah no ! No father." " Is it long since they died ? " " Ah yes ! 'Twas long ago." " I suppose you've not got very many friends ?" " Ah no ! not many." " Have you any here ? " " Ah no ! not here." 40 AKNE. " But you have some in your own village, I suppose ? " " Ah no ! not there either." " Have you no one at all, then, to love you ? " " Ah no ! I have no one." When Arne left him, he felt as if his heart was so full of love to his mother that it must surely burst, and it seemed to him as if there was a halo of light about him. " Thou God in Heaven," he thought, " Thou hast given me her, and in her such unspeakable love — and yet I put her aside — perhaps when I want to draw her to me again, she vrill be no more ! " He felt he must go to her, if for nothing else, then just to see her. But on the way a sudden thought struck him. " What if, because you do not sufficiently prize her, you were to be punished by soon losing her ? " He stood stock-stDI. " Almighty Grod ! " he cried, " what would become of me then h " At that moment, it seemed to him as if some terrible misfortune was taking place at home ; he rushed toward the house, cold sweat breaking out on his brow, his feet scarcely touching the ground as he ran. He tore open the house door ; once inside, it seemed as if the air was filled with peace. Gently he opened the door of the room. The mother was in bed, and the moonbeams were shining upon her face. She lay there, sleeping like a child. CHAPTEE VI. abne's stoet. SOME days later, mother and son, wlio had lately been more together, agreed to go to the wedding of some relatives at a neighbouring farm. The mother had not been to a party since she was a girl, They scarcely knew the people there except by name, and to Arne especially it seemed strange how all looked at him wherever he was. Something was said about him as he walked through the passage once ; he was not quite certain what it was, but every drop of blood in his veins began to boU when he thought of it. He kept following about and looking at the man who had said it ; at last he took his seat beside him. But when they were at table, the man's conversation took quite a different turn. " Now rU tell you a story," said he, " which shows that nothing can be hidden so deep down in the darkness but it com.es to light some day." It seemed to Arne that the man was looking at him. He was an ugly-looking fellow, with thin red hair that overhung a wide, round forehead, below which were a pair of very small eyes, a little snub nose, and a very large mouth with pale, projecting lips. 42 ARNE. When he laughed, he showed all his gums. His hands, which were on the table, were very large and coarse, though the wrists were slender enough. He threw quick, fierce glances around him, and spoke quickly, though with effort. He was nicknamed "Ugly Jaws," and Ame knew that Nils Skrsedder had given him a rough time of it in the old days. " Tes," went on the man, " there's much sin in this world ; it is often nearer to us than we thinls: Well, well ! listen now to the story of an ugly deed. Those here who are old enough will remember Alf the Packman. ' Soon come again ! ' was Alf's saying, and people have got into the habit of saying it from him ; for whenever he'd driven a good bargain-;— and what a hand he was at a bar- gain, to be sure !— he threw his pack on his back, and ofE he was, with a ' Soon come again ! ' 0, a devil of a fellow was Alf ! — a fine, jolly old boy was the packman. " Well now, aboiit him and Big Lazy. Big Lazy — why, you knew him, of course? Big he was, and lazy too — that's certain. Well, he fell in love with a jet-black pony of Alf's, which the packman had trained to jump like a grasshopper, and before Big Lazy himself right well knew it, Alf had got him to give fifty dollars for the nag ! Into a carriole jumped Big Lazy, big as he was, to drive like the king with his fifty-dollar horse ; but though he might curse it and lash it till the dust flew about in clouds, the horse ran full tilt against every door or wall that stood in its way ; for it was stone-blind ! " Well now, whenever these two met they fell a-fighting about the horse, quarrelling all over the parish like two dogs. Big Lazy demanded his money back again, but never got a stiver of it : the packman beat him each time till he could drub him no longer. ' Soon come again ! ' said Alf, as he left him. O, a devil of a fellow was Alf, I can tell you ! — a fine, jolly old boy of a packman ! " Well now, years went by, and Alf never came again. ARNE'S STORY. 43 Some ten years after this, however, a notice was given out from the church for him to come back, for a big fortune had been left him. Big Lazy stood by. ' Ah ! ' he cried, ' I knew well enough that it was not men but money that wanted Packman Alf back ! ' " Then folks aU began to talk about Alf again, and from all the gossip this much was certain, that he was last seen not on the other side of the mountain ridge, but on this side. Tou remember the road over the ridge — the old road — don't you ? " Now Big Lazy had, during the last few years, got very rich and prosperous, in his farm and in other property. He had also grown very religious, and every one knew that he didn't become religious all of a sudden for nothing, not he — any more than anyone else. These things set folks a thinking. " It was about this time that the way over the ridge was re-made. Our grandfathers liked to be able to go straight to a place, and so the road ran right over the ridge ; but we want to have it all smooth and easy, so now the road goes down along by the river. Well, there was such a hubbub with all the blasting and mining, that you might have thought the whole mountain-side was coming down. All sorts of official people came to see it, but most of all came the mayor, for he travelled to and fro without pay- ment. Well, one day, as the workmen were digging away the rocky earth a man grasped what he thought was a stone, but it was a hand, sticking out amid the stones, and so strong was the hand that the man who touched it fell back at the touch — and that man was Big Lazy. " The mayor was not far off ; he was fetched at once, and all the bones of a man were dug out. The doctor too was fetched, and he put all the bones together so cun- ningly that all it now lacked was flesh. And now folks began to declare that the skeleton was just the size of' Alf 44 ARNE. the Packman. ' Soon come again ! ' said Alf the Pack- man. " Well now, one and another began to think it queer that a dead hand could knock down a fellow like Big Lazy, especially without striking him. The mayor straightway took him where they could not be overheard, and taxed him with the murder. But then Big Lazy swore he was innocent with such oaths that the mayor turned faint. " Well, well ! if it wasn't you, you're man enough to sleep with the skeleton to-night, am't you ? ' " ' Yes, of course I am ! ' answered Big Lazy. " So the doctor bound the bones at the joints and laid the skeleton on one of the beds in the barrack-room. Big Lazy was to lie in the other bed, while the mayor, wrapped round in his cloak, kept close to the wall on the other side. When it was dark, and time for Big Lazy to join his bed- fellow, the door seemed to close behind him of its own accord, and shut him ofE from the light. But Big Lazy began to sing hymns, for he had a very strong voice. " ' Why are you singing hymns ? ' asked the mayor from without. " ' Because I don't know whether bells were ever tolled and hymns sung for him,' answered Big Lazy. " Then for a long time all was so still that the mayor had very nearly fallen asleep. Suddenly there was an awful scream, that shook the whole building. " ' Soon come again ! ' it rang out. There was the noise of fiendish confusion within. " ' Let's have those fifty dollars of mine ! ' roared Big Lazy, and then came a scream and a crash. The mayor burst open the door ; in rushed the people with sticks and torches, and there lay Big Lazy in the middle of the floor, and on top of him the skeleton ! " There was unbroken silence all round the table. At length one 'said, lighting his clay pipe the while : ARNE'S STORY. 45 " He went mad from that day, didn't he ? " " He did." Arne felt as if all eyes were on him, and he could not muster courage to look up. " I say, as I said before," resumed the man who had told the story, " there's nothing can be hidden so deep down in the darkness but it comes to light some day." " Well, now," said a fair-haired, thick-set, round-faced man, " I'll tell you about a son who struck his own father." Arne f^t as if he scarce knew where he was sitting. " There was once a quarrelsome, bullying fellow," the man went on, " belonging to a good family up there in Hardanger, and he had got the better of many a man. Now, he and his father had a quarrel about money matters, and this made him as cantankerous at home as he was abroad. "Well, his goings on grew worse and worse, and his father kept getting more and more angry with him. ' No one shall be my master ! ' said the son. ' That shall I,' said the father, ' as long as I live.' " ' If you don't be quiet, I'll strike you ! ' said the son, and he raised his arm. " ' Just you dare, and you'll never have a moment's happiness in this world,' said the father, raising himseK too. " ' Think so ? ' said the son, and he fell upon the other and threw him to the ground. But the father made no resistance : he only folded his arms and let him do as he would. " The son beat him, laid hold of him, and pulled him to the door. " ' I will have peace at home ! ' he cried. " But when they got to the door, the father half raised himself. 46 ABNE. " ' No further than the door ! ' he cried ; ' just so far as that did I drag my own father ! ' " The son paid no heed ; he dragged his father's head over the threshold. " ' No further than the door, I tell you ! ' cried the old man. He got up, threw his son to the ground at his feet, and beat him like a child." " What an awful story ! " cried several voices. " How shockiQg to strike one's father ! " Ame seemed to hear someone saying ; but he was not certain. " Now I'll teU you something," said Axne ; and he got up, pale as a corpse, and not knowing what he was to say. All he saw was words whirling about him like snowflakes. " Let me catch them as they fly," he thought, and he began : " A troll once met a boy walking along the road and crying. ' Whom are you most afraid of ? ' asked the troll, ' yourself, or somebody else ? ' " Now, the boy was crying, as it happened, because the night before he had dreamed that he had been obliged to kill his wicked old father, so he answered : "'Myself.' " ' Be at peace with yourself, then, and never weep again ; for henceforth you shall be at variance only with others,' and so saying the troU. went his way. " Now the first whom the boy met laughed scornfully at him, and the boy could not but sneer at him in return. The next whom he met dealt him a blow, and the boy defended himself and struck back. The third whom he met tried to kill him, so the boy had to kill Mm. " And now every one began to speak Ul of the boy, so that he knew nothing but ill to speak of every one. They locked all their cupboards and bolted their doors, so that whatever he needed he must perforce steal: even his night's lodging he was forced to get by stealth. And now ARNE'S STORY. 47 that he was unable to find anything good to do, he must needs find something evil. Then all the parish began to be saying : ' Eeally we must get rid of this boy, he is so wicked.' So one fine day they took him and put him out of pain. Now the boy himself had no idea that he had done anything wrong, and so after death he was sent straight to our Lord's presence. There on one bench sat his father (whom, as you know, he had not killed), and on another, just opposite him, all those who had been the cause of his doing evil. " ' Which bench are you afraid of ? ' said G-od. The boy pointed to the long row of faces. " ' Sit down by your father, then,' said our Lord ; and the boy went to do so — but just then down tumbled the father from the bench, with a great wound in his neck. In place of him sat the figure of the boy himself, but with horror-stricken face and features pale as death. Then came another figure of himself, this time with a drunkard's face, and bloated, drink-swollen body ; and after him one with vacant eyes, torn garment, and horrid laughter. "'Even as one of these might you have been,' said our Lord. " ' Even as these ! ' repeated the boy, and he put out his hand to touch God's garment. At that, down fell both benches from the heavens, and the boy stood there before his God's face and laughed. " ' Think on that when you awake ! ' said our Maker — and at that moment the boy awoke. " Now the boy who dreamed all this was I, and those who tempt him by thinking ill of him are — you ! Myself I no longer fear, but of you and for you I am indeed afraid, for I know not whether it will be granted me to touch the garment of our Lord." He dashed out of the room, and all the people looked at one another. CHAPTEE VII. SELF-EEPKOACH. IT was the day after, in tlie barn of that same farm. Arne had drunk too much, for the first time in his life. It had upset him, and he had lain in the bam there for the best pg,rt of the f our-and-twenty hours. He was sitting up now, leaning on his elbows and talking to himself in this fashion: "Everything, I see, can be brought home to my cowardice. I didn't run away when I was a boy — that was cowardice ; I heeded father more than mother — that was cowardice ; I sang dirty songs to him — -that was cowardice ; I took up with going with the cattle to pasture, just out of cowardice ; with reading — yes, that was cowardice, too — I only wanted to hide from myself. Even when I was no longer a boy, I didn't take mother's part against father — coward that I was ! and even that night — coward ! coward ! — I did not — coward ! I should very likely have done nothing till he had killed her ! I could no longer endure home — coward ! yet I didn't go away either — coward ! I just did nothing : I went and watched the cattle — coward ! It's true I had promised mother to stay with her ; but I'm sure I should have been coward enough to break my word at any time, if I hadn't been afraid of mixing with people : for the truth is I am afraid of people, chiefly because I think they see SELF-REPROACH. 49 what a wretched creature I iam. But just because I am afraid of them I go and talk evil of them — confounded coward that I am ! It's only out of cowardice that I make songs. I dare not think of my own affairs, so I go and dip in other folks' — and that's making poetry ! " I've had reason enough for weeping till the hills turned to lakes, yet I say to myself ' Hush, hush ! ' and rock my- self to sleep. Why, even my songs are cowardly : if I had more pluck they'd be far better. I'm afraid of all bold thought : I fear everything that's strong ; if I force myself to it, it's only when I'm in a passion, — and passion is mere weak cowardice. I'm cleverer, abler, wiser than I seem — I'm better than I appear from my talk — but yet, such is my cowardice, I dare not sfeem to be just what I am. Why, look here ! that brandy yesterday I only drank from cowardice ; I wanted to drown my thoughts ! Ah, I was doing wrong, I knew ; but I went on drinking and drinking — 1 drank my father's life-blood and my own wits away ! Why, my cowardice is altogether without limits ; and most cowardly of all is it that I can loll here and teU myseH all this. Kill myself ? Devil take me if I'm not too much of a coward for that ! Besides, I believe in God — ^yes, I do believe in God — and I'd go to Him gladly enough too, but my cowardice keeps me from Him. Everything would be changed and different then, and that's just what a coward like me shudders away from. But suppose I tried — ^tried with all my might ? Almighty God ! suppose I were to try, I say, would' st Thou amend me in such way as my frail strength could endure ? for there is neither bone nor sinew in me ; all is as quavering jelly. But suppose I were to try — with good and gentle books (I fear all strong writings) ; with beautiful tales and legends, and all that is comforting ; with a sermon every Sunday and a prayer every evening ; and with regular, steady work, so that religion may find fitting soil ; — for that it cannot in idleness. If I were to 50 ARNE. try — dear gentle Grod of my childhood ! let me try to come to thee ! " Someone opened the door, and dashed across to him ; — it was his mother, her face pale as death, though it was bathed in perspiration. This was the second day of her search for her son. She had been crjdng his name aloud, and without waiting to listen for his answer, going on crying aloud and running about, tiU he called out to her from amid the hay on which he lay. Then she uttered one shrill scream, sprang upon the heap of hay, and folded him in her arms. " Oh, Ame ! Ame ! are you here ? " she sobbed. " Have I really found you at last ? I have been looking for you ever since yesterday evening : I have been searching all night. My poor, poor Arne ! I saw they had been treating you shamefully. I did so want to talk with you and con- sole you ! — ^Arne ! L saw you were drinking too much ! God Almighty ! may I never see that again ! " It was long before she could go on again. " Jesus guard you, my son," she sobbed. " I saw you drinking ! and then all of a sudden you had got away from me, all dazed with drink and worry as you were, and I ran about everywhere to find you : I went into every house ; I ran far out into the fields ; 1 peered into every ditch ; I asked everybody I met ; I came here too, but you did not answer my call. O Arne, Arne ! I went along by the river, but it did not seem anywhere deep enough to " And she pressed him closer to her. " That made me feel calmer, and I thought you must surely have gone home, and I hurried back and got there in a quarter of an hour. I opened the doors and looked in every room, and not till then did I remember that I had the key? myself, so that you could not possibly have got in there. Arne ! last night I searched every inch of the road on both sides ; I did not dare to go and look at the preci- pice ! I don't know why I came here again ; there was no SELF-REPROACH. 51 one to help me, but somehow God put it into my miad that you must be here." He tried to soothe her as best he could. " Arne ! " she burst out, " you'll never driak brandy again, will you ? " " No, you may be sure of that." " They must have behaved badly to you — they did be- have badly to you, didn't they ? " " Ah no ! it was I who was a coward" replied he, laying stress on the last word. " I don't understand why they should have treated you so unMndly. But what was it they did to you ? You never will teU me anything." And she began to weep again. " But you never tell me anything either," returned Arne in a gentle voice. " StUl, it's your fault most, Arne ; I have grown so used to say nothing from your father's days, that I need you to help me a httle to speak ! Good God ! there's only we two ; and we have suffered so much together.'' " Let us see if we cannot make things go better for the future," whispered he. " Next Sunday I'U read out the sermon to you." " God bless you for that ! " she murmured. Presently she began again. " Arne ! " "Yes." " There is something I ought to tell you." " Tell it me, mother." " I am bearing a great sin for your sake : I have done a wicked thing." " You, mother! " he cried. And it moved him so to think that his loving-hearted, ever-patient mother should re- proach herself for having sinned against him, who never ' did anythiag really kind for her, that he threw his arms round her, kissed her, and burst into tears. 52 ARNE. " Yes, I ! and yet I couldn't help doing it." "0 mother, you've never done anything wrong against me, I know." " Yes, I have : Grod knows it was only because I loved you so. But you will forgive me for it, won't you ? " " I'U forgive you, never fear." " Well, let me ask you once more if you forgive me for it?" " Yes, yes, mother." " You see, that's really why it's been so hard for me to talk with you — I have had this sin against you onjmy mind." " Good God ! don't talk so, mother ! " " At any rate, I'm glad now that I've been able to teU you that much." " Mother, we must talk together more, you and I." " That we will — and you'll really read the sermon to me, won't you P " " That I will." ' God bless you, my poor, poor Ame ! " " I think now we had better go home." " Yes, home." " Why do you look about you like that, mother ? " " It was in this very barn your father lay and wept." " Father ? " cried Ame, turning pale. "Poor Nils ! it was the day you were christened," said Margit. " Why do you look about you like that, Ame ? " CHAPTEE VIII. EI.I. FEOM the day on which. Ame had tried -with all his heart to join his life more closely to his mother's, his views of other people began quite to alter. He looked at them now more with his mother's gentle eyes. But he often found it hard to remain true to his purpose ; for the things that were most in his thoughts were quite beyond his mother's understanding. Here is a song he made about this time : " So lorely and bright was the fair summer's day, That the house seemed oppressive to grow ; So out to the beech-groTe I wended my way, And myself on my back did I throw. But the midge 'gan to sting, and the ant 'gan to creep. And the gadfly buzzed out at me, ' Wake from thy sleep ! ''"' " Won't you go out this glorious day, dear ? " said the mother, who sat singing by the threshold. " So lovely and bright was the fair summer's day. That the bouse seemed oppressive to grow ; So I sang on the hill-side, as dreaming I lay. Of fair maidens and days long ago. But some serpents approached me, a good three ells long, And chased me away from my meadow and song." 54 ARNE. "It's STicli beautiful weather, one could go barefoot," said the mother ; and she drew off her stockings. " So lovely and bright was the fair summer's day, That the house seemed oppressive to grow ; X longed for a plunge in the cool of the bay, So far out on the fjord did I row. But fiercely the sun came, my skin to attack : And that was too much, so I rowed the boat back.'' "Now, this is the sort of day for the hay to get dry in," said the mother ; and she pushed a hay-rake deep into it. " So lovely and bright was the fair summer's day. That the house seemed oppressive to grow ; To the depth of the greenwood, where venturesome ray Ne'er pierces, I hopefully go. But a worm from a tree tumbled down on my face : ' Fiend take you,' cried I, and I rushed from the place." "Well, if the cow doesn't find plenty to eat to-day," said the mother, " she never will." And she glanced up towards the pasture. " So lovely and bright was the fair summer's day, That the house seemed oppressive to grow ; I bathed in the waterfall's silvery spray, ' Now here can befall me no woe ! ' Alas ! I was drowned in the golden sunshine — But if this is your song, it cannot be mine." " Three such sunny days, and all the hay will be got safely in," said the mother. And away she went to make his bed. Nevertheless, Arne's intercourse with his mother grew every day more and more of a comfort to her. The things she was unable to understand defined his relationship to her quite as well as the thhigs she did understand ; for just because she did not grasp them, he thought over her difiiculties more and more ; and she herself grew dearer to ELI. 55 him for his finding her boundaries in all directions. Yes, she was very, very dear to him ! Ame had not cared much for stories when he was a hoy, but now, as a young man, he was seized with a passion for them, as well as for the national sagas and heroic songs. A strange longing possessed his soul. He went about alone much of his time now ; and many a place he had never looked at before, now seemed to him marvellously fair. While he was being prepared for confirmation, he had often gone with his class fellows and played beside a great piece of water near the parsonage called, from its depth and darkness, the Black Lake. This water now began to come into his thoughts again, and one evening he wandered down to it. He sat down behind some bushes close by the par- sonage, which lay on the slope of a very steep hill that rose high behind it. The opposite shore was of the same shape, so that all sorts of strange shadowy forms were playing on the lake from both sides ; but out in the middle was a broad shimmering band of silver water. All was peace ; the sun was beginning to set. There came the faint chime of bells from the opposite shore, and save that there was no sound ; Arne did not look straight across. At first his eyes were fixed on the surface of the waters, for the sun just before sinking was shedding a deep red glow over them. There was a break in the mountains, making a long, low vale, in which the waters plashed ; it looked as if the peaks were coming together again. Homestead touched homestead in the valley beyond ; the smoke rose up from them and curled away ; the fields shone with verdant moisture, and boats laden with hay lay by the shore. He could see many folks moving about, but he heard no sound. His eye turned from them to the strand, from which rose naught save God's dark woods, through which, by the water's edge, the path of mankind 56 ARNE. was pointed out as by a finger, for all the way a winding streak of dust was plain to see. With his eye he followed it till he reached the point just opposite to where he sat ; there the wood ceased, the mountains broke, and farm up6n farm fiUed the gap. There were red-painted houses, larger than those in the lower valley and with bigger windows, which just now were red too in the setting sun. The hills were all alight with bright rays : the smallest child at play there could be seen, distinct and plain; bright by the water's edge the sand shone white, children and dogs gleefully disporting themselves thereon. But suddenly all grew sun-forsaken and gloomy, the houses dusky-red, the herbage black green, the sand grey-white, the children little shapeless lumps. A mist had sprung up over the mountain side and shut out the face of the sun. But Arne looked down into the waters, and found all the scene pictured there again. The smiling corn-fields waved before him, the woods stept silently into his view. There stood the dwelling-houses gazing calmly down, with doors open, and children passing in and out. Mystic fancies, strange memories of childhood circled round him like fish around the bait ; away they darted, back they ventured again, to and fro they sported, but never did they let themselves be caught. " Let us sit down here till your mother comes ; the pastor's lady must get down some time or other, after all." Arne started up ; somebody had plainly seated himself right behind him. " Oh ! I would so like to stay just this one night more," said a supplicating, tearful voice — a voice evidently belonging to a young girl not quite grown up yet. " Now, don't cry any more," answered the gentle but deliberate voice of a man ; " it's not nice of you to keep crying because you're to go home to your mother." ELI. 57 " That's not why I'm crying." " Why are you crying, then ? " " Because I can't be with Mathilde any more." (This was the name of the pastor's only daughter. Arne called to mind now that a young country girl had been brought up along with her.) " Well, that couldn't go on for ever, you know." " Yes ; but only just one day more ! " And her sobs burst forth again. " It's best for you to come back home with us now ; perhaps, as it is, it's too late." " Too late ! what do you mean ? Did ever girl hear the like ? " " Ton were bom a country girl, and a country girl you must remain ; we're not the sort of people to have a fine lady." " I could have kept on being a country girl, however much I stayed there." " You can't judge of that." " I've always worn country girl's clothes." " That's not what makes a country girl." " I've spun, too, and woven, and cooked." " That's not it, either." " I can talk just as you and mother do." " Nor is that it, either." " Well, then, I don't rightly know vihat it is ! " said the girl ; and she laughed. "We shall see," replied the other. "One thing I'm afraid of is that you've got too many ideas in your head already." "Ideas, ideas ! that's what you're always saying. I haven't got a single one, I tell you." And she fell a weep- ing again. " Little weathercock that you are ! " ejaculated the man. 58 ARNE. " Weathercock, indeed ! The pastor never called me that." " Well, then, I do." " Weathercock, weathercock ! did ever girl hear the like ? I won't be called weathercock, I tell you ! " " Well, what will you he called, then ? " " What will I be Called ! Oh dear, there's a thing to say ! I'll be called nothing." " Very well ; let's call you ' Nothing,' then." At this the girl began to laugh ; but a moment after she said, quite gravely : " It's horrid of you to call me ' Nothing.' " " Good heavens ! didn't you ask me yourself ?" " No ; I will not be ' Nothing.' " " Very well, dear ; be ' Everything.' " Again the girl began to laugh ; then immediately, with reproachful voice, she said : " The pastor never used to fool me like that." " No, he was content with making you a fool." " The pastor did ! Why, you've never been so kind to ine as he was ! " " It would have been too bad if I had." " Oh yes ! sour milk can ne'er get sweet." " Tes it can, if it's cooked to whey." At this her laughter burst forth. " There comes your mother," said he. Straightway she was all gloom again. " Such a chattering creature as that pastor's wife I've never met all my bom days," came from a quick, sharp, strident voice. " Hurry up now, Baard ; get up and push off the boat; we shan't be home to-night. She kept telling me I was to take care Eli always kept her feet dry — why, she can take care of that herself, I suppose ! She's to go for a walk every morning, she says, because of her delicate health. ' Delicate health ' here and ' delicate health ' EH. 59 there it was with her, I can tell you. But get up, Baard, do, and push ofE the boat — why, I've got bread-baking to look after this evening yet." " The box hasn't come yet," answered the man, without stirring. " The box isn't going to come ; it's to stay there till next Sunday. And you, Eli ! don't you hear ? G-et up, I say ; pick up your bundle and come along. Come, get up Baard, do ! " She moved away, the girl following, the woman's " get up, and come, do ! " still coming from the distance. " Have you seen to the plug in the boat?" asked Baard, without moving. "Tes, it's in all right ;" and Arne heard her immediately knock it in with a baler. " But get up do, Baard ! we are not to stop here all night, are we? " " I'm waiting for the box." " Bless me ! haven't I told you it's to stay here till next Sunday?" " Here it comes," said Baard. And they heard the rattle of wheels. "Why, I told them," said the woman, "it was to stay over till Sunday." " And I said it was to come with us." The woman, without a word, went straight up to the cart, took out of it a bundle, a lunch-bag, and some small things, and bore them off to the boat. Then Baard raised himseM, went to the cart, and carried the box down unaided. But following the cart came running a girl in a straw hat, her hair fluttering about her : it was the pastor's daughter. " Eli ! Eli ! " she cried from the distance. "Mathilde! Mathilde!" came the answer, as Eli dashed up to meet her. 60 ARNE. They met on the hill-side, weeping in each other's embrace. Presently Mathilde took up something she had set down on the grass : it was a bird-cage. " You are to have Narrifas — ^you must take him. Mother wants you to, too. Yes, you rrmst take Narrifas after all, and then you'll often think of me — and often, very often, row across to me here." And at that both fell a-crying again. " Eli ! Come, come, Eli ! Don't stick there ! " came a summons from below. " I'll come with you, that I will," said Mathilde ; "I'll go across with you and sleep with you to-night." " Yes, yes, yes ! " And with arms round one another's necks, down they went to the landing-place. A moment after, and Arne saw the boat out in the water, Eli standing up in the stern, holding the bird-cage, and waving her hand to Mathilde, who was sitting on a stone by the landing-stage, bitterly weeping. She sat there as long as the boat was in sight on the water : it was not far across to the red houses, and Arne remained in his place. His eyes followed the boat as her's did. Presently it was on the black strip of water in the shadows, and he watched it draw near to the land. He could see the three forms mirrored in the water, and thus he followed them all along the houses, till they came to the best of them all. He saw the mother go in first, then the father with the chest, and lastly the daughter, for he could distinguish them by their different statures. Presently the daughter came out again and sat down by the granary door, most likely to get a last glimpse of the other side, as the sun lit it up with his last rays. But the pastor's daughter was gone, and there was no one there but Arne, who sat there looking at her image in the water. " Perhaps she sees me now," was in his heart. He rose at last, and went. The sun had set, but the ELI. 61 teavens were blue and clear as they only are sometimes on summer nights. Clouds of vapour arose from land and water on both, sides of the mountains ; but the peaks stood free and unembarrassed as they looked at one another. He turned up the hill-side ; the water grew blacker and deeper and denser in his eyes. The valley below grew narrower, and seemed to be getting closer to the water's edge ; the mountain peaks seemed nearer together, making more of a solid mass than when shone on and parted by the bright sim-rays. The heavens themselves came nearer to earth, and all things were in amity and repose. CHAPTEE IX. A NTJTTING PARTY. HIS fancy now began to play with dreams of love and fair maidens ; Ms old ballads and romances made Hm behold them in a mystic mirror, like the young girl he ' had seen mirrored in the water. He was for ever looking into it, and from that night the fancy took him to sing of it too ; for now love had come, so to speak, nearer to him. But his thoughts sped away from him, and came back with a song that seemed to him all unknown ; it was as if someone else had composed it for him : " Fair Venevil hastened, with light-tripping feet, Her lover to greet. She sang till the air bore the echo away, ' Good day, and good day ! ' And all the small singing-birds twittered this lay : ' On St. Hans' eve. All their toil will leave, Who knows if she then may her bridal wreath weave ? ' " She weaves him a garland of blossoms blue, ' Of my eyes the hue ! ' He glanced at them, dropped them, then took the flowers gay. ' Fair maiden, good day ! ' He left her, and sang as he went on his way : ' On St. Hans' eve. All their toil will leave, Who knows if she then may her bridal wreath weave ? ' A NUTTING PARTY. 63 " She weaves him another. ' Ah, think it fair! 'Tis my golden hair.' Then she coaxing raised, as the words she said, Her mouth so red : He kissed it, and blushed, and away he sped. " She wove one, white as a lily band. ' See ! 'tis my right hand ! ' And one, blood-red as love's agony. ' 'Tis the left, for thee : ' He took them both, but away turned he. *' But still would the maiden her garlands bind — ' 'Tis all I can find ! ' AVhile over her flowerets fell many a tear, ' Take all that is here ! ' He took them in silence, and fled as in fear. " She wove one, pure as the pale moon's ray, ' For my bridal day ! ' She wove till the blood left her fingers fair, ' Now love, deck my hair ! ' But ah ! when she sought him no lover was there. " She wove and she tarried not, day or night. At her bride-wreath white. Summer, and flowers, and St. Hans' day, All have passed away. Still in dreams she is weaving her garland gay. ' On St. Hans' eve, Alt their toil will leave. Who knows if she then may her bridal- wreath weave ? ' " # * * * It was the gloom of his heart that clothed the first vision of love that came upon his soul, in such sad Unes. Two heart's-desires— the yearning to have someone to love, and the longing to do some great thing— sprang up together in his soul," and melted into one. It was now that he began to work again at the song " Over the moun- tains high "—ever altering it, singing it over to himself, and thinking each time "It'll yet carry me ofE some time or another : I'll go on singing it tUl I pluck up courage 64 ARNE. enough." He did not, however, forget his mother in his thoughts of travel; but he consoled himself with the thought that he would send for her as soon as he had got a footing abroad, and could offer her a life such as he never could hope to get, either for himself or for her, at home. But in the midst of his great yearnings there played around him something serene, yet bright and tender, that seemed to dart hither and thither, lay hold of him, and anon fly off again ; so that, dreamer as he had now become, he was more thoroughly in the power of involuntary fancies than he himseK knew. There was in the parish a merry old fellow of the name of Ejnar Aasen ; he had broken his leg when twenty years of age, and since that time walked with a crutch, but wherever he appeared limping along on his crutch, there was always some merriment forward. The man was well to do ; there was a great nut-copse on his land, and it was a regular thing for a troop of merry girls to come together at his house, on one of the finest days in autumn, to go a-nutting. They were grandly entertained by him in the day-time, and there was dancing for them at night. To most of them he had stood sponsor — for he stood sponsor to half the parish — all children called him " G-odfather," and young and old alike followed their example. Now G-odfather and Arne were well acquainted, and the man liked the lad for his songs, so he invited him to join them in the nutting party. Arne blushed and refused. " He was not used to being among women," he said. " Better get used to it now, then," answered Godfather. Arne could not sleep of a night for thinking of it; fear and longing were at strife within him. However, in the long-run he not only went, but, what is more, was in fact the only young man among all these girls. He could not deny that he felt a sense of disillusion ; these were not A NUTTING PARTY. 65 the maidens of whom, he had made songs, nor yet were they those he had feared to encounter. They were more full of life than anything he had ever seen, and the first thiag which struck him was that they could make merry over anything in the world; and if three of them had anything to laugh at, incontinently five fell a-laughing just because the three laughed. They behaved, too, as if they all shared one another's daily life ; yet there were some there who had never met till that day. If they got hold of the branch they sprang up at they laughed, and if they missed it they laughed too. They struggled for the nutting- hook to catch the branches with. Those who got it laughed; those who failed to get it laughed too. G-od- father hopped after them with his crutch, and teased them as much as he could. Those he caught, laughed because he caught them ; those he failed to catch, laughed because he failed to catch them. And all of them laughed at Arne because he was serious-looking, so that he could not help laughing ; and that made them laugh at him because he laughed himself at last. They seated themselves finally on a large knoll — God- father in the midst, and all the girls about him. There was a wide expanse around them, and the sun was burning hot ; but the girls cared little for that, as they pelted one another with shells and husks, and gave Godfather the kernels. Godfather kept ordering them to be still, and striking out at them as far as he could reach with his crutch ; for now he wanted them to begin telling tales, and merry ones, if possible. But to get them to teU stories seemed harder than to stop a rimaway cart going down hill. Godfather began, but many of them would not listen, for they knew his tales from of old, they said ; but gradually they were all earnestly Hstening, and before they knew they were sitting there, telling the best they could. And what astonished Arne most was that their stories 66 JRNE. were now as serious as, before, their merriment had been noisy. Most of them ran on love. "Now then, Aasa, you've got a good one, I remember, from last year," said godfather, turning to a healthy, good-natured-looting, round-faced lass, who sat with her little sister's head on her lap, plaiting her hair. " I expect lots of them know that," she answered. "Let's have it, all the same," they urged. " Well, I won't wait to be pressed, then," said she ; and straightway she began her story, plaiting her sister's hair all the while she told it. " Once upou a time there was a young man, who used to go tending the cattle: he Uked to drive them up to a certain broad river. A bit further along there was a crag, which jutted out so far over the stream that he could make himself heard from it on the other side. Now, over on that other side was a girl tending her flocks ; he could see her all day long, but he never could get over to her. Day after day he questioned her : " ' Who art thou, maid, by the river sitting, Blowing the horn, and for ever knitting ? ' Till at last he got for answer : " ' My name it swims, like the gull oti the sea. 0, lad with the fur cap, come over to me.' " At this the boy was just as wise as he was before ; so he thought he wouldn't trouble about her any more. But this wasn't so easy to do, for let him drive his herd wher- ever he pleased, it was sure to lead him somehow or other back to the crag again. So at last the lad grew frightened, and he shouted at her : " ' How call they thy father, and where dost thou dwell ? Ne'er in church have I seen thee. Fair maiden, then tell.' A NUTTING PARTY. 67 For the fact is, tlie lad began lialf to believe that she was a troU. " ' 0, drowned is my father, my house it is burnt. And the way to the church have I never yet learnt.' " But this, too, left the lad as wise as he was before. He spent all his days now at the crag, and at night he dreamt that she danced round him, lashing out at him with a great cow-whip whenever he tried to reach her. At last he could not sleep by night or work by day, so that he fell into a wretched condition. " ' If thou art a fairy, then far from me flee ; But if mortal maiden, then answer to me.' " Yet she made no answer, so now he felt certain she was a troll. He gave up tending the cattle, but that did him no good, for wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, his thoughts were always of the beautiful troU playing on the horn. " WeU, one day, as he was standing chopping up wood, there came through the yard a young girl who was the very image of the troll ; but when she came nearer, he saw it was not she. He was stUl thinking of this when the girl came back again, and, at a distance, she was so exactly like the troll, that he ran up to her at once. But when he came near it was not she, all the same. "After this, wherever the lad went — to church, to a dance, or to any gathering of any sort — he always saw this girl. Some way off from him she seemed his troll exactly, but close at hand she was different ; so at last he asked her if it was she or not, but she only laughed at him. ' WeU, well,' thought the lad, ' I may as well jump in as slip in,' so he went and married the girl. " Well, when he had done this, he no longer liked the girl. When away from her he was always longing for her, 68 ARNE. but when he was with her he was always yearning for one whom he could not see, so that the lad did not treat his wife kindly ; but she bore with him in patient sUence. "But one day, as he was going after some horses, his way took him to the crag, and he sat down there and sang : " ' Like moonlight far over the cliffs dost thou play, And like Will-o'-the-Wisp shines thy far-distant ray.' " It seemed to him good to sit there, and from that time he often went to the crag when he was discontented with home. But each time, when he had gone out, his wife fell a-weeping. One day, as he sat there, there, on the other side, before his very eyes, sat the troll, blowing her horn. " ' Ah ! there thou art, fair one ! oh blow once again, While lonely I listen, and weep in my pain.' Then she answered : " ' Till the dreams have gone out of your head I will blow, For at home the corn ripens, and home you must go.' " At this, the lad grew frightened, and went back to his home. But, before very long, he grew so tired of his wife again, that he couldn't help going to the crag over the river in the wood. Then he heard singing : '"I dreamed that thou camest ; now hasten to find me ; But if thou wouldst do so, then look well behind thee.' " The lad started up and looked around him : the end of a green skirt twinkled away among the bushes. After it dashed he : then followed a chase through the wood. Meet of foot as the troll no human being could be. He cast spells at her time after time, but she ran on just as well as before. But at last she began to grow weary, as the lad could see from the way she ran ; he could see, too, more and more clearly, from his view of her figure^ that she was his troll, and no other. A NUTTING PARTY. 69 " ' Now you shall certainly be mine,' thought the lad, and suddenly he dashed at her so impetuously that both he and the troll fell, and rolled far down the hill together before they could stop themselves. " Then the troU laughed, so that it seemed to the lad the moimtains sang again. He clasped her to his heart, and she was beautiful as he had wished his own wife to be. ' " Who art thou, oh beauteous maid ? ' asked the lad, and he touched her soft, warm cheeks. " ' Dear heart,' answered the troll, " I am only your own wife ! ' " The girls laughed and made merry over the lad's folly. Godfather turned to Axne, and asked him if he had been listening carefully. " Well now. Til tell you something," cried a little lass, with a little round face and a little round nose. " There was once a little fellow whd wanted very much to make love to a little girl ; they were both quite old enough, but they were both such little things that the boy could never pluck up courage enough to begin. He kept close to her at church-time, but never could get to talk to her of anything but the weather. He followed her about at dances, and almost danced her to death ; yet he could not manage to talk to her. " ' Tou must learn to write,' said he to himself, at last,- ' so you'll not need to say it ; ' and ofE he went, to learn writing. " However, he thought he would never be able to write well enough, so that he was a whole year before he ven- tured to write the letter. Then it was necessary to get it given her without anyone seeing it. So one day, as they happened to be alone together behind the church, the lad said : " ' I've got a letter for you.' " ' But,' answered the girl, ' I can't read writing.' 70 ARNE. " So there was he at a standstill again. " Well, the lad went into her father's service, and never let her he out of his sight all day long. Once he had very nearly managed to ask her: he had just got his mouth open, when in flew a great fly. " ' Suppose someone were to come and taie her from me ! ' thought he ; hut nobody came and took her from him, because she was so little. " At last, however, somebody did come, and he was little too. The lad saw at once what the new comer meant, so, when they went into the shed together, the lad ran and placed himself at the key-hole. Then the stranger inside began to make love to her. " 'Oh!' groaned the lad to himself, 'what a noodle I must have been, not to have been quicker about it myself.' " Then the wooer inside kissed the girl on the lips. " ' Ah, that tasted nice, I daresay,' snarled the lad to himself. , "Then the lover inside took the girl on his knee. " ' 0, what a wicked world we live in ! ' moaned the lad, and he burst out crying. " The girl heard the noise and went to the door. " ' What is it you want of me, horrid boy, that I never can get a moment's peace because of you ? ' " ' I want ? I only wanted to ask to be your best man.' " ' No ; that one of my brothers shall be,' answered the girl, and she slammed the door. " And there stood the boy, alone again." The girls laughed loudly at this tale, and began to pelt each other promptly with nutshells again. Godfather wanted Eli Boen to tell them something now. " Yes, but what was it to be ? " she asked. Why, let her tell them what she had told him, last A NUTTING PARTY. 71 time he was over the hiUs at her people's house, when she gave him the new garters. It was long before EH could begin, because she was laughing so ; but at last she said : " A boy and a girl were once walking together along a road. " ' Look at that thrush following us,' said the girl. " ' Following me, you mean,' said the boy. " ' Just as likely me as you,' answered the girl. " ' That's easy to see,' retorted the boy ; ' you go by the upper road and I'll go by the lower, and we'll meet up there at the end.' " They did as he said. " ' Well,' said the boy, when they met again, ' it followed me, you see.' " ' Why, it followed me,' answered the girl. " ' There must be two of them,' said he. " They walked on together again for a whUe, but there was only one bird now. The boy felt sure it was flying along on his side, but the girl was just as positive it was on hers. " ' I don't care a pin for the old thrush,' said the boy, at last. " ' Nor do I, then,' answered the girl. " But no sooner had they said this, than the thrush dis- appeared. " ' It was on your side, after all,' said the boy. " ' No, thank you. I saw plainly enough it was on yours,' retorted she. ' But look ; here he is come again,' she cried. " ' Tes, so he is. Well, he's on my side now, at any rate,' shouted the boy. " ' I'd rather do anything than walk along with a horrid thing Uke you ! ' And she went her own way. " At this, the thrush flew away from the boy ; and he 72 ARNE. found it so lonely being by himself, that he began to call her name. " She answered. " ' Is the thrush with you ? ' shouted the boy. " ' No ; but is he with you ? ' " ' No, no. Why don't you come back here ; then per- haps he'll come, too.' " So the girl came back, and they took one another's hands and walked along together. " ' Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet ! ' came from the girl's side of the way. " ' Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet ! ' came from the boy's side. " ' Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet ! ' came from all sides ; and when they looked to see where it came from, they saw a hundred thousand million thrushes round them. " ' Oh, how lovely ! ' cried the girl, and she looked at the boy. " ' God bless you, dear ! ' said he, and patted her cheeks." This story delighted all the girls. Then Grodfather thought it would be nice for them to tell what they had last dreamt, and he would judge which of them had had the best dream. " What ! tell what they had dreamt ! " cried they. " No, indeed ! " And they all began to laugh and whisper. But gradually one girl after another began to declare that she had had such a strange dream the night before. " Ah," said some other, " but it couldn't have been so wonderful as mine was." And at last, all of them were anxious to be telling their dreams. " But not aloud," they all stipulated ; " only to some one person ; and that person must certainly not be God- father." A NUTTING PARTY. 73 Arne was sitting silent on a knoll a little 'way off, and they decided they would trust their dreams to him. He was sitting in the shade of a hazel-hush when the girl who had told the first story came up to him. She considered for a while and then began : "I dreamt I was standing by a great sheet of water. Then I saw someone moving over the water, and that was one whose name I will not say. He got up on the cup of a great water-lily, and there he sat, singing. Now I went and stood on one of the great lily-leaves that lie swimming on the water ; I wanted to row over to him on it. But as soon as I got on the leaf, it began to siak with me, and I was so frightened, that I burst out crying. Then he came rowing up in the lily- cup, lifted me up into it, and away we rowed, right across the water. Wasn't that a beautiful dream ? " Next came the little girl who had told the tale about the little people. " I dreamed I had caught a little bird, and I was so glad. I didn't mean to let it go till I had got it home ; but when I got there, I didn't dare to let it go either, for fear father and mother might bid me let it out again. So I went up to the garret with it; but there was the cat lurking about after it, so that I couldn't let it go there either. Then I didn't know what to do, so I went to the bam ; but, oh dear ! there were so many chinks, that it would easily have flown through them. So I went away with it, down to the farm-yard, and there (I thought) there was standing someone whose name I will not say. He stood playing with a big, big dog. " ' I would rather play with your bird,' said he, and he came quite near. " But now (I thought) I suddenly dashed away, and the big dog after me, and away we went round the yard ; but mother quickly opened the door, pulled me in, and shut it 74 ARNE. to again. Outside stood he, laughing, with his face against the window-pane. " ' Look, here's your bird ! ' he cried. And fancy, he actually had it. " Wasn't that a funny dream ? " Next came the girl who had told the thrush story. " Eli " the others called her. It was this Eli whom he had seen that evening in the boat, and mirrored in the lake. She was just the same as then, and yet not the same, so maidenly and handsome did she look now with her thoughtful face and slender figure, as she took her place. She was laughing very much, and therefore it was long before she could manage to speak. At last she began : " I had been so enjoying the thought of coming here nutting to-day that last night I dreamt I was sitting here on the hill. The sun was shining, and I had my lap all full of nuts. But a little squirrel had got in. all among my nuts, and he sat up and ate them all. Wasn't that a funny dream ? " And now, when many dreams had been told him, he had to say which was the best. He wanted time to think, he * said ; so, meantime, Godfather, with all his troop, made his way to the homestead, whither Ame was to follow them. They darted down the hill, and arranged them- selves in ranks when they had got on to level ground, marching back to the house singing. Arne, left sitting on the knoll, heard their singing. The sun]s rays were falling on the merry band, and their white sleeves glistened in the distance. Away they danced over the meadows, with Godfather after, threatening them with his stick for treading down the grass. Arne was no longer thinking of dreams, nor did his eyes long follow the young girls : his fancies were spreading over the dale like bright sun-threads, and he sat upon the hill-side, weaving them together. Before he was conscious of it, he was A NUTTING FARTV. 75 caught in a web of sad longings : there was a yearning in his heart to be gone, such as never had been there in his life before. He vowed to tell his mother of his intent as soon as he got home again, come of it what would. These thoughts grew upon him every minute, and drove him to his old song, " Over the mountains high." Never had the words come so easily to him before, nor ranged them- selves so fairly to his desire ; they seemed to him like maidens sitting together on a hill. He drew forth a scrap of paper and wrote on it, on his knee. And when he had written his song through to the end, up he rose, as if freed from a burden. He had no wish to go back to the rest ; he began to make his way homewards through the woods, though he knew he would need to be walking the whole night. The first time he sat down to rest on the way, he thought he would take out the song, and sing it to himself all through the woods ; but he found he had left it, forgotten, on the spot where he made it. One of the girls came to seek him at the knoll ; she found — not him, but the song. CHAPTEE X. AT BOEN. TO " have a talk with mother " was a thing easier to say than to do. He alluded casually to Kristen, and the letters which never came ; but at that his mother left the room, and for days afterwards he thought her eyes were red. He perceived, too, another sign of her state of mind, and that was that she got especially nice meals for him. One day he had to go to the forest, to cut down some wood ; his way ran through the thickets, and the very spot where he was to begin his hewing was a place frequented in autumn-time for its wortleberries. Arne had put down his axe to take ofE his jacket, and was just about to begin, when two girls came along with berry -pails. It was always his way to hide himself rather than encounter a girl, so that was what he did now. "O, I say! I say ! " he heard, "just look at all the berries ! Eli, Illi ! " " Tes, dear, yes — I see." " But don't let's go any further ; there are any number of pailfuls here." " I thought I heard a rustle in the thicket there." " you silly ! " said the other ; and each girl clasped the AT BOEN. 77 other nervously round the waist, and for a while they stood so still as scarcely to draw breath. "Oh, it's nothing, after all," said one at length, "let's, go on picking." " Yes, yes, let's go on then," said the other, and they began again to fill their pails. " It was nice of you, EH, to come over to the parsonage to-day. Now — ^haven't you something to tell me ? " " I've been at Godfather's " " Yes, yes ; you told me that ; but is there nothing about — ^you know whom ? " "Ah, yes!" " Oh EH ! really, really ? Do be quick and tell me, dear." " He's been again ! " "What, reaUy?" " Yes, really. Both father and mother made as if they didn't notice anything; but I ran up to the garret and hid myself." " Gf-o on, go on. Did he follow you ? " " I think father must have told him where I was ; he's always so horrid now." " So he came after you, then ? Here, sit down, sit down by me — now ; he came up, you say ? " " Yes, but he did'nt say much, he was so shy." " Tell me every word he said, anyhow ; every word." " ' Are you afraid of me ? ' said he. ' Why should I be afraid of you ? ' said I. ' You know what it is I want of you,' said he, and seated himself on the chest beside me." " Beside you ! " " And then he put his arm round my waist " " Bound your waist ! are you' mad ? " " I tried to get away again, but he wouldn't let me go. ' Dear Eli,' said he " — and she laughed, and the other girl laughed too. " Well ? well ?— what then ? " 78 ASNE. " Will you be my wife ? " said he. " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed her hearer. " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed Eli. " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed they both. At last, however, even the girls' laughter could not but come to an end, and then for a while there was perfect silence, after which came a question in a low voice. " But Eli, tell me— wasn't it — ^wasn't it horrid, when he put his arm round you ? " The other either made no answer to this, or else it was in so low a tone that it could not be overheard ; perhaps it was only a smile. Presently the first speaker began again. " Didn't your father or your mother say anything to you about it afterwards ? " " Father came up and looked at me, but I hid myself directly, for he laughed as soon as he saw me." " And your mother ? " " She said nothing, but she's not been so severe as usual." " Tou refused him, I suppose ? " " Of course." Then there was silence agaia for a time. "I say?" " Well ? " " Do you think anyone will ever come to me like that P " " Tes, of course." " Are you really in earnest ? O — — Eli — suppose he were to take me by the waist ! " And she hid her face. Presently they were laughing, chattering, and whisper- ing together, and before long they departed : they had neither of them seen Arne, or his axe or jacket, of which he was very glad. Some days after, he took Upland Knut to work and live at Kanapen. " You shall no longer be alone," said Arne. AT BOEN. 79 Ame himself was now at work with a purpose. He had «arly learnt how to handle a saw, for he had done much to the house at Kampen. Now he wanted to practise car- pentry as a trade, knowing it was best to have a regular handicraft, and he knew, too, that it was good for him to mix with other people ; and such was the alteration that had gradually taken place in him, that he now felt himself longing for companionship whenever he had been for a while aU alone. It happened that that winter he was at the parsonage, with his axe and saw, and both the girls were often together there too. Arne wondered, when he saw them, who on earth it was that was wooing Eli Boen. It happened one day that he was to take the pastor's daughter and Eli for a drive ; he had sharp ears, but for aU. that, he could not hear what they were talking of. Now and again Mathilde spoke a word to him, and then Eli would laugh, and turn away her face. Once Mathilde asked him i£ it was true that he wrote verses. " No," said he, shortly ; and then both girls began to laugh, chatter, and giggle. After this, Arne did not seem best pleased with them, and behaved as if he did not see them. Once he was sitting in the servants' room, when there was dancing going on, and Mathilde and Eli had both come down to look on. They were evidently discussing something in the corner, something which Eli did not want, it seemed, but Mathilde did ; and the latter had her way. So up they both came to where he sat, bowed, and asked if he could dance. He said he could not, and at this both turned, laughed, and fled. " That's a nice way to laugh," thought Ame, and he grew grave. But the pastor had a little foster-son, ten or twelve years old, whom Arne was very fond of ; now from this boy Arne learned to dance, when no one else was by to see. Eli had a little brother, the same age as the pastor's foster-son. These two were playmates, and Arne made 80 ARNE. sledges, snow-shoes, and bird-snares for them, while he talked with them much of their sisters, especially of Eli. One day, Eli's brother brought him word that he was not to be so untidy and careless about his hair. " Who said that ? " he asked. " EU did ; but I was not to tell that she said it." Some days after, he sent word that EU was to laugh a little less. The boy came back again, with the message that Arne was to laugh a little more. One day, the boy wanted to have something he had written. Arne let him do so, and thought no more about it. A little while later, the boy tried to gladden Arne with the tidings that both the girls liked his writing very much. " Have they seen it then ? " " Yes ; it was for them that I wanted it." Arne told the boys to bring him something that their sisters had written, and they did so. Arne corrected their writing with a carpenter's pencil, and bade the boys put it where it would be easy for them to find it. Later on, he found the paper in his jacket pocket again, and, written at the foot of it, the words " Corrected by a conceited goose." Next day, Arne finished his work at the parsonage and went home. His mother had never found him so gentle as he was this winter, since that sorrowful time that followed his father's death. He read the sermon to her, he went to church with her, and was kind to her in every way. But she knew right well all the while that this was only to gain her consent to his leaving her, to travel, when spring came. Meanwhile, one day, a messenger came from Boen, to ask him if he would go over there for some carpentry- work. Arne was thrown into confusion, and answered " Yes," apparently without thinking the matter over. As soon as the man had gone, however, the mother said : AT SOEN. 81 " You may well be dumbfoundered. From Boen ! " " Is that so wonderful, then ? " asked Ame, without look- ing at her. " From Boen ! " cried Margit again. " Well, why not, as well as from any other farm ? " said he, looking up a bit. " From Boen and Birgit Boen ! from Baard, who maimed your father, and all for Birgit's sake ! " " What's that you say ? " cried the boy. " Was it Baard Boen who did that ? " Son and mother stood up facing one another. A whole lifetime swept before their eyes, and for an instant they saw the black thread that was woven through it from beginning to end. Presently they began to talk of the days of Nils' glory, when old Eli Boen herseH sought him for her daughter Birgit, and got a refusal. They went on talking till they got to where Nils was struck down, and both found out that Baard' s guilt in the matter had been very little ; but nevertheless it was he and none other that had made Ame's father a cripple. " Am I never to be finished with father ? " thought Axne, and at once made up his mind to go. When Arne walked across to Boen, his saw over his shoulder, what seemed to him a fine homestead. The house looked as if it had been new-painted all over : he was feel- ing cold, and perhaps that was "why it looked so cosy and pleasant to him. Instead of going straight in, he went round by the farm-yard. There was a herd of shaggy- haired goats nibbling about in the snow at some birch boughs ; a sheep-dog was running backwards and forwards in front of the barn, barking as if the fiend had come into the yard, but as soon as Ame halted he began to wag his tail, and let himself be stroked. The kitchen door on the other side of the house opened every now and again, and each time Ame looked in, but saw only the mUk-maid 6 82 ARNE. with her pails, or the cook throwing out something to the goats. From the barn came the sound of lusty threshing. On the left of him, by a pile of logs, stood a lad chopping up wood, and behind him were sundry wood-heaps. Arne put down his saw, and went into the kitchen. The floor was all covered with white sand, and tiny shaviags of juniper; along the walls shone brightly-polished copper cooking utensHs, and in the racks were rows of china. Dinner was being cooked. Arne asked if he could speak to Baard. " G-o into the parlour," answered a maid, pointing. He went. He noticed that there was no latch to the door, but a handle of brass instead. The rooni was clean and well-painted, the ceiling ornamented with roses ; the presses coloured red, with their owner's name in black letters, and the bedstead to match, but with the addition of blue stripes round the edges. By the fireplace sat a broad-shouldered man, with a kind face and long yellow hair ; he was fitting hoops on some tubs. At the end of the long table sat a, woman with a linen hood on her head ; she wore closely- fitting clothes, and was tall and slender; she was busy dividing a heap of grain into two portions. These were the only people in the room. " G-ood day, and Grod speed your work ! " said Arne, taking off his cap. Both looked up. The man smiled, and asked who he was. " The man about the carpentry." The man smiled still more, nodding his head, and beginning his work again. " Ah ! Arne Kampen." " Arne Kampen ? " cried the woman, her eyes fixed on him. The man looked up quickly, with another smile, " Son of Mis Skrsedder," he said, and settled down to his work again. Next minute the woman had risen, gone to a shelf, turned round, moved back to a cupboard, turned back AT BOEN. 83 again, bending down as if groping for sometMng in a drawer, and asked, without looking up : " Is he to work here ? " " Yes," said the man, without lookiag up either. " Tou haven't been asked to take a seat, I'm afraid," he went on, turning to Ame. Ame sat down on a bench. The woman left the room, the man went on with his work. Ame asked if he might begin work too. "We'U have dinner first," was the answer. The woman did not return, but next time the kitchen door opened it was Eli who came in. At first she made as if she did not see him. He got up to meet her, and she turned half round as she gave him her hand, without letting her eyes meet his. They exchanged a few words, while the father went on working. Eli's hair was in plaits now ; she wore a bodice with tight-fitting sleeves, her figure was slender and graceful, her wrists prettily curved, and her hands small. She began to lay the table. The labourers took their dinner in the other room, but Ame and the household had theirs in the parlour. It happened that particular day that they dined alone, but generally they aU sat at the same table in the big light kitchen. " Isn't your mother coming ? " asked the man. " No ; she is in the garret, weighing out wool." " Have you asked her? " " Tes ; but she says she doesn't want anything to eat." For a moment there was silence, an,d then the man said: " It must be cold up in the garret." " She wouldn't let me light the fire," answered Eh. After dinner Ame began his work ; in the evening he sat with the others again. The woman was with them too ; she and her daughter were sewing, the man was employed ia mending various little things, and Ame 84 ARNE. helped. For awhile there was perfect stillness, and Eli, whose wont it seemed to be to lead the talk, was now quite silent. It struck Ame, with a sort of dread, that it was often so in his own home ; but now, for the first time, it seemed to him oppressive. At last Eli drew a deep breath, as if she had held in long enough, and began to laugh. Then the father began to laugh too, and Ame, somehow, felt in a laughing mood, and joined in as well. Then they began to talk of all sorts of things. By degrees he and Eli had most of the conversation to themselves, the father putting in a word here and there. But once, after Ame had been speaking at some length, he chanced to look up ; his eye met Birgit the mother's eyes ; she had let fall her work, and sat gaziag fixedly at him. She plied her needle again at once, but as soon as he began to speak again she looked up. Bed-time drew near, and they all went to their rooms. Ame particularly wanted to note what dream he would have the first night in a new place ; but there was no sense in. it at all. The whole day he had talked very Httle, or not at all, with the master of the house ; yet all night it was only of him that he dreamt. Just before waking, it seemed to him that Baard was sitting at cards with Nils Skrsedder, who was very angry and pale ; but Baard was smiling, and drawing all the cards over to his side. Ame was there for several days, during which there was almost nothing said, but a great deal done. Not only the family in the parlour, but the servants, the labourers, and even the maids scarcely spoke. There was au old dog in the yard, who barked whenever a stranger approached ; but no one in the place ever heard the dog baying without a prompt " Lie down, sir ! " at which the old hoimd returned, grumbling, to his kennel. At Eampen there was a great weathercock on the roof, that turned with every breath of wind ; here at Boen was a still larger one, which attracted AT BOEN. 85 Ame's attention at once, because it never moved. WLen the wind drove against it, it tried with all its might to get free, and Arne watched it so long that at last he could not keep himself from getting up on the roof and loosening it. It was not frozen tight, as he had thought, hut a peg was run through it to keep it from turning. Arne drew it out and threw it down ; it struck Baard, who happened to be passing. He looked up, with a " What are you doing there ? " " Loosening the weathercock." " Don't do that ; it squeaks when it turns." " That's better," said Arne, as he sat astride the ridge of the roof — " that's better than making no sound at all." Baard looked up at Arne, and Arne looked down at Baard ; then Baard smUed. " He that can't help squeaking when he speaks," he said, " had best hold his tongue altogether, I should think." Now it may happen that a remark haunts you long after it has been made, and especially when it is the last you have heard. These words repeated themselves to Arne as he climbed down in the cold from the roof, and they were with him stiU when he came into the parlour that evening. Eli was standing by the window in the evening twilight, looking out over the ice that lay shining in the rays of the moon. He went to the other window, and looked out too. Inside, aU was comfortable warmth and stillness ; outside, all was cold. The keen night wind, sweeping through the Valley, was shaking the trees, so that the shadows they cast in the moonshine crept hither and thither across the snow. From the parsonage on the other side shone out a bright light, that seemed to keep dilating and contracting, and to 'take all sorts of shapes and tints, as is ever the case when one looks over-long at a bright thing. The mountain towered aloft, black and fiUed with strange shapes within, but white with the moonlight falHng on its 86 ARNE. snows without. The heavens were thick-sown with stars, a northern light at the far-off boundary just glimmering into view. A few paces from the window, by the water's edge, stood the trees, their shadows melting into one another ; but the great ash stood alone and apart, drawing figures on the snow. All was still, save that every now and then came the sound of a strident, wailiag noise. " What is that ? " asked Arne. "The weathercock," answered Eli, adding, in a lower tone, as if to herself, " it must have broken loose." Till then, Arne had been as one who would have talked, but could not. Now he spoke. " Do you remember the tale of the thrushes and their singing ? " " Yes." "Of course; why, it was you who told it us. It was a beautiful story." "I often think," she said, in so soft a voice as he had never yet heard, he thought — " I often think there is some- thing singing when one is quite still." " That is the good in one's heart," said he. She looked at him as if there was too much in tha answer, and both were silent for awhile. When next she spoke she was drawing on the pane with her finger. She asked him : " Have you been making any new songs lately ? " He coloured up, but she could not see that, so she wen on questioning. " How do you set about making a song ? " " Do you really care to know ? " "Yes— yes." " I keep hold and take care of thoughts that other people are glad to let go," he answered evasively, and she was silent again for awhile ; for she was trying with one and AT BOEN. 87 another of his songs, if she, too, had had the thoughts, but let them go. " It is very -wonderful," she said, as i£ to herself, and began to draw on the window-pane anew. " I made a song the first time I saw you," said Arne. "Where was that?" " Down by the parsonage over there, that night you left them. I saw you in the water." She laughed, stopped, and said : " Let me hear the song." Arne had never before done such a thing, yet now he trusted himself to sing the song to her. " Fair Venevil hastened, with light-tripping feet. Her lover to greet," etc. Eli listened with great attention, and stood still for some minutes after the song was ended. Then at last she cried : " Oh, how I pity poor Venevil ! " " It always seems to me as if I hadn't written it myself," said Arne. He was feehng ashamed now of having sung his own verses to her; he could not make out how it was he had come to do it, but he stood there now; thinking of the words. Then said Eli : " But is that what's to happen to me, then ? " " No, no, no ; I was thinking of myself when I made it." " Is it to happen to you, then ? " " I don't know ; but I felt so at that time. I feel so no longer ; I used to be so melancholy at that time." " That is strange,'' said she ; and her fingers were busy on the window again. Next morning, when Arne came in to dinner, he went straight to the window. Out of doors, the world was grey and heavy ; within, warmth and comfort. On the window was written by a finger " Arne," " Arne," " Arne " — always 88 , ARNE. " Arne." It was the -window by which Eli had been stand- ing the night before. But next day Eli did not come downstairs; she was poorly. Indeed, she had been by no means well of late ; she said so herself, and besides, it was plain to see. CHAPTEE XI. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. NEXT day Arne came in and told them he had heard on the farm that Mathilde, the pastor's daughter, was just setting out on a visit to town ; for some days, she herself thought, but, in reality; for a year or two. Eli, who had heard nothing of it till that moment, fainted away. Arne had never seen such a thing before, and was very frightened. He ran for the servants, and they for her parents, who came breathless to the room. There was a confusion of noises all over the farm, the watch-dog by the bam door coming in with his deep bark. "When Arne came in again somewhat later, he found the mother was on her knees by the bed, and the father was supporting his sick daughter's head. The maids were scurrying to and fro : one was running for water, another for the cordial drops that were in. one of the cupboards, and a third was loosening the girl's bodice round her neck. " Ah ! God save and help us ! " said the mother ; " it was too idiotic of us to have told her nothing about it. It was all your doing, Baard. G-od save and help you ! " Baard made no reply. "I told you so before," she went, on; "but nothing's 90 ARNE. ever done as I want it here. Ah ! God help you ! you're always so hard about her, Baard. Tou don't understand her at all. Tou don't know what it means to love anyone, you don't." Still Baard was silent. " She's not like others, that can bear sorrow, isn't Eli ; it knocks her over completely, poor weak little thing ! espe- cially now, too, when she's so out of sorts. Wake up again, my dear little one, and we'll always be kind to you ! Wake up again, my own Eli, and don't grieve us so ! " Then said Baard : " Tou either keep silence too much, or else you talk too much ; " and he looked at Arne, as if he wished him not to listen, but to go about his work. But as the maids just then came back, Arne thought he too might stay, so he only walked across to the window. The sick girl now so far recovered as to be able to open her eyes and see, those about her ; but at the same instant recollection returned, and with a cry of " Mathilde ! Mathilde ! " she fell into a fit of weeping, and sobbed so that it was pain for one to be in the room. Her mother sought to comfort her, while her father stood just so as to be seen by her ; but the poor girl pushed them both away. " Go, go ! " she cried. " Go ! I don't love you, either of you ! " " Christ Jesus ! " said the mother, " don't you love your own parents ? " " No ! you're cruel to me ; and you take from me the only joy I have! " " Eli, Eli ! don't say such awful things," said her mother, sternly. " Tes, mother, yes ! " screamed the girl, hysterically ; " now I must speak. Tes, mother ! you want to marry me to that horrid man ; and I won't have him. Tou shut me up here, where I'm never happy unless I can get out. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 91 And you've taken Mathilda from me— the only person I love and care for in the world. Oh, G-od! what will become of me when Mathilde's no longer here ! and now, now too, when there's so much I can't bear any longer, if I don't have some one to talk with ! " " But you haven't been there often with her lately, you know," said Baard. " What did that matter, when I had her across there in the window ? " answered the poor girl, sobbing like a little child, so that to Arne it seemed as if he never had heard the sound of weeping before. "But you couldn't see her," said Baard. " I could see the house," she retorted. And her mother interrupted vehemently, looking at him, "Tou can't under- stand anything of that, you ! " So Baard said no more. " Now I can never go to the window ! " said Eli. " I used to go to it every morning when I got up ; in the evening I sat there in the moonlight ; and I went there always when I hadn't got to go anywhere else. Oh MathUde! Mathilde!" She writhed on the bed, and began to sob convxilsively again. Baard sat down on a stool and gazed steadfastly at her. EU was not herself again so soon as they had perhaps expected. Towards evening they began to suspect that some illness was upon her that had probably been coming on for some time past ; and Arne was called in to help to take her up to her own room. She was quite unconscious, pallid, and motionless. Her mother sat down beside her ; her father stood by the bed, looking at her ; presently he rose and went down to his work. Arne did the same ; but that evening he prayed for her — prayed that one so young and pretty as she might Uve happy in this world, with no one to take her happiness from her. Next day, when Arne came in, the father and mother 92 ARNE. were sitting together, talking: the mother had plainly been weeping. Arne asked how Eli was going on ; each expected the other to speak, so that it was a moment or two before he was answered. "Very sadly indeed," said the father, at last ; and later on Arne heard that Eli had been wandering ia her mind all night, or, as the father put it, " saying all sorts of queer things." Now she lay in a torpid state, recognising no one, and refusing to touch food. They had just been debating whether to call a doctor or not. When they rose to go to the patient's room, and Arne was left sitting by himself, it seemed to him as if life and death were struggling in the room above ; but he must sit alone, apart from them. In a few days, however, she was better. Once, as the father sat by her, a fancy took her to have Narrifas — the bird Mathilde had given her — by the bed. Then Baard told her what was too true — that, in all the confusion and worry of her illness, the bird had been forgotten, and was dead. The mother happened to come in just as he was speaking. " Oh, God help me, Baard ! " she cried. " Ton cruel creature, to tell your sick girl such a thing as that. Look, she's fainting away again ! Look ! God forgive you your heartlessness ! " Each time Eli came to at all she cried for her bird; declared passionately she could never be happy with Mathilde again, now that Narrifas was dead ; begged to be allowed to go to her, and fell into a swoon again. Baard stood by looking at her till it was too hard to bear ; then he tried to help soothe her, but Birgit pushed him aside, telling him to let the poor child alone. So Baard stood and looked at both for a long while, then he straight- ened his hat on his head with both hands, turned, and left the room. The pastor and his wife came over later on, for her BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 93 illness gained fresh hold upon her now, and they knew not whether the end of it would be life or death. Both the pastor and his wife gave Baard a bit of their minds, telling him he was too hard in hi^ treatment of his child. They got to hear about the bird, and the pastor told him. plainly that his conduct had been horribly un- feeling. He would like, he said, to take the girl back to their house as soon as she was better and able to be moved. The pastor's wife, indeed, refused to see him any longer ; but she wept, and sat by Eli's bedside, fetched the doctor, received his directions, and came over to Boen several times a day to see that they were carried out. Baard wandered about the farm from one place to another, nearly always quite alone ; often standing still for a long while, and then, straightening his hat on his head with both hands, falling to some work or other. The mother no longer spoke with him: they merely looked at one another. He went up to the sick girl several times a day, taking ofE his shoes at the foot of the stairs and laying down his hat outside the door before warily opening it. As soon as he came in, Birgit turned as if she had not seen him, then leant her head on her hand again, and looked straight before her at the patient, who lay there motionless, unaware of anything that was going on around her. Baard generally stood for a moment or two at the foot of the bed, looked at both of them, and saying nothing. Whenever Eli moved, as if about to awake, he glided away on the spot as silently as he had entered. Often Arne thought that now had been said certain things between man arid wife, as also between parents and child, which long had been stored up in secret among them, and would not now be soon put out of mind again. He longed to be gone, though he was aU eagerness to know first how it was to turn out with EU. But that he could always keep himself informed of, after all, thought he ; so 94 ARNE. he went to Baard and said that it was time for him to go hom.e again : the work he had come for was done. Baard was sitting on the timber-chopping block in the yard when Ame came to him and told him ; he was bending forward, digging in the snow with a wooden peg. Ame recognised the peg : it was the same that had held tight the weather- cock. Baard did not look up as he answered, "It's not pleasant, I know, to be here now ; but stiU, I shouldn't like you to go." And he said no more, and neither did Ame. He waited a moment, then went and got something to do, as if it was settled that he was to remain. Later in the day, when Ame was called in to dinner, he found Baard still sitting on the wood-block. Then Ame went up to him, and asked how Eli was that day. " Bad, bad, I'm sure, to-day," answered Baard. " I see her mother's been weeping." It seemed to Arne as if someone had invited him to sit down, so he placed himself on a bit of a felled tree, exactly opposite Baard. " I've been thinking a good deal about your father the last few days," said Baard, so unexpectedly that Ame could make no reply. " Tou know, of course," he went on, " what there was between us ? " " I know." "Ah, but you only know one side of the matter, of course, and so you lay all the blame on me." "You have surely," said Ame, after amoment's hesitation, " to answer for it to your G-od, as my father has already done." "Ah, well! that must be as it may," answered Baard. " When I found this peg, though, it seempd so strange that you, of all men, should have come here and loosed the weathercock. But it's just as well, first as last, thought I." He had taken off his hat, and now he sat there looking at it. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 95 Ame did not yet perceive that Baard was now wanting^ to talk to him of his father ; nay, he did not even realize it when he hegan on the subject, for it seemed so unlike Baard. But now he gradually remarked, during the pro- gress of Baard's talk, what had been going on in his heart ; and if he had felt any respect before for this ponderous but thoroughly worthy man, be sure it was none the less after that. " I was about fourteen," said Baard ; and he paused here, as he did every now and then throughout his whole narrative. Then he said a few more words and paused again, so that every word of his story gave one the impres- sion of being well weighed : "I was about fourteen when I first got to know your father, who was about the same age. .... He was very spirited, and would own no one over him, and that was why he never could forget that I was number one at confirmation, and he was number two He often challenged me to settle which was best man, but somehow it never came to anything; most hkely because neither of us was quite confident of winning But it's a funny thing, that he had quarrels and fights every day, and nothing came of it, while the one time I was drawn in it turned out as badly as it could ; but, it's true, I had waited a long time Nils ran after all the girls, and they after him. There was only one I cared about, but her he took from me at every dance, every wedding, every party : it was she to whom now I am married Often, as I sat by, I longed to try my strength with him, just for that ; but I was afraid that I might lose, and I knew that then I should lose her too. When all the people had gone away, I used to lift the weights he had hfted, and take the leaps he had leapt ; but all the same, next time he danced off with the girl before my eyes. I could not bring myself to set everything on a throw with him, though once,, as he stood fooling with her before my face, I took a full- 96 ARNE. grown man and laid him across the beam above, as if just for fun. That made Nils tnrn a bit pale " But if he had only behaved well to her ! but he was deceiving her, and that night after night. I really believe she hted him the better for it each time. .... So it came about that the end drew near. I would not have him going on like that any longer, and it was thus that he fell a bit heavier than I meant him to I never saw him again." They sat a long while silent. At length Baard went on : " I began to court her again. She gave me neither yea nor nay, but I thought we should get on better together by- and-bye. We got married ; our wedding took place down in the valley there, at her aunt's, who made her her heiress. We began with much, and that's since grown to more. Our farms had lain side by side, and now they were thrown into one — a thing I had longed to have done ever since my boyhood But many other things were not as I had longed to have them." He broke off, and sat silent awhile. Ame thought he was weeping, but that was not so ; yet his voice was gentler than usual when he went on : "At first she was very quiet and melancholy. I had nothing to say to console her, so I was silent too. A bit later on she began gradually to take up with those bustUng, domineer- ing ways you've no doubt noticed. At any rate, that's some alteration, thought I ; so I said nothing now either. . . . But one day of real happiness I've not had since I was married, and that I've been twenty years now." .... At this, he broke the wooden peg in two, and sat looking at the pieces awhile. " When Eli began to grow up, I thought it would be happier for her to be with strangers than with us. It's not often I've wanted my way in anything, but when I have it's mostly turned out all wrong — as it did in this instance. The mother sat longing for her child, though there was BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 9? only that bit of water between them ; and at last, too, I began to suspect that it wasn't the best place in the world for her to be, for the parsonage people are a set of most kind-hearted noodles ; but I was too late with my wisdom. She cares now for neither father nor mother.'' He had taken off his hat again, and his long hair was hanging down over his eyes. He pushed it aside, and set on his hat with both hands, as if to go ; but turning towards the house to rise, he paused again, and added, looking up at the attic window : " I thought it would be better for Mathilde and her not to say farewell to one another ; but that was foolish too. I told her the poor little bird was dead, because that was my fault, so it seemed to me I ought to tell her ; but I was wrong there too. All I have done was always meant for the best, but it's always turned out for the worst, and now it's come so far that they're both speaking ill of me — wife and daughter; and here I am, wandering about alone." A maid called to them that the meat was getting cold,. Baard got up. " I hear the horses whinnying," said he; " they have been forgotten, I expect ; " and he went off t& the stables to give them some hay. CHAPTEE XII. aene's song. ELI was- very weak after her relapse. Her mother sat , over her day and night, and was never to be seen downstairs ; her father went up to pay his accustomed visits in his stocMng-feet, always leaving his hat outside the door. Arne was still at the farm ; he and Baard sat together in the evenings, and he had grown very fond of him. Baard was a well-informed and very thoughtful man, but inclined to be somewhat afraid of what he knew ; but now, when Arne lent his aid, and told him of things that he did not know before, Baard was very grateful. Eli was soon able to sit up at times ; and after each attempt, as she got on better, she grew more and more full of whims. Thus it happened that one evening, as Arne sat in the room below hers, singing aloud, the mother came down and asked him, in Eli's name, to go up to her and sing, so that she could hear the words. Arne must surely have been sitting there singing for Eli as it was, for when Birgit spoke he turned red, and got up as if to deny that he had done so, though no one had said he had. However, he pulled himself up and said — trying to refuse — that he was scarcely able to sing at all. But he was answered by ABNE'S SONG. tte mother that that did not seem to be so when he sat alone. Arne gave in and went. He had not seen Eli since the day he helped to carry her up : he felt that she must now be much changed, and that gave him a feeling of dread. But when he softly opened the door, and entered, there was such deep darkness that he saw no one. He paused by the door. " Who is that ? " asked Eli, in a clear, low tone. " Arne Kampen," answered he, gently, trying to keep his voice from jarring on her nerves. , " It was good of you to come." " How are you now, Eli ? " " Thanks ; now I am getting better." "You must sit down, Arne," she said, after a pause; and Arne felt his way to a chair that stood by the foot of the bed. " It was so nice to hear you singing, that you must sing a little to me up here." "HI only knew what to sing ! " There was silence for a moment, and then, " Sing a hymn," said the girl. And he did so, singing a bit of a Confirmation hymn. As he finished, he heard her weeping, and did not dare to sing any more ; but presently she said, " Sing another," and he sang one that is often heard in church. " How many things I have thought of while I've been lying here ! " said Eli, when he had finished. He knew not what to answer, and he heard her weeping again to herself in the darkness. A clock, which was ticking away on the wall, gathered itself up for a blow, and struck out the hour. EU slowly drew breath once or twice, as if trying to lighten a load on her breast, and said : " One knows so little ; one can't even get to know one's own father or mother. I have not been good to them. 100 ARNE. and that's why it makes me feel so strange now to hear the Confirmation hymn." When people talk in the dark, they are likely to be more truthful than when they see one another's faces, and to speak more freely too. " It makes me happy to hear you say that," answered Arne. He was thinking of what she had said when she fell ill. She understood what was in his heart, and added : " Had not that happened to me, Grod knows how long 1 might have been without having found mother." " Has she spoken freely with you, then ? " " Every day : she has done nothing else." " Then you must have heard much from her ? " " Tou may well say so." "... She talked to you about my father, I suppose ? " "Tes." T " Does she still think of him ? " " She still thinks of him." " He did not treat her well." "Poor mother! " " He treated himself far worse, though.'' But there was something in the heart of each, that neither would tell the other. It was Eli who first spoke again : " Tou are said to be like your father." " They say so," he answered, uneasily. She did not notice his tone, so she returned to the sub- ject again. " Could he, too, make songs ? " "No." " Sing me a song — one that you have made yourself." But it was not Arne's habit to admit that any song he sang was his own. " I have none," he said. ARNE'S SOJSTG. 101 " But yoTi will have one, and you'll sing it to me, too, won't you ? " And he did for her now what he never had done for anyone else. This was the song he sang : " Green stood the Tree, with its leaves tender-bright. ' Shall I take them? ' said Frost, as he breathed thro' the night. ' Oh ! pray let them be, Till my blossoms you see ! ' Begged the Tree, as she shivered and shook in afiright. ' ' Sweet sang the birds the fair blossoms among. ' Shall I take them? ' said Wind, as he swayed them and swung. ' Oh ! pray let them be, Till my berries you see ! ' Begged the Tree, as its branches all quivering hung. " Bright grew the berries beneath the sun's heat. ' Shall I take them ? ' said Lassie, so young and so sweet. ' All ! take them, I crave. Take all that I have!' Begged the Tree, as it bent its full boughs to her feet." The song seemed well nigh to take her breath away. He, too, sat there when it was ended, as if he had said more in his song than he had wanted. Darkness lies heavy upon those who sit together ia it, but do not talk ; they are never nearer together than then. He heard it if she but turned, or merely drew her hand across the coverlet ; he heard her, if she so much as breathed a little deeper than usual. " Ame, couldn't you teach me to make songs ? " " Have you never tried ? " " Tes, lately ; but I can't get on." " What have you tried to make your songs about ? " " About mother, and all her love for your father." " That's a difficult subject." " I've cried over it so, too." 102 ARNE. "You must not seek for subjects : they come." " How do they come ? " "Like other things one longs for — ^when one least expects them." Both were silent awhile. "I wonder, Arne," she said, at length, "that you, who have so much that is beautiful within yourself, should want to go away." " How do you know I want to ? " She did riot answer, but lay silent, as if in thought. " Arne, you must not go away ! " she said ; and it set his blood aflame. " There are times when I seem not to want to so much," he said. " Tour mother must be very fond of you. I must get to know your mother." " Come over to Kampen, when you're well again," said he. And at the words he seemed to see her sitting in the bright room at Kampen, looking out at the mountains. His heart began to beat fast, and his blood to rush to his head. " It's very warm in here," said he ; and he rose, as if to go. She heard his movement. " Are you going, Arne ? " said she ; and he sat down again. "Tou must come here oftener now. Mother's taken such a liking to you." " I like to come, too .... but I must have something to come for." Eli was silent for a while, as if she were reflecting. " I think," she said, " mother has something she will ask you about." He heard her raising herself up in the bed. No sound was there in the room, or below, save the clock ticking on the wall. Suddenly she broke out : " Would to G-od summer were here ! " ARNE'S SONG. 103 " Siunmer ! " and at the word rose up before him fragrant leaves, and the tinkle of cattle-bells, merry sounds from the hiUs, and songs from the valleys, the black water glittering in the sun, and the homesteads reflected in its ripples. Eli came out, and was sitting down just as she had done that evening long ago. " If summer were here," said she, "if I could sit on the hill, I certainly believe I should be able to sing a song of my own." He laughed, and asked, " "What would it be about ? " " About something that would be easy enough — about — about — I don't know ! " " TeU. me, EU ! " and he rose joyously ; but a thought ' struck him, and he sat down again. " Not you, for aU the world ! " And she laughed. " I sang to you when you asked me." " That's true — but no, no, no ! " "Eli, do you think I'd make fun of the little verses you've made ? " "No, that I don't, Ame; but it's not anything I've made myself." " Is it anybody else's, then ? " " Tes ; it came of itself to me, so to speak." " Well, then, surely you can tell it me." " No, no ; it's not anything of that sort either, Ame. Don't ask me any more." She was certainly hiding her head in the bed, he knew, for the last words were scarcely audible. "Well, Eh, you're not as kind to me as I've been to you ! " and he rose. " Ame, it's different — ^you don't understand me — but it was — I don't know — some other time — don't be cross with me, Ame ! Don't go away ! " And she began to cry. " Eh, what is the matter with you ? " and he listened. " Are you ill ? " he asked, but he did not think she was. 104 ARNE. She was still weeping, and he felt that now he must move — either forward or back. "Eli!" " Yes ! " — both voices in a whisper. . " Give me your hand." She made no answer. He listened, quickly, closely — stretched out his own hand, and grasped a warm little hand that lay bare. There was a step on the stairs, and they let go of one another. It was Birgit, coming in with a light. "You've been sitting too long in the dark," said she, and put the candle on the table. But neither EH nor he could bear the light; she turned to the pillow, and he held his hand before his eyes. " Ah, yes ; it's a bit dazzhng at first," said the mother; "but the feeling soon passes away." Arne groped about on the floor for his hat — ^which he had never brought in with him — and so left the room. Next day, he heard that EU was going to come down for awhile after dinner. He put his tools together, and bade farewell to the farm. "When she came down he was gone. CHAPTEE XIII. maegit's confession. SPEINGr comes late among the moTintains. The post that speeds along the highway three times a week comes only once a week in April, and the mountain- dwellers begin to feel that now the snow has begun to melt in the world without, the ice is breaking, the steamers are travelling to and fro again, and the harrow is break- ing the soil once more. With them, the snow still lies three ells high, the cattle are still lowing from their stalls, and the birds that come back hide themselves shivering. The chance traveller tells them that he has left his carriole down in the valley below, and shows them flowers that he has plucked by the roadside. Then the mountaineers begin to be filled with longings as they go about talking to one another, looking at the sun, and discussing how much higher in the sky it gets daily. They strew ashes on the slippery snow, and their thoughts wander to those who now are plucking flowers. At such a season was it that old Margit Xampen came up to the parsonage, and asked to be allowed to speak to the pastor. She was taken into his study, where the minister, a slimly-built, fair-haired, kind-looking man, with large eyes covered by spectacles, received her friendlily (for he knew her), and bade her sit down. 106 ARNE. ' "Anything fresh about Arne ? " he asked, as if they had often spoken together on that subject. "Ah, G-od help me!" said Margit; "there's never any- thing but good that I have to say of him ; and yet it's so hard." And she looked very sad as she spoke. " Has his old longing come back again ? " asked the pastor. " Worse than ever," said the mother. " I don't believe that he'll stay with me now even till spring's here." " But he promised never to leave you." " That he did. But, good Lord ! he must act for him- self now. If his mind's set on it, he can't well help himself. But what's to become of me ? " " All the same, I don't really believe he'll ever forsake you," said the pastor. " No ; but suppose he's not happy at home ? Dare I have it on my conscience that I'm in his way ? There are times when I think I ought io beg him to go." " How do you know that he wants to go now more than before ? " " Ah ! by many things. Since the middle of winter he hasn't worked anywhere in the parish for a single day. On the other hand, he's made three trips to the town, and each time been a long while there. He scarcely ever speaks now at his work, though that's often been his habit. He sits for a long, long while by himself in the little garret window, looking out towards the mountains and the ravine. He sits there all Sunday afternoons ; and often when there's moonlight he'll sit there till far past mid- night." " Does he never read aloud to you ? " " Every Sunday, as usual, of course, he reads and sings to me ; but he seems to hurry over it, except now and again, when he makes almost too much of it." " Does he ever talk to you? " MARGIT'S CONFESSION. 107 " Often not for so long at a time that I can't help crying to myself ; then he notices that, and begins to talk ; but only of little things, never of serious ones." The pastor paced up and down, paused, and asked : " Why don't you talk to him of them, then ? " It was long before she answered. She gave two or three sighs, she looked at the ground and aside, she folded her kerchief and unfolded it. "I've come here to-day," she said, at last, "to talk with you, sir, about something that's heavy on my heart." " Speak freely ; it will lighten it." " I trust it will ; for I have now crept under the burden for many and many a year, and each year it grows heavier and heavier." " What is it, then, my poor woman? " There was a moment's hesitation before she spoke. " I have committed a great sin against my son," and she began to weep. The pastor went close to her. "Confess it to me, then, and let us pray God together to forgive it you." Margit sobbed, and dried her tears, and began to weep again as soon as she tried to speak, and thus she went on for some time. The pastor endeavoured to comfort her. " It certainly couldn't be such a dreadful thing that she had done," he said ; " she was too severe to herself," and so forth. But Margit went on weeping, and could not make a beginning of her story till the pastor sat down by her side and began to question her kindly. Then it came out, bit by bit. " He was unhappy," she said, " when he was a boy, and that made him long to travel. Well, he met Kristen — that Kristen who's now such a gi-eat man out there where they dig up gold ; and Kristen gave Ame so many books that he was no longer the same as we peasant folks. The two sat together night after night, and when Kristen went off, Ame wanted to go too. But 108 ARNB. at tliat time," she went on, "his father died so terribly, and my boy promised never to leave me. But I was like a hen that's had a duck's egg put under her. When the little one grew up a bit, he wanted to go out on the great water, and I went about everywhere crying. If he didn't actually go himself, his songs were always of travel, so that I expected every morning to find his bed empty. " Then it was that there camB for him a letter from a long, long way off; and this must be (I knew) from Kristen. God forgive me ! I took and hid it. I tjiought that was the end of it ; but presently cam^ another, and, as I had hidden the first, I had to do the same with this one too.- But it was as if they were burning a hole in the bos where I put them, for I could think of nothing but that from the moment I opened my eyes to the time I went to bed. And, just imagine what was worst of all — there came a third letter ! I stood with it in my hand for a quarter of an hour ; I carried it about with me in my dress for three days, weighing with myself whether to give it to him or put it away with the other two ; but, perhaps (thought I) it might have the power to entice aVay my boy from me, and so I could not help putting it with the rest. Now, I went in fear the whole day long ; not only because of those in the box, but also of anything new coming. I was afraid of every person who came near the farm ; and when we were both indoors and there came a rap, I trembled all over : it might be a letter, and then he would take it in himself. When he was away in the village, I kept pacing about the farm, thinking, 'Now perhaps he's been given a letter out there, and has found out from it about the others that have come! ' When he came back, I looked at his face as he was stiU far off, and if he smiled — good G-od ! how glad I was, for by that I knew he had heard nothing ! He had grown so handsome now, too — just like his father, but fairer and gentler. And then he had MARGIT'S CONFESSION. 109 such a beautiful voice for singing ! When he sat on the threshold in the evening, singing up at the mountains above, and listening for the echo, then I knew that I could never bear to lose him ! If I only saw him, if I only knew that he was anywhere near, if he merely seemed happy, and gave me a nod now and again, then I felt there was nothing more I wanted here on earth, and I would not have had any one of my tears unwept. " But just as it seemed he was getting happier, and to hke being among people more than he used to, there came a message one day from the post office that now a fourth letter had come, and in it two hundred dollars ! I thought I should have' sunk to the ground as I stood there : what was I to do now ? This letter, of course, I could put out of the way as before — but the money ? I got no sleep for many a night for that money. I put it at one time in the garret, at one time in the cellar behind a cask, and once I was so desperate that I put it in the window, for him to find ; but when I heard him coming, I took it away again. At last I hit on a plan : I gave him the money, and told Tii-m it was some that had been owing since my mother's death. He buried it in the ground — a thing I had myself thought of ; so that (I thought) was over. But as luck would have it, that very autumn, as he sat there one even- ing, he kept saying he wondered that Kristen should have forgotten him so completely. " That made my wound break out again. It was sin that I had done, and sin to no purpose ! " The mother who has sinned against her child is the un- happiest of aU mothers ; and yet I had only done it from love of him. So it is that I am surely to be punished by losing my dearest. Ever since midwinter now, he's been singing the tune he always sings when the longing to go seizes upon him ; 'tis the song he has sung from his boy- hood, and I never hear it without turning pale. It's then 110 ARNE. that I feel I could do anything. And here you shall see," she said, drawing forth a paper from her bodice, unfolding it, and giving it to the pastor. " Here is something he writes at, every now and then ; they are certainly words to that tune. I brought it with me because I can't read such fine writiug. Will you please see if there's anything in it about going away ? " There was only one complete verse on the paper. Here and there was a line, or half a line, of other stanzas, as if it were a song that he had forgotten, and was now trying to recollect line by line. And this was how the first verse ran : " Fain would I know what the world may be Over the mountains high. Mine eyes can nought but the white snow see. And up the steep sides the dark fir-tree, That climbs as if yearning to know. Say, tree, wilt thou venture to go ? " " Is it about travelling?" asted Margit, hungrily watch- ing the pastor's face. " Tes, it is about travelling,'' said he ; and let the paper fall. " I knew it ! Oh God ! I knew it all the time, well enough ! " She looked at the pastor with clasped hands, her face haggard, her eyes wild with excitement, the tears rolling down her cheeks. But here the pastor could no more help her than she could herself. "The lad must be left alone," said he; " life can't be made different for his sake ; but maybe he'll come to see something more in it of his own accord. Just now it looks as if he thought he might get that ' some- thing more ' by wandering in search of it." " Why, that's just like the old woman ! " said Margit. " The old woman ? " MARGIT'S CONFESSION. \\\ " The old woQian wlio wandered on and on to get sun- light, instead of making a window in the wall to let it come in ! " The pastor was struck by her acuteness ; but, indeed, it was not the first time he had been astonished, when she got on the subject of Ame's longings : truth to tell, Margit had given her thoughts to nothing else these seven or eight years past. " Do you think he'll go ? what am I to do ? and the money and the letters ? " she cried, her thoughts all crowding in upon her. " As to the letters, your conduct has been wrong. You'll find it difficult to answer for having kept from him what was his. Worse stUl, you have let a feUow creature — ^and one who by no means deserved it — appear in a contemp- tible light to your son, and, what makes it worst of all, one of whom he was so fond, and who in turn was so much attached to him. But we will pray to God to forgive you : we will both pray to Him." Margit bowed her head ; she had been sitting all along with her hands folded. " How gladly," she said, " would I pray for forgiveness, if only I knew he would stay ! " She was evidently mixing up Grod and Arne in her mind. The pastor made as if he did not hear her. "Do you mean now," he asked, " to teU him the truth straightaway ? " She fixed her eyes on the ground, and said, in a low tone: " If only I might wait a Uttle, I wotdd gladly do it." The pastor smiled, without letting her see it. " Don't you think," he said, " the longer you delay the greater is your sin ? " She was twisting her kerchief in both her hands ; she folded it up into a little square, and was now trying, but vainly, to make it into a still smaller one. 112 ARNE. " If I tell him about the letters," she murmured, " he'll go off, I'm afraid." " You dare not trust to G-od, then ? " " Ah yes, of course !— but stUl," she added, " suppose he were to leave me now, all the same ? " " You are more afraid, then, of his going away than of your being left in sin ? " Margit had unrolled her kerchief again, and she raised it to her eyes now, for the tears were beginning to fall. The pastor sat looking at her for a moment, and then : " Why have you been telling me all this," he went on, " if you didn't mean it to lead to sonrething ? " And he paused for a reply, but none came. " Did you think, perhaps," he went on, " that your sin would be less when once you had confessed it to some- one ? " " That is what I thought," she said, softly, her head bowed still more deeply on her breast. The pastor smiled, and rose. "Yes, yes, my dear Margit," he said, "you must now so act that in your old age you may have happi- ness." " If only I might keep what I have now ! " said she. And it seemed to the pastor as if she dared not hope for any greater happiness than always to live in her present constant anxiety. He smiled, and filled his pipe. " If only," he muttered, "there were some little lassie, now, who could get hold of him, he'd stay here fast enough then, you'd soon see ! " She looked up quickly, and followed the pastor's move- ments with her eyes, till he came and paused before her. " Eli Boen— ? What— ? eh— ? " he said. She blushed fiery red, and looked down g,gain, but made no answer. The pastor, still halting before her, awaiting her reply, said (as if to himself) : MARGIT'S CONFESSION. 113 " If only we could manage so that they could oftener come together to the parsonage here ! " She peered up into his face to see if he were in serious earnest, but she scarcely dared really believe him. He began to walk up and down again, but presently he paused : " Look here, now, Margit — to come to the point : was that the real reason that brought you here to-day ? " She looked fixedly at the floor, put a couple of fingers in her twisted kerchief, and pulled them out of the tip of it: " Ah, yes," she said, " Grod help me ! that was really just it." The pastor burst out laughing, and rubbed his hands. " Was it that, perhaps, you wanted last time you were here, then ? " She drew out the end of the kerchief still further, pulling and pulling at it, tUl she at last got out : "As you say so yourself, it must have been, I sup- pose." " Ha, ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha ! Oh Margit, Margit ! Well, well, we'll see what we can do ; for, truth to tell, my wife and daughter have long been of the same mind." " Is that possible ? " cried Margit. And she looked up with so happy, and yet so shame-faced an expression, that it quite rejoiced the pastor to see her open, handsome face, where it was plain to read the child's heart, in spite of all sorrow or fear. " Yes, Margit," said he. " Tou who have so much love in you will surely, for Love's own sake, get forgiveness, both . of your God and your son, for your transgressions. Tou have indeed had your punishment already in the constant and great anxiety you have lived in. We shall see now whether G-od will make speedy ending to it all ; for if He wills it so. He will lend us His aid in this." I 114 ARNE. She sighed deeply again and again ; then she rose up, thanked him, curtsied, walked across the room, and curt- sied farewell again on the threshold. The moment she was out of the room, she felt as if transformed.' She looked up to the heavens with a quick glance, full of shiniag thankfulness, and hastened down the steps, and the farther she got the quicker she went, walking back to Kampen that day with a lighter heart than she had had for many and many a year. When she got so far as to he able to Bee the smoke curling thick and merrily from the chimney, she blessed the house, the farmyard, the whole homestead, and the pastor too, and Ame, and remembered that they were to have smoked meat for dinner, which was her favourite dish. CHAPTEE XIV. BY THE BLACK WATEB. KAMPEN was a fine farm. It lay in the midst of the level ground that had the rocky ravine for boundary on the lower side, and the high road on the other. On the upper side of the road stood a thick, close wood, just behind it began the mountain slope, and in the distance towered up the blue, snow-capped peaks. In a like way, on the other side of the ravine rose another broad range of mountains, that curved away by the Black Water, just at the spot where Boen lay, and then went higher and higher up towards Kampen, but turned aside on its way towards the broad vaUey known as the "Lower Parish," that began at this spot ; for Kampen was the last farm in the " Upper Parish." The front door of the dwelling-house at Eampen opened towards the road : from the one to the other, a distance of several hundred yards, led a path with leafy birch-trees on both sides of it. On both sides, too, of the cultivated lands lay woods: the farm-lands and meadows could thus be easily increased as much as one pleased ; indeed, it was in most respects a splendid spot for farming. In front of the house lay a garden ; Ame laid it out and looked after it, as he had learnt to from his books. To the 116 ARNE. left were the cattle-sheds and the other outhouses ; they were for the most part newly-built, and formed a square with the dwelling-house. This latter was painted red, with window-frames and doors of white ; it had two storeys, and was thatched with turf, so that little bits of green were growing on the roof. On the ridge of this latter was a stafE, on which stood a weathercock that turned with a shrill scream. Spring had come to the mountains. One Sunday morning the air was somewhat heayy, but calm and not cold : a sort of mist seemed to lie over the forest ; but it would lift as the day went on, thought Margit. Ame had read the sermon to his mother, and sung hymns, and it had made him feel happy. Now he was standing in full trim to go up to the parsonage. He opened the door : the fragrance of fresh foliage struck upon his senses from the garden, standing deep-clothed in morning mist ; from the ravine came the mighty thunderous sound that made the ears tremble of him that heard it. Arne began his up-hill walk. As he got further from the water-fall, the sound of the rush of the water was less .and less awe-inspiring ; but it seemed now to spread out over the whole landscape, like the full, deep tone of an organ. "God be with him on the way he's going now!" said the mother, opening the window, and following him with her eyes till the bushes hid him. The mist lifted bit by bit, the sun's rays pierced it through, and life sprang up agaiQ in meadow and garden : all Ame's work was growing there (thought Margit) with fresh strength, bringing forth fragrance and joy for his mother. Spring is beautiful, indeed, for one who has long borne winter. Ame had no definite object at the parsonage, but he wanted to hear about the newspapers that he took in with the pastor. Lately he had seen the names of several BY THE BLACK WATER. 117 Norwegians who had done well for themselves at gold- mining in America, and among them was Kristen. Now, Ame had heard a vague rumour that Eristen was expected home. Of this he thought he could get certain informa- tion at the parsonage ; and if it should be really true that Kristen had already come back to the town, Ame thought he woidd go and see him in the interval between the end of spring and the hay-cuttiag. Deep in these thoughts, he strode along till he got to where he could see the Black Water, and, on the other side of it, Boen. The mist was lifting there, too, by this time, and the sun's rays were sporting over the green sward ; the mountain stood with its head all golden, but its breast deep- wrapped in haze ; the forest threw its dense shadow over the water on the right, but just in front of the house the waves had receded somewhat, and the white sand lay glistening in the sun. At a bound, his thoughts were within the red-painted building with the white doors and window-frames, which he had painted his own to be like. He remembered not the first heavy days he had spent there ; he only remembered the summer they both saw — he and EU — up there in the sick-room. Since then, he had never been there ; after that, he never would — not for all the world. If his thoughts but turned that way, it made him hot and red, and filled him with shame — ^though, indeed, he thought of it every single day, and many times a day, too ; but if there was one thing which could drive him away from the place, it was (he felt) just that ! On he strode, as if he would take himself far from it all; but the more he walked, the nearer he came to being right opposite Boen, and, consequently, the more he looked at it. The mist was all gone now ; the heavens were shining clear from one end to the other, the birds swimming in the sun- bright air and crying joyously to one another, the fields answering in myriads of bright blossoms. There was no 118 ARNE. thunderous waterfall there, to sober radiant joy into awe and reverence ; but freely, boundlessly, full of life, it burst forth — singing, shining, rejoicing, on its upward way. Arne had walked himself burning hot. He threw him- self down on the grass at the foot of a knoll, glanced over at Boen, and turned away, so that his eyes might no longer look that way. Then he heard singing above him, clear- sounding as none he had ever heard before. It darted up from the meadow, among the songs of the birds, and almost before he could make sure of the tune, he recognised the words ; for the tune was the one he loved best of all, and the words were those he had had in his heart from his childhood — and lost, the very day he had brought them forth ! He sprang up, as if to catch them now ; but, instead, paused and listened. There came rippling down to him the first verse, then the next, then the third, the fourth — all the verses of his own lost song. " Fain would I know what the world may be Over the mountains high. Mine eyes can nought but the white snow see, And up the steep sides the dark fir-tree, That climbs as if yearning to know. Say, tree, dost thou venture to go ? " The eagle flies in his fearless way Over the mountains high ; In triumph he swims through the young, fresh day, Spends his wild heart in the hunt for his prey, And drops where he chooses to rest, Obedient to no man's behest. " Thou yearn'st not to journey, O apple-tree green. Over the mountains high ; For in winter thou waitest till summer-time sheen Shall clothe thee with blossoms so fair to be seen. What the birds sing, as flying they go, Thou know'st not — nor carest to know. BY THE BLACK WATER. 119 " He who has longed twenty years in his soul To be over the mountains high, Yet who knows that he never will reach that goal, And feels weaker and feebler as swift the years roll, — Let him learn from the birds on the wing The tidings of comfort they bring. " Carolling birds, say, why left you there, Over the mountains high. Your warm little flests, and a land so fair. With Its leafier trees and its mild, sweet air ? Say, was it only to bring Longing, longing — but never a wing ? " Say, am I never, never to go Over the mountains high ? Ye ice-bound rocks, will ye weigh on me so, That ye smother my heart 'neath the depths of your snow. Penned 'mid your darksome gloom, Till ye yield me up to the tomb ? " Up, heart, up ! and away, away ! Over the mountains high. For my courage is young, and my soul wiU be gay. If no longer bound straitly and fettered I stay. But seeking yon summit to gain. No more beat my wings here in vain. " One day, I know, shall my journey be Over the mountains high. Lord God ! fair is the dwelling of Thee. Say, is the portal unbarred for me 1 Not yet let its hinges turn ; Grant me to live — and to yearn." Ame stood listening till the last verse, tlie last word, died away. Once more lie heard the birds singing merrily and flitting about, but he scarce fcaew whether he himself dared move. But see who it was he must, at any rate. He moved towards the place, planting his steps so warily that not even the rustle of the grass could be heard. A little butterfly settled upon a flower just in front of his foot, 120 ARNE. fluttered up, flew on a littie, and settled down again ; up again and on, and on, and on in front of him all tlie way, as he crept to the top of the hill. There, in front of him, stood a thick clump of bushes ; he need go no further, for now he could see. A bird flew up from amidst the under- growth with a twitter of affright, and sped away over the hill. She looked up — she who was sitting there. He ducked low down, holding his breath, with his heart beating so that he could hear every pulsation, and listening with, every fibre ; he dared not let a leaf rustle — for it was she — it was Eli ! Long, long after, he looked up a little, and would have liked to draw himself a step nearer ; but the burd had its nest, perhaps, among the undergrowth (thought he), and he would not run the risk of trampling it down, so he peered through the foliage as the boughs swung apart or drew together. The sunlight was falling straight on her, as she sat there in her black, sleeveless bodice, with her boy's straw hat, placed loosely and sideways on her head. In her lap lay a book, but on it a profusion of wild flowers ; her right hand was playing among them, as if she were lost in thought ; her left arm was resting on her knee and supporting her head. Her eyes were following the bird's flight, and it looked as if she might have been weeping. A thing more beautiful had Arne never seen or dreamt of all his lifetime. The sun was scattering aU his gold on her and about her ; and it seemed to him that the song> though she had long ceased singing, was floating about him, till he felt as if his heart and his breath were beatiag time to it. She took the book and opened it, shut it again quickly, and, sitting as before, began to hum. It was his song : " Green stood the tree, witli its leaves tender bright," etc. BV THE BLACK WATER. 121 He could hear that, though she did not remember either the words or the tune properly, and often went wrong ia them. The last verse was the one she knew hest, so she ran over it again and again ; but this was how she sang it: " Bright grew the berries, so red, ripe and rare. ' May I take you ? ' said Lassie, so young, and so fair. ' Yes, take them, I pray. This sunshiny day,' Said the tree — tralala, tralalalala — fair ! " And then up she sprang quickly, shook off all her flowers around her, and carolled out so loudly that her voice seemed to thrill through the air, and well nigh to reach Boen. And away she darted ! — Should he call to her ? No ! Down the hills she sped, singing, trilling ; off fell her hat in her speed, and she stood still among the tall grass to pick it up. " Shall I call ? " he thought, " she's looking round ! " — and down he ducked again. It was long before he dared peer forth ; at first he dared not raise more than his head — he could not see her ; then he knelt, but still he could not see her ; then he rose to his feet— she was gone ! . . . He no longer wanted to go to the parsonage. He no longer wanted anything ! He went and sat where she had been sitting, and he was sitting there stiU when the sun above him marked mid-day. On the lake was not a single ripple ; from the homesteads, smoke was beginning to curl up ; the water-fowl ceased calUng one after another ; the smaller birds were at play, but they were moving towards the shade of the woods ; all the dew was gone, and the grass looked soberly demure ; there was not a breath of wind to stir the leaves ; the sun was now at its mid-day height. He knew not how it was, he found himself, as he sat there, making a httle song. A soft tune came into his 122 ARNE. teart, ofEering itself to him, and, with his breast strangely filled with all gentle feehngs, the tune hovered about him, till they melted together into one harmonious whole. He sang it, softly and peacefully as he had composed it : " In the woods the lad wandered the whole day long, The whole day long ; For there he had heard such a wonderful song, Such a wonderful song. " He made him a flute from a willow-tree, From a willow- tree ; And sought if therein lay the melody. The melody. " It came, and it whispered its name to him. Its name to him ; But, whispering, died In the foi-est dim, In the forest dim. ' ' And as he lay sleeping, it stole to him oft. Stole to him oft. In dreams it would lovingly hover aloft. Hover aloft. " But when, joyously listening, he woke from his dream. Woke from his dream. Far off hung the song in the wan moon -beam, The wan moon-beam. " ' Oh, Father in Heaven ! now take me from hence. Take me from hence ! The song it has stolen my heart and sense. My heart and sense.' " But our Father answered : ' It loves thee well, It loves thee well, Tho' it never thine own for an hour may dwell, For an hour may dwell. " ' For no other song shalt thou long and pine, Long and pine ; But for this one alone, which can never be thine, Never be thine.' " CHAPTEE XV. abne's teeastire. IT was a Sunday evening in summer-time; the pastor had come back from church, and Margit had been with him at his house till nearly seven o'clock. Then she bade him farewell, and hastened down the steps, and out into the farm-yard, for there she had just caught sight of Eh Boen, who had for some time past been playing with the little boy and her own brother. "G-ood evening," said Margit, coming to a standstill, " God bless you all ! " " Good evening," said EU, blushing red, and trying to leave ofE her game with the children, who kept pressing her to go on ; but she begged them to let her go, and got their gracious permission for that one evening. " It really seems to me," said Margit, " that I must know you." " That may well be," replied the other. " Surely you must be EU Boen ? " Eli acquiesced. " Ah ! so then you really are Eh Boen ! Tes, I see now you're very like your mother." .EU's auburn hair had come down, and was hanging long and loose about her ; her face was hot, and brown as a 124 ARNE. berry ; she could not get breath to speak, and she laughed at herself for being in such a state. " Well, well," said Margit, looking at her with pleasure, "it's natural for young folks to be merry. Tou don't know me, I suppose ? " Eli had been wanting to ask her name, but could not pluck up courage to do it, because the other was so much her elder ; now she said in answer, that she did not remember having seen her before. " Ah no," Margit said, " that was scarcely to be expected, of course : we old people seldom get about much. Per- haps though, you know my son a bit — Ame Kampen? I'm his mother." And she shot a glance at Eli, upon whose face had come a quick and new expression. " I think,'' she went on "he did some work once over there at Boen ? " Yes, that was so. Eh said. " What beautiful weather it is this evening ! We heaped up the hay to-day, and took it all in before I came out,'' continued Margit. " This is really God's own weather." " It must indeed be a glorious year for hay," said Eli. " You may well say so, indeed. Is there a good crop at Boen P " " They've taken it all in by now." " Yes, I suppose so ; sturdy folks, quick work. Are you going back to-night ? " No, she was not. They talked together about one thing and another, and by degrees got intimate enough for Margit to venture to ask if Eli would walk with her part of the way. " Can't you give me your company just for a few steps ? " she said ; " it's so seldom I meet anyone to talk to, and I dare say it's much the same with you." Eli had no jacket with her; she could not come, she said. ABJ^E'S TEE A SURE. 126 " Ah, it's too bad of me, I know," said Margit, " to ask such a thing, the first time I've ever seen you ; but one must put up with something from old folks." Eh said she would be very glad to go with her ; she would just run in and get her jacket. It was a tight-fitting jacket ; when it was fastened about her, it looked as if she had merely a bodice on ; but now she fastened only the two lowest hooks, she was so warm. Her pretty linen vest had a little collar, that turned down and spread out round her neck, and was fastened by a silver clasp in the shape of a bird, with outstretched ■wings. Just such a one had Nils Skraedder worn, the first time Margit Kampen danced with him. !' A pretty clasp," said she, looking at it. " I had it from mother," said Eli. " So I expected," said Margit, helping her to fix it pro- perly. They walked along side by side. The hay was heaped up, and lay in httle stacks ; Margit pulled bits out of them, smelt it, and found it good. She asked about the cattle on the parsonage farm, questioned EU about those at Boen, and told her how big those were that they had at Kampen. " The place has been getting on mightily these last few years," she said, " and there's room for it to grow as much as one pleases. It supports twelve milch-cows now, and it might have more, but my son's got so many books that he reads and goes by, and so he will have them all so well fed." EU had nothing to say to all this, as was to be expected. Then Margit asked her how old she was. t She was nineteen. " Have you taken any part in the house- work ? you look so dehcate that you can scarcely have done much," said Margit. Oh yes, Eh had borne her share in lots of ways — es- pecially of late. 126 ARNE. " Ah, it's good to be used to doing a little of all that sort of thing ; when one has a large house oneself, there's so much wants doing and looking after ; of course, though, when one finds good help at hand in the house, there's not so much need." Eli thought she must he going hack now, for they had got long past the parsonage lands. " Oh, it'll be a long time yet," urged Margit, " before the sun goes down. It would be so nice of you if you came a little further, and talked to me." And Eli went with her. Then Margit began to talk of Ame. " I don't know if you know him much. He can teach you something about everything. God bless me ! what a lot he has read ! " Eli admitted that she knew he had read a great deal. " Ah ! yes ; and that's the least to be said for him. Par more than that is how he's behaved to his mother all his life-long — far more, I can tell you! If the old saying's' true, that he who's good to his mother '11 be good to his wife, then she he chooses won't need much pity. What is it you're looking for my child T" " Oh, I dropped a little twig I was carrying." Both were silent for a while, and went on without look- ing at one another. " It's so curious in him," the mother began again ; " he was always so kept down and shy as a child, and so he got into the habit of thinking over everything to himself, and people of that sort don't easily pluck up heart." Eli felt sure she ought to be going back now, but Margit said it was such a little way up to Kampen that she really must come and see it now, since she had got so far. EU declared it was too late for doing so that day. " Oh, we have always someone or other there who'll see you safely home," said Margit. " No, no ! " cried Eli quickly, making as if to go. ARNE'S TREASURE. 127 " What a pity," said Margit, " Ame's not at home, so that he can't see you back ; but still, there are others there." And now Eli made less objection. She would very m.uch like to see Kampen, of course (she said), if only it didn't get too late. " Well, if we stand talking here long it certainly will be," said Margit. And on they went again. " I suppose you've read lots of books," said the mother, "as you've been brought up at the parsonage." Yes, she had read a good many. " That will be useful," said Margit, " if you have a hus- band who's read less." Eli had no intention of having such a one, she said. " Well, well, it's best nofto, of course ; but here in these parts folks don't get much book-learning.'' Eli asked what the smoke came from, away there in the wood. " That's the new crofter's clearing ; it belongs to Kampen. A man called Upland Knut lives there. He was all alone in the world, so Arne gave him the place to clear and live ia. Poor Arne, he knows what it is to be alone ! " Presently they were high enough up to see Kampen. The sun was straight in their faces ; they put up their hands to shield them, and looked down. On the middle of the plain lay the farm-house, its wall painted red, its window-frames white ; round about it the meadows were mown, and the' hay was piled up in stacks, the heavy-laden, rich-looking fields of grain contrasting with the pale, shorn hay-fields. Away by the cattle-sheds all was busy life, for cows, sheep, and goats were just come home, amid the tinkling of beUs, the baying of dogs, the cry of the milk- ing maids ; and above and through all these sounds rose up from the ravine the thunderous voice of the waterfall. The longer Eli looked, the more this last alone took possession 128 ARNE. of her, filling her with such awe that at length it made her heart beat fast, and roared and thundered through and through her head till she grew quite dazed, and at the same time so timid and nervous that she began uncon- sciously to take such careful little steps that Margit had to ask her to walk a little faster. She gave a start. " I have never heard a sound like that waterfall before," she explained ; " I am almost afraid of it." " You'll soon grow used to it," said the mother ; " you'd get quite to miss it at last." " Do you really think so ? " queried Eli. " Ah ! we shall see, sure enough," said Margit ; and she smiled. " Come," she went on ; and they turned into the farm from the road. " First we'll look at the cattle. These trees on both sides of the way here Nils planted ; he was always wanting to have the place look nice, was Nils ; and so's Arne too. Look at the garden he's made there." " Oh, oh, oh ! " cried Eli, darting up to the garden fence. She had often seen Kampen, but never so near as now ; so she hadn't had a glimpse of the garden at all before. "We'll look at it presently," said Margit. Eli glanced furtively through the windows, as they passed the house. There was no one within. They went and stood at the bam door, and looked at the cows as they went lowing by to their stalls. Margit named each by it's name to EU, telling her how much milk each one gave, which of them would calve that summer and which not. The sheep were counted and penned in ; they were of a large, strange breed, for Arne had taken a couple of lambs from the south. " He takes great pains with all that sort of thing, though you mightn't think it of him," said Margit. Next they went into the barn and looked at the hay. ARNB'S TREASURE. 129 which was already carted in ; Eli had to smell it, of course, " for such hay," as the mother said, " was not to be found everywhere." She pointed out the different fields through the window-hole of the barn, telling her what crops each one bore, and how much was sown of each kind. And now they went towards the house. Eli, who had answered nothing to all Margit said hitherto, asked as they passed the garden if she might not go iato it. Being allowed to do so, she next asked leave to pluck just a flower or two. There was a little bench in one comer ; she seated herself on it, apparently only to try it, for she got up again at once. " We must hurry now, if we don't want to be very late," said Margit, standing in the doorway ; and at this they went in. Margit asked Eli if she might not give her something to eat and drink, as this was the first time she had crossed their threshold ; but Eli turned red, and immediately declined. She turned and looked roimd her. She was in the room they used in the day time ; it was not large, but it was cosy-looking, with its timepiece, its tiled stove, and its windows that faced the road. Nils' fiddle, old and time-stained> but with new strings, hung there, as did a couple of guns that belonged to Arne, his English fishing- rod, and other precious objects, which the mother took down and showed her. Eli looked at them, and touched them. The room was not paiated, for Arne disliked painted walls ; neither ^was the other room, which looked out upon the ravine, with the bright, clear mountain-peak far away behind. This apartment, which was an addition to the original building — as was quite half that side of the house — was larger and handsomer than the other ; but va. the two smaller rooms of the wing the walls and ceilings were paiated, for that was where the mother was to live when she got old, and he took to himself a wife. They went into the kitchen, the pantry, the wash-house. Not a single word 130 ARNE. did Eli say, but she looked at everything as if from a dis- tance. Even when Margit handed her something to look at, she put out her hand indeed, but scarcely touched it. Margit, talking to her the whole way, took her back to the house again: they must go up and look at the higher storey. Up there were tidy rooms that corresponded to those down below, but they looked new, and not lived in, except one that faced the ravine. In this room there lay about, or hung on the walls, all sorts of household goods that were not required for daily use. There were a whole row of fur coverlets and bed-clothes ; these the mother took hold of and lifted one after another, and bade Eli do so too. The girl seemed now to have plucked up heart a little more, or else she took more interest in things like these, for some of them she went back to more than once, asking questions, and growing brighter and brighter. Presently the mother said, " Now we'll go, last of all, to Arne's own room," and they went into the one facing the waterfall. The thunderous voice of the torrent smote upon them through the open window. Up at the height they were, they could see jets and spray from the cascade amid the crags, but not the water of the fall itself, save at one place further up, where a huge bit of rock had broken loose, at the very spot where the torrent came rushing along, gathering all its strength for the last leap into the depths below. Eresh green turf had covered the upper surface of the rocky wall, and down into it a handful of fir-cones had dived, throwing their heads heavenward again, with their roots deep in the rifts of stone. The wind had dashed upon the trees, shaking them with all its might ; the spray of the torrent had washed against their stems, so that not a twig was to be seen within four ells of their roots : they stood there as if with knees crippled and bent, and gnarled and knotted were the branches of them ; but yet, stand firmly there ABNE'S TREASURE. 131 they did, thrusting their heads aloft 'mid the mountain ■walls. They were the first that Eli saw from the window, and next she saw the shining white snow-peaks that rose ahoTe the green. She turned aside her eyes: over the fields lay peace and fruitfulness. And now at last she looked round the room where she stood, for the torrent had forbidden her doing so at first. How calm and tranquil it was in here, contrasted with the tumult without! She singled out no special thing to gaze at, for everything in the room seemed to be in harmony, and nearly all of it was a new thing to her ; for Ame had put his heart's love into that room, so that, poor as it was, it had been made as beautiful in almost every least particular as might well be. It seemed to her that his verses came singing in as she stood there, or that he himself smiled at her from everything. The first thing her mind took singly in was a large, handsome, and finely- carven bookcase. There were so many books in it that she thought the pastor himself could scarcely have more. Next, a handsome chest caught her attention. He had many a precious thing in that, his mother told her ; there, too, he kept his money, she added, in a whisper. Twice had they had a legacy, she told her, a Kttle later ; once more they were to do so, if all went as it should. " But money," she said, " is not the best thing in the world : he's got the power to get what's better." There were many little nick-nacks about the room that were well worth looking at, and Eli looked at them all, as happy and bright as a child. Margit patted her on the shoulder. "I've never seen you before to-day, child," she said, " and yet I feel so fond of you;" and she looked lovingly into her eyes. Before Eli had time to blush, she nudged her gently, and went on : " Look at that little red chest there ; there's something precious in that, you may be sure." 132 ARNE. Eli looked at it; it was a little square box that she would mucli have liked to have of her own. " He doesn't want me to know," whispered the mother, " what there is in that box ; and he hides away the key every time." So saying, she went to some clothes that were hanging on the wall, took down a velvet waistcoat, felt in the watch-pocket, and drew out the key. " Com.e, now," she whispered; " come and see ! " Eli thought what the mother was now doing was not at all right ; but women are women, and both these two walked softly up to the little chest and knelt down before it. But the moment the mother raised the lid, such a pleasant odour arose that Eli clasped her hands together in delight before she saw a single thing. At the top lay a kerchief, spread out over everything ; and this Margit now drew aside. " Look, look now ! " she whispered, and drew forth a fine black silk kerchief, but not one of the kind worn by men. "That's just fit for a girl," said the mother; "and here's another." > EU took hold of it involuntarily, and the other declared she must try it on her, though the girl objected and turned away her head. The mother folded it up carfefuUy again. , " Look at this ! " she cried, drawing forth a handful of beautiful silk ribbons ; " all just as if for a girl, isn't it? " EU was fiery red now, but she uttered not a soimd ; her bosom was heaving, her eyes downcast, her whole being showed anxious unrest. " There's more yet ! " went on Margit, drawing out some handsome black velvet, evidently meant for a dress. " This is fine indeed " — and she held it up to the light. Eli's hands were trembling a little when the mother bade her feel it ; she felt the blood rushing to her head, and she seemed to want to turn away, but not to have the power to. ARNE'S TREASUBE. 133 " He's bought something each time he's been to the town," said MEargit. Eli could scarcely hold out much more now, she felt ; her glance flitted from one thing in the chest to another, and then back again to the velvet; but indeed she no longer saw anything. But the mother went on vrith what she was doing. The last thing she took up was wrapped in many papers ; she unfolded them one after another, so arousing Eli's curiosity that she got more and more excited ; at last appeared a pair of little shoes. Neither Eli nor Margit had ever seen their like ; the mother, indeed, declared she would not have believed such things could be made. Not a word said the girl, but when the shoes were given her to hold she closed her five little fingers tight on them, and then felt so ashamed of herself that she was like to weep : she would have given anything to go away, but she dared not trust herself to speak, she dared not cause the mother to look up. Margit, indeed, was fully taken up with what she herself was doing. " Doesn't it look," she said, " just as if he had bought all these things, one after another, for someone he did not dare give them to ? " and she went on putting them all carefully back in the places she had taken them from : she had evidently had practice. " Now let's see what's in the secret compartment here," she went on, and opened it with much care, as there really was some great thing coming now. There lay a buckle, broad, as if for a belt. This was the first thing she called Eli's attention to, and next to a pair of gold rings fastened together; and then Eli saw a velvet-bound hymn-book with silver clasps, and after that nothing more, for she had seen engraved on the silver clasp of the hymn-book, in finely -wrought characters : % "Eli Baaedsdatter Boen." « The mother urged her to look at the other things ; she 134 ARNE. got no answer, but she saw tear after tear roll down on the silk covering, and stream over it. She put back the brooch she was holding up, closed the box again, turned, and clasped Eli to her heart. And the daughter wept there, and the mother wept over her, and neither of them said a word. A little while after, EU was walking in the garden alone : the mother had gone to the kitchen to prepare something especially nice, for Ame would soon be back now. Pre- sently she went out into the garden for Eh ; she saw her sitting, leaning towards the ground, writing on the sandy soil. She rubbed it out with her foot when she saw Margit coming, and looked up at her smihng, but she had evidently been weeping. " You've nothing to cry for, my child," said Margit, and patted her cheeks. They saw something black among the bushes by the road. Into the house darted Eh, and after her Margit. There was qtiite a Uttle banquet spread within, with its cream pudding, smoked meat, and cakes ; but not a glance did it get from Eli : she went and sat on a chair in the corner, against the wall, and under the clock, and started if she but heard a mouse stirring. The mother sat down by the table. They heard a man's step on the stone flags, then a light, quick step in the passage ; the door opened, and Ame came in. The first thing he saw was Eli in the corner by the clock ; he let go the door-handle and stood motionless. Thereon Eli's confusion was even greater than before ; she got up, repented having done so, and turned her face to the wall. " Yov, here ! " said Ame, as if to himself, blushing fiery red as he spoke. She raised one hand and held it before her, as one does when the sun shines too dazzlingly in one's eyes. " Why ? " he broke off, but he made a step or two ARNE'S TREASURE. 135 towards her ; she lowered her hand again, turned to' him with bowed head, and burst into tears. " God bless you, Eli ! '"' said he, and he put his arms round her ; she leant her head on his breast. He whispered something in her ear ; she made no answer, but clasped him round the neck with her two arms. Long stood they thus, with not a sound to be heard, save the torrent's eternal admonition. Suddenly some- body seemed to be crying on the other side of the table ; Ame looked up ; it was his mother, whom he had not seen in the room till then. "Now I'm sure you won't go away from me, Arne," said she, coming over to where he stood. Her tears were flowing fast, but that did her good, she said. As they walked home together in the fair summer evening, they could not utter many words to one another in their strange new happiness. Nature herself interpreted their hearts to one another, in her tranquil, shining, magnificent companionship. But on his way home from their first summer-night's walk, towards the rising sun it was that Ame, as he walked, composed a song, which, though he had not time then to complete it, he perfected soon after, and made it his daily hymn for a season : " Once I thought that I really might grow to be great, If afar in the world I might grapple with fate ; And I recked not of friend, and I recked not of foe. While my heart was aflame with a yearning to go. But sudden mine eye met a girl's soft glance. And straight died my longing for flight ; And it seems to me now that the fairest on earth Were to live in that dear maid's sight. " Once I thought that I really might grow to be great, If afar in the world I might grapple with fate ; For the voice of Ambition cried loudly ' Arise, Young spirit ! and struggle thy best for the prize.' 136 ARNE. But that maiden she taught me (with never a word) That the dearest of things God can give Is not to be famons, renowned, or great, But perfect in manhood to live. " Once I thought that I really might grow to be great, If afar in the world I might grapple with fate ; But to do aught at home I should never be bold, For all I met here were misjudging and cold. But when I saw her, and her sweet, bright love, And her radiant, pure-hearted glee, And I knew that her joy and her heart — all — was mine, Ah ! to live was a glory to me .' " After that there was many a summer's eTening ■walk, followed by many a song. Here is one such : " Whence come's this sudden change I find ? No flood has been, no angry wind ; And yet my gently wand'ring course Now rushes with a torrent's force Mightily to the mighty sea. " Can something in Life's self, indeed. Give to a man at utmost need An earnest strength, yet tender heart, That peril, care, and Love's own smart Encompass, as with bridal chains ? '* Sends Life to me sitch promise rare As now I feel, — strong, helpful, fail- ? Then must some God this thing have willed Ordaining, 'Be My word fulfilled,' Wafting me soft to joy for aye." But perhaps nothing expressed his deep sense of thank- fullness so well as the following : " The might that I got from my power to sing Made Life's joy and Life's pain Fall like sunshine and rain On my soul, in its first fresh years of spring. AMNE'S TREASURE. 137 So in sorrow or glee No hai"m I knew, While my song might be Of my own Love true. " The might that I got from my power to sing Made me love young and old, Made me urgent and bold, Spite of self, to prize love, beyond all other thing. On, on did I roam Every barrier through, Till at last I readied home And my own Love true. " The might that I got from my power to sing Must help me to cheer Those who wander in fear, And shall lead them to share the glad tiding I bring. Joy perfecter never To man can be due. Than carolling ever His own Love true."' CHAPTEE XVI. "Aftee many Days." IT was autumn-time, and the harvest was beginning to be garnered. The day was bright and clear, and the air mild as in summer-time, for it had been raining the night before and in the morning. Though it was Satur- day, many boats were making their way over the Black Water to the church — ^the men in shirt-sleeves rowing, the women sitting in the bows and stern, with bright- coloured handkerchiefs thrown over their heads. Many more boats, however, seemed to be on their way to Boen, to row out again from it in a long and large procession ; for to-day Baard Boen was to celebrate the marriage of his daughter Eli with Arne Mlsson Kampen. All doors stood open : people were constantly in and out : children, with bits of cake in their hands, fearing for their new clothes, and looking shyly at one another, all about the farmyard. An old woman sat on the granary steps by herself : it was Margit Kampen. She was wear- ing a large silver ring that had several smaller ones fastened to its upper round ; every now and then she looked at it. Nils had given it her the day she became his wife, and she had never worn it since. "AFTER MANY DAYS." 139 Within, in the two or three sitting-rooms, the steward and two young bridesmen — Eli's brother and the pastor's son — ^were busily going about handing refreshments to the guests that came streaming in to the great wedding. Up in Eli's room sat the bride, the pastor's wife, and Mathilde, who had come from the town on purpose to dress "the bride ; for that the two girls had promised to do, the one for the other, ever since they were children. Ame, in his smartest of clothes, his round, well-fitting jacket, and a collar that Eli herself had worked for him, was down- stairs, in the room with the window that Eli had once written " Ame " on. It was open, and by it he stood, leaning against the frame and looking out over the stiH water at the parsonage and the church. Out in the passage just then two persons met one another, both of whom had just come from their work. One of them was fresh from the landing-stage, where he had been arranging the boats for the church. He was wearing a round black cloth jacket and blue freize breeches, the dye from which had made his hands all blue ; his white collar set off his fair face and long, yellow hair ; his high forehead looked serene, and on his lips played a smile. This was Baard. The person he met in the passage had just oome from the kitchen. She was dressed for the church; her figure looked slender and stately, and she walked self-consciously and slowly through the doorway. When she met Baard, she paused, and her lips puckered up at one side a little : it was Birgit, his wife. Each had something to say to the other, but the only sign of it was that both came to a standstill. Baard was more confused than she, but he smiled more and more, and his evident, and great confusion came to his aid, for, without more ado, he began to go up the stairs, with a " perhaps you'll come too." She followed him. In the garret up there they were 140 ARNE. alone by themselves; but yet Baard locked the door behind her, and allowed himself plenty of time. When at last he turned away from it, Birgit was by the window, looking out, so as not to see what was going on in the room. Baard drew forth a little flask from his breast-pocket, and a little silver cup. He offered it to his wife, but she refused it, in spite of his assurance that it was wine sent them from the parsonage. He then drank some himself, though, as he drank, he kept on pressing her to share it. At length he corked the flask again, put it away with the little silver cup in his breast-pocket, and seated himself on a box. It evidently annoyed him that his wife would not drink with him. He drew a long, deep breath again and again. Birgit was leaning against the window-frame just in front of him, one hand resting on it. Baard had something to say, but to say it now was harder than ever. " Birgit," he began, " you've been thinking to-day as I've been, I dare say." He heard her shift from one side of the window to the other, and then rest on her arm again. " Tou guess what I mean," he went on. " He stood between us two, I know. I thought that would go on till our marriage, but it's gone on much longer." He heard her quick breathing ; he saw her fidget about again, but he could not see her face. He him- self was undergoing such a struggle that he had to dry his face with his coat-sleeve. After long wrestling he began again : "To-day a son of his, handsome and clever, has come into our house, and to him we have given our only daughter How would it be, Birgit, if we too were to join our hearts to-day? " 'AFTER MANY DAYS." 141 His voice trembled away, and he cleared his throat. Birgit, who had heen fid getting uneasily, laid her head on her arm again, but said nothing. Long Baard waited, listening to her breathing. He got no answer, and he had no more to say. He looked up, his face growing paler and paler; but she did not even turn her head. At last he rose. At that sam.e moment came a gentle rap on the door, and a soft voice asked : " Aren't you coming, mother ? " It was EU ; and there was something in the voice that made Baard involuntarily stand still, and involun- tarily look at Birgit. Birgit, too, raised her head. She looked towards the door, and her eyes met Baard' s white face. " Aren't you coming, mother ? " cried the voice from without, once more. " Yes, I'm coming now, dear ! " said Bii-git, in a chok- ing voice ; and with firm step she walked across the room to Baard, took his hand in hers, and broke into violent sobs. • The two hands clung tight together : time-worn hands they were now ; but firmly they clasped each other, as if each had been seeking the other for twenty years. Hand in hand were they still, as they went to open the door ; and presently, too, when the bridal train streamed down to the landing-stage, and Arne gave his hand to Eli, leading the way, Baard, against all use and custom, seeing it, took his wife's hand in his own, and followed them — calmly, happily, smiling. But behina them came Margit Kampen — alone, as was her wont. Baard was beside himself with joy on that day ; as he sat chatting with the rowers, one of them, looking at the mountains behind them, remarked how wonderful it was that even rocky crags like those could be clad in foliage. 142 ' ARNB. "Ah!" said Baard, "it must grow up over it, whether it will or no." And his eyes wandered over the wedding party till they rested on the bridal pair and his wife, " Ah ! " he added, " no one would have thought such a thing possible — twenty years ago." THE FISHER LASSIE. THE FISHER LASSIE. CHAPTEE I. GXTNLAUG OP THE HILL. WHEN the hening has fixed upon any place along the coast for its constant and regular haunt, a town grows up there bit by bit, iO it is otherwise a likely place. Towns such as these maynot only be said to have been actually cast up by the sea, but even still,"at some distance off, look like bits of wreckage or timber that the waves have washed ashore ; or like upturned boats, under which the fishermen have crept for shelter against the stormy night. Draw nearer, and you will see in what a casual fashion the town has been buUt : crags lie in the midst of thoroughfares ; the sea divides the hamlet into three or four parts ; and the streets ciu-ve and wind about at wUl., But one property is possessed by all these towns alike : they have shelter in the harbours for the largest ships ; within them, the water is smooth as in a basin ; and there- fore these inlets are very welcome to vessels that come with sails torn, and bulwarks shattered, scudding away from the high seas to seek for breathing-time. THE FISHER LASSIE. In such, tcwnlets, all is stillness : everything that is a source of noise is relegated to the quays, where the villagers' boats lie fast, and ships load and unload. In our little town, the only street runs along the quays, facing which are white and red-painted houses, one or two storeys high, with walls not touching one another, but with bright strips of garden in between, the whole forming a long and broad road, on which you get the scent of whatever happens to be on the quays, if the wind is blowing from the sea. All is quiet here — ^not from fear of the policeman, for as a rule there is none — ^but from fear of what people say, for everybody in the place is known to everybody else. Should you wait down the street, you must give a greeting at every window you pass, and the old dame sitting at it will pleasantly greet you in return. Exchange a greeting, too, with everyone you meet ; for all these quiet folk go about their business considering what is the most fitting conduct for the world in general and for themselves in particular, and anyone who oversteps the limits proper to his rank and station in life, loses his good name ; for not alone is he known, but his father and his grandfather before him ; and immediately folks set themselves to find out if, at any previous time, any tendency towards impropriety has been manifested in the family. To our quiet town there came many years ago a man much respected by all, Per' Olsen by name. He had come from the country, where he had earned his livelihood as a pedlar and fiddler, and he opened a shop in the town for his old customers, selling bread and brandy in addition to his pedlar's wares. You might hear him walking up and down in the back room behind the shop, playing jigs and wedding marches. Every time, as he passed the door, he ' An humbler and more familiar form of Peter. GUNLAUG OF THE BILL. peeped through the glass panels, and if he caught sight of a customer coming, he finished up his tune with a flourish and went into the shop. His business prospered, he married, and had a son, whom he called after himself, naming him, however, not "Per," but "Peter." Little Peter was to be what Per felt he himself was not •^ — a cultivated man ; and with this end in view the boy was sent to the Latin school.' The lads who ought to have been his comrades beat him home from their games, because he was the son of Per Olsen ; and Per Olsen beat him back again to them, because it was impossible for him to be educated other- wise. In consequence, little Peter, finding himself isolated at school, grew so idle, and by degrees so completely inured to the 'whole affair, that his father could strike neither tear nor smile out of him ; so Per gave up the beating process, and put him into the shop. Judge of his surprise when he saw the lad serve every customer with exactly what he asked for, never giving a grain too much, nor ever himself eating so much as a currant ; weighing, counting, or invoicing, with immovable counte- nance ; never talking, if he could avoid so doing ; very slow in all his movements, but unimpeachable in his exactitude. Then the father's hope sprang up anew, and he sent him (in a fishing-boat) to Hamburg, that he might go into the Commercial Institute and learn good manners. After eight months' absence — ^long enough, in all con- science — ^he returned, provided with six new suits, which, when he landed, he wore one over the other : " for what one wears and walks in," as the saying is, " pays no Custom-house duty." Next day, when he was seen in the street, he had lost ' The Latin school, i.e., the school for the children of the higher classes. THE FISHER LASSIE. some of his bulk, but otherwise he looked much the same. He walked stifE and straight, holding his hands close by his sides; he saluted with a sudden jerk, bowing as if deprived of the use of his joints, and immediately becoming quite stiff again. He was politeness personified, but silent in his manners, and, after a fashion, shy. His name he no longer wrote " Olsen," but " Ohlsen," which gave the town wag a chance for the following dis- play of wit : Question. " How far did Peter Olsen get in Hamburg ? " Answer. " As far as the letter H." He had had thoughts of calling himself " Pedro," but he suffered so much annoyance for the sake of an H, that he gave up that idea, and wrote himself " P. Ohlsen." He did much to extend his father's business, and when only in his two-and- twentieth year he married a red-handed shopkeeper's lass, that he might have someone to look after the household : for the father had just become a widower, and a wife is more trustworthy than a house- keeper. Just a year after their marriage, she bore him a son, who, within a week of his birth, was named Pedro. Now that worthy Per Olsen was a grandfather, he felt an inner call to become old; so he handed the business over to his son, took his seat on a bench in the open air, and smoked twist out of a short pipe. And when one day he began to grow somewhat weary of his life, he uttered a wish that he might soon die, and this wish of his was as quietly granted as all the rest of his desires had been. Now, just as the son Peter had inherited one side exclu- sively of his father's powers, viz., his business aptitude, so the grandson Pedro seems to have been sole heir to the other — his musical faculties. It was long before he learned to read, but he very quickly knew how to sing. He played the flute so well that it could not escape notice. He was weak of sight and yielding in disposition. All this, how- ever, only vexed the father, who wanted the boy to possess GUNLAUG OF THE HILL. his own punctilious accuracy ; so if ever he neglected any- thing, he -was not scolded and beaten, asi his father had been, but pinched. This was done in a quiet, an affable, well-nigh a polite manner ; but it was done on the very smallest provocation. Every night as the mother undressed him, she counted and kissed the blue and yellow marks, but she made no resistance, for she herself knew what it was to be pinched. For every rent in his clothes — which were those his father had brought from Hamburg, cut down and altered for the son's use — for every smudge on his school-books, she had to bear the blame. Hence all day long it was " Don't do that, Pedro ! " " Take care, Pedro ! " " Mind what you're doing, Pedro ! " till the boy grew afraid of his father and weary of his mother. Among his schoolmates he came to no particular harm, because he always fell a-crying, begging them not to hurt his clothes : they nicknamed him "Touchwood," and troubled them- selves no more about him. He was like a sickly, feather- less duckling, ever limping along behind the rest of the brood, and sneaking quickly off with any little bit he could steal for himself: nobody shared with him, and so he shared with nobody. But he soon found out that it was very difBerent for him among the poor children of the town ; they had far more patience with him, because he was better off than themselves. A tall, strongly-built lass, who was queen of the whole crew, took a liking to him. He was never tired of looking at her. She had raven black hair that curled about her head, and was never combed save by her fingers ; eyes of perfect blue beneath her narrow forehead, and an expression that betokened single-hearted determination. She was always actively engaged, whether in sport or in work, going about in summer-time with arms and legs bare, and face taimed by the sun, while in winter her clothing was such as others wear in summer. Her father was a 8 THE FISHER LASSIE. pilot and fisherman: she dashed about selling his fish, holding his boat still against wind and tide, and — when he was away acting as pilot — did the fishing alone. No one who saw her could help turning round and taking another look at her, she seemed such a picture of self- reliance. Her name was Gunlaug, but she was called " The Fisher Lassie," a name she accepted as a title proper to her rank. In all games she was always to be found on the weaker side ; she seemed to need somebody to care for, so now she took charge of this sickly boy. In her boat he might blow his flute, which was forbidden him at home, because it was believed to divert his thoughts from his lessons. She used to row him out on the fjord ; she began to take him out with her on longer fishing expe- ditions ; and, before long, let him accompany her on her night tours as well. On such occasions they rowed ofl: in the silent summer twilight as the sun sank to rest, and he would play his flute, or listen to her as she told him all the tales that she knew of mermen and of monsters, of strange adventures, foreign lands, and black men, just as the sailors had told them to her. She shared her food with him just as she did her knowledge, and he partook of both alike without making any return ; for he had neither eat- ables to bring with him from home, nor fancy from school. They rowed till the sun went down behind the snow-capped hills, and then anchored ofE some craggy islet, where they landed and made a fire ; that is to say, she collected sticks and branches, he sat and looked on. She brought one of her father's seaman's jackets and a blanket in the boat with her, and ia these she wrapped him round. She looked after the fire and he went to sleep, while she kept herself awake by singing bits of psalms and songs ; she sang in a clear firm voice until he fell asleep, and then she sang in a lower tone. When the sun rose again across the water, darting pale yellow rays over the mountain-tops to herald GUNZAT/G OF THE SILL. 9 his approach, she would wake him. The woods still stood in blackness, and the country still lay darkened, but began to be reddish and glowing until the ridge of hills shone clear, and every colour gleamed forth bright and distinct. Then they dragged the boat into the water again, and quickly it shot through the waves before the fresh morning breeze, and soon it lay moored among the other fishing- boats. When the winter came, and the expeditions came to an end, he used to visit her at her home. He would often sit looking at her as she worked, but neither he nor she spoke much ; it was as if they were sitting together waiting for summer. But alas ! when it came, their hopes were des- tined to come to naught, for Gunlaug's father died, and she left the town, while the boy, at his schoolmaster's advice, was put into the shop. There he stood beside his mother, for Uttle by little the father had become the colour of the groats he was always weighing out, and was at last obliged to keep to his bed in the back room ; yet he still wished to take part iu all that went on and to know what sales each of them made. He would act as if he did not hear, until he got them near enough, and then pinch them. At length the oil ran quite dry in this little lamp one night, and the light flickered out. The wife wept, hardly know- ing why she did so, but the son had not a tear to squeeze forth. Having money enough to Uve on, they gave up the business, removed everything that might have reminded them of it, and made the shop into a sitting-room ; there the mother sat by the window and knitted stockings, while Pedro sat in the room on the other side of the passage and blew his flute. But as soon as the summer came, he bought a little light saiHng-boat, bent his course to the rocky islet, and lay where Gunlaug had lain. One day, as he lay there among the heather, he saw a boat steering straight for him ; it brought up close by his 10 THE FISHER LASSIE. resting-place, and out stepped Grunlaug. She had not altered at all, save that she was full-grown, and taller than other women ; but as her eyes fell upon him, she turned aside a little and slackened her pace, for it had never occurred to her that he was now a man. The thin, mealy face was unknown to her, for it was no longer ailing and delicate-looking ; it was dull and heavy ; but as he looked at her, his eyes were lit up as if by the light of his former dreams, and as she advanced, for every step she came it seemed as if a year fell from him, and when she stood by him he had sprung up and stood laugh- ing and talking like a boy. Beneath the old face lay the visage of a child ; he had got older, it is true, but he had not grown up. Such as he was, it was just such a child she was seeking, though now that she had found him again, she hardly knew what more she would have. She laughed and blushed. Involuntarily he seemed to feel a sort of power within him ; it was the first time in his life, and at that instant he was actually handsome ; it lasted perhaps more than a moment, but in that moment she was captivated. Gunlaug was one of those natures that can only love whatever is weak, whatever they have borne in their arms. She had meant to stay in the town two days, — she remained two months. In those two months he developed more than in all the rest of his life. He was so far aroused from his dreamy apathy as to form plans for the future : he decided that he would go away and learn music ! But when he talked of this to her one day, she turned pale, and said, "Tes ; but first we must be married ! " He looked at her, and she looked steadfastly back at him ; both blushed red as fire ; and then, " What will people say to that ? " said he. It had never occurred to Gunlaug that his wishes could GUNLAUG OF THE HILL. \\ be other than hers, just because her wishes had till then never been other than his. But now it flashed upon her that, deep down in his heart, he had never for an instant had any intention of sharing anything with her, except what she gave him. In that instant it stood revealed to her that it had been so in all their intercourse. She had begun by pitying, and ended by loving, the being she herself had fostered. Ah ! if now she had only exercised a moment's self-control ! — ^for he saiw her anger blazing up, and in fear he cried out, " I will ! " She heard him ; but her anger at her own blindness and his littleness, at her own shame and his cowardice, seethed up with burning speed to boiling point, and never did a love that began in childhood in the evening sunshine, that had been rocked on the billows beneath the rays of the moon and accom- panied by the melody of the flute and of soft singing, come to a more pitiable ending. She grasped him with both her hands, she raised him from the ground, and struck him with all the passion of her heart; then she rowed straight back to the town, and, never swerving, took her course over the hiUs. He had sailed out a youth deep in love, and on his way to achieve manhood ; he returned an old man, for whom manhood had never been. His life had but one memory, and that he had in his folly thrown away : one spot only on earth did he care for, and thither no longer durst he go. Brooding over his own misery and how it had come upon him, his new-bom vigour sank as in a quagmire, never to emerge again. The little town boys soon noticed his strange bearing, and began to plague him ; and as he was an obscure person to his fellow-townsmen, who knew neither what he lived on nor how, it fell out that he found no one to defend him. Before long he no longer dared to venture out — at any rate, not in the public thoroughfares. His whole existence became a warfare with the bovs, who 12 THE FISHER LASSIE. ■were, perhaps, of the same use as flies are in the heat of summer ; without them he would have sunt into complete torpor. ISTiiie years later Grunlaug came back to the town just as unexpectedly as she had left it. She was accompanied by a Uttle girl about eight years of age, who looked just as Ounlaug used to in former days, save that she was more delicate in her features and bearing, and had a look about her as if she had stepped out of a dream. Gunlaug had been married, it was said ; she had inherited some money, and had come back to the town to open an inn for seamen. She managed her house in such a way that merchants and skippers came to her to hire sailors, and sailors came to her to get hired. Besides this, aU the town ordered fish ■of her. And though she never took a shilling for her services as agent, she wielded despotically the power her position gave her. Certainly she was the most influential person in the town, though she was a woman, and a -woman, too, who never left her own house. She was known as " Fish-Grunlaug," or "Gunlaug of the Hill"; while the title of " The Fisher Lassie " descended to her little daughter, who was always to be found skipping about at the head of the small boys of the town. Her history it is which we are about to tell. She had something of her mother's strong nature, and she had •occasion to use it. CHAPTEE II. pbtea's childhood. THE many pretty gardens of the town, now clad in their second and third hlossoms, were fragrant after the rain. The sun was sinking to rest hehind the ever- lasting mountains of snow and the whole heavens far around seemed all on fire, making even the snow-peaks give back a subdued reflection. The nearer mountains stood in the shadow, but were bright, notwithstanding, with many- hued autumnal foliage. The rocky islets with their dense woods, coming one after another in the middle of the fjord, like a stream of boats rowing in, afforded a still stronger display of colour, for they were not so far off. The sea was still as glass : a big ship was slowly being towed in. People were sitting about on the wooden steps before their doors, where the rose-bushes grew thick about them : they were talking to one another from door to door, running over to each other's dwellings, or exchanging greetings with the passers-by, who were on their way to the long, leafy lanes beyond the town. Here and there a piano might be heard through an open window : save that, no sound broke upon their talk. The last gleams of the setting sun over the sea seemed to add to the feeling of utter calm. 14 THE FISHER LASSIE. All of a sudden, there arose a sound in the middle of the town as if it were being stormed. Boys were scream- ing, girls crying, other boys hurrahing, old women scolding and shrieking out orders; the policeman's big dog was barking his loudest, and every dog in the town barked in answer. Nobody that heard it could stop indoors. So great was the uproar, that the Amtmand ' himself turned on his threshold, and was heard to say,. " Why, there must be something the matter ! " " What is it ? " was the constant question of those who came from the lanes to those on the steps, " Dear me ! what can it be P " everyone was asking now, whenever anybody came from the middle of the town. But the town lies in a half -moon along a gently-curving bay, and so it was a good while before those at each end had heard the answer : " Oh ! it's only the Fisher Lassie ! " That venturesome spirit, bold in the protection of a redoubtable mother, and sure of help from every seaman in the town (for such service always got them a free dram from Grunlaug,) had put herself at the head of her horde of small boys, and fallen upon a great apple-tree in Pedro Ohlsen's garden. The plan of assault was as follows : certain of the boys were to lure Pedro to the front of the house by making his rose-bush beat against his window ; at the same time, one of the others was to shake the apple-tree, which stood in the midst of the garden, and the rest were to throw the apples over the fence in all directions — ^not to steal them — far from it ! — but just for fun. This ingenious plan had . that very evening been hatched behind Pedro's garden ; but as luck would have it, Pedro himself happened to be sitting on the other side of the fence, and heard every word ! ' Magistrate. PETRA'S CHILDHOOD. 15 Somewhat before tlie appointed time, he got the town policeman (a tippling fellow) and his big dog iato his back parlour, where he gave both of them refreshment. When the Fisher Lassie's curly black hair was seen above the palings, and a number of little faces peeped over on every side, Pedro let the young scamps in front of the house dash his rose-bushes against the window-panes to their heart's content, while he quietly waited in the room at the back of the house. But when they had all gathered in perfect silence roimd the tree, and the Fisher Lassie, with bare arms and scratched legs, had climbed up to shake it, the garden door suddenly sprang c^en, and Pedro and the policeman dashed out with sticks in their hands and the huge dog close behind them ! A scream of terror rose from among the boys. A lot of little girls, who were innocently playing " touch " on the other side of the fence, thought that somebody was being murdered in the garden, and began crying in the most heartrending way. The boys who had escaped shouted " Hurrah ! " ; those who were still struggling over the fence screamed under the blows of the cudgels ; and, to complete the confusion, there arose from the depths certain old women — they always do, when boys begin to shriek — and joined in the chorus. Pedro and the policeman were dismayed themselves at the uproar, and tried to still the old women : meanwhile, the boys took to their heels, and the dog (whom most they feared) dashed over the fence after them — that was his part of the game ! And now the screams, the boys, the girls, and the dog, flew like wildfire all over the town. All this time, the Pisher Lassie had been sitting quite stiU up in the tree, thinMng. that nobody had noticed her ; crouching up at the very top, she could follow through the leaves the course of the fray. But as soon as the policeman had in desperation gone out to the old women. 16 THE FISHER LASSIE. Eind Pedro OUsen was alone in the garden, he came right under the tree, looked up, and shouted : " Come down with you at once, you rascal ! " Not a sound from the tree. " Will you come down, I say ? I know you're up there ! " Still unbroken silence. " I shall go and get m.y gun and shoot you ! I will ! " and he made a moTemement as if to go. " Boo-hoo-hoo ! " came a sound from the tree. " Yes, you may well begin to squall ! Tou shall get a whole barrel full of shot in you, you shall ! " " Oo-hoo, oo-hoo ! " cried a voice like an owl's ; " I am so frightened ! " " Ah ! it's you, you little devil, is it ? You're the worst limb of mischief of the whole lot ; but I've got you now ! " " Oh ! dear, good kind sir ! I'll never do it again ! " and at the same moment she flung a rotten apple clean in his face, and a peal of laughter- accompanied it. The apple burst all over him, and while he was wiping it off, she slipped down from the tree, and was struggling over the palings before he could get near her. She woiild have got right off in safety, if she had not been so afraid of his being close behind her that she slipped back, in her haste. As soon as he touched her, she gave a scream — a scream so piercing, loud, thrilling, and shriU, that he was quite taken aback, and let go his hold. At her signal of distress, people began to gather round the fence. She heard this, and plucked up courage straightway. "Let me go!" she threatened, "or I'll tell mother!" and her face was now all a-blaze with passion. Then he knew that look, and shouted wildly : " Your mother ! who is your mother ? " "G-unlaug, Gunlaug of the Hill, Fish-Gunlaug," re- PETRA'S CHILDHOOD. 17 iterated the girl in triuinpli, for she saw he was frightened. Nearsighted as he was, he had never seen the child till now, and was the only person in the town who did not know who she was ; he did not even know that Gunlaug was in the town. " What is your name ? " he cried, like one possessed. " Petra ! " came the answer, in still higher tones. " Petra ! " cried Pedro — and turned and dashed into the house as if he had spoken with the fiend. Now, the paleness of fear is very like that of anger: Petra thought he had gone for his gun ; terror seized her — already she felt the shots pursuing her. The garden gate had at that moment been hurst open from the outside, and she rushed ofE through it, with her black hair streaming wild behind her, her eyes flashing fire, and the dog, whom she met, following and baying after her. Thus she burst upon her mother, who was coming from the kitchen with a bowl of soup, and down went the girl, with the soup all over her and the floor. " Drat the girl ! " from Grunlaug. But, lying there ia the spilt soup, she cried out : " He's coming to shoot me, mother ! he's coming to shoot me ! " " Shoot you ! who's going to shoot you, you little imp ? " " He — he — ^Pedro Ohlsen — ^we were taking his apples." She never dared teU aught but the truth. " Whom are you talking of, child ? " ' " Of Pedro Ohlsen ; he's after me with a big gun ! he's coming to shoot me ! " " Pedro Ohlsen ! " shrieked the mother ; and then she laughed, and seemed somehow to have grown taller. The child began to whimper and tried to make off ; but the mother sprang upon her, with her white teeth shining as if for prey, and, gripping her by the shoulders, stopped her from going. M 18 THE FISHER LASSIE. " Did you say who you were ? " " Yes, yes, yes, yes ! " cried the child, holding up her hands entreatingly. Then the mother drew herself up to her fuU height : " So he has got to know at last ! Well, what did he say?" " He ran in for his gun ; he was going to shoot me ! " " He shoot you ! " laughed Grunlaug, in huge scorn ; but the child, in great terror, and all bespattered with the soup, had crept away into the comer, and was standing drying her clothes and shedding tears. "If ever you go near him again," said the mother, coming up to her once more, seizing her and shaking her, " or talk to him, or listen to what he says, may God help both him and you ! — Tell him that from me ! " she added threateningly, as the child did not at once answer. " Yes, yes, yes, yes ! " "Tell — ^him — that — ^from — me ! " she repeated once more, in a lower tone, as she walked away, stopping to nod her head at every word. The child washed herself, changed her clothes, and went and sat out on the steps in her Sunday frock. But when she thought of the peril she had been in, her tears again began to fall. "What are you weeping for, childie?" asked a voice, more kindly than any she had ever heard before. She looked up ; there stood before her a gracefully- built, intellectual-looking man with spectacles. She stood up at once, for it was Hans Oedegaard, a young man in whose presence everyone in the town stood. " What are you weeping for, childie ? " repeated the voice. She looked up at him, and said that she and " some other boys " had been trying to get the apples in Pedro Ohlsen's garden ; but Pedro and the policeman had come PETS A' S CHILDHOOD. 19 after them, and " ; but she called to mind that her mother had shaken her faith in the shooting, so she dared not tell that part of the story — she gave a long deep sigh to make up for it. " Is it possible," cried he, " that a child of your age could think of com.mitting so great a sin ? " Petra stared at him ; she knew well enough that it was a sin, but she had always been used to being told so by hearing herself called " Tou imp of the devil ! you black- haired little fiend ! " Now, somehow, she felt ashamed. "How is it you don't go to school and learn Grod's Commandments to us about what is good and what is )*vil?" ' She stood tugging at her frock, as she made shift to answer that her mother did not want her to go to school. " Tou cannot even read, I suppose ? " he said. " Tes," replied she, she could read. He took out a little book and gave it her. She opened it, turned it over, and then looked at the cover. " I can't read such fine print," she said. But he would not let her off so, and straightway she became most marvellously stupid : her eyes and lips drooped, and all her limbs seemed to hang loose. "T-h-e the, L-o-r-d Lord, G-o-d God, the Lord God, s-a-i-d said, the Lord God said to M — M — ^M — " " Good gracious ! " he broke in, " you can't even read ! And you ten or eleven years old ! Wouldn't you be glad to be able to read ? " She managed to jerk out that she would be glad enough. Come with me, then ; we must set to work at once." She moved away a little, to look into the house. " Tes, go and tell your mother about it," he said ; and just then Gunlaug passed the door. Seeing the child talking with a stranger, she came out on to the flag-stones. 20 THE FISHER LASSIE. "He wants to teacli me to read, mother," said the child, looking at her with d6ubtful eyes. The mother made no answer, but set both her arms akimbo, and looked at Oedegaard. " Tour child is very ignorant," said he. " Tou cannot { answer it before G-od or man for letting her go on so." "Who are you?" returned Grunlaug, sharply. " Hans Oedegaard, son of your priest." Her face cleared a little, for she had heard nothing but good of him. " When I was at home before," he went on, " I noticed this child. To-day my attention has been called to her afresh. She must no longer accustom herself to doing only what is bad." " What is that to you ? " said the mother's face plainly enough, but he continued quietly : " Surely you would like her to learn something ? " " No ! " A slight flush passed over his face as he asked : "Why not?" "Are folks any the better for learning?" — she had only had one experience of it, but she stuck fast to that. " I am astonished that anyone can ask such a question." " Yes, of course ; I know you are. I know people are none the better for it ; " and she moved to the steps, to put an end to such ridiculous talk. But he planted himself right in her way. "Here is a duty," said he, "which you shall not pass by. You are a most injudicious mother." Gunlaug measured him from head to foot. " Who has told you," said she, " what I am ? " " Tou — ^you yourseK ; just now ; or else you must have seen that your child was going on the way to ruin." Gunlaug turned, and her eye met his ; she saw he was in earnest in what he had said, and she began to feel afraid PETRA'S CHILDHOOD. 21 of him. She had always had to do with seamen and trades- folk ; talk such as his she had never heard. " What do you want to dp with my child ? " she asked. " Teach her what is right for her soul's welfare, and see what is to be made of her." " My child shall be just what I want." " No indeed she shan't ! she shall be what Grod wants." Grunlaug was at a loss what to answer. She drew nearer to him and said : " What do you mean by that ? " " I mean," he replied, " she ought to learn whatever her powers allow ; for Grod has given them her for that." Gunlaug now drew close up to him. " Am I not to decide what is best for her — I, the child's mother ? " she asked, as if really wishing to be informed. " That you shall ; but you must act on the advice of those who know better than you. You must do the Lord's wUl." Gunlaug stood still for a moment. " What if she learns too much ? " she said at last — " a poor woman's child," she added, looking tenderly at her daughter. "If she leams too much for her own rank, she wiU thereby have attained another," he said. She grasped his meaning at once, and, looking more and more fondly at her child, she said (as if to herself) : " That is dangerous." " That is not the question," he returned gently ; " the question is, what is right ? " A strange expression came into her keen eyes ; she looked at him piercingly, but there was so much earnestness in his voice, his words, and his face, that Gunlaug felt her- self conquered. She went up to the child, and laid her hands on her head, but she spoke not a word. " I shall read with her from now till the the time when 22 THE FISHER LASSIE. she is confirmed," lie said, hoping to make things easier • for Gunlaug. " I wish to take charge of the child." " And do you want to take her away from me ? " He hesitated, and looked at her inquiringly. " Of course you know far better than I," she said, speak- ing with difficulty ; " but if it hadn't been for what you said about the Lord " here she stopped. She had been smoothing down her daughter's hair, and now she took off her own kerchief and bound it round Petra's neck. Thus, in no other way, did she say the child was to go with him ; but she hastened back into the house, as if she could not bear to see it, Oedegaard began suddenly to feel afraid of what, in his youthful zeal, he had done. The child, for her part, felt afraid of him, for he was the first person who had ever got the best of her mother. And so, with mutual fears, they went to their first lesson. Day by day, as it seemed to him, her cleverness and knowledge increased ; and it often happened that their conversation seeined, of its own accord, to take one peculiar bent. He would bring before her eyes characters &om the Bible or from history, in such a way as to point out to her the call that God had given them. He would tell her of Saul leading his wild life, or of the young David tending his father's flocks, till Samuel came and laid on him the hands of the Lord. But greatest of all was the Call when the Lord walked upon earth, tarried among the fisher- folk, and called them to His work. And the htjmble fisher- men arose and followed after Him^-to suffering — ^yea, even to Death ; for the feeling of the holy Call bears men up through all tribulation. The thought of this took such hold of her that she could not refrain from asking him about her own " Call." He - looked steadfastly at her ; she grew red beneath his gaze ; and then he answered that through work every man finds out PETBA'S CHILDHOOD. 23 his vocation : that that might be insignificant and unimpor- tant, but that it existed for everyone. Then a great zeal came upon her ; it drove her to work with all her might ; it entered into her games, and it made her wan and thin. Strange longings for adventure came over her. ! to cut short her hair, dress like a boy, and go out to take part in the struggle ! But when one day her teacher told her that her hair would be so pretty if only she woidd take a little care of it, she got fond of her long tresses, and for their sake sacrificed her chance of a heroine's fame. After this, to be a girl became a more precious thing to her than ever, and henceforth her work went peacefully on, with the ever-changing dreams of girlhood floating around her. CHAPTEE III. petea's tbachee. IN liis youtli Hans Oedegaard's father had wandered away from his native parish of Bergen, and by the aid of people who had taken to him, he had become a learned man and an able preacher. He was, moreover, a man of authority in deed even more than in word, for he was a deep and resolute thinker. This man who had, by his tough, stout will overcome all the difficulties of his life, was fated to receive a check where least he expected it, and where he felt it most. He had three daughters and one son. His son Hans was the brightest ornament of his school, and it was the father's daily joy to help him with his lessons. Hans had a friend who, by his aid, kept up with him, and who loved him above all else on earth, save only his mother. The two boys went together to school, and together to the university ; together they passed the two prehminary ex- aminations, and now they were about to enter on their pro- fessional studies together. One day, after finishing their accustomed portion of reading, as they were merrily going downstairs, Hans in mere joyfulness of heart sprang upon his comrade's back; the latter slipped, and a few days later lay dead. The dying youth begged his mother — a PETSA'S TEACHER. 25 widow, now about to lose her only child — ^to grant him the wish of his heart, and let Hans fill her son's place. The mother scarce outlived her son, leaving, by her will, all her property, which was considerable, to Hans Oede- gaard. It was many months ere Hans was at all himself again after this terrible event. A long journey abroad so far restored him as to enable him to go on vrith his theological studies till he was ready for holy orders; but nothing could induce him to make use of them. The whole hope of the father's life had been to see his son his helper with his flock; and now it was not possible to get him even to ascend the pulpit; he gave to all entreaty the constant answer — ^he felt no call. It was a bitter disappointment to the father, and it made him years and years older. He had settled down to his work late in life ; he was now quite an old man, and all his work had been done with all his strength and with this one object ever before him. And now iu the same house dwelt the son, in his stately suite of rooms above, while down below the father worked strenuously in his little study, with the lamp that lit up the night of his old age beside him. He neither could nor would take the help of a stranger after his disappointment at home, nor would he follow his son's advice and give up work ; therefore he knew no rest, summer nor winter. But every year the son's journey abroad grew longer. When he was at home he associated with no one, save that, in more or less silence, he dined daily at his father's table. But anyone who talked to him met ever with such clearness of judgment and zeal for truth that conversation was difficult to maintain. He was never at church, but he gave more than half his income for benevolent purposes, and always with most careful injunctions as to its use. Charity on such a large scale was a thiug so different 26 THE FISHER LASSIE. from the little town's narrow habits, that it overwhelmed everybody. Besides this, his reserve, his constant jonrney- ings abroad, and the fear all felt of talking with him, made him, as may easily be supposed, a mysterious sort of being in their eyes, and they gave him credit, not only for the common sense and ability he possessed, but for all pos- sible talents as well. When this man, then, condescended to take the " Fisher Lassie " into his daily care, she rose vastly in their estimation. One after another of them — chiefly women — ^now tried to look after her as well. She came to him one day, dressed out in all the colours of the rainbow ; she had put all her finery on, thinking that now she surely must be looking as he liked to see her, for he always wanted her to look neat. But he no sooner saw her than he forbade her ever to take anything from anybody again. He called her vain and siUy ; he said that she only gave her mind to foolish objects, and cared for nothing but frivolity. When she came next morning with eyes red with weeping, he took her with him for a walk beyond the town. He told her the story of David ; for it was his constant habit to take now one, now another, well-known character and make him live again for her. First he painted him to her as he was in his youth, when he walked fair and strong and in un- troubled faith, so that he had earned a triumphal proces- sion, even before he was of man's age. He was a shepherd, yet called to be king ; he dwelt in caves and holes, yet in the end he built Jerusalem. In beauteous attire he sat and played to the sick Saul, but when he himself was a king, and sick, he was clad in the sackcloth of repentance as he sat singing and playing to himself. When he had done his great work, he sought ease in sin ; but the warn- ing and the punishment fell upon him, and again he was as a child. David, who could upraise the Lord's chosen people by his songs of praise, himself lay crushed at the Lord's PETRA'S TEACHER. 27 feet. When was he test to see — ^when, crowned with victory, he danced to his own music before the ark, or when in his own chamber he implored grace at the hand of the chastiser ? That night Petra had a dream which she never forgot all her life after. She was going up, it seemed to her, in a triumphal procession, mounted on a white horse ; but at the same time she was in rags, and dancing in front of it. Some time after this, as she was sitting one evening at the edge of the wood beyond the town, reading her lesson- books, Pedro Ohlsen, who since that dav in the garden had been constantly drawing nearer and nearer to her, wa;lked close by her, and, with a curious smile, whispered " Good evening." Although more than a year had gone by, her mother's command to her about talking with him was so strongly impressed on her mind, that she did not answer him. Nevertheless, day after day went by, and ever with the same greeting. At last she grew to expect him, i£ he did not come. Presently he began to ask some little ques- tion or other as he walked by, and before long he managed to get her to talk too. After one such talk he let a silver dollar^ slip down into her lap, and then dashed off, happy in his success. Now, it was against her mother's order to talk to him ; against Oedegaard's to take gifts of anyone. The first she had gradually been drawn into transgressing ; and this was brought vividly to her mind now that it had led her to do the same to the other. To get rid of the money, she got hold of another girl and treated her to sweets ; but, in spite of their best efforts, it was not possible for them to eat more than four orts' worth. As soon as she had spent the money, she grew angry with herself for not having given it back instead. The remaining ort, as it lay in her pocket, seemed as if it were burning a hole in her clothes : she snatched it out and flung it into the sea. ' A silver dollar (five orts) is worth about 4s. 6d. 28 THE FISHER LASSIE. But not by such means was she quit of the dollar ; her thoughts were branded with it. She felt she might once again be free if she were to confess ; but her mother's terrible wrath and Oedegaard's heartfelt belief iu her seemed each in. its own way too dreadful to be borne. The mother noticed no change, but Oedegaard saw at once that something was weighing on her and making her wretched. He gently aSked her what was the matter, and when, instead of answering, she burst into tears, he thought they must be in want at home, and gave her a ten-dollar biU. Now that he, in spite of her sin against him, should give her money — and money, too, that she could openly give her mother, for it was money honestly got — made such a powerful impression on her, that she felt as if free from guilt again, and gave herself up to an ecstasy of joy. She took his hand with both hers, she thanked him, she laughed, she danced up and down, and rapturous delight beamed through her tears as she looked at him as a dog looks at its master when it is allowed to go out with him. He scarce knew her : she who generally sat lost ia what he was saying, now was in the ascendant over him. For the first time he saw a strong, wild nature rise up before him ; for the first time Life's fountain splashed forth its red stream over him, and he started back blood-hot. But she darted through the door and up the hill on her way home. She put down the money on the griddle in front of her mother, and threw her arms round her neck. " Who gave you this money ? " said the mother, all a-flame in a moment. " Oedegaard, mother, Oedegaard ! He is the finest man in the world ! " " What am I to do with it ? " , " I don't know mother dear, if you knew ," and she threw her arms round her mother's neck again, for now she felt she could and she would tell her all. PETRA'S TEACHER. 29 But Gunlaug impatiently shook herself free. " Would you have me take alms ? " she cried. " Take his money back to him ! K you've let him. think that we were in want, you've cheated him ! " " But mother " " Take his money hack to him on the spot I tell you, or else rU go myself and throw it back at him, — at him, who's stolen my child from me ! " The mother's lips were trembling as she said these last words. Petra moved away, more and more pale, softly opened the door and slowly walked out of the house. Before she well knew it, the ten-dollar bill was torn to atoms between her fingers ; when she realized this, she broke forth iato a torrent of angry indignation against her , mother. But Oedegaard must know nothing of this ! — yes, he should know all ! There must be nothing kept back from him any more ! A moment later she was standing in his room telling him that her mother would not take the money, and that she, in her anger at having to come back with it, had torn the bill in pieces. She was going on to tell him the rest, but he looked at her coldly, and bade her go home again, recom- mending her at the same time to obey her mother, even when it was difScult for her. This sounded very strange to her, for she knew that he at any rate did not do what his father wanted him of all things to do. On her way home, her grief and passion burst forth again, and just at that moment she met Pedro Ohlsen. She had purposely kept out of his way all this time, for he was the cause of all her woes. " Where have you been ? " he asked, walking along by her side. " Is anything the matter with you ? " There was such a tempest in her heart that it might caSt her where it would. Carried away by her feelings, she could not see why her mother should have forbidden her to have 30 THE FISHER LASSIE. anything to do with just this one person: it was onlj another whim of hers, of course, thought she. " Shall I tell you what I've been doing ? " he said, in an entreating tone, as she stopped. " I've bought you a sail- ing-boat ; I thought you might like to sail," — and he gave a laugh. His kindness, which had something in it of an humble appeal for friendship, was just the thing to touch her at that moment ; she nodded ; and he with busy, eager air, whispered to her to go out beyond the town into the lane to the right, until she got to the big yellow boat- house : he would come and fetch her frpm behind it, and no one would see it there. OfE she went, and presently he came for her, all happiness and good-behaviour, and as if he were a big boy. They sailed about for a while in the light breeze ; then they lay-to by an island, made the boat fast, and got out. He had all sorts of nice things with him, which he gave her with trembling joy ; then taking out his flute, he began to play. For a while she forgot her sorrow as she watched his joy ; and as the feeling of pity that comes of watching the happiness of the weak grew upon her, she began to take a liking to him. After that day she had a new and constant secret to keep from her mother, so that before long she kept her mother from knowing about any_ of her doings. Gunlaug asked no questions; she trusted entirely, until she entirely mis- trusted. But from that day Petra had a thing to keep ever secret from Oedegaard as well ; for she took many a present from Pedro Ohlsen. Nor did Oedegaard ask anything, but he grew day by day more formal and distant with her at her studies. So Petra was now divided amongst three : she never spoke of any of them to the others, and she had some special secret to guard from each. Meanwhile she was now grown up, though she herself did not yet know it. One day Oedegaard told her that it was time for her to be confirmed. PETBA'S TEACHER. 31 This information filled her with great unrest ; for she knew that with confirmation her lessons would come to an end, and what was to happen then ? Her mother had a little attic built for her, for, after confirmation, Petra was to have a room of her own : the incessant hammering and nailing were painful reminders to her. Oedegaard noticed that she was growing more and more sUent, and sometimes, too, he saw that she had been weeping. Religious instruction made great impression under these circumstances, though Oedegaard with tender care avoided everything that might touch her too deeply. It was for this reason that some fortnight before confirmation he closed his lesson with the simple remark that that was their last. He meant the last with himself; for he intended to look after her ; but others, and not he, were to be her teachers. She, however, sat motionless in. her chair ; the blood left her cheeks ; her eyes were never moved from his face. Touched by her emotion, he involuntarily sought to give his reason. " Of course all girls are not grown up by confirmation time ; but you feel, I'm sure, that you are." If she had been standing in the full light of a great fire, she could not have been redder than she was at these words. Her bosom heaved, her eyes looked timidly about her and were full of tears, and Oedegaard, still more per- plexed, hastily went on : " Would you like to go on all the same, though ? " The moment he had said it, he saw what it was that he l^ad proposed, and that it was a wrong thing to have done ; he would have tried to withdraw it, but already she had raised her eyes to his, and though she did not say " Tes " with her lips, yet it could not have been said more clearly. To ease his own conscience by giving himself an excuse, he asked her : " Isn't there anything in esp^ecial that you would like to 32 THE FISHER LASSIE. take Tip ? . Anything that — " and he hent towards her, " anything that you feel a call for, Petra ? " " No ! " she answered, so sharply that he reddened, and, growing cooler, fell back into the meditations which for long years had filled his thoughts, and which now her unexpected answer had awakened again. That there was something remarkable in. the girl he had never doubted since the time when she was a child, and he had been used to seeing her march about singing at the head of the town's street boys. But the longer he taught her, the less he understood the natural bent of her talents and powers. There was evidence of them in every move- ment : whatever she happened to be thinking, to be want- ing, that her whole body and spirit pourtrayed, with all the fullness of her strength and the glory of her beauty. Tet in words — still more in writing — her thoughts were mere childishness. She seemed to be nothing but wayward imagination, though, to be sure, Oedegaard put most of that down to restlessness. She was very diligent in her work, but always her object seemed to be to get through ' her lessons, rather than to learn anything ; what there would be on the next page was what her thoughts were busy with. She had religious emotions, but, as the priest put it, " no turn for a religious life." Oedegaard was often in perplexity as to her future. Once more he seemed to be at the starting-point, and his thoughts flew of their own accord to the stone steps, where he had first taken her into his care ; once more he seemed to hear the mother's sharp tones as she laid the responsi- bility on him, because he had named the Lord. He walked up and down the room several times, and then, pulling himself together, spoke. " I am going abroad," he said, with a certain amount of hesitation ; "I have asked my sisters to look after you meanwhile, and when I come back again we'll see what PETRA'S TEACHER. 33 more is to be done. Farewell ! we shall see one another again before I go ! " He walked away so quickly into the next room that she did not have time even to take his hand. When she saw him again it was where she least expected it, and that was in 'the pulpit just before her, as she stood up in the church among the flock of maidens for confirmaT tion. This so excited her that her thoughts were far, far from the holy rite for which he had prepared her in humUity and prayer. Tes, but Oedegaard's old father's thoughts were straying too : he paused and gazed long at his son, as he stepped forth to begin. Petra was destined to another surprise that morning ; for somewhat lower down sat Pedro Ohlsen, in stiff, new clothes ; he stretched out his head so as to be able to look over the heads of the boys at her among the flock of gii-ls ! He ducked down again at once ; but she saw him again and again thrust up his head with its scant covering of hair, and bob down again. It distracted her thoughts; she tried not to see, but could not help looking ; and ju^t at the moment when all the others were deeply affected — many of them, indeed, in tears — ^Petra was shocked to see Pedro standing up with his mouth and eyes wide open and motionless, and his whole body apparently paralysed. He seemed to have no power either to sit down or go away, for opposite him stood Grunlaug, in all her majestic height. Petra shuddered to see her mother, for her face was white as the altar-cloth. Her black curly hair seemed to be rising up, her eyes to have a power to thrust him off, as if they were saying, " Away from her ! what have you to do with her ? " At length he sank down on his seat beneath her gaze, and very soon afterwards sneaked out of the church. Presently Petra began to grow calmer, and the longer she listened the more earnest she grew. And when now N 34 THE FISHER LASSIE. she tumed back from the altar, after giving her confirma- tion-promise, and looked through her tears at Oedegaard, who stood nearest to all her good resolves, she promised in her heart that she would never turn his trust to shame. He seemed to be praying for the same, as his steady eye shone upon her ; but when she got back to her place and sought him out again, he was gone. She went home at once with her mother, who, on the way, let fall : " Well, now my part with you's done ; now let the Lord do His ! " When they had finished dinner — mother and daughter had dined alone together — Grunlaug said, as she rose : " Well, now we'll go and see him — the parson's son, I mean. I don't know what's the good of what he's been doing, but anyway he's meant well. Put on your things again, child." The road to the chtirch, which those two had often walked together, lay above the town, and they had never before been seen together in the street through the town ; indeed, the mother had scarcely been there since she had come back. Now she tumed down into the street at once ; she wanted to walk through the whole length of it — she with her grown-up daughter ! On the afternoon of Confirmation Sunday the folks ia such a little town are all to be seen in the streets, either on their way from house to house with congratulations, or walking up and down just to see and be seen. At every step there is a pause and a greeting, a hand-shake and* a kindly wish ; the poorer children, clad in the half -worn garments of the richer ones, walk about to show themselves and their gratitude ; the sailors of the place, dressed in outlandish finery and with hats a-slant, the town fops — the clerks — go about in troops, greeting and being greeted; the half-grown-up lads from the Latin "Bchool, each arm- in-arm with his best friend in the world, saunter about. PETRA'S TEACHER. 35 uttering their half -grown-up criticisms ; but to-day all in. their hearts must perforce feel themselves inferior to Tngve Void, the lion of the town, the young merchant, the richest man in the place, who had just come back from Spain, all ready and able to take over his mother's huge fish business. With a yellow hat over his yellow curls he. flashed , through the streets, and the young girls and lads just confirmed were well-nigh forgotten ; for all turned to welcome him, and he talked with everyone, laughed at everyone. Up and down the street you could see his bright hair and hat, and hear his bright laugh. When Petra and her mother came out, he was the first they stumbled upon, and, as if they really had done so, he started back from Petra, whom he no longer knew. She had grown tall ; not so tall as her mother, but still taller than most women : she was graceful in. her carriage, refined, and yet spirited-looking : her mother, and yet not her mother, in constant alternation. Even the young merchant, who walked along near them, could no longer draw the passer-by's eyes on himself now : these two, mother and daughter together, were a rarer sight. They walked briskly, greeting no one, for they were seldom addressed by any but seamen ; and they quickened their pace as they walked back again down the street, for they heard that Oedegaard had just left home for the steamer, which was about to start. Petra hurried most; she must, yes, she must bid him farewell and thank him before he went. 0, it was too bad of him to go away from her like that ! She looked at none of aU the many that looked at her; it was the smoke from the steamer rising above the houses that she saw, and it seemed to her to be moving away. When they got to the quay the steamer was just putting off, and it was with a sob in her throat that she hastened off again 36 THE FISHER LASSIE. to the lanes leading to the beach, jumping along rather than walking, her mother striding after her. As it had taken the steamer some time to clear the harbour, she was early enough to be able to jump down on to the beach, spring up upon a rock, and wave her pocket-handkerchief vigorously. The mother stood back in the lane and would not go down. Petra waved higher and higher, but no one on the steamer waved back again. Then she could hold out no longer, and, for weeping's sake, must needs go home by the road above the town. Her mother walked along with her in utter silence. The attic that Gunlaug had given her that day, and in which for the first time she had slept the night before, and dressed herself so joyously in her new clothes that morn- ing, got her back that evening all in tears, and with no eyes for aught around her. She refused to go downstairs, where guests and seamen had assembled. She took off her confirmation-things and sat on the bed till night-fall ; and it seemed to her that the dreariest thing in the whole world was to be grown up. CHAPTEE IV. A CHAIN OF GOLD. SOON after confirmation, Petra went over to Oedegaard's sisters one day, but she perceived at once that it was an error on his part to send her there ; for the priest went about his work so that she never saw him, and his daughters — both older than Hans — ^were cold and reserved. They contented themselves with giving her scant directions from their brother as to what she should do. She was to go and spend the whole morning in taking part ia the house- keeping work of a house beyond the town, and the after- noon in. the sewing-school ; she was to sleep and have her morning and evening meal at her own home. She did as she was bid, and liked it well enough so long as it was new; but after a while, and especially when summer came on, she began to grow tired of it, for at that time of the year she had been in the habit of spending the whole day in the woods, reading her books, and with all her heart she longed for them agaia, as she longed for Oedegaard and as she longed for some one to talk to. The consequence was that she took such companionship as she could find. Now, it happened that about this time there came to the sewing- school a young girl named Lise Light — at least Lise, but not really Light, for Light was the name of a young cadet 38 THE FISHER LASSIE. who had been at home at Christmas-time, and had got engaged to her on the ice, when she was only a school-girl. Lise was ready to die if there was a word of truth in it, and shed tears if anyone mentioned it : meanwhile all the girls called her Lise Light. This emotional little Lise Light wept often and often laughed ; but whether she was weep- ing or whether she was laughing, her thoughts were always running on love. The whole school was soon filled by a swarm of new and wonderful thoughts. If a hand was stretched out for the reel, the hand was the wooer, and the reel said " Yes," or "No." The needle was plighted to the thread, and the thread was offering itself up, stitch after stitch, for its cruel lover's sake. Did any girl prick her- self, she was pouring forth her heart's Wood ; did any ex- change her needle, she was fickle-hearted. If two girls were seen whispering together, it must be because there was some secret confidence between them ; straightway two more began to whisper, and then another two ; each had her own bosom friend, and there were a thousand mysteries in the air. Such a state of things could not last. One afternoon, towards twilight, Petra was standing out- side the house with a big handkerchief over her head, for there was a fine, drizzling sort of rain about. She was looking in the direction of a young seaman, who was stand- ing in the alley whistUng a valse ; and though she was holding the handkerchief tight under her chin with both hands, so that only mouth and nose could be seen, the seaman, with glad quickness, discovered that she was looking for him, and quickly sprang to where she stood. " I say, Gunnar,'' she said, "will you come for a walk?" " Why, it's raining ! " "Pooh! that's nothing!" she answered; and they made their way to a cottage further up the hill. A CHAIN OF GOLD. 39 " Buy me some cakes," said she ; " those with cream on them, I mean." " Why, you're always wanting cakes ! " " Those with cream, I say ! " she repeated ; and he pre- sently came out again with them. She stretched out her hand from beneath her wrap, drew them -in, and went along eating. When they had got right above the town, she handed him a bit of cake, and said : " Listen, Grunnar ! We two have always stuck to one another, haven't we ? I have always liked you better than all the other boys. You believe that, don't you ? It's true, I can tell you ! And now that you're second mate, and will soon get to command a ship, you ought to get engaged, I think, G-unnar. But aren't you going to eat your cake ? " " No ; I've begun to chew." " Well, what do you say to what I said ? " " Oh, there's no hurry about that." " No hurry ! why, you're going to sail the day after to- morrow ! " " Tes ; but I'm coming back again, I suppose, am I not ? " " Tes, of course ; but it's very uncertain whether I shall have the opportunity then, for you don't know where I may be by that time." " What ! am I to be engaged to you, then ? " " Tes, of course, Gunnar ; you ought to have seen that. But you're always so stupid at seeing things, and that's why you're only a sailor." " Oh, I don't mind that ; it's good enough to be a sailor." " That's true, because your mother owns a ship. But what do you say now ? Tou are such a slow coach ! " " Why, what can I say ? " " What can you say ? Ha, ha, ha ! Perhaps you won't have me ? " 40 THE FISHER LASSIE. " All, Petra ! you know well enough ; indeed I will. But I don't believe I can rely on you." " Oh, yes, G-unnar ! I shall be true — so true — ^to you." He stood silent for a moment, and then : " Let me look at your face, Petra," he said. "Why?" "I want to see if you're really in earnest." "Do you think I'm joking, Gunnar? " she asked, pro- voked ; and she raised her kerchief. " Well, Petra, if it's real, sober earnest, give me a kiss, so that I may know it's all right." " Are you mad ? " she cried, pulling the kerchief over her again, and 'walking fast away. " Stop, Petra, stop ! Tou don't understand. Now that we're sweethearts — ■ — " " Oh, stufE and nonsense ! " "Well, I know what's the proper thing, don't I ? I've seen far more of the world than you have. Just think of all that I've seen." " Seen ! why you've used your eyes like a numskull ; and your talk's as silly as your sight." " Well, then, what do you understand then by our being sweethearts, eh, Petra ? I suppose I may ask that much ? To run up hills after one another doesn't seem to me much hke it." " No, that's true enough," she laughed, as she checked her pace. " But listen, now, Gunnar; and whilst we stand here and get breath I'll explain to you how lovers should behave to one another. So long as you are in the town, you shall wait outside the sewing-school every evening, and go home with me to our door; and if ever I go to any other house, you must wait in the street for me till I come. And when you're abroad, you must vyrite to me, and buy things and send them me. Ah, I forgot! we shall want a couple of rings, with your name in one and mine in the A CHAIN OF GOLD. 41 other, with the year and the day of the month stamped on them, to give to one another ; but, as I've got no money, you must buy them both." " That I'll do willingly enough ; but " " WeU, what do you want now with your ' buts ' ? " " Grood Lord ! I was only thinking that I must get the measure of your finger." " That you shall, and at once,'' she said, as she plucked up a piece of grass, measured her finger with it, and handed it him, saying : " Don't throw it away, now." He wrapped it up in a piece of paper and put the paper in his pocket-book. She kept her eye on him till the pocket-book was safely put away again. " Let's go back, now," she said ; " I'm tired of staying out longer." " Well, I must say, it seems to me it's rather mean of you, Petra— — " " Oh, very well, my good man ; if you don't like it, I dare say I can manage all right without you ! " " Oh, of course, it's not that ! But mustn't I even take your hand ? " " What for ? " " To make certain that we really are engaged now h " " How silly ! As if it could make it more certain, if we catch hold of each other's hands ! Oh, well ! you're quite welcome to, if you want to — there's my hand — no, I don't want it squeezed, thank you ! " and she drew it back again beneath her wrap, and at the same time raised the kerchief with both hands, so that her whole face was once more visible, as she went on : " If you tell anybody about this, G-unnar, I'll just say that it's aU untrue ; do you understand? " and she laughed, and began to go down the hill again. Presently she stopped once more : 42 THE FISHER LASSIE. " To-morrow evening, sewing-class will be over at nine o'clock, so you can be waiting behind the house then." " All right." " Tes, but now go ! " " Won't you give me your hand to say good-bye ? " " I don't see what you keep wanting my hand for— no — you shan't have it now. Good-bye ! " and she bounded off from him. Next evening she contrived to be the last to leave the sewing-school, and the clock was on the stroke of ten as she came out of the house ; but when she got into the garden, there was no Gunnar there. She had run over in her fancy all possible mischances, save that alone ; she was so certain that he would come, that she waited just to be able to give it him well when he did. She was pleasantly enough entertained as she walked up and down the garden, for the Merchant's Glee Club in the house close by had just begun practising ; the window was open, and a Spanish song so enchanted her as it fell upon the soft evening air, that she seemed to be herself in Spain and hearing its songs of praise sung from the high altar. Spain was the land of her heart's desire. Every summer brought the black Spanish hulls to the harbour, and then songs of Spain echoed through the streets of the little town. On Oedegaard's wall there hung a series of beautiful pictures of Spain, and very likely even now he was there, and she — she was with him ! But she was brought back to herself again ; for there, behind the apple-tree, came Gunnar at last, hurrying along — no, not Gunnar ! as she recognized, with a start — it was the y&ung merchant who had come back from Spain, Tngve of the yellow hair and yellow hat. " Ha, ha, ha ! " rang out his lightsome laugh, " did you take me for someone else ? " "No!" she said, with angry abruptness, and dashed A CHAIN OF GOLD. 43 away in affright ; but he sped after her, chattering away without ceasing as he ran, talking very quickly all the while with the glib fluency that men used to speaking various tongues acquire. " See, I can keep up with you ; I run very fast — running away's no good — -I must talk to you : this is the eighth, evening I've been waiting here." " The eighth evening ! " " Tes, the eighth evening ! and I'd gladly wait another eight to meet you, woiddn't I ? It's no good your running ; I won't let you get off, and you're tired now, I can see." "No, I'm not!" "Tes, you are!" " No, I'm not ! " " Tes, you are ! Talk, if you're not tired then ! " " Ha, ha, ha ! " she laughed. " Ha, ha, ha ! " he echoed. " Pooh, do you call that talking ? " and they both came to a standstill. Half in jest, half in earnest, they exchanged a few light words. He began to praise Spain, and one glowing descrip- tion followed another, and he wound up with a curse for the little town at their feet. Petra's eyes lit up when he began to talk of Spain ; it made her ears tingle to hear him : her gaze rested on the gold chain which he wore twice twisted round his neck. " This chain," said he, suddenly, as he drew forth the end of it to which was fastened a gold cross, " this chain I brought to show the singing-club this evening ; it comes from Spain; you shall hear its history," he continued. "When I was in the South of Spain, I once went to a shooting- meeting and won the prize* At the banquet in the evening it was handM to me with these words : ' Take it with you to the North, and, with all respectful reverence from the gentlemen of Spain, give it to the fairest maiden in your native town.' Then the trumpets sang forth, the flags 44 THE FISHER LASSIE. waved, tlie cavaliers applauded loudly, and I took tlie prize ! " " Oh, how beautiful ! " burst forth from Petra's lips ; for straightway there stood clear before her the Spanish festival with its bright Spanish colours and songs, and swarthy Spaniards, lit up by the rays of the sun as it set over the vine-clad hills, turning their thoughts to the fairest maiden in the land of snow and ice. Tngve was a young man of good disposition, despite his marvellous forwardness and self-conceit, and he went on telling her of these things. One story after another increased her longing for that wondrous land, and now, transported there in fancy, she began to hum the Spanish song that she had heard a short while before, and gradually to keep time to it with her feet. " What ! " he cried, " can you dance the Spanish dance ? " "Yes," she sang, her feet following the music, and with her fingers imitating castanets, as she had seen the Spanish sailors do. " You deserve the Spaniard's gift ! " he burst out, as if the thought had suddenly struck him ; " you are the fairest maiden I have met with ! " — and he had taken the gold chain from his neck and twined it dexterously and many times round hers, before she well knew what he was about. But when she realized what he had done, the deep flush, peculiar to herself, swept over her face, and the tears seemed about to gush forth from her eyes, so that Tngve, who had gone from one stage of wonder to another, was now stricken by a feeling of deep shame at what he had done, and knew not what more he would have ; his one feeling was that he had better go — so he went. At midnight she was still standing by the open window of her attic, the chain in her hand. Gently lay A CHAIN OF GOLD. 45 the night of mid-summer over town and fjord and distant hill; from the street came once again the sound of the Spanish song, for the glee club had gone home with Yngve Void. Two voices only were singing the words, and the rest were imitating with their mouths the accompaniment of a guitar. Their song was of a beautiful garland, and she heard distinct and clear every word of it : " Take this wreath and think of me. Take this wreath — 'tis fit for thee : Greenest leaves and blossoms brightest For the lass of lassies fairest ; Blushing roses, lilies whitest, For the maiden purest, rarest. Take this garland, fit for thee, Take it — and forget not me." When she opened her eyes next morning, it seemed to her she had been in a wood where the sun shone upon every part of it, and all the trees were golden laburnums, from which hung long, shining clusters of blossom that nearly touched her as she made her way through. Straight- way her thoughts flew to the chain : she seized it and flung it on over her nightdress ; then she put a black handker- chief over the white linen, and put the chain on over that, for it looked better against the black. Still sitting on her bed, she looked at herself in the little hand-mirror, and wondered if she really were so pretty. She got up to do her hair. Suddenly she remembered that her mother as yet knew nothing about it: she must be quick and go down and tell her all. Just as she had finished dressing and was about to twine the chain round her neck, it occurred to her to wonder what her mother would say, what everybody would say, and what she should answer when they asked her why she wore that costly chain. The question was a very reasonable one, and seemed to her more and more difSicult to answer every moment. At length she drew 46 THE FISHER LASSIE. forth a little box, laid the chain in it, thrust the box into her pocket, and, for the first time in her life, felt what it ■was to be poor. She did not go to her proper work that morning, but she sat up above the town, near the place where the chain had "been given her, holding it in her hand and feeling as if she had stolen it. That evening she waited behind the garden for Yngve Void even longer than she had waited for Grunnar the night before : she meant to give him back the chain. But, as it happened, Gunnar's ship had unexpectedly set sail the pre- vious day, because there was a large amount of freight for it in the next port, and Tngve Void, who owned it, had had to set ofE about the same business. He had plenty to do there besides, and so it was three weeks before he re- turned. During these three weeks the chain had moved first from her pocket to the chest of drawers, thence into an envelope, and the envelope had been put into a secret place, while she had been moving from one humiliating discovery to another. Now for the first time she was fully aware of the distance which separated her from the ladies of the town : any of them might have worn the chain without anybody's asking why or wherefore. But Tngve Void would not have dared to offer it to any of them, without offering his hand along with it : he only dared do such a thing to the Fisher Lassie. If he had wanted to give her something, why did he not give her something she could use ? But he had only wanted to shame her the more deeply by giving her something which she could not by any possibility make use of. As for his tale about "the fairest maid," that was most likely all make-up ; for if the chain had been awarded to her on those grounds, he would not have come in secresy and by night. Anger and shame tortured her the more, because she no longer had anyone A CHAIN OF GOLD. 47 in wtoni she could confide. It was no wonder, then, that the first time she met the cause of all her angry and humi- liating thoughts again she reddened, so that he could not, she felt, help misconstruing her blush; and the thought of that made her blush the deeper. She tore home again, pulled out the chain, and, darting out above the town, sat down to wait for him, though as yet it was broad daylight. Now he should have it back, at any rate ! She felt quite certain he would come, for, in spite of his absence, he had blushed at the sight of her. But presently this very thought began to tell in his favour : he would not have changed colour so if she had been nothing to him. He would have come before if he had been at home. Twilight was deepening, for the days had fast been growing shorter during the last three weeks. But with the darkness, a change often comes over our resolution. She sat among the trees just above the road, and could see without being seen. She sat thus a little time, but he did not come, and it filled her heart with contending passions. She listened in anger at one moment, in terror the next : she heard the step of the passers-by long before she saw them ; but it was never he. The birds, as they moved dreamily from one perch among the leaves overhead to another, were enough to frighten her, in her excited state of mind : every soimd from the town below, every cry, startled her. On board a great ship in the haven the sailors were heaving the anchor, singing as they worked, for it was to be towed out that night, to start off with the best of the early morning breeze. Oh how she longed to be going with it on the mighty deep ! The sailors' parting song seemed her own, the clang of the bars in the capstan seemed to give her strength to rise — what for ? where to ? See, there in the road, straight in front of her, was the yellow hat. She sprang up, and, without further thought, started off run- ning, and, as she did so, remembered that this was just the 48 THE FISHER LASSIE. thing she ouglit not to have done : it was adding error to error ; so she suddenly stopped. When he got up to where she was standing among the trees, her breathing was so long and deep that he could hear each separate breath, and her fear now had the same power over him as before her fearlessness had had. He looked at her in embarrass- ment — almost in bewilderment — as he said, in a low tone : " Don't be frightened." But shCi was trembling, as he could see. Thinking to give her confidence, he tried to take hold of her hand ; but she, at the first touch, sprang up all on fire, and dashed away again, leaving him standing there. She did not run far, for her breath was exhausted : her temples were throbbing and burning ; her breast seemed as if it would burst ; she pressed her hands against it, and listened. She heard a step in the grass, a rustle in the leaves : he was coming straight towards her, Did he see her ? No, he did not ! Yes, he saw her ! No, he was going past ! It was not fear that reigned in her heart ; but her excitement and agitation was such that when she felt herself safe from him, her strength left her, and she sank down, senseless and powerless. After a long time she rose and walked slowly down the hill, sometimes pausing, sometimes moving on again, as if she had no object in her motions. When she got down to the road again, he was sitting there, patiently waiting for her. He got up, but she did not see him, for she was walk- ing as if in a dream. She uttered no word, she made no gesture : she only laid her hands before her eyes and wept. This so completely overwhelmed Tngve Void that his tongue — at other times so busy — came to a standstill. When at length he spoke, it was with a peculiar air of determination. " This evening," he said, " I shall speak to my mother ; A CHAIN OF GOLD. 49 to-morrow all shall be arranged, and in a few days you shall go abroad to be my wife." He expected her to answer, or, at any rate, to look up ; but she did neither. He interpreted this in his own fashion. "Tou don't answer? Ton cannot, I suppose. Very well, just rely on me ; for from this moment you're mine ! Grood night." And with these words he left her. She walked home as if mist-clouds were thick about her; a slight feeling of dread glided in among them and tried to divide them, but the clouds rolled back upon her again. All the power that Tngve Void had had over her thoughts during the past three weeks had served to prepare a way for her mind to take possession of this new wonder and this new field for her fancy to inhabit. He was the richest man and of the best family in the town, and he wanted to lift her up to him above all cavil. This was a thing so unex- pectedly different from the thoughts she had been nourish- ingof late in her anger and passion, that it alone was enough to make her feel happy. And she grew happier and happier as she more fully took in her new and utterly overpower- ing position. She saw herself now inferior to none, and near the attainment of all her vague wishes. First and foremost she saw Tngve Void's largest ship, all decked out with flags for their wedding day, receiving them on board, and, after firing off minute-guns and sending up rockets, bearing them away to Spain, where shines the bridal sun. When she woke next day, the maid came in and told her that it was half -past eleven ! Petra felt ravenously hungry and asked for food, which was brought her ; she sent for more and ate it : her head was aching and her limbs were weary : she sank back to sleep again. When she woke, about three o'clock in the afternoon, she felt all right again : her mother came up and said that no doubt she had slept her sickness off, she herself often did so ; but o 50 THE FISHER LASSIE. now (she added) it was time for her to get up and go to her sewing-class. Petra sat up in bed and leant her head on her arms ; she answered, without looldng up, that she should never go to the sewing-school again. Her mother thought that she was still a bit dazed from her long sleep, and went down to get a parcel and a letter which a ship's- boy had brought. What ! was he sending her presents already ? Petra had lain down again, but she jumped up in a moment, and with a sort of solemnity in her manner, opened the parcel as soon as she was alone — ^it contained a pair of French shoes. Somewhat disappointed, she was about to put it down, when she felt something heavy ia the toes. She put in her hand, and drew out of one of the toes a little tissue-paper parcel — it contained a gold bracelet; in. the other there was also a little parcel, care- fully wrapped up — ^it held a pair of French gloves, and from the right-hand glove she drew forth yet another wrapper, in which were folded two gold rings. " Already ! " thought Petra, and her heart beat as she looked at the inscription ; and there, sure enough, she saw in the one, " Petra," followed by the year and the day of the month ; and in the other, " Gunnar." She turned pale ; she flung the rings and the whole package on the floor as if it had burnt her fingers, and tore open the letter. It was dated from Calais, and read as follows : " Dear Petra, " Just arrived here, after having had good winds from latitude 61 to latitude 54, and later on a toughish storm until we got here, which was hard work for better ships than ours to make way against, though ours is a good ship for going. Tou must know that all the way here I've been thinking of you, and of what happened 1 between us last time ; I'm so angry at not having been '1^1 A CHAIN OF GOLD. 51 able to say ' good-bye ' to you properly, that I went on board in a very bad temper, but you've never been out of my mind for a niom.ent, except now and again between whiles, for a sailor has a hard time of it, you know. But now that we've got here, I've spent aU my wages in pre- sents for you, as you asked me to, and the money I got from mother I spent too, so that now I have none. But if I can get leave, I'll be with you almost as soon as the presents; for so long as it's secret between us, I can't feel certain about other people, especially yoimg men, of whom there are so many about ; but I want it known for certain, so that no one will have any excuse, and will know that he's got to beware of me. You can easily get a better fellow than me, for you can have anyone you like ; but you'll never find a more faithful one than I am. Now I will stop, because I have used up two sheets of paper, and the letters are getting so big, for this is the hardest thing I have had to do for you, but I'll go on doing it all the same, because you want me to. And now I end by saying that you were quite in earnest, I'm sure ; for if you weren't, it would be a great sin, and might bring unhappiness to many. "GrTTNNAE AsK, " Second mate of the brig " ' The Norwegian Constitution.' " A great fear fell upon Petra, and in a moment she was out of bed and dressed. She must get out, and advice must be found somewhere for her ; for everything now had become confused, uncertain, and perilous. The more she thought over things, the greater the tangle seemed ; she must get help from someone, else she would never unravel herself from it. But who was there whom she could trust ? No one, surely, except her mother. When, after a long struggle with herself, she was standing by her in 52 THE FISHER LASSIE. the kitchen, trembhng and tearful, but strong in her resolve to trust her fully, and get in return her full help, the mother said, without looking up, and therefore without noticing Petra's face : " Well, he's come home again ! he's just been here." " Who ? " murmured Petra, and clutched for support : if Gunnar were back already, all hope was gone. She knew Gunnar ; he was slow and good-tempered, but once roused to anger, he was mad in his wrath. "Tou are to go up there at once, he said," continued the mother. " Up there ? " she repeated, trembling. She saw at once that he had told her mother all about their engagement ; but what was to happen now ? " Yes, to the parsonage," added Gunlaug. "To the parsonage? JVEother, is it Oedegaard who's come home, then ? " " Who else should it be ? " said the mother, turning to look at her. " Oedegaard ! " shouted Petra, rapturously ; and the storm of joy that swept over her purified all the air round her in a moment " Oedegaard is come ! 0, God in Heaven, Oedegaard is come ! " and she was out of the door and over the fields, dancing, laughing, and crying out at the top of her voice. It was he — he — he whom she longed for; had he been at home, nothing would ever have happened ! With him she was safe. The mere thought | of his noble, shining face, his gentle voice, nay, even the , quiet rooms, with their many pictures, in which he dwelt, made her feel more peaceful and secure again. She took time to compose herself, and looked round at the town and country round glowing in the sunset of autumn, and at the rich radiance that lay over the fjord ; in the strait beyond, the curling smoke of the steamer that had brought Oedegaard was just dying away. Oh, merely A CHAIN OF GOLD. 53 to know that he was at home made her happy, well, and strong again! She prayed God to help her in keeping Oedegaard from ever leaving her again. And just as she was exalted by the mere hope of this, she saw him coining smiling towards her : he had known which way she wonld take, and had come to meet her ! This touched her, and bounding up to him, she seized both his hands and kissed them ; this gave him a feeling of shame, and as he saw some one afar ofE, he drew her off the road and back among the trees, holding her hands in his while she kept on repeating : " How glorious it is that you've come ! Oh, I can hardly believe that it's you ! Oh, you must never, never go away again ! Don't leave, Oh, don't leave me ! " Her tears began to flow, and he gently pressed her head against his shoulder to hide them ; he wanted to calm her, for he needed her to be quiet. But she laid her head there, as a bird nestles beneath the wing that is raised for it, and she seemed as if she would like never to leave it. Overcome by her trust in him, he put his arm round her, as if to assure her of the protection she sought ; but no sooner was she aware of this than she lifted her tearful face to his^ her eye met his, and all that can be expressed in a look, when repentance meets love, when gratitude meets the giver's joy, and when yes meets yes, came close upon one another. He drew her head to him and pressed his lips against hers : he had early lost his mother, and this was the first time in his life that he kissed one of the other sex ; it was the same with her. Neither of them could tear themselves away from the other, and when they did so, it was only to sink together again. He was trembling with excitement, but her face beamed with blushing joy, as she threw her arms round his neck and hung upon him like a child. And when they sat down and she could touch with her 54 THE FISHER LASSIE. hands his hair, his breast-pin, his neck-cloth, and all that she had before looked at from a respectful distance ; and when he bade her say du^ and not De, and she could not ; and when he tried to tell her how rich she had made his poor life from the moment of their first meeting, and how long he had struggled against his love so that it might not check her development, and so that he might not repay , himself for his pains thus ; and when he discovered that she was not in a state to take in or understand a word of what he was saying ; and when he himself began to see little sense in it ; and when she wanted to go home with him at once, and he had laughingly to ask her to wait a few days' time, so that they might travel away from the town together ; — then they felt, then they said, as they sat there among the trees, with fjord and mountain lying before them deep in the evening sun, that this indeed was happiness. And afar off in the wood sounded the notes of a horn, and the words of a song, telling them it was so. " Ah, sweet is Love's first meeting As song amid tlie trees, Or in the sunset fleeting, Borne o'er the red'ning seas, The sound of Nature's voices, Whose mystic tones of love Make for a span the soul of man Even as souls above," ' In Norse, da (the second pers. sing.) is familiar and loving; while De (third plur.) is more formal and distant. CHAPTEE V. petka's lotees btbet. NEXT morning Petra sat half-dressed in her room, ajid the whole day long she could get no further. Eyery time she made a new attempt, her arms sank back into her lap. Like the hare-bells in the fields, like the ear laden with grain, her thoughts bowed beneath their own weight. Peace, trustfulness, and all beauteous visions hovered above the airy castle wherein her soul dwelt. She went over all yesterday's meeting again and again, — each word, each look, each pressure of the hand, each lover's kiss ; she tried to go through it all, from their meeting to their parting, but it was in vain ; for each separate thought led her into bright visions of the future, visions full of the promise of happiness. Sweet as these were, she must put them away from her, so as to try to call to mind where she broke ofE ; but as soon as she had done so, she plunged again into new wondrous dreams. As she did not come down, her mother thought that she must have begun her lessons again, now that Oedegaard was back : her meals were sent up to her, and she was to be left in peace the whole day. Not till evening was coming on did she rise and make herself ready ; for now she was to go and meet her love. She put on her confir- 56 THE FISHER LASSIE. maticSn dress, — the best she had. ; it was not much to look at, but she had neTer perceived that before. She had had little taste in dress till now, but to-day it came upon her : one thing, she felt, did not match another properly, and when she had got them right, it still seemed to her not at all pretty. To-day she would have given anything to have really been " the fairest " ; and as the words came into her mind, she put out her hands to thrust them ofE ; nothing, nothing should approach her to-day to trouble her peace. She walked quietly about, gently putting one thing and another in its place about the room, for the time was not yet come. She opened the window and looked out ; red, warm clouds lay encamped athwart the mountains ; but the cool air flowed in with tidings from the woods hard-by. " I am coming, I am coming ! " it breathed, and she turned and went to the mirror to greet the bride there. Just then she heard Oedegaard's voice talking to her mother below ; she heard him being told where her room was : he was coming to fetch her ! A strange wild f eeliag of joy thrilled through her, as she turned to see that every- thing was fit for him, and moved towards the door. There came a gentle knock : " Come "in," she answered softly, and stepped back a pace or two. * * # ' * * * * When Oedegaard had rung for his coffee that morning he was told that Tngve Vpld, the merchant, had already called twice to see him. It jarred upon, him to let a stranger enter upon his thoughts just on that day, but he felt that one who sought him so early must certainly have impor- tant business ; moreover, he was scarcely dressed before Yngve Void came again. " Good morning," he said. " You're surprised, of course, at my being here ? Well, so am I myself." Oedegaard returned his salutation, and Yngve laid down his hat. PETRA'S LOVERS MEET. 57 "Tou lie a-bed late," he went on; "I have been-here twice before. I have something on my mind that I must talk with you about." " Won't you take a seat ? " said the other, seating him- self in an arm-chair. " Thanks, thanks ; I prefer to walk about : I am too ex- cited to keep still. Since the day before yesterday I've been mad, clean mad, I believe, neither more nor less ; and the fault is yours', — yours ! " " Mine ! " " Yes, yours. Nobody had thought of the wench till you got hold of her ; nobody took any notice of her till you brought her out. But now, any way, I've never seen any- thing like her, anything to come up to her, I tell you ! In all Europe, I've never seen such a cursed marvellous little curly-haired creature — have you ? I couldn't rest for her ; I must have been bewitched ; she was everywhere and always before my eyes. I took a voyage, — I came back again, — it was all no good, I tell you. I didn't even know who she was at first — " Fisher Lassie," they call her — gipsy, they oughtto say, Spanish gipsy, witch — ^withher eyes, her breast, 'her. hair alla-glow — what's that you're saying? She springs and dances abojit, flashing, laugh- ing, sparkling, singing^ — a little devil, a veritable little devil. I ran after her one quiet -night, you see, up among the trees in the wood yonder. She stopped, I stopped — ^a few words, a song, a dance — and then ? Why then I gave her the chain I had with nie ; as true as I stand here, I'd had no thought of doing so the moment before ! Next time, at the same spot, the same chase for her ; she was frightened, — I — will you believe it ? — I couldn't speak a single word, daredn't even touch her ; and when she came again— can you believe me ? — I offered to marry her, though the second before I'd never thought of such a thing! Yesterday I made up my mind to try myself and keep away 58 THE FISHER LASSIE. from her, but upon mj heart and soul, I must be mad, stark mad ; I cannot do it ; I must be -with her ; if I don't get her I'll shoot myself, honour bright I will, and that's the -whole story. What do I care for my mother, — devil take her ! — or for this little town, this wretched little hole of a place. She shall get away from here, do you see, right away and far above this town ; she shall be comme il faut; go abroad to France, to Paris ; I'll pay for the journey, and you make all the arrangements. I might go with her, it's true, settle abroad, and not stop in this wretched little hole any longer ; but then, you see, there's the fish ! I want to make somethiag out of this place ; they're all asleep here ; nobody thinks of anything, nobody speculates ! Ah ! the fish, the fish ! nobody here looks after it properly ; in Spain and abroad they're always making complaints about it. They need new methods of drying and packing, everything must be altered ; the town must wake up, the trade go ahead, and the fish bring in millions, millions ! Where did I leave off though r* The fish, the Fisher Lassie ; O well, they go well together : fish, Fisher Lassie — ha, ha ! — well then, as I say, I find the money, you make the arrangements ; she becomes my wife, and then " He got no further. He had not, while he had been talk- ing, taken any notice of Oedegaard, who now had risen to his feet, pale as a corpse, and fell upon him with a slender Spanish cane in his hand. The other's amazement was beyond description. "Be careful," he cried, -as he warded , ofE the first few strokes, " you may hit me ! " " Tes, I may hit you ; — Spanish merchant, Spanish cane, they go well together, — ^ha, ha ! " And the blows rained down over his shoulders, arms, hands, face, and wherever he could hit him. The other dashed about the room wildly. "Are you mad?" heyeUed; " are you out of your senses? I want to marry her, do you hear ? — to marry her, I say ! " PETRA'S LOVERS MEET. 59 " Go ! " roared Oedegaard, whose strength, was now exhausted. And away from the madman dashed his fair- haired visitor, through the door and down the stairs, just stopping for a moment in the street to call out for his hat : it was thrown down to him through the window, and then all was peace once more. ******* " Come in ! " said Petra that evening, in answer to the soft knock, as she herseH drew back a pace or two the better to look at her love as he entered. Like a stream of ice-cold water dashed over her, like the solid earth rent beneath her feet, was the sight of that face that met her in the door- way ! She staggered backwards and grasped at the bed- post, but in thought she fell from precipice to precipice. In less than a second, she who was but now the happiest of brides had fallen to be the worst of sinners. His face pro- claimed, as if withf a voice of thunder — not through all time and eternity could he ever forgive her. " I see it," he whispered in a scarcely audible tone, " I see it ; you are guilty ! " He leaned against the door-post and caught hold of the handle, as if he could not stand without it. His voice shook, and tears were rolling down his cheeks, but save for that, he was calm. " Do you know what you have done ? " he said- — and his eyes seemed to pierce her to the earth. She made no answer — she did not even weep ; she was stricken by utter, hopeless powerlessness. " Once before I gave my soul away," he went on, " and he to whom I gave it was killed by my fault. I could not recover from that sorrow, unless some one should be allowed to reach out and give me back my soul, healed once more. That you have done — and done it by treachery." He paused, and vainly made two attempts to go on again ; and then with a sudden rush of feeling he cried : 60 THE FISHER LASSIE. " And could you go and cast aside, as if it were a thing of clay, all that I have heen building, thought upon thought, day after day, in these long years ! Child, child, could you not see that I was building my life up in yours ? Well — all that's over now ! " And he made another effort to control his agony. " No," he began again ; " you're too young to under- stand ; you don't know what you've done. But that you've deceived me, that you must know. Tell me, what have I done to you that you could be so cruel to me ? Child, child, if you had only told me, even yesterday! Why, why have you deceived me so terribly ? " She heard what he said, and it was all true. He had staggered to a chair that stood by the window, and was leaning his head on the table beside it. He rose . up, half sobbing with pain, then sat down again motionless. " And I — and I who am not fit to help my old father," he moaned to himself ; "I can not, I do not, feel the call for that work. Therefore no one may help me, and all my life must be a wreck." He could say no more. His head sank upon his right hand, his left hung limp beside him ; he looked as if he were not able to move ; and thus he sat there, saying no word. Then he felt something warm against his hand, as it hung down ; he gave a sudden start — it was Petra's breath. She was there on her knees beside him, her head bowed and her hands folded, looking at him in speechless. ' prayer for mercy. He looked down at her in turn, and the eyes of neither moved. Then he raised his hands as if to keep her off ; as if, as she looked at him, he heard a persuasive voice in his heart to which he must not listen. Quickly, hastily, he bent down to pick up his hat, which had fallen on the ground, and hurried to the door. But quicker even than he, she cast herself down in the way. P£:TIIA'S lovers 3IEET. 61 clasped his knees witli her hand^, and fixed hier eyes on his, not saying a word the while ; but as he stood there, he felt she was struggling for life. Then his old love over- mastered him ; once more he looted at her with eyes full of love and of agony, and clasped her head with both his hands. But there was a singing and moaning in his heart as when an organ has just ceased to play • there is air still within, but no melody. He withdrew his hands, and in such a way that she could not help feeling what was in his mind. Alas ! it was only too evident. " No, no ! " he cried ; " you can give yourself up to emotion ; you calmot love ! " He was overcome for a moment, and then : " Unhappy child, I may no longer watch over your future. God forgive you for having made mine desolate ! " He went past her, but she did not stir : he opened the door and shut it after him, she did not speak. She heard him on the stairs, she heard his last footstep on the flag- stones and down in the street ; then she uttered one cry, one single cry, and her senses left her : but at her cry her mother hastened up. When Petra came to herself again she was lying in her bed, undressed and comfortably tucked in, and her mother sitting opposite her, with her head in both hands, and her fiery eyes fixed on her daughter. " Have you finished your reading with him now ? " she asked. " Have you now learned something, eh ? And what is it that's to become of you now ? " The other's only answer was to burst out weeping. Long, long sat the mother there listening to her sobs, and then, vyith her own terrible earnestness, came the words : " Lord God, curse him body and soul ! " Up started Petra vnldly. " Mother, mother ! " she cried, " not him, not him ! but me, me ! " " 0, 1 know these men ! I know what it is ! " €2 THE FISHER LASSIE. " O, mother, he has b^en deceived/ and by me ; it is I ■who deceived him ! " She qiiickly told her mother everything, sobbing bitterly the whole time ; she would not have him suspected, even for a moment. She told her all about Grunnar, and what she had asked of him, not rightly knowing what she was doing ; and then of Tngve Void's luckless gold chain, and how it had entangled her ; and then of Oedegaard, and of how everything else went out of her mind when she saw him. She did not know how it had all come about, but she felt she had done great wrong to all of them, especially to him who had taken her and given her all that one mortal can give another. The m.other sat in silence for a long time, and then she said : " And have you done me no wrong? Where was I all this time that you never told me a word about it? " " 0, mother, mother, help me ! Don't be hard on me ; I feel that I shall have to suffer for this as long as I live, so I will pray to G-od to let me die soon ! Dear, good God," she began straightway, and she folded her hands towards Him — "Dear, good G-od, listen to my prayer. I have utterly ruined my life ; there is nothing more for me now. I am not fit to live ; I don't understand life ; let me die, ■then, O dear God ! " There was such a grim intensity in her prayer, that Ounlaug, who had harsh words ready for her, swallowed them down, and laid her hand on her daughter's arm to stop her from praying thus. "Control yourself, child; don't tempt the Lord. Tou must live, even though life's bitter." She got up, and never set foot in Petra's attic again. Oedegaard had fallen sick, and was in a perilous state. His old father moved upstairs tp him, and made his work- room by his side ; to all who begged him to spare himself he made answer that it was his work to watch over his son PSTMA'S LOVERS MEET. 63 ■whenever that son lost any of those whom he loved more dearly than his father. Such being the state of things, Gunnar suddenly came home ! He almost frightened his mother's life out of her by appearing so long before the ship he went out with ; she thought it was his double, and his acquaintances were not much wiser than she. To all their wondering questions he returned no reasonable answer; but the matter soon became clearer to them, for the very day he came back he was driven out of Grimlaug's inn, and that by Grunlaug herself. From the steps she cried out to him, in a voice that echoed down Hollow Street : " Don't you come here again ; we've had quite enough of your sort ! " ■ Before he had gone far, a girl came after him with a packet. The girl had another one besides ; she gave him the wrong one, and Grunnar found in it a massive gold chain : he stood weighing it in his hands and staring at it. To begin with, he had not understood the reason of Grun- laug' s mad wrath, but still less did he see why she should have sent him a gold chain. He shouted to the girl to come back. She must have made a mistake, she .said, and she gave him the other packet, asking if that was his. It turned out to contain his presents to Petra. Tes, that was his, right enough ; but whom was the gold chain for ? That was for Merchant Void, the girl answered, and went her way. Grunnar stood still, and gave himself up to thought. " Merchant Void ! does he give her presents ? It must be he, then, who has stolen her from me — Tngve Void — Oh, its you, is it ? Very well, then " His excitement and anger needed some vent ; he must have something to knock to pieces. " Very well, then, Tngve Void!" For the second time that day the luckless merchant was 64 THE FISHER LASSIE. attacked unawares, and this time on his own doorstep. He tore away from the madman into his office, with Gunnar after him. All the clerks fell upon the riotous intruder, who hit away and lashed out in all directions. Chairs, desks, and tables were overturned ; letters, dockets, and invoices flew about like smoke. At length auxiliaries came from Yngve's wharf, and, after a mighty struggle, Gunnar was thrown out into the street. But now the thing began to grow really serious. There happened to be two ships lying at the quay — one a foreigner, the other a Norseman; and as it was just diuner-time the sailors were all free to join in the fun. They joined battle at once, crew against crew, foreigners against natives ; other crews were sent for, and came dashing up at full speed ; the labourers, the old women, and the boys lent their aid, and at last there was nobody who knew either why or with whom he was fight- ing. It was no good for the skippers to come and swear at the men ; it was no good for the respectable citizens to give their orders for the town' s only policeman to be fetched — he happened to be out on the fjord fishing. They ran to the mayor, who was also postmaster, but he was shut up with the post-bag that had just arrived, and answered through the window that he could not come, his post-clerk was at a funeral, so they must wait. But as they would not stop killing one another till the letters were sorted, many people — especially old women — shouted out that Arne the smith ought to be fetched. This met with the respectable citizens' approval, and Arne's wife went to get him, " for the pohce- man was not at home," she said. He came, much to the joy of the school-boys. Striking a few blows among the crowd, he got hold of one rash Spaniard, and used him as a club to belabour the others with at random. When all was over, the mayor came along, walking with a stick. He found some old women and children talking PETRA'S LOVERS MEET. 65 together on the field of battle.. He bade them, with se- verity, go home to their dinners, and straightway did the same himself. But the day after he held an inquiry, which occupied some time, as no one seemed to have the least idea as to who had been engaged in the fight : only all were agreed that Ame the smith had been in the thick of it, for they had seen him striking others with a Spaniard. For this Ame had to J>ay a fine of a dollar, and his wife, who had led him into it, got a beating from him on the eleventh Sunday after Trinity, as she had good cause to remember. These were the only judicial results of the fray. But other results there were. The little town was no longer a quiet little town : the " Fisher Lassie " had turned it topsy- turvy. The strangest stories were about, arising from a feeling of jealous anger against her for having been able to attract to her the cleverest man in the town and the two richest bachelors, to say nothing of " several " besides ; for Grunnar gradually grew to be " several young men." Soon there was a universal storm of moral indignation. The disgrace of being the cause of a great street riot, and of having brought sorrow into three of the best families of the town, hung over the head of a young girl who had only been confirmed some six months before : three sweethearts at a time, and one of them her teacher, her benefactor ! nay, indignation at this could not be held in. Had she not been the plague of the town even in her childhood ? had they not, despite that, shown her by their gifts what they hoped of her, when Oedegaard took her up ? and had she not now put them all to shame, crushed Oedegaard's life, and, following the bent of her nature, thrown herself, with- out restraint, into courses that must make her an outcast from society, and hand her over in old age to the House of Correction ? Her mother must have been her accomplice, and the child must have learned her wicked ways in the p 6Q THE FISHER LASSIE. Seaman's Inn. The yoke that Gunlaug had laid upon the town must no longer be tolerated : neither she nor her daughter could be suffered to remain any longer amongst them : let everyone unite to drive them away. That evening a crowd, made up of seamen who owed Gunlaug money; of tippling workmen, for whom she would not get work ; and of youths, to whom she refused to give credit, led on by people of the better sort, assembled on the hill. They whistled, they hooted ; they yelled out for the " risher Lassie " and for " Fish-Gunlaug." Presently a stone was hurled at the door, and then another through the attic window. Not till midnight did the noise die away^ Behind the windows all had remained dark and noiseless. Next day not a single person came to the inn, not so much as a child went by the house on the hill. But in the evening there was the same riotous mob as before, save that now all joined in, without distinction. The flowers were trampled down, the windows all broken in, the garden hedge torn up, and the young fruit-trees rooted out. Then they began to sing : " ' Mother, I've hooked a sailor fine.' ' Well done, my lass ! ' ' Mother, I've made a merchant mine.' ' Well done, my lass I ' ' Mother, a parson's on my line.' ' Then pull in, my lass ! Men come and go, And we older grow; And what's the good if the big fish bite When you can't pull 'em into your boat so tight ?' " ' Mother, he's gone, that sailor fine.' ' Has he, my lass?' ' Mother, he's gone, that merchant mine.' ' Has he, my lass ? ' ' And the parson'U soon be off my lino.' ' Then pull in, my lass ! PETRA'S LOVERS MEET. 67 For men come and go, And we older grow ; And what's the good if the big fish bite When you can't pull 'em Into your boat so tight ? '" Then the crowd began to yell loudly for Gunlaug, for they wanted to hear her burst forth in her matchless wrath. But Gunlaug, though she heard every word, sat silent within the house ; for, for one's child's sake, a woman must be able to bear much. CHAPTEE VI. petea's plight. PETEA was in her room on the first evening when the whistling, shouting, and hooting began. She sprang up, as if the house were on fire around her, or were falling to pieces above her head ; she dashed about her room as if beaten by burning rods ; there was a singing and bum- ping in her breast ; her thoughts were straining for an outlet, but down to her mother she dared not go, and before her only window stood the mob ! A stone came flying through it, and fell on her bed ; she gave a scream, and flew into one corner and hid behind a curtain among her old clothes. There she sat, crouched up, burning with shame, trembling with fear. Visions of untnown terrors floated in upon her : the air was filled with faces — gaping, grinning faces — ^that came close up to her own, while all around rained fire ; — oho ! not fire, but eyes ; it was raining, pouring down eyes, — great glowing eyes, small twintUng eyes, eyes that stood still, eyes that ran to and fro. " 0, Lord Jesus, help, help ! " Ah ! what a relief it was when the last shout died away in the night, and all was black and still once more. She stole forth and threw herself on her bed, hiding her face in the pillows ; but she could not hide -herself from her thoughts. Eirst and foremost in them stood the figure of her mother. PETRA'S FLIGHT. 69 mighty and threatening as the thunder-clouds that gather round the mountains. Ah ! what must not the mother be sufEering for her sake ! On her eyes fell not a wink of sleep, on her soul no peace ; and day came, and brought no balm. She got up and walked to and fro, round and round, her only thought how she could make her escape; but she dared not meet her mother, and she dared not go out so long as it was daylight, and with the evening they would come again ! But wait she must ; for before midnight it was still more perilous to attempt to fly. And where was she to fly to ? She had no money ; she knew of no place to go to ; but surely, she thought, there must be merciful, kindly folk somewhere, just as there was a merciful, kind God. Me knew that however much she might have erred, it was not deliberately ; He knew her remorse, and He too knew her helplessness. She listened for her mother's move- ments down below, but she heard none ; she trembled at the thought of hearing her foot-step on the stairs, but she did not come. The girl who came to work there had doubtless fled, for no one brought Petra anything to eat. The broken window-pane let the cold air in in the morning, and now that evening was coming on it was still worse. She had made up a small bundle of her clothes and dressed herself completely, so as to be ready. But she must wait for the raging mob again, and bear whatever they might do. There they were again! Whistling, hooting, throwing stones — worse, far worse, than last night ! She crept into her comer, folded her hands, and never ceased to pray. If only her mother would not go out tp them ! If only they wQuld not break in ! Then they began to sing a coarse libellous ditty, and though every word cut her like a knife, yet she must sit and listen to it ; but when she heard her mother's name mixed up with it, and knew that they had had the shameful injustice to make out Grunlaug guilty as herself, she sprang up and dashed forward, determined to 70 THE FISHER LASSIE. speak to the cowardly crew or throw herself down among them ; — but a stone, and then another, and then a whole storm of stones flew through the windows, splinters of the broken glass whizzed about, and stones kept whirling round the room. She crept back again to her refuge. She was perspiring, as if the hottest rays of the sun were upon her, but she no longer wept, and her fear had left her. Little by little the noise began to ebb ; she ventured forth, and, as soon as nothing was to be heard, tried to get to the window ; but she kept treading on crackling splin- ters of glass : she stepped back again, walking softly on the stones so as not to be heard ; for now was the time for her to creep away. After waiting for more than half an hour, she took ofE her shoes, picked up her bundle, and softly opened the door. She waited another five minutes, and then walked gingerly down-stairs. It pained her deeply to have to leave her mother without farewell, after all the trouble she had brought upon her ; but fear urged her on. " G-ood-bye, dear mother ! Good-bye, dear mother ! " she whispered to herself as she went down each step. " Good- bye, mother dear ! " — and now she stood on the last step, and drew several long breaths, and then was at the door. Just then her arm was grasped from behind ; she gave a faint scream, turned, and was face to face with her mother ! Gunlaug, who had heard the door open, knew at once what -Petra meant to do, and stood waiting for her. Petra felt that she would not get by without a struggle. Explana- tion would be of no avail; whatever she might say, she would not be believed. Well, let there be a struggle then ! nothing in the world could be worse than the worst, and this she had lived through. " Where are you going ? " asked the mother in a low tone. In equally low tones, but with a beating heart, answered Petra : PETRA'S FLIGHT. 71 " I must go." " Where will you go to ? " " That I don't know — but I must get away from here ! " She grasped her bundle tight and began to move again. But her mother held her arm, and said : " Come, follow me — 1 have seen to this." Straightway Petra gave herself up, as one might give up a burden far too heavy for one's strength ; she drew long breaths; as if after a tough struggle, and resigned herseH to her mother. The latter went into a little closet at the back of the kitchen, where there was no window, but in which a candle was burning ; it was here she had sat in hiding, during the tumult without. The closet was so small, there was scarce room to move in it ; the mother drew forth a bundle somewhat smaller than Petra's, opened it, and took out a seaman's dress. " Put these on," she whispered. Petra saw at once why she was to do so, but it touched her that her mother said never a word about it. She un- dressed, and put the other things on, her mother helping her, and as she did so, and the light fell upon her, Petra looked at her face, and saw for the first time that Gunlaug was old. Had she become so during these last two days, or had Petra never noticed it before ? The child's tears rolled dovra upon the mother, but Gunlaug never looked up at her, so that Petra spoke no word. A sou'-wester was the last thing she had to put on ; and when that was done the mother took her bundle from her, blew out the light, and whispered : " Now come." They went out into the passage, but not through the street door : Gunlaug opened the gate into the yard, and locked it again. They walked through the trampled garden, over uprooted trees, and past the broken hedge. 72 THE FISHER LASSIE. " You'd best look round you well now," said the mother; " you'll never come here again." The other shuddered, but did not look round. They took the upper road, along the wood in which she had spent half her life — where she had been that evening with Grunnar, that evening with Tngve Void, and that last one with Oedegaard. They were walking through the withered leaves that had now begun to fall. The night was icy cold, and Petra shivered in her unwonted clothes. The mother turned aside towards a garden, and Petra recognized it at once, though she had never been on that side of it since the day when, as a child, she had led the attack on it — for it was Pedro Ohlsen's orchard. The mother had a key, and opened the gate. It had cost Grunlaug much to go to him that morning, and it cost her much more to come to him^ now, with the luckless daughter whom she could no longer shelter. She rapped at the garden door, and almost at once steps were heard and a light was seen. A moment after the door was opened by Pedro, who stood inside, pale and scared, dressed in travelling clothes, and wearing travelling boots. He held a tallow candle in his hand, and he sighed as his eyes fell on Petra's face, all swollen with weeping. She looked up at him ; but as he did not dare to recognize her, she did not venture to recognize him. " This man has promised to help you to get away," said the mother, without looking at either of them, as she went a few steps up the passage, and the others followed her into Pedro's room on the opposite side. The room was small and low : the close, confined air smote upon them as they came in, and made Petra feel sick, for more than a day and night she had neither slept nor eaten. In the middle of the room there hung a cage with a canary in it, and they had to go round it to avoid striking it. The heavy old chairs and the solid table, the two great countrified presses PETMA'S FLIGHT, 73 wHcli almost touched the ceiling, dwarfed everything else, and seemed to make the room even more confined than it was. On the table lay music and a flute. Pedro Ohlsen slouched about in his great boots as if he were busily doing something. A faint voice from the room behind was heard, saying, " Who is that ? who is in there ? " which caused him to shuf&e about stiU quicker, as he mumbled out, "Oh, it's — er, er, it's — er, er — ," and finally went off to where the voice came from. Grunlaug sat by the window with both elbows on her knees and her head on her hands. She looked fixedly down at the sand, with which the floor was strewn, but she said not a word, only at intervals she heaved deep sighs. Petra stood by the door, her legs knocking together, and her hands pressed against her breast, for she was beginning to feel sick. An old-fashioned clock was tick- ing out the seconds ; the taUow candle stood on the table with a long, guttering wick. Presently the mother tried to give a reason for their presence there. " I used to know that man once," she said. Not many words, and no answer. Pedro kept away. The light guttered melanchoUly, and the clock kept up its ticking. Petra was feeling more and more sick, and through it all her mother's " I used to know that man once," kept whisthng in her ears. The clock took it up, and began to tick out, "I — used — to know — that — man — 6nce." "Whenever, in her subsequent life, Petra encountered close, faint air, that room straightway stood before her with the memories of her sickness and the clock's "I — used — to know — that — man — once." Whenever she went on a steamer, the smell of the oil, the bilge-water under the cabin, or the vapour of cooking meat, always made her feel sea-sick at once, and constantly through her sickness that room stood day and night before her eyes, and in her 74 THE FISHER LASSIE. ears was the sound of the clock ticking out its " I — used — to know — that — man — once." When Pedro came in again he had put on a woollen cap and a clumsy, old-fashioned coat, which went up to his ears. " I am ready," he said, and began to pull on his thick mittens, as if he were going out in the depths of winter. " But we mustn't forget " (he turned round) " the cloak for — for — ;" and he looked at Petra, and from her to Gunlaug, who now took up a blue cloak which was hanging over the back of a chair, and helped Petra to put it on ; but when she had the full odour of the place thus imme- diately beneath her nose, it was so overpowering that she begged for fresh air. Grunlaug saw she was not well, opened the door, and quickly led her out into the garden. Petra drank in long, full draughts of the fresh autumnal air in the cool night. " Where am I going ?" she asked, when she had begun to feel a little better. " To Bergen," answered the mother, helping her to fasten her cloak ; " it is a big town, where nobody knows you." When she had finished she took her stand by the garden gate, and said : " Tou will have 100 dollars to take with you ; so that if you don't get on you'll then have something to fall back upon. This man here is going to lend it you." " Give — give it ! " whispered Pedro, as he passed them and went out into the road. " Lend it you," repeated the mother, as if he had not spoken : " I shall pay him back again." She took a handkerchief from her neck, tied it round Petra' s, and said : " Tou are to write to me as soon as you're getting on all right, but not before." PETRA'S FLIGHT. 75 " Mother ! " " And tliis man will row you on board the ship that lies out there on the fjord." " Oh, mother ! Good G-od ! dear mother " "And now there's nothing more. I shall go with you no further." " Mother ! mother ! " " God be with you. Farewell ! " " Mother, dear mother, forgive me ! " " And don't catch cold on the water." She had gently pushed Petra outside the garden gate, and now she shut it from within. Petra stood without the closed gate, and felt about as desolate and lonely as it is possible for mortal to feel; but just then, from out of the midst of her tears, her woes and her feeliag of exile, there sprung up within her, as if by inspiration, a sudden confidence : like a tongue of fire that has been kindled and then quenched, it blazed high into the air and sunk down again, extinguished indeed, but, for one moment, gloriously bright. She opened her eyes, and stood once more in thick darkness. In sUence, through the deserted streets of the little town, by the close-shut, leafless gardens, past the houses, locked and hghtless, she slowly followed the slouching form in the great boots and the long cloak that left him no head. They came out upon the avenues, and trod once more through the withered leaves, where the sere green branches stretched out long spectral arms to seize them. They climbed their way down across the hill to the yellow boat-house, where their skiff lay, and the man at once began busily to bale it. He rowed her out from the land, which now lay a black mass beneath the heavy skies. Fields, houses, forests, mountains, were all blotted out : nothing more could she now see of the things which till yesterday she had seen every day of her life. Like the town, Hke mankind, they 76 THE FISHER LASSIE. liad locked themselves into the darkaess of night; and she was cast out, and no Toice bade her farewell. A man was pacing up and down on the deck of the ship, as it lay at anchor waiting for the morning wind ; as soon as he saw them under the ship's side, he lowered a rope- ladder, helped them on board, and told the captain of their arrival, who immediately came up on deck. She knew him, and he her; but without a question, or a word of sympathy, he told her, as if her being there was a matter of course, all that she needed to know — ^namely, where her berth was, and what she was to do if she wanted anything or felt sick. The latter she did almost as soon as she went down, and so directly she had changed her clothes she came up on deck again, where a fragrant odour met her. It was the smell of chocolate, and straightway a mighty feeling of hunger fell upon her, and seemed to tear and rend her breast ; and just then up came the same man who had received them on board with a bowl-full of it and a lot of cakes from the cook-room ; her mother had sent them, he said ; and while she was eating, he went on to tell her that she had also sent on board a chest with her best clothes, her linen and woollen garments, as well as food and other useful things. A vivid image of her mother same into her mind at that moment — a magnificent figure, such as she had never pictured her before, but never ceased to do all the rest of her life. And with it she made a vow, with confident yet humble prayer, that some time she would be able to give her mother some great joy in return for the sorrow that she caused her now. Pedro Ohlsen sat beside her when she sat, and walked by her when she walked, trying hard not to be in her way, and consequently being always in the way on the deck, crowded as it was with goods. Of his face she could see nothing but the great nose and the eyes, nor could she see PETRA'S FLIGHT. '^'J these distinctly ; yet he gave her the impression of being burdened with something he wanted to say, but could not. He sighed, sat down, got up, walked about round her, sat down again ; but no word came from his lips, and she did not speak. At length he felt he must give it up. He drew drearily out of his pocket a huge leather pocket-book, and whis- pered that the hundred dollars were in it, and a little more besides. She gave him her hand as she thanked him, and as she did so, his face was so near her that she could see his eyes dwelling upon her with a tearful glance, for with her the last remnant of life that had preserved his decaying existence was leaving him. What he wanted was to say something to her which should make her think lovingly of him when he, before long, should be no more ; but he had been forbidden to do so ; and though, spite of that, he would have done it, yet he could not manage it, for she gave him no help ! The truth was, Petra was exceedingly tired, and the recollection that he had been the cause of her first sin against her mother would not leave her. She could not bear to have him with her, and the longer he sat there the worse it grew, for when one is tired, one is apt to be peevish. The poor wretch felt this. It was time for him to be going, he said, and drew his withered hand out from beneath his mittens, and bade her a whispered farewell. She laid her warm hand in his, and both got up. " Thanks," she said, " and take my greeting." He gave a sigh, or rather a groan, then another one or two, let go her hand, turned, and walked backwards, and in silence, down the ship's ladder. She went to the bulwarks ; he looked up, waved a farewell to her, took his seat in the boat, and rowed slowly off. She stood there till he was a black spot in the blackness around. Then she went below, for she could scarcely stand, so tired was she; 78 THE FISHER LASSIE. and tliougli she felt sick the moment she came down, she had scarcely laid her head on the pillow, and said the first two or three lines of the Lord's Prayer, before she was asleep. Meanwhile her mother sat by the yellow boat-house : she had slowly followed them the whole way, and sat there by the boat-house while they were putting off from the land. From the same spot, in days gone by, Pedro Ohlsen had put ofE with her from the land. That was long, long ago ; but it must perforce come into her mind now, when he was rowing her daughter away. As soon as she saw him coming back alone, she got up and went ; for she knew by that that her daughter was safe on board. She did not take the road homewards, but finding in the darkness the path that led over the moun- tains, made her way along it. Her house in the town stood ruined and desolate for more than a month ; she did not mean to go back till she had received good news from her daughter. Meanwhile, the feeling against her was put to the proof. Meaner natures ever feel a secret joy in banding together to persecute a stronger one, but that only so long as the latter is able to make resistance ; when they see that the •other quietly puts up with ill-treatment, a feeling of shame comes upon them, and they hiss at anyone who now would ■cast a stone. The mob had rejoiced in the thought of hearing Grunlaug's mighty voice echoing down Hollow Street; they had in imagination seen her calling on the iseamen for help, and stirring up a street-row. As she refused to show herself, the people were well- nigh uncontrollable on the third night : they would break in after her ; they would pitch the two women into the street; they would drive them, hunt them, out of the town. The windows had not been mended since the night before, and it was amidst tremendous cheering that two PETRA'S FLIGHT. 79 Daen climbed through them to open the door ; and then in stormed the whole crew ! They looked into every room, upstairs and downstairs ; they hurst the doors open ; they broke into atoms aU that stood in their way ; they searched every corner, not exclud- ing the cellar, but neither mother, nor daughter, nor any living thing coidd they find. A sudden silence fell upon them all the moment the real state of things was made plain ; those inside the house came out, one by one, and drew back behind the others. Presently the house was empty. Before long, there were some in the town who said that it was a shameful thing to have acted thus towards two defenceless women. They went on discussing the matter, until at last all were agreed that whatever wrong the Fisher Lassie might have done, it was certainly not Gunlaug's fault, and there- fore she had been very unjustly treated. She was sorely missed in the town. Quarrels and disturbances arising from drink began to be the order of the day, for the town had lost its police. Folks missed her commanding figure in her doorway as they went by ; and more than anyone else did the sailors miss her. No place was like hers had been, they said, for with her every man was treated accord- ing to his merits, and had his place in her confidence and her help whatever happened. Neither seamen nor skippers, neither employers nor housewives, had understood her real value tin now that she had disappeared. Therefore, an unanimous feeling of gladness ran through the town when it was said that someone had seen her in her dwelling, cooking and roasting as usual. Everj' one felt he must go and make certain for himself that the window- panes were replaced, the door mended, and the smoke curling out of the chimney. Yes, it was aU true ; there she was again ! They crept 80 THE FISHER LASSIE. up on the other side of Hollow Street to get a better view of lier ; she was sitting in front of the oven, and looting neither up nor down as her eye followed her hand, and her hand was busily working, for she had come back to earn again what she had lost, and first and foremost the hun- dred dollars that she owed to Pedro Ohlsen. At first people were content with looking in on her — their evil conscience kept them from entering the house ; but by degrees they began to come in. First came the housewives, the kind-hearted, friendly creatures ; but they got no chance to talk anything but business with her, for Gunlaug gave no heed to anything else. Then came the fisher-folk, then shippers and skippers to hire sailors ; and, last of all, on the first Sunday after her return, came the seamen. There must have been an agreement between them all to come that evening, for all of a sudden the house was so packed that not only were both the rooms fully occupied, but even the tables and chairs, which stood in the garden in summer-time, had to be brought in and put in the passage, in the kitchen, and in the back-parlour. No one looking at this assembly would have guessed with what feelings those people sat there; for Gunlaug had resumed her silent sway over them again the moment they crossed her threshold, and the calm dignity with which she waited on each one turned aside all questions and all words of welcome. She was the same as ever, save that her hair was no longer black, and her bearing was somewhat quieter. But when the seamen began to grow merry they could no longer restrain themselves ; and now, each time the servant left the room, they called upon Knud the boatswain, who had always been a favourite of hers, to drink her health when she came in again. He could not pluck up courage for it until he was somewhat warmer in the head ; and then at last, when she came in and was putting together the empty bottles and glasses. PETRA'S FLIGHT. 81 he rose and Baid : " It was a very good thing she was back again. For it was quite certain that — it was a very good thing she was back again." This seemed to them a very neat speech, so they stood up and shouted : " Hear ! Hear ! a very good thing ! " And those in the passage, and those in the kitchen, and those ia the other room, got up and joined in accord ; and the boatswain gave her a glass and shouted " Hurrah ! " and then they hurrahed all together, as if they were trying to raise the roof to the skies. Presently somebody said that they had done her shameful injustice, another took his oath they had, and soon they were all declaring and swear- ing that they had done her most shameful injustice. When at last there was quiet again, as they wanted a word from Grunlaug, she said that she thanked them very much; "but," she added, as she went on gathering the empty glasses and bottles into a pile, " so long as I say nothing about it, you don't need to either." She went out with as large a pile of glasses as she could carry, and came back again for the others ; but ever after that her power was absolute. CHAPTER YII. " THE GBEATEST CALLING ON EABTH." IN the evening and in darkness the ship cast anchor in Bergen harhoTir. Half dazed with sea-sickness, Petra was taken in the captain's boat through a number of ships, great and small ; then through the crowd of ferry- men on the qiiays ; then through the shoal of peasants and street-boys in the narrow streets through which their way ran. They stopped before a pretty little house, where an old woman, at the captain's introduction, gave Petra a kindly welcome. She needed food and sleep, and both her cravings were soon satisfied. Fresh and bright did she feel when she awoke at mid-day, next day, to new sounds and new voices around her, and — ^when the curtain was drawn aside — to new scenery, new people, and a new town. She was herself a new person, it seemed to her, as she stopped before the glass ; her face was not as of old. She could not see what exactly it was that made this difference, for she did not know that at her age sorrow and anguish make the face more delicate and spiritual ; but as she saw her- self in the glass, she could not keep her thoughts from the past few nights, and as she thought of them, she trembled. So she made haste to get ready to come down-stairs to the new world awaiting her there. She found her hostess and « THE GREATEST CALLING ON EARTH." 83 several other ladies, who first looked her up and down from top to toe, and then promised to look after .her ; as a beginning they proposed showing her round the town. There were several things that she wanted to buy, so she ran up- stairs for her pocket-book, but not caring to bring the great clumsy book down with her, she opened it in her • room and took out the money. She found not 100 dollars, but 300 ! So Pedro Ohlsen had given her money again without her mother's knowledge or consent ! So little did she know the value of it, that the greatness of the sum did not surprise her : therefore it never occurred to her to gues^ at the possible reasons for such great liberality. Instead of a letter beaming with gratitude, with perhaps a question or two of surmise, Pedro Ohlsen got a letter from Gunlaug that her daughter had written her, in which, with scarce concealed anger against him, she betrayed her benefactor and asked what she was to do with the money he had smuggled in. The first thing that struck upon Petra's senses in the town was its scenery. Sfie could not get rid of the feeling that the mountain was hanging close above her head, and that she must be careful how she went. Each time she raised her eyes, she felt a sense of oppression, coupled with an inchnation to stretch out her hands and knock on it to get free. At times, too, it seemed that there was no outlet for her. Sun-forsaken and murk stood the mountain there : the clouds hung close about it and whirled around its head ; wind and rain strove below in constant alternation : they came from the mountain, the mountain set them free and poured them out over the town. But over the throng of people around her was no such feeling of oppression : she grew cheerful among them at once, for in their activity there lay a light-hearted, merry freedom, such as she had never known, and which seemed to her, after what she had lately gone through, like a welcoming smile. Next day at 84 THE FISHER LASSIE. dinner she said that she would like to go where there were plenty of people, and was told that she had better go to the theatre then, for there she would see many hundreds under one roof. Tes, she would like it, she said ; and a ticket was got for her to the theatre close at hand : she was taken there, and her place pointed out to her in the first row of the balcony. She sat among many hundred happy faces in a great blaze of light, with gay colours sparkling around her, and a hum of talk from aU quarters, breaking around her like the noise of the billows. Petra had not the least idea of what she was going to see. All that she knew was what she had learnt from Oedegaard, or picked up in chance talk. Now Oedegaard had never spoken a word to her about such things ; the seamen had only told her of theatres where there were wild beasts and riders of bare-backed horses, and the lads she had talked with had never said anything about plays, even if they had learnt something of them at school. Her little town had no theatre, nor even a building fit for the purpose ; travelling circuses, rope-dancers and merry-andrews, either made use of a ware- house or the open fields. She was so ignorant of it all, that she did not even think of asking : she sat there in cheerful expectation of some wonderful thing, as, for instance, camels, or perhaps monkeys. Occupied with thoughts of this, she gradually began to see animals in every face around her, and it amused her to find in them horses, dogs, foxes, cats, mice, and so forth, so that the orchestra had got into their places without- her noticing it. She gave a sudden start when the overture began with a short, sharp crash of drums, cymbals, bassoons and horns : never in her life had she heard music from more than a couple of fiddles at a time, with perhaps a flute. The crashing glory of the music made her turn pale, for it seemed to her like the roaring of the cold, black sea : she sat fearing that what came next might be more terrible, but yet she did not want it to " THE GREATEST CALLING ON EASTS." 85 stop. Presently gentler harmonies broke upon her, and visions flocked in upon her such as she had never seen in her dreams of old. Sweet melodies were in the air ahove, gladness and life floating around her; all seemed to be moving upward on mighty wings, anon gently sinking again ; now drawing majestically together, now gaily and merrily breaking apart — ^when lo ! a great darkness fell upon all and overwhelmed it, and all was swept away in a roaring cataract. But then uprose one single strain, as of a bird on a bough wet with spray, from the depths beneath * sadly and timidly it began, but with its song the air above grew clearer, and the sun began to peep forth : and now agaia long blue vistas opened before her, filled with won- drous flickering shapes in the sun's golden rays. Lo now ! after a while the song was quietly dying away : the joyous hosts drew farther and farther off, and nothing was there save the glow of the sun, softening and permeating the air ; only the sim, with endless space beneath lit up and silent in its rays : and she sat dreaming in radiant happi- ness. Involuntarily she rose when the music stopped ; for her bright visions stopped too ! But see ! wonder ! the beautiful painted wall in front of her was going up to the roof ! She was in a church, a church with arches and pil- lars, with the sound of the organ thrilling, it, a church beau- tifully adorned, and people were coming towards her in dresses which she did not recognize, aye, and talking — ^yes, talking in the church, and ina tongue thatshe didnot under- stand. "What was that ? there were voices behind her too. " Sit down ! " they were saying, but as there was nothing to sit on, the two in the church naturally remained standing ; and the longer she looked at them, the clearer it grew to her that their garments were like those she had seen in a picture of Saint Olaf, — and he, he was surely saying Saint Olaf's name ! " Sit down ! " she heard from behind again; " Sit down!" many voices were shouting. "There must be 86 THE FISHER LASSIE. sometliing behind there as well," thought Petra,- and turned quickly round. A sea of angry faces, some of them looking threatening, met her gaze. " There must be something wrong somewhere," said Petra to herself, and was about to go, when an old lady who sat beside her gently pulled at her dress and whispered : " But why don't you sit down, my dear ? those behind can't see, you know ! " In a moment she was in her seat again. " Why, of course, it's the theatre down there, and we're looking at — -of course, the theatre ! " And she went on repeating the word as if to keep herself aware of" it. She looked down into the church again, but she could not, in spite of all her pains, understand a word the man who was speaking said; but gradually, when she had grasped the fact that he was a young and handsome man, she took in , a word here and there ; and when she found that he was in love and talking of love, she began to understand it all. Then a third person entered, who for the moment dis- tracted her attention from him, for she saw from his dress that he must be a monk, and a monk she had often longed to see. Very quietly and gently did the monk walk about ; he had a truly pious look, and he spoke so plainly and deliberately that she could follow every word. But all of a sudden he turns aside, and says the very opposite of what he has just been saying. Good God ! he is a villain ! Listen to him, he must be a villain; and see how he looks it now ! Cannot that handsome young man see that ? In any case, cannot he hear it ? " He is deceiving you ! " she cried, beneath her breath. " Hush !" said the old lady. No, the young man did not hear it : he went away in dangerous confidence ; and then the others went. Now an old man comes in. Why, what is this ? When the old man speaks it sounds as if the young one was speaking, and yet he is an old man. But look, look at that ! A " THE GREATEST CALLING ON EARTH." 87 gleaming host of white-clad maidens, silently, and two by two, are slowly walking through the church. They were present to her thoughts long after she ceased to see them, and there swept before her eyes a sight that came from her childhood's days. She had been taken by her mother one winter over the mountain. As they walked along in the new-fallen snow they inadTertently startled a brood of ptarmigan, who suddenly filled the air about them : the birds were white, the snow was white, the woods were white ; for a long while all her thoughts were of white things, and now for a moment here in the theatre it was the same. But now one of these white-clad maidens steps forth alone with a wreath in her hands, and kneels down ; the old man is also on his knees, and she is talking with him. He has evidently tidings and letters for her from a foreign land. He draws the letter out, and it is easy to see that it must be from him she loves. Ah, how delightful ! they certainly all love one another here. She opens it. Why, it's no letter, for it is full of music. But look, look ! he himself' is the letter. The old man is the young one, and is he whom she loves. They embrace one another. Dear Grod, they are kissing ! Petra felt she was getting fiery-red, and hid her face in her hands, but went on listening. Hark ! he is telling her that they must go and be married at once, and she laughingly pulls his beard, and says he's become a barbarian ; and he says she's grown so beautiful, and gives her a ring, and promises her scarlet and velvet, golden shoes, and a golden sash ; and merrily he bids her farewell as he goes ofE to the king to tell him of the bridal. .His betrothed looks after him with a look that lights up every- thing; and when he is gone, and she turns, everything seems blank and duU. Then suddenly the painted wall comes down again. Can it be over yet ? — just as it was beginning. She turned, with a blush, to the old lady : 88 THE FISHER LASSIE. ' "Is it over?" "No, no, child ! that was the first act. There are five of them : yes, that there are," she repeated, with a sigh, — "five of them." " rive of the same ? " asked Petra. " What do you mean, the same ? " "Do the same people come in and out, and the same things go on ? " " Why, surely you can never have heen at a play before, have you?" "No." " No ! Ah, well, it's true there are many places that have no theatre : it costs so much." " But what is it all ? " asked Petra, excitedly, and look- ing at her as if she could not wait her answer : " who are these people ? " " They are Naso's company, and a wonderfully good com- pany it is : he's such a clever manager." " And does he make it all up ? or what is it all ? For God's sake, do teU me ? " " My dear child, don't you really know what a play is ? Why, where can you have come from ? " But these last words brought to Petra's mind the memory of her native place, her shame, and her flight. She sank into silence, and did not venture to ask any more questions. The second act came on, and with it the king : yes, it was certainly the king. So she had actually got to see a king ! She did not hear what he was saying, nor see to whom he was talking; she was too busy observing the king's clothes, the king's bearing, the king's gestures. Her thoughts were not drawn from this till the young man came in. And now they all departed to fetch the bride ; so she must again wait awhile. Between the acts the old dame leant over to her, and whispered : « THE GREATEST CALLING ON EARTH." 89 " Don't you think they're acting splendidly ? " " Acting ! " said Petra, looking at her in amazement : " acting ! what is that ? " She did not notice that all around were looking at her, and that the old woman had been egged on to ask ; she did not hear them laughing at her as they sat there. " "Why don't they speak like we do ? " she asked, as the old woman had made her no answer. " That's because they're Danes," replied the other, and began to laugh anew. Then Petra perceived that she was being laughed at for her many questions ; so she sat silent, and looked steadily at the curtain. When it rose again she had the great joy of seeing an archbishop, and, as before, grew so absorbed in watching him, that she did not hear a word of what he was saying. Then there was the sound of music, faiat in the distance, but it was coming nearer. There was song from women's voices, and the sound of flutes and violins, and of an instrument which was not a guitar, yet was like many guitars, only softer, fuller, and more mellow. The har- m.onies mingled, and broke in long waves, and called up flowing visions of colours, and in came the procession : Soldiers with halberds, choir boys with censers, monks with burning tapers, and the king with a crown on his head, and at his side the bridegroom, clad in white. Then came the white-clad girls again, strewing roses, sing- ing songs, before the bride, who was clothed in white samite, and had a red wreath on her head ; by her side walked a taU woman, in a robe of purple, with golden crowns worked over it, and a small crown of shining gold on her head : that must surely be the queen. The whole church was filled with music and colour, and all that now took place — from the bridegroom leading the bride to tbe altar and kneeling be- fore it, while all the rest kneeled round them, to the arch- 90 THE FISHER LASSIE. bishop's entrance, surrounded by Ms train of priests — were merely fresh links in the chain of glowing music. But just as the wedding ceremony was to begin, the archbishop raised his staff on high and forbade it ; their marriage was forbidden by the laws of the Church : never,, never in this hfe might they have one another. O God, have mercy ! The bride fell swooning, and Petra, who had risen to her feet, likewise fell back — and with a piercing shriek. " Water ! bring water ! " cried the people near her. "No,"' answered the old dame, " it is not wanted; she has not fainted " " It is not wanted," repeated others. " Silence there ! " " Silence ! " came the cry from the stalls and pit. " Silence in the balcony ! " " Silence ! " came the answer back from the balcony. " Tou must not take it to heart so, dear," whispered the old woman, " it's only sham and acting ; but, indeed. Madam Naso acts this part remarkably well." " Silence ! " cried Petra too, for she was already deep in the plot again. The fiendish monk had come in with a sword ; the two lovers had to take up a piece of cloth and he cut it in twain between them, as the Church parts them asunder, as pain cuts into men's heart, as of yore the sword above Paradise gate cut off return to it. "Weeping women took the bride's red wreath and gave her a white one, which was to bind her to the cloister all the days of her life. He, whose she was for all time and eternity, was to know her alive and never touch her hand ; know her within those walls, and never see her. How heart-rending was their farewell to one another ! Surely never on earth was sorrow such as theirs ! "Good G«d!" whispered the old dame to her, as the curtain fell, " don't be so foolish, child ; that's only Madam Naso, the manager's wife." " THE GREATEST CALLING ON EARTH." 91 Petra looked at her with widely-opened eyes. She thought the woman must be mad ; and as that had long been the other's opinion of Petra, they gave up talking, but kept looking at one another out of the corners of their eyes. When the curtain rose again, Petra no longer followed the play ; for it was the bride she saw, within the cloister walls, and the bridegroom living night and day in despera- tion without them. She suffered their sufferings and joined in their prayers ; what was actually going on before her eyes made no mark on her senses. Suddenly a foreboding silence recalled her to the stage: the empty church seemed to grow bigger and bigger : no sound was there but the clock striking twelve. A dull booming sound is coming from the vaulted aisles ; the walls tremble ; taU. and terrible the holy Olaf arises from his shrine in his cere-cloth ; spear in hand he comes striding along ; the watchmen flee ; out crashes the thunder ; and the monk falls pierced through and through by the outstretched spear : then all is darkness, and the vision has passed away. But the monk lies there a heap of ashes, that the lightning has struck down. Without being herself aware of it, Petra had clutched hold of the old lady, who had been rather frightened by her convulsive grasp, and now, seeing her turning paler and paler, hastened to speak. " Groodness gracious, child ! that's only Knutsen ; this is the only part he can do well, because his voice is so thick." "No, no, no ! " said Petra; "I saw the light about his head, and the church tremble under his tread ! " "Will you be quiet there 't " came from all directions ; " put them out, if they can't be quiet." " Silence in the balcony ! " cries the pit. " Silence in the pit ! " cries the balcony in answer. 92 THE FISHER LASSIE. Petra shrunk away as if for shelter, but soon had for- gotten everything else, for the lovers were there again, the lightning had burst forth for their aid ; let them fly now ! They are with one another ; they are embracing one another. Protect them now, thou G-od on high ! Suddenly breaks forth the soimds of shouting and of trumpets ; the bridegroom is torn from her side to fight for his fatherland ; he is wounded to death ; dying, he greets his bride. Petra did not understand what had really happened until the bride comes quietly on — and sees Ms dead body ! Then it is as if all the clouds of sorrow were gathered above that spot ; but a gleam of light disperses them ; the bride looks up from the dead man's breast and prays that G-od Almighty will let her die ! Heaven opens at her glance, the lightning blazes forth ; the bridal-chamber is up there on high — ^let the bride enter ! Ah truly, she can already see it, for from her eyes streams forth peace, like the peace on yonder lofty mountain. Her eyelids sink ; the struggle has been rewarded with divine victory, their steadfast faith has its greater than earthly crown ; she is with him now. Long sat Petra silent, her heart uplifted in faith, her soul filled with the strength of their great strength. She rose high above all that was petty, above all fear and grief: she rose with a smile for all, for all were her brothers and sisters. Evil that parts mankind no longer existed ; it lay crushed to atoms beneath the Thundferer's spear. People who saw her smiled back at her, for this Tvas she who had been half out of her senses during the play ; but she saw nothing in their smile, save the reflec- tion of the victory she herself had won. In the faith that they smiled in sympathy with her, she beamed back at them so radiantly, that they were forced to smile with her feelings. She walked down the broad stairs between two moving rows of people, her joy shedding joy around her " THE GREATEST CALLING ON EARTH." 93 among them, tlie beauty that floated over her radiating beauty over them. The bright gleams within us are sometimes so mighty, that we throw light on all around us, even though we ourselves cannot see it. 'Tis the greatest triuumph in this world to be heralded, borne along, and followed by one's own radiant thoughts. "When, without knowing how, she had got home again, she asked what it had all been. There were several people there who understood her, and whose answers helped her. And when she had fully grasped what a play was, and what great actors were able to do, she rose up and said : " That is the greatest calling on earth : I will be an actress ! " To the astonishment of all she put on her things and went out again ; she felt she must be alone and in the open air. She walked away from the town and on to the cape near at hand, where the wind was blowing strong and fresh. The sea was thundering below, but the town lay a Kttle way off, on both sides of the bay, with a misty glow above it, through which numberless isolated lights were struggling, without being able to do more than light up the veil they could not lift. It was an emblem of her soul, it seemed to her. The great dark ocean at her feet gave forth a hoUow sound of warning from fathomless depths ; either must she sink into them or join with those who were struggling to give light. She asked herself how it was that she had never before had such thoughts, and the answer came to her that it was because only the actual moment had sway with her ; but she felt that at such moments she had indeed power. This, too, she saw • just so many moments would be given her as there were sparkling lights in the mist yonder, and she prayed God so to make them give full light that none of them might have been kindled by Him in vain. She rose up, for the wind was now icy cold. She had not 94 THE FISHER LASSIE. been long away ; but when sbe came borne again she knew what way she must henceforth tread. ^P TT TP TT TT Next morning she stood before the manager's door. She could hear a noise as of people loudly scolding within ; one of the voices seemed to her to be like that of the bride of last night ; it was true it was now speaking in a very dif- ferent way, but still it had power to make Petra tremble. She waited |for a long while, but as it never seemed Ukely to leave off, she knocked at the door. " Come in ! " cried the wrathful voice of a man. " Oh ! " cried the woman's voice, and Petra opened the door to see a flying shape in a night-gown and with hair wild about her, disappearing in frightened haste by another door. The manager, a tall man with a pair of fierce eyes, over which he at once put on his gold-rimmed glasses, was excitedly walking up and down the room. His long nose so lorded it over his face, that all the rest seemed to be there for its sake : his eyes looked like two gun-barrels behind the ramparts, his mouth was the moat before it, and his forehead a light bridge from it to the forest or out- works. " What do you want ? " he asked gruffly, pausing in his march. " Is it you who wants to be a chorus-girl ? " he added abruptly. " Chorus-girl ? what is that ? " " O, you don't know what that is, I see ; very well, then, what is it you want ? " " I want to be an actress." " 0, you want to be an actress, do you ? — and you don't know what a chorus-singer is even. I see. Well, but you speak a dialect." " Dialect ? what is that ? " " 0, so you don't know what a dialect is, and you want to be an actress, do you ? I see. Well, that is just like all '^THE GREATEST CALLING ON EARTH." 95 Norwegians. By dialect, I mean that you don't speak as we do." "No, but I've been trying to all this morning." " O, have you ? Come, come ; let me hear you." Petra struck an attitude, and said like the bride did yesterday : " I greet thee, sweet love, good morrow to thee.'' " Devil take it, I do believe you've come here to make fun of my wife ! " A peal of laughter came from the next room, and the manager opened the door and called out, without seeming to remember in the slightest that they had been engaged in mortal quarrel a moment before : " Do come here, my dear, and look : here's a chit of ar Norse girl who's trying to caricature you." The head of a woman with untidy, stubborn-looking black hair, black eyes, and a large mouth, did actually look into the room and laugh. Nevertheless Petra hurried up to her ; for this must be the bride. " No," thought she, as she came nearer ; " her mother, I suppose." She looked at the lady and said : " I really don't know — ^was it you ?— or are you her mother F " Now it was the manager's turn to laugh ; the lady had drawn her head back, but continued to laugh from her room. Petra' s confusion was so strongly shown by her face, her bearing, the play of her features, that the manager began to look at her with more attention. He watched her for a moment, then took up a book and said, as if nothing ia the world had taken place : " Take this and read something, my lass ; but read it just as you yourself talk." She did so at once. "No, no ; that's idiotic ; listen ! " And he read aloud to her and she after him, reading exactly as he did. 90 THE FISHER LASSIE. " No, no; that's utterly wrong. Eead Norse ; d — it all, read Norse ! " And Petra read aloud once more. " No, I tell you, no ! that's stark raving madness. Don't you understand vhat I say ? Are you an idiot ? " She tried again and again, and he gave her another boot. " See now, that's just the opposite sort of thing ; this is comic ; read it ! " Petra read it, but with the same results, until at last he grew tired and cried out : " Come, come, no more of this ! Deuce take it, what do you want on the stage ? Hang it all, what is it you want to be playing ? " " I want to act what I saw yesterday." " O, do you ? of course you do ? Well, what then ? " " Why," she answered much disconcerted, "it seemed to me yesterday as if it was all so splendid, but to-day I thought how much finer it would be if it could have a happy ending ; so I wanted to alter " " O, so you wanted to alter, did you ? I see. Well, there's nothing to prevent you. The writer is dead, so of course he can't correct it any more, and you who can neither speak nor read will naturally be able to improve his work. Yes, that's your Norwegian all over ! " Petra did not understand a word of all this, but she felt that it was going amiss with her, and she began to grow anxious. " Mustn't I do it ? " she asked him timidly. " 0, of course ; there's nothing in the world to hinder you. In God's name, go and do it ! Listen to me ! " he said, suddenly changing his tone and walking straight up to her : " Tou have no more notion of acting than a cat. I have tried you both in tragedy and in comedy, and you have talent for neither. Because you've got a pretty face and a fine figure, people have put it into your head, I've no doubt, that you can easily act far better than my wife, and "THE GREATEST CALLING ON EARTH." 97 SO you want to play at once the greatest role in the repertoire and alter it into the bargain. well, that is just like your Norwegians ; they are the people to do that kind of thing." Petra had been drawing her breath quicker and quicker and now she could scarcely speak ; at last she ventured to say in a low voice : " May I really not be allowed to, then ? " He had got up and gone to the window, and thought that she was sure to have gone by now ; he turned round in angry annoyance : but the sight of her consternation and the marvellously vivid way in which it was shewn by her whole bearing made him pause for a moment; he suddenly darted upon a book, and in a voice and manner from which every trace of the past was again blotted out, he said, — " Take this ; read this piece, and read it slowly, just to let me hear your voice. Now, read away." But she could not read; she could not even see the letters. " Come, don't be down-hearted," he said. At last she managed to read, but without warmth or spirit ; he bade her read again, " with more feeling; " this proved even worse than before. Then he quietly took the> book from her and said : " Now I've tried you in every possible way, so I feel I've nothing to reproach myself with. I assure you, my dear young lady, that if I was to send you or my boots upon the stage, it would make about the same impression — and a very remarkable one it would be. And that's enough now, I think." But as a last effort, Petra plucked up courage to say :— " I think that I don't quite understand — but if I only could get to " ^^ , " yes, yes of course ! every little fishing village knows far more about it than we do ; the Nocs^gian public is the 98 THE FISHER LASSIE. most enlightened one in the world. — Come, come now, if yOu won't go, I will." She turned to the door and burst into tears. " Listen," he said, for her violent emotion kindled a light on him ; " was it not you who made a disturbance in the theatre last night ? " She turned red as fire and looked at him. " Ah, I see it must have been : now I know you, you're ' Fisher-lassie.' After the play, I was with a gentleman froin your native town; he 'knew all about you.' So that's why you want to go on the stage, is it? you want to try your arts there, do you ? Very good ; but listen to me ; my theatre is a respectable place ; I won't permit any attempts of that sort here. Now go ! — be off vsdth you, I say!" But Petra was already through the doorway, bitterly sobbing as she went down the stairs and out into the street. She wept as she ran through the crowded thoroughfare, and a woman running weeping through the streets at- tracted, as was natural, considerable notice. Men stood still to look, little boys ran after her, and soon there was a crowd following ; in the noise at her heels Petra heard the cries that had echoed through her attic, she could see the faces in the air again, and away she tore. But her recol- lection grew apace with every step she took, and so also did the noise behind her ; when she had reached the house, closed' the street-door, got into her room and bolted the door, she flung herself into a corner and tried to ward off the eyes that were on her ; she kept them off with her hands and with threatening gestures, until at last she sank down exhausted — and was saved. ******* That same afternoon, towards twilight, she was on her way from Bergen into the country. She did not know whither she was bound, but she was determined to go " TUE GREATEST CALLING ON EARTH." 99 somewhere where she was not known. She sat in the carriole with her box tied on behind her and the driver sit- ting on it ; it was raining in torrents as she sat crouching beneath a great umbrella and looking gloomingly out at the mountain above her and the precipices down below at her side. The forest in front of her was a dark mass of mist peopled with ghostly shapes ; next moment she would be amongst them, but ever the dark haze kept moving backwards as she drew nearer to it. A mighty crashing noise, growing louder every instant, added to her feeling of journeying through a mystic land, wherein everything had its own meaning and its dark connexion with the rest, and where mortal man was but a timid wayfarer, who must use his eyes well if he wished to fare onwards. The noise was the sound of many a waterfall that, swollen by the rain, had grown to gigantic size and now plunged head- long from rock to rock with thundering roar. Their way frequently took them over narrow bridges, and she could see the water seething in the depths below. Sometimes the path curled and wound about ; here and there lay cul- tivated land with a few turf -thatched houses on it ; then, again, their road went up the mountains and towards the crags and the forest. She was wet and very cold, but she meant to go on and on so long as there was daylight ; next day she would go on still further, and keep on going further and further inland, until at last she found some place where she dared trust herself. In this the Almighty G-od would help her, she felt. He who was now guiding her through the night and the tempest. CHAPTEE YIII. SIGNE AND HEE PARENTS. AMONG- the mountains of the Bergen district, in the sheltered and fertile valleys, a mild autumn some- times brings warm summer-like days with it long after the fall of the year. At such times the cattle are turned out to pasture for a while in the middle of the day, even though they have already been put into their stalls for winter fodder ; the beasts are then apt to get plump and fresh, and make a lusty show when they are brought back again in the afternoon to the farmstead. Just as Petra was about to pass one of these farms the cattle were coming down the mountain-path ; cows, sheep, and goats, lowing, baa-ing, and bleating, as they danced along into the large yard to the music of their bells. It was delicious weather, and the long white wooden building with its tall windows stood glittering in the sunlight ; the firs, the birches, the mountain-ash, and the wild cherry- trees on the mountain above and the briars on the crags around stood so thick together that the house looked as if kept warm by them. A garden lay by the roadside in front of the main building : it was full of apple, pear, and cherry-trees, and above them all towered some grand old ash-trees with their spreading crowns. ,The house lay like SIGJVE AND HER PARENTS. 101 a nest, hidden among green branches, and not to be ap- proached by aught save the sun. But it was just this look of being hidden that awaked Petra's desire, and when the sun shone on the panes and the merry bells rang out alluringly, and Petra learned that the place belonged to a clergyman, she suddenly seized the reins, and crying out, " I must go iQ here," turned aside from the road and into the garden. A pair of Finland hounds flew forth barking as she droTe into the courtyard, which was a large enclosed square, with cattle-sheds facing the mala building, a wing of the dwelling-house on the right, and a wash-house and servants' rooms on the left. This space was now fuU of cattle, and in their midst stood a lady of middle height and graceful build ; she wore a close-fitting dress and a little silk kerchief on her head ; round about her and almost upon her were goats — ^white goats, black goats, brown goats, pied goats — each with its little tuneful bell; she had a name for each of the goats, and something nice for them all in the bowl which the dairy-maid kept filling for her. On the low steps which led from the mala building into the yard stood the priest with a dish of salt in his hands, and in front of the steps stood the cows licking the salt from his hands and from the flag-stones on which he was strewing it. The priest was not a big man, but he was squarely built; his neck was short, his forehead narrow ; his bushy eyebrows jutted out over his eyes — eyes that rarely looked straight at anything, but darted out deep side-glances every now and then. His hair was short, thick, and grey ; it stood up all over his head, and grew nearly as thickly down on his neck as it did up above ; he wore no neck-cloth, and his shirt, in which there was a coUar-stud, was open so that his furry chest was bared to the air ; nor were his wristbands fastened, so that they hung about the small, wiry, and just now very dirty hands 102 THE FISHER LASSIE. witli which he was giving the cattle salt ; his hands and arms alike were all covered with hair. He gave a sharp, quick side-glance at the stranger, who had now got down from the carriole and worked her way through the goats up to his daughter. It was not possible for him to hear what they were talking about, because of the kine, dogs, and goats ; but he saw both of them were moving towards him, and, with the goats around them, they came up to the steps. A farm-lad drove the cattle off at a sign from the priest, and Signe, his daughter, cried to him — and Petra could not fail to notice the sweetness of her voice — " Father, here is a lady who is on a journey, and would like to rest a day with us." " She is very welcome here ! " cried the priest, and giving the salt-dish to a servant, went into his own room, on the right side of the building — probably to cleanse himself and arrange his clothes. Petra went with the young lady into the passage, which was really a hall, it was so airy and roomy ; the post-boy was paid, her luggage brought in, and she herself shown into a room opposite the priest's study, where she made some little alteration in her dress before going out again into the passage to be taken to the family sitting-room. What a large, bright room it was ! Nearly the whole side that lay towards the garden was taken up with win- dows, the middle one being a glass-door leading into it. The windows were broad and high, they ran almost down to the floor, and were filled with flowers ; flowers stood on stands about the room ; flowers stood on the window-sills ; and for curtains, ivy trailed down from two small flower- pots which hung high up on the top of the window-frame. It was like going into a green-house built in the midst of a garden, for there were bushes and flowers outside, beside the wall, on it, and above it, and awa;f on the land in fronb. And yet you forgot to look at the flowers before SIGNE AND HER PARENTS. 103 you had been in tliat room for one minute ; it was the church you looked at, as it lay high up on that peaceful hill on your right, and the blue waters which mirrored its image and flowed shining far away among the mountains, so that you knew not whether it was a lake or an arm of the sea. And then those mountains themselves ! Not isolated peaks, but height upon height, the mighty masses standing one behind the other, as if here were the limit of land for human dwelling. When at last Petra withdrew her eyes, the whole room seemed to her hallowed by the scene without ; it was the pure and bright flower-frame for that magnificent picture. She felt that some invisible power was surrounding her, giving heed to her doings, yea, to her very thoughts ; she walked about examining and touching the things around her without being aware of it. Her eye fell upon a paint- ing above the sofa on the wall that faced the light ; it was a full-length portrait of a lady, who seemed to be smiling down at her. She sat with her head slightly aside, her hands folded, and her right arm resting on a book, on the cover of which was painted in legible letters the title, " Sunday's Book." Her fair, shining hair, and clear skin seemed to beam down Sabbath calm upon all on whom her eye fell. Her smile was earnest with the earnestness of resignation. She seemed to have the power of drawing everyone near to her in bonds of love ; she seemed to under- stand everyone, for in all she saw only all that was good. Her face bore the marks of suffering, but that suffering must have been her strength, for assuredly no one could ever have dared to have pained such a one. A wreath of immortelles hung over the frame ; she was dead ! " That was my mother," said a soft voice behind Petra, and she turned and saw the daughter, who had gone out and come back again. And now the whole room seemed filled with the portrait ; everything led up to it ; every- 104 THE FISHER LASSIE. thing took its colour from it ; everything else was placed there for its sake ; and the daughter herself was a calm reflection of it. Something quieter the latter seemed, a trifle more reserved. The mother welcomed every look and returned it with glad thanks ; the daughter's eyes dropped beneath another's ; but there was the same mild- ness and gentleness in her glance. She had also her mother's figure, but without any trace of weakness ; on the contrary, the quick colours in her close-fitting dress, in her apron and her little kerchief with its Homan pin, gave her appearance a bright look of health and a gracefulness and a sense for it that made her alike the daughter of the portrait and the fairy of the place. As she walked among her mother's flowers, Petra felt strongly drawn towards her. With this girl's friendship, and in that homestead, all that was good in her would surely develop ! Ah, if she could only stay within it ! She felt doubly her desolation, and her eyes now followed Signe as she walked about and as she stood still. Signe perceived this and tried to avoid her eyes, but this availing her nothing, she grew discon- certed and bent down over her flowers. At length, Petra saw how rudely she was behaving, and would have made a shamefaced apology ; but there was something in the carefully arranged hair, the delicate forehead, and the close-fitting dress, that warned her to beware of what she did. She looked up at the mother. Ah ! she, she felt, would long ago have embraced her ! Was it not even now as if she were bidding her welcome ? Dared she trust to that ? No one had ever looked at her so before. In that look she could read that the mother knew all that had befallen the poor wanderer, and could forgive it all. Petra's heart was yearning for kindness, and she could not move from beneath those kind eyes. She leant her head to one side and folded her hands like the portrait, and turned round thus almost without being conscious of it. SIGNE AND HER PARENTS. 105 " Let me stay here," came from her lips. Signe raised herself and turned towards her, unable to speak for astonishment. " Let me stay here ! " begged Petra again, and took a step towards her, " it's so lovely here ! " and the tears stood in her eyes. "I win ask father to come," said Signe, and Petra followed her with her eyes till she disappeared through the study door. But the moment she was alone, fear fell upon her for what she had done, and she trembled when she saw the priest's astonished face in the doorway. He came in, somewhat more neatly dressed than before, and with a pipe, which he held tightly in his hand and took from between his lips after every whiff, blowing out the smoke in three puffs, each with a little sigh of apprecia- tion. He did this several times as he stood in the middle of the room in front of Petra, not looking at her, but evidently waiting for her to speak. But she did not dare to repeat her request in this man's presence, for he looked so grave and stern. " Tou wish to remain here, do you not ? " he asked at last, and flashed a sharp, t[uick side-glance at her. " I have nowhere to go to," she answered, her voice trem- bling with nervousness. " AVhere do you come from ? " In a low voice Petra told him her name and that of her town. " Why have you come here ? " " I do not know — I am looking for — I will pay for my- self — I — O I don't know ! " She turned aside and for a moment could get no further : then plucking up heart again, went on : "I will do all you ask me, if only I may stop here and not have to journey on any more — ^and not have to ask any more." The daughter had come in again with her father and was 106 THE FISHER LASSIE. by the fireplace, where she stood with downcast eyes and hands busy among the withered rose-leaves. The priest made no answer ; there was no soimd save the pufEs from his pipe, as he stood looking at Petra, his daughter and the portrait. Now it often happens that the same object pro- duces widely different impressions in different people, and while Petra was silently praying the portrait to make him lenient to her, to him it seemed that it was whispering : " Protect our child ! let no unknown stranger be her com- panion ! " He turned round to Petra with a sharp side- glance : " No ! " he said, " you cannot stop here ! " Petra turned pale, heaved a violent, deep sigh, looked wildly around her, and darting into an adjacent room, the door of which stood half open, she flung herself down by the table and gave way to all her grief and bitter dis- appointment ! Father and daughter looked at one another ; her want of manners in thus bursting into another room and seating herself there alone and unasked, could only be equalled by her conduct in coming in from the highway, begging to be allowed to stay there, and then bursting out crying when refused. The priest wenit after her ; not to talk to her but, on the contrary, to shut the door be- hind her. He came back, his face all flushed, and said softly to his daughter, who was still standing by the stove : " Did you ever see the like of this woman ? Who is she ? What is it she wants ? " The daughter did not at once answer, but when she did, she said in a still lower tone than her father : " She behaves very oddly, but there's something very singular about her." The priest paced up and down looking at the door. At length he paused, and said under his breath : " I don't think she can have all her wits about her, do you? " and as Signe made no answer, he came nearer and SIGJVJS AND HER PARENTS. 107 repeated more decidedly : — " She is mad, Signe, half-crazy, in fact : that's what's singular about her." He began to walk up and down again, and thoughts of other things came into his mind so that he had nearly for- gotten what he had last said, when his daughter at last softly replied : " I don't think she can be mad," she said, " but she is certainly very unhappy," and she beijt her head again over the dry rose-leaves among which her fingers were busy. N^ithe^ her movements nor the tone of her voice would have struck anybody else as noticeable, but her father was straightway an altered man as he walked up and down> looking at the portrait, and at last said in very low tones : " Do you think then, because she's unhappy, that mother would have asked her to stop ? " "Mother would not have answered for some days," answered the daughter in a whisper, as she bent still lower over the rose-leaves. The slightest remembrance of the mother up there, when the daughter thus brought it before him, was enough to make that shaggy lion's head mild as a lamb's. He felt at once the truth of what she said, and stood before her like a boy at school caught cribbing. He forgot to smoke ; he left ofE walking about. At last he whispered : " Shall I ask her to stay a few days ? " " You've already given her your answer." " Tes ; but its one thing to let her live here and another to let her stay a few days." Signe seemed to be thinking for a while, and then she said: " Well, you must do what you think best." The priest was still considering what he had best do as he walked up and down, pufBng away vigorously ; suddenly he came to a halt. 108 THE FISHER LASSIE. " Will you go in to her, or shall I ? " he said. " It would be better if you went in, of course," answered the daughter with a loving look. He was just going to turn the handle of the door, when a peal of laughter rang out from the room at the other side of it ; then there was silence for a moment — then peal upon peal burst forth again. The priest, who had moved back a little, now hurried forward and his daughter after him ; surely their strange guest must have suddenly fallen into hysterics. When the door was opened they saw Petra sitting where she had flung herself down, with a book before her, over which she had dropped without being aware of it. Her tears had fallen over its leaves ; she saw this and was trying to wipe them ofE, when her eye was caught by a vulgar ex- pression which she had often enough heard at the time when she ran wild in the streets, but which she thought no book would ever have dared to print. In her amazement she forgot to weep, but sat staring at the book. Why what could all this mad stuff be ! she read on with open mouth : it grew worse and worse ; it was so coarse and yet so irre- sistibly funny, that she could not help going on reading. She read till she forgot all else; she read herself away from pain and grief, from time and place, with old Father Holberg ; for of course it was his work ! She burst out laughing, she began to roar with laughter — even now, when the priest and his daughter stood by her, she failed to see their grave faces or to remember what she had begged of them : but she went on laughing as she asked : "What is this? what in the world can this be?" and turned to the title-page. Then the colour left her cheeks as she looked up at them and down again at the well-known hand-writing. There are things which strike upon the heart like a rifle-shot ; SIGNE AND HER PARENTS, 109 tilings whicli we think we have fled hundreds of miles from, and find lying right in front of us — here on the first page stood written : " Hans Oedegaard." " Is the book his ? " cried Petra, all the blood burning up in her cheeks again, " Is he coming here ? " she cried, getting up. " He has promised to," answered Signe — and then Petra called to mind that there was a priest and his family in the Bergen diocese, with whom he had been when abroad ; she had only been journeying in a circle then, and it had led her back to him. " Is he coming soon, d'you think ? or is he already here then ? " and she got up at once as if to fly. " No, indeed, for he's ill," said Signe. "Ah, yes, of course ! he's ill," repeated Petra sadly, and sank down again. "But tell me," cried Signe," are not you the " " ^Fisher-lassie ? " said the priest, finishing the sen- tence. "Yes," said Petra, looking up at them beseechingly, " Tes, I am the Fisher-lassie." They knew her well enough here ; for, indeed, Oedegaard used to talk of nothing else. ' "That alters the case," said the priest: he felt that something must have gone amiss, and friendly help was needed ; " remain here for the present." Petra looked up and marked the look with which Signe thanked him ; that was so sweet to her, that she went back, took both Signe's hands in hers — she dared go no further — and said with a deep blush, " I will tell you all as soon as as we two are alone." An hour later Signe had heard all Petra' s story and told it her father. By his advice she wrote that very day to Oedegaard and kept writing to him all the while Petra remained in the house. 110 THE FISHER LASSIE. When Petra that night lay down to rest in her big warm bed, in a comfortable room with the birch- wood crackling in the hearth and the New Testament between the two candles on the spotless table by the bed, she took the book into her hands and thanked her Grod for everything, yea, for evil as well as for good. As a young man with an ardent spirit and natural powers of eloquence, Signe's father had made up his mind to become a clergyman ; his parents, who were wealthy people, had been much against it ; they would much rather ' have had him choose what they called an independent calling ; but their opposition only increased the strength of his desire, and when he had finished his education at home, he went abroad to continue his studies. It happened during a preliminary sojourn in Denmark that he often met a young lady who belonged to a sect whose views were not so austere as his own, and which he was therefore much opposed to ; consequently he was ever endeavouring to work upon her ; but the way in which she looked at him and thus silenced him was never out of his mind during his stay abroad. As soon as he came back, he went and visited her. They were constantly together again, and each so grew in the other's favour, that they got engaged and shortly after were married. Now it became clear to them that they each had had a secret plan for the other ; he had thought to draw her in her graceful womanhood into his sterner creed, and she had felt such child-like con- fidence in her power to bring his strength and his eloquence to the service of her community.' The first very gentle attempt on his part was met by the same on hers ; he drew back disappointed and mistrustful. She quickly enough perceived that, and from that day forth he went on his guard against attempts on her part, she against his. But neither of them ever made another; for both had SIGN^E AND HER PARENTS. HI grown alarmed. He feared his own passionate nature ; she lest by failure she should throw away her chance of winning him over ; for the hope of so doing she never gave up, — it had become the end and aim of her life. But the contest never •came ; for, ia her presence, strife was not possible. But his active temperament and hardly-restrained passions were bound to find some outlet, and this they did each time he went up into the pulpit and saw her sittiag beneath him. His congregation was drawn in with him iato a lasting whirlpool, and as he made them feel his excitement, so they in turn made him feel theirs. She saw this and bade her fearful heart find ease in kindly acts, and in her daughter, when after a while she became a mother ; her she took in her bodily and spiritual embrace and bore her away to be the companion of her solitude. On the child's innocence she bestowed her own dear hopes ; from her, received them back; in her, nurtured them; with her she held love's banquet, and came back from it to him, the strong, stem man, with the double sweetness of womanhood and Christi- anity upon her, so that it was not possible for him to say anything that might trouble her. He could not help loving her more than the whole world beside, and the more tenderly he loved her, the more his whole soul was per- meated with the yearning to help her to her eternal salva- tion. Quietly the mother's right withdrew the child from his religious instruction, so that the child's songs, the child's questionings were but a fresh source of pain to him ; but when he was stung up in the pulpit to bitter and violent excitement, his housemate only welcomed him home again with somewhat more gentleness than usual; her eyes indeed spoke, but her mouth uttered never a word. And his little daughter clung on to his hands and looked up at him with her mother's eyes. Of all things they talked in this household, save of the one thing that lay at the bottom of aU their thoughts. 112 THE FISHER LASSIE. But tension sucli as this could not endure very long. The mother continued to smile, it is true, but only because she did not dare to let herself weep. When the time came for the daughter to be prepared for Confirmation, and it was his turn now, by right of his office, to take charge of her religious instruction, which till now the mother, by right of hers, had done, the strain reached its utmost ; and after the sermon to the candidates for confirmation, and the reading out of their names, the mother became ill much as other people get tired. She smiled as she said that now she could no longer walk, and some days later, smiling as before, she told them she could no longer sit up. She liked to have her daughter constantly by her ; though she could no longer talk to her, she could at least see her. Aiid the daughter knew what the mother liked best. She read to her from the Book of Life, and sang to her the hymns of her childhood, the new, quickening psalms of her community. It was long before the priest fully grasped what was about to happen ; but when he did, all other thoughts left him save one — ^let her but speak to him, if only a word or two ; but she could not ; she was no longer able to talk. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her and praying to God. She smiled at him and he fell on his knees and, taking his daughter's hand, placed it in hers, as if to say : " Here, keep her ; she shall be thine for ever ! " Then she smiled as she never had before — and in that smile her soul fled. It was long before the priest could be got to talk again ; another was appointed to look after his flock, and he himself went about from place to place, from room to room, as if seeking something. He walked softly; when he spoke, it was in a subdued tone ; and it was only by dropping into all his quiet ways that his daughter was gradually able to become the companion of his heart. Now she began to help him in his search : every word of the SIGNE AND HER PARENTS. 113 mother was called up again, and "what she would have wished " became henceforth the standard of his life. The daughter's constant intercourse with her — to which he had remained a stranger — became now for the first time his life too. From the earliest times that she could remember as a child, everything was gone over again; her hymns were sung, her prayers prayed, the sermons she had most loved read over one after another-, and her comments and explanations of them deeply pondered. Thus actively employed again, the desire came upon him to go to the spot where first he had met her, and try to follow in. her footsteps the path she had trodden. Himself a beginner in this new life, his senses were open to all the beginnings around him — the great national, the lesser political ones — and these brought back to him his own young vigour. His strength, and with it his desire, came flooding back on him ; but now he was burning to pro- claim the Word, so that it might fit men for Life and not alone for Death. Before shutting himself up again in his parish among the mountains with his great work, he yearned to take a wider survey of all without him. So they travelled far and wide and now rested at home again, full of memories of great things. Such were they among whom Petra now lived. CHAPTEE IX. SMOKE, FIEE AND SNOW. IN the third year of her stay, one Friday a few days before Christmas, the two girls were sitting together in the evening twilight ; the priest had just come in with his pipe. The day had gone by like most of the others in these last two years ; it had been begun with a walk, then breakfast, and after that an hour's singing and playing, followed by language lessons or other studies and occupa- tions about the house. In the afternoon each went to her own. room. Signe happened that particular day to have been writing to Oedegaard, after whom Petra never enquired; nor, indeed, could she bear any reference to past times. Towards evening they went for a gledge-ride, and then came back to talk together, to sing, and later to read aloud. To this the priest always came in : he read re- markably well, and his daughter not less so. Petra learnt both their manners of reading, paying particular attention to the way they spoke. Signe's voice and accent had such a charm for her that it seemed to echo in her ears when she was by herself ; but Petra had such a high esteem for Signe, that a man would have considered her madly in love with himself for a quarter as much : indeed, she often made Signe blush. Either the priest or Signe was in the SMOKE, FISE AND SNOW. 115 habit of reading aloud every evening (for Petra could not be prevailed upon to read), and they had thus gone through all the masterpieces of Norse literature and were gradually ■working their way into those of other lan^s, reading for preference dramatic poetry. Just as they were about to light the lamps to begin that evening, a girl came in from the kitchen and said that there was a man outside with a message for Petra. It turned out to be a seaman from her native place. Her mother had made him promise to visit her when he went to those parts ; he had walked a matter of seven mUes and had to start off again at once, as the ship would soon be sailing. Petra went part of the way too ; she wanted to have some further talk with him, as he was a reliable man and she had known him before. The evening was somewhat dark : there was no light in the farmstead nor in any of the windows, except in the laundry, where they were busy washing ; nor was there any light along the road, and the way was scarce visible until the moon had struggled over the mountain-tops. But she walked along through the forest fearlessly, spite of the ugly-looking shadows among the firs. One piece of news in especial had made her want to walk along with the seaman. He had told her that Pedro Ohlsen's mother was dead, and that Pedro himseK had sold the house and moved up to Gunlaug's, where he lived in Petra's room. This had come about nearly two years before, but her mother had never said a word of it. Now Petra could guess who it was that wrote her mother's letters, a question she had often asked her without ever getting any answer ; but every letter always ended with these words : " and a greeting from him who writes this." The seaman had been bidden to ask how long she meant to stay at the parsonage, and what she meant to do afterwards ? To the first of these questions, Petra answered that she did not tnow ; to the second, that he was to say to her mother 116 THE FISHER LASSIE. there was but one thing in the world she wished to he, and if she conld not be that, she wonld be miserable all her life ; but for the present she might not say what that was. WhUe Petra was walking along with the sailor and talking to him, the priest and Signe remained in. the sitting-room talking of her, in whom they both had such joy. The farm-bailiff came in in ther middle and, after giving his account of the day's doings, asked whether either of them knew that the strange young lady was in the habit of going up and down from her room at night by a rope-ladder ? He had to repeat it three times, for neither of them understood what he meant ; he might just as well have been saying that she was in the habit of going up and down on the rays of the moon. The room was all dark, and there was not a sound in it : even the priest's pipe was inaudible. At last he was forced to speak, and in a heavy voice he asked : " Who saw her ? " " I myself did. I was up yonder looking after the horses ; it might have been about one o'clock." " She went down on a rope-ladder, you say ? " " And up again." There was another long pause. Petra's room was in the upper part of the house, in a corner that looked out on the lane. She was the only person up there, for nobody else had a room in that part of the buildiiig ; there could there- fore be no mistake. " She must have walked in her sleep," said the man, turning to go. " But she cannot have made a rope-ladder in her sleep," said the priest. " No, that's what I thought ; so I thought it was best to tell you about it, sir. I have said nothing to anyone else." SMOKE, FIRE AND SNOW. 117 " Has anyone but you seen it ? " "No — but if you doubt me, sir, the rope-ladder will be a proof ; if that's not up there, my eyes must have seen false." Up rose the priest at once. " Father ! " cried Signe. " Bring the light ! " answered the priest, in a tone that admitted no resistance. " Father ! " cried Signe, once more, as she lit the candle herself and handed it to him. " Yes, I'm her father, as well as yours, so long as she's in my house ; it's my duty to look after her." The priest waited first with the light, Signe and the bailiff following. Everything in the little room was in order, save that on the table by the bed lay a heap of books, one open on the top of another. " Does she read at night ? " " I don't know ; but she never puts out her light hefore one o'clock." Signe and her father looked at one another. All separated for the night at the parsonage between ten and half -past, and they met again in the morning between six and seven. " Do you know anything of this ? " asked the father. Signe made no reply, but the bailiff, who was on his knees groping about in a corner of the room, answered from where he knelt : " Anyway, she's not alone." " What's that you're saying ? " " There's always some one with her talking to her ; sometimes they talk very loud, for I've heard her both begging and threatening. She's in somebody's power, you may be sure, poor creature ! " Signe turned away, and the priest was pale as death. " And here's the ladder," continued the man, as he drew it forth and held it up. 118 THE FISHER LASSIE. Two clothes-lines had been put side by side and a third tied to one of them, passed over the other and knotted, then knotted to the other half an ell lower down, and so on till they formed a perfect ladder. They examined it closely. " Was she long away ? " asked the priest. " Away ? How d'you mean ? " said the bailiff. " Was she long gone, when she had got down ? " Signe stood trembling with cold and fright. " She did not go away at all ; she went down and up again." " Up again ! Who was it went away, then ? " Signe made a sudden movement and burst out weeping. " There could not have been anyone with her when I saw her yesterday evening." " There was no one on the ladder you say, but her ? " " No." " And she went down and then up again ? " " Tes." " She must have wanted to try it," said the priest, and breathed a little more freely. " Before she let anyone else use it," added the bailiff. " Tou think, then," said the priest, looking at him, " this is not the first she has made ? " " No ; else how could she have had people up there with her?" " Have you known long that she had anyone with her?" " Not before this winter, when she began to use lights ; it never struck me to come down here before." " What ! " said the priest sternly, " you have known of this the whole winter ? Why, then, did you not speak of it sooner?" ■ "I thought that it must have been some one of the household who was with her ; it was only when I saw her yesterday night on the ladder that I suspected it to be SMOKE, FIRE AND SNOW. 119 somebody else. Of course if I had thought of that sooner, I would have told you of it sooner." "Tes, yes ; it's evident enough she has deceived us all!" Signe looked up at him entreatingly. " She ought not to be so far off from all the rest of the household, perhaps," put in the bailiff as he rolled up the ladder. " She ought not to be in this house at all after this," said the priest, and he turned to go, the others following ; but when he had come down and put the lamp on the table, Signe came and flimg herself into his arms. " Tes — yes, my child," was all he could say to her, "this is a grievous disappointment." » A little later, as Signe was sitting in the comer of the sofa with a handkerchief before her eyes, and the priest was walking restlessly up and down, pipe in hand, they heard noisy screams from the kitchen, quick steps on the stairs, and the sounds of hurry and confusion in the passage overhead. They both hastened out; Petra's room was on fire ! A spark from their candle must have fallen into the comer — for it was from that direction the fire came — and in an instant set fire to the hangings. The woodwork of the window was just on the point of catching fire, when a passer-by saw the flames from the road and rushed in and told the people at work in the laundry. The fire was soon put out ; but in the country, where everything goes its even way — year in, year out — it needs but a slight excitement to arouse people's minds. Tire', their greatest and most terrible foe, is never out of their thoughts, so that when it does thrust up its head from the depths below, licking its lips as it hisses and roars for its prey, they fall into trembling fear and have no peace for weeks ; indeed some of them never rest quietly again. When the priest and his daughter were together again 120 THE FISHER LASSIE. in the sitting-room and had lit the lamps, both felt it as a sort of discomforting omen that Petra's room should thus have been straightway annihilated and every token and reminder of her burnt up. At that moment they heard Petra's clear voice questioning and exclaiming. She darted up and down the stairs, ran from bedroom to passage, from passage to kitchen, and then came dashing in to the sitting-room, still in her outdoor clothes. " Goodness gracious ! " she cried, " my room's been burnt out ! " Nobody answered but, without a pause, she ran on : "Who's been up here? When did it happen? How »did the fire come about ? " To this the priest replied that it was he who had been up there ; they had been looking for something — and so saying, he eyed her narrowly. Petra did not show the least sign of astonishment, and still less did she show any fear of what they might have seen. It gave her no misgivings that Signe did not look up from her sofa-corner ; she thought that merely arose from the shock the fire had been to her, and went on asking how it was^ discovered, how put out, who had been there first — and, not getting quick enough answers to all her questions, rushed out again as she had entered. She came dashing in again with her walking things half off, half on, and told the priest and Signe all that had happened,' and how she herself had seen the flames and ran on in great terror, but was glad now to find that it was no worse. As she spoke, she took off the rest of her outdoor things, took it out of the room and, coming back, took a seat by the table, never leaving off telling them what this one had said, that one done, etc. ; the whole place was turned upside down, and this she seemed to find very amusing. As the others still con- tinued silent, she bewailed that the fire had spoilt the evening for them all ; for she so enjoyed what they had SMOKE, FIRE AND SNOW. 121 been lately reading aloud — " Eomeo and Juliet " — that she had meant to ask Signe that very evening to read to her again the scene she thought most beautiful of all, viz., Borneo's parting from Juliet on the balcony. In the midst of her flood of talk, came in one of the maids from the wash-house and said that they were in want of clothes-lines ; there was a bundle of them missing. Petra turned suddenly fiery red, and started up, crying " I know where they are, I'll go and get them ; " but before she had got far she remembered the fire, paused, and said, amidst her blushes, " Goodness gracious, they are smre to have been burned ; they were in my room ! " Signe had turned towards her, the priest was eyeing her with his piercing side-long glance. " What did you want clothes-lines for ? " he asked, and his breath came so quick and short that he could scarce get out the words. As Petra looked at him, his terrible earnestness made her half afraid for one instant, and the next haK-tempted her to burst out laughing. She struggled against this impulse for a moment, but as her eyes fell on him again, such a peal of laughter rang out from the depths of her heart that it was useless for her to try and check it ; but there was no more sign of a guilty conscience in her laughter than there is in that of a rippling brook. Signe coidd hear that from the sound of her voice, and sprang up from the sofa, crying out : " What is it aU ? what is it ? " Petra turned, laughed, dashed away, ducked her head down and made for the door. But Signe had planted her- self in the way, still crying out, " What is it all about ? Tell me, Petra dear.'' Petra hid her face on Signe's breast, as if to prevent her- self being seen, but still went on laughing without stopping. Now guilt does not behave thus, and the priest himself 122 THE FISHER LASSIE. could not fail to see this. He, who was gathering himself up but a moment before to tower aloft in indignant anger, slipped down instead into merry laughter, drawing Signe along with him, for nothing in the world is more catching than laughter, especially laughter for which there seems to be no reason. The vain attempts that the priest and Signe kept making to find out what they were laughing at, only added to the fulness of their mirth ; the maid- servant, who was in the room waiting for her answer, could at last hold out no longer, but burst forth into a loud guffaw ; she had a big, coarse laugh that she felt to be out of keeping with such fine folks and furniture, so she hastened to the door and gave full swing to her merri- ment in the kitchen. Of course she carried the con- tagion with her there, and straightway a perfect storm of laughter burst in upon them from the kitchen, where they knew even less than the others what there was to laugh at, and this set them off laughing again in the parlour. When, at length, they were nearly worn out with laughing, Signe made a last attempt to find out the cause of it. " Come now, you shall teU me ! " she cried, as she held Petra's hands tightly. " No, no — ^not for anything ia the world ! " " O yes, you shall ! You see, I know already what it is ! " cried the other. Petra looked at her and burst out laughing again ; but Signe went on : " Father knows too ! " This time Petra did not laugh, she actually yelled with merriment ; she tore herself from Signe's grasp, and made for the door, but Signe got hold of her again. Petra turned round to try and wrest herself free, for get away she would and must at any price. She kept on laughing during her struggles, but there were tears in her eyes SMOKE, FIRE AND SNOW. 123 now. Then Signe let her go — out dashed Petra — and after her, Signe : both of them darted into Signe's room. There Signe threw her arms round Petra's neck, and Petra clasped her closely. " Goodness gracious ! do you hoth know it ? " she whispered. " Tes ; we went up there with the hailifE : he had seen you — and we found the rope-ladder ! " There was another scream from Petra and another attempt at flight, but this time only as far as the corner of the sofa, where she hid her face in the cushion while Signe, leaning over her, whispered into her ear aU about their voyage of discovery and its burning consequences. What had cost her but a short while before so many tears and so much anxiety, seemed now such a merry matter that she told the story very humorously. Petra alternately listened and stopped her ears ; looked up and hid her face again. When Signe had done, and both of them were sitting there in the darkness, Petra whispered : " Do you know, Signe, what it all means ? I can't possibly manage to get to sleep when we go to our rooms at ten o'clock, for whatever we happen to have been reading always makes too much impression on me for that : so I learn by heart all that I like best in it. In this way I have learnt whole scenes, and I say them aloud when I'm alone. When we came to ' Eomeo and Juliet ' I thought it the finest thing ever written ; it made me crazy and wild, and I felt I must try the rope-ladder. I had never imagined before that one could go up and down on such a thing ; so I got hold of some ropes — and that scamp of a baiHfE must have been down below at the time and seen me ! — O, its nothing to laugh at, Signe ! it's so tom.-boyish ! I shall never be anything but a tom-boy, Signe — and now, of course, I shall be the talk of the whole place to-morrow ! " 124 THE FISHER LASSIE. But Signe, who had burst out laughing again, fell upon her with kisses and caresses, and rushed out of the room, screaming : " Father must know of this ; father must be told ! " "Are you mad, Signe?" cried Petra, and the one dashed off after the other so that they came flying into the room as they had flown out of it. They almost knocked over the priest, who was just about to come and see what had become of them. Signe began her story, and Petra darted out again ; but the moment she got outside the door she felt that she ought to have stopped in the room, just to hinder Signe telling. She tried to get in again, but the priest held the door fast, and it was no good her trying to move it, so she thumped on it with both hands from the outside, yelled and stamped on the floor to drown Signe's voice, who only talked all the louder for it. Not till the priest had heard the whole story, and was laughing as loudly and merrily as Signe at the p.ew method of studying the classics, did he open the door ; but then Petra scudded off. After supper, at which Petra was present and had been properly teased by the priest, she was made to recite, by way of punishment, what she had learnt by heart. She shewed them that she really did know all the best scenes she had heard read, and not single parts alone, but all in the piece. She gave them forth, much as they read them aloud ; at' times her enthusiasm seemed about to blaze forth, but she quickly smothered it. As soon as the priest observed this, he bade her put more feeling into it ; but she only drew back the more. She went on and on, and they kept on at it for hours ; she knew the comic scenes as well as she knew the tragic, the mirthful ones as well as the serious. Her memory both astonished and amused them ; she laughed, too, as she bade them only try. SMOKE, FIRE AND SNOW. 125 " I coTild wish, that the poor actors had but an eighth, part of your powers, dear," said Signe. " Grod keep her from ever taking to acting," said the priest with a sudden deep earnestness. " Why, father ; surely you don't think that our Petra could ever dream of such a thing ? " said Signe, laughing. " I only spoke of it because I have always noticed that a person who has been acquainted with the poetry of his own land from early youth has never any wish to go on the stage, while one who knows very little of poetry until he has grown up often yearns to do so. It is a longing, suddenly stirred up, that leads them astray." " That is very true. A really cultivated person seldom goes on to the stage." "And still seldomer a person with a real feeling for poetry ? " " Tes, and when he does it is generally due to some fault in his character which lets vanity and frivolity get the upper hand of him. Both in my student years and when I was on my travels I got to know a good many actors, but I have never known, nor met any one who knew, one that led a really Christian life. I have come across some who felt drawn towards it, it is true; but there is something so exciting and turbulent in their work that they never seem able to quietly collect their thoughts, even long after they have left off. When I have talked with them about it, they have themselves admitted it and bewailed it. 'But then,' they have always added, 'we must console ourselves with the thought that we are not worse than a good many others.' But that I call a pitiable consolation, and a calling which can in nowise be made to . help us to the Christian's life — a sinful calling. God help them, and keep all that are pure in heart from it ! " Next day — Saturday — ths priest was, as usual, up before seven o'clock. He strolled round among his labourers, 126 THE FISHER LASSIE. struct out a bit beyond tbe farm, and came home again at daybreak. Just as he was going by the house into the yard, his eye fell on an open copy-book, or something of the sort, which had most likely been thrown out of Petra's window the evening before, and not been seen again owing to its being of the same colour as the snow. He picked up the book and took it in with him to his study ; as he spread it out to dry it, he saw that it was an old French exercise-book, in which verses had since been written. He was not thinking of looking at the verses, when his eye was caught by the word " actress " written Tip and down, along and across, in comers and down ■whole pages — ^he could see the word even among the Terses. He sat down and looked into the thing more closely. There was one set of verses which had been altered and corrected time upon time, and which even in the last version stood full of corrections, but was at any rate legible : " One thiEg, dear book, I'll trust to thee, 'Tis the one thing I mean to be : An actress ; it shall be my part. To show the world a woman's heart. Why she weeps and why she smiles, All her joy and all her strife, All her truth and all her wiles. Every passion of her life. God on high I kneel to thee : Grant me this one thing to be." A little further on there stood written : "Can I not thus. Lord, do Thy will ? Can I not be Thy servant still ? " A little further on some lines, evidently suggested by a poem they had read together some months before : "01 would that I were an Elfin fair, An Elfin fair ; SMOKE, FIRE AND SNOW. 127 I'd ride upon moonbeams and sport in the air, Sport in the air ! And flit to and fro at my own sweet will, My own sweet will ; And all who dared spy at me quickly I'd kill, Quickly I'd kill. no, that would he wicked, tho' — lirum, Lirimi, la ! " There came many scratched-out lines, corrections, sketches, notes, and then : " Tra, la, la — wouldn't it he fun To dance with all alike and never care for one ? Tra, la, la — wouldn't it be fun To have them all come after me while I would favour none ? " Then came a letter in neat, clear handwriting : " Dearest Heiniich, " Don't you think that you and I are the cleverest of the whole lot h ' This wUl be the cause of a good deal of trouble to us both, but what does that matter ? I per- mit you to have the honour of taking me to the masquerade to-morrow evening ; I have never yet been there, you must know, and I long for some real mad trick or another, for everything in this house is so terribly quiet and dreary. " You are a sad scamp, Heinrich. What are you up to now, I wondet ? Here sit I, " Your own " Pernille." The last thing that the priest read was some verses written again and again in plain, clear writing ; she had evidently copied them from some book, and had wanted to learn them by heart : — " Mighty thoughts my heart are filling. Feeling high my bosom thrilling ; Thoughts far greater than my strength. Feelings more than I can bear ; O my Saviour, come at length, Thou who conqueredst pain and care, 128 THE FISBER LASSIE. Help me, Christ, my thoughts to tell, Draw them fi"om their sOent well ; Lord, in pity help thou me, Loki bind, set Balder free." Many other things were written in the book, but the priest read no farther. So it was to be a play-actress that this girl had come into his house and got his daughter to teach her. This was the secret purpose for which she listened to them with such eagerness every night as they read aloud ; this was why she learnt it all off by heart, was it ? She had been tricking them the whole while, and even yesterday, when she made believe to explain everything,' there was something she was hiding from them ; even whilst she was laughing her merriest, she was lying. And that secret purpose of hers ! That career which the priest had so often condemned in her hearing, she dared to adorn with the title of Grod's Call to her and to ask him to bless it. A life full of outward shows and vanities, de- ceitfulness and passionate excesses, idleness and sensuality, lying and instability : a life over which hovered birds of prey as over carrion — was this the life which shb yearned to devote herself to, and besought God to hallow? was this the life to which the priest and his daughter were destined to help her, there in that peaceful parsonage, under the stern watchful eye of that God-fearing fellow- ship of Christian folk ? When Signe came in, fresh and bright as the winter morning, to wish her father good morning, she found his study full of smoke. This was always a sign of his being in perplexity, but it was doubly so when it happened at such an early hour. He said not a vrord to her but he handed her the book. At once she saw that it was Petra's ; the recollection of yesterday evening's suspicion and grief came over her ; she dared not look inside it, and her heart SMOKE, FIRE, AND SNOW. 129 beat so violently, tliat she was forced to sit down. But the same word that had first caught her father's notice, met her eye too ; she could not help looking further into the book and reading on. Her first feeling was one of shame — ^not shame for Petra, but shame at the thought that her father should have been forced to see this. But it was not long before she felt the deep humiliation that comes of finding oneself deceived by those one loves. For a moment it seems as if they have been cleverer, sharper, more dexter- ous than we, and a veil of mysterious power seems to wrap them round. But presently the soul begins to glow with indignant wrath; honour wields its sway over powers which are not mysterious, though unseen ; we feel we are strong enough to shatter at a blow a hundred such petty tricks of cunning; what but a moment before humiliated us, we now despise. Petra was at the piano in the sitting-room, and her voice broke in upon them as she sang : " O Life it is joy, for the Sun-king has shone, And the doubt-clouds of darkness are scattered and gone, And the hills are a-blaze With the Sun's bright rays, And ' Up, up, up,' cries the bird in the grove, And 'Up, up, up,' cries my love — ' Up, up with Hope and the Sun.' " Then suddenly tumultuous music swelled forth from the piano, and out burst Petra' s song again : " Thanks, friend, for the warning words you say, Yet across yon sea will I seek my way, Though the winds may howl and the breakers roar. Though I never again should come back to the shore ; For this is the chief of pleasures to me, To drive my keel through an unknown sea ; To feel the wives dash over my prow. As I try how fast and how far I ?« Carrel. LUTHER'S Table-Talk. Trans, by W. Hazlitt. With Life by A. Chalmers, and Luther's Catechi&m. Portrait after Cranach. N, S. Autobiography,— i'ee Michclet. MACHIAVELLI'S History of Flo- rence, The Prince, Savonarola, Historical Tracts, and Memoir. Portrait. N. S. MARLOWE. Poems of.— ^« Greene. MARTINEAU'S (Harriet) History of England (including Historyofthe.Peace) from 1800-1S46. 5 vols. N. S. MENZEL'S History of Germany, from he Earliest Period to the Crimean War. Portraits. 3 vols. MICHELET'S Autobiography of Luther. Trans, by W. HazUtt. With Notes. N. S. The French Revolution to the Fhghtofthe Kingin 1791. N.S. MIGNET'S The French Revolntlon, from 1789 to 1814. Portrait of Napoleon. N.S. MILTON'S Prose Works. With Pre. face, Preliminary Remarks by J. 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