Christmas came upon Greylock before they were quite ready for it; it
seemed to come earlier every year. Margaret had worked very hard to
get a picture done for each of the grown folks, and though she had
undoubted genius, and wrote poetry with her artistic brush, of course
her work was more or less crude.
Once more the house flung open its doors, and the scattered family
came trooping in. They were a clannish set, wonderfully fond of each
other, and willing to take any amount of trouble in order to accomplish
this yearly meeting. Everybody found Frank's three elder children
marvelously improved in health and behavior, and he and Lily could
hardly believe that these three well-bred, gentle, and obedient young
creatures were those who went forth from them like so many unruly
colts. Belle's twins were now ten months old--a lovely age--and she was
positive they could say "papa," a point on which the rest of the family
were doubtful. Mabel was as devoted a lover as ever; there was no room
for her in her mother's lap nowadays, but she still stood always close
at her side, except when Margaret beguiled her away.
"How long did it take you to paint all these pictures, Margaret?" Laura
one day asked.
"A long, long time, small as they are," she replied. "I can tell you,
painting means _work_."
"It is a great comfort to us common mortals to see genius plodding
along the highway like the rest of us," said Laura. "By the bye, that
reminds me that my book, such as it is, is done, and I am going to read
it aloud for your delectation the first stormy day."
"Whose? Mine?" asked Margaret.
"Not yours in particular; all you girls in general."
"And leave us boys out?" cried Frank.
"You boys won't be left out with my consent," said Harry. "_I_ think
it's a capital story."
"Of course _you'd_ think it capital if it was 'Mother Goose,'" said
Laura. "Don't any of you believe a word he says. It isn't half so good
as it ought to be."
The stormy day was close at hand, and the whole family met in the
library, amused at the idea of "Oney's" writing a book, and secretly
afraid they might have to quiz it. The ladies had their work, and
were, therefore, out of mischief during the reading. But the gentlemen
kept Mrs. Grey in a constant state of scandal the whole time. One
unscrewed her inkstand and looked in; another took up and laid down her
paper-weights, and always in the wrong place; another upset a bottle
of mucilage, hoped she didn't know it, and furtively wiped it up with
his handkerchief; another bent a leaf-cutter Margaret had painted for
her, and every moment she expected to see it snap in two. Now and then,
to Laura's vexation, they whispered to each other, and now and then a
mamma was called out, and the reading had to be suspended. But she kept
at it manfully, and by degrees, as the "boys" became interested, they
let the library-table and its contents alone.
And this is Laura's story:
ERIC.
"It is of no use, I cannot stand; you see the ankle is fractured."
"But the Signor will perish if he lies here on the ice."
"Is there, then, no hope that one of the other sledges will come to our
rescue?"
"None whatever. We are quite off the usual route; nightfall is
approaching, and there is but one way of escape from death--if the
Signor will permit me to take him on my shoulders."
"Impossible! You could not bear such a burden a single rod."
"The Signor does not know the young men of Dalerna."
"Nay, I will not suffer you to make the trial. Go, my good Olaf, and
leave me to my fate. It is not needful that both of us should perish.
Take my watch to my wife, and with it, present her with my parting
salutations. My purse I give to you; by its means you can marry some
blue-eyed maiden, and tell her Fortune had a smile for her when it
played such a freak on me."
The young man colored with indignation.
"You do not know our muscles, stranger; neither do you comprehend our
scorn for money won by cowardice," he said coldly.
And, without another word, he proceeded to burden himself with the
disabled traveler, who, after making a feeble resistance, yielded
himself to his fate.
This scene occurred on the frozen surface of the Gulf of Bothnia. A
party of Italians, weary of their own luxurious clime, had come to
these northern regions in hope of stirring their blood by adventures
and perils. Several ladies of the party remained at Upsala in tolerable
comfort, while their husbands and brothers, expecting to find the
gulf a smooth and glassy expanse, hastened to cross it in sledges in
pursuit of a new sensation. With great difficulty they procured sledges
and horses with their drivers, from the country about Grisselhamn, a
little town whence they proposed to set out on the expedition. It
was also necessary to provide themselves with huge coats of bearskin,
before encountering the cutting blasts to which these foreigners were
unaccustomed.
Thus equipped, the party set forth in high spirits. Instead, however,
of smooth surface over which they had expected to glide as on the wings
of the wind, they soon found, to their dismay, that they were toiling
over a rough and dangerous series of masses of ice, by means of which
they were jolted and bruised to the last degree of endurance. Again
and again they were thrown from the sledges, whence they went rolling
in all directions. To add to their dismay, the horses, fancying these
strange objects on the ice to be veritable bears, became every moment
more and more unmanageable, and one of them, wild with terror, at
length took flight. Several of the occupants of the sledge drawn by
this horse were scattered along the way, and were gradually rescued by
their fellow-travelers. He who remained at the mercy of the terrified
horse, kept his seat with the utmost difficulty, and watched, with
anxiety, every motion of his sturdy young driver, Olaf Stein, whose
strength seemed to be giving way. Mile after mile they flew over the
jagged ice-field in awful silence; awaiting at last in breathless
suspense the fate that seemed inevitable. When both were thrown
violently from the sledge they lay insensible on the ice, while the
horse, now left to himself, rushed onward and was heard of no more.
Olaf was the first to recover, and by his aid, his companion was also
so far restored as to attempt to rise to his feet. But what was his
distress to find that one of his ankles was fractured, and that he must
sink back again to the hard and icy bed on which he had already lain
until almost benumbed.
It was at this point that he was generous enough to concern himself for
the safety of his guide, while hopeless of his own; and that Olaf, with
equal generosity, resolved to rescue him or perish in the attempt.
The task he had assumed was severe. They were quite off the usual
track; night was approaching, and the cold becoming intense. He toiled
on in a sturdy kind of patience, almost instinctively taking the right
direction, until at length he had the joy of finding himself on the
track whence the terror-stricken horse had diverged. Very shortly,
the other sledges came in sight, and the party made the best of its
way back to Grisselhamn. The injured traveler was made as comfortable
as was possible under the circumstances, and Olaf was sent to Upsala
to bring thence his wife, with her maid. The poor fellow had himself
sustained a severe injury when thrown from the sledge, and was also
exhausted by his toilsome homeward route. But he set forth at once on
the journey to Upsala without a word, and under his escort, those he
sought returned with him to Grisselhamn. Fortunately, he was not as
entirely ignorant of the Italian language as were his new charge of the
Dalecarnian speech. He had wandered repeatedly so far as the northern
part of Italy in order to dispose of various little articles of his own
handiwork, as well as those of his neighbors. His share of the profits
of these adventures had enabled him to purchase the horse he had just
lost, and by whose means he supported himself. This, therefore, seemed
an inauspicious moment for falling in love, and of proposing to himself
to take a wife. But love being a sentiment not particularly subject
to order and rule, poor Olaf had to yield to his fate. This fate was
black-eyed, and brown, and its name was Viola, and she who possessed
these attractions was the little maid whose duty it now was to take
charge of her master, with such aid as Olaf could render. Nursing was
new business to the hardy young peasant, but he was glad of occupation,
and thankful for a task that kept him near Viola. She, on her part,
felt supreme contempt for black eyes, from the moment she met the first
kind glance from Olaf's blue ones; if he proved an awkward nurse, why,
there was all the more for her to teach him. Besides, it was not long
before she discovered the severe contusion he had received in his fall,
and felt it absolutely necessary to take his aching shoulder under her
charge, and to treat it with a vast deal of needed and a vast deal of
needless compassion and care. Though his nature was honest as the day,
Olaf for once was willing to make the very most of his bruises, since
Viola was thus led to pour out upon him such floods of pity as would
soon lead to love. When, therefore, the fractured ankle was healed,
and the Italian party ready to return home, and Olaf was pressed to
ask what favor he would wish in return for his services, it is not
so strange, considering what human nature is, that all he asked was
permission to make a Swede of the little brown maiden who, in his eyes,
was the only maiden on earth.
Her mistress, a spoiled child of fortune, received this proposal with
indignation; said she could not live without Viola, who knew all her
ways, and for whom she had done so much, and that, at least, she could
not spare her until their return to Italy. When her husband overruled
all these objections by reminding her that he owed his life to Olaf,
she ceased open argument and resorted to secret strategy.
"How do you expect to live in this villainous climate, you silly
child?" cried she, when Viola, with downcast eyes, owned her wish to
do so. "You will absolutely perish with the cold. Then think what food
you will have to eat! Instead of grapes, and melons, and figs, you will
have that abominable bread made of bran mixed with bark and resin! I
tasted a bit of it one day, and the very thought of it sickens me. You
think Olaf will provide you with flour? Nonsense! And then to sit and
spin, spin and knit, knit from morning till night! Why, even the very
children in their cradles are taught to work, and I have seen them,
myself, knitting all the way to school. What do you say? That you are
never so happy as when at work? And that work for one you love will
be sweet! You cannot really pretend that you love that great clumsy
fellow with his round face like the full moon, and his breeches and
knee-buckles, and odd little caps. Now, Viola, that is actually too
absurd! Think, now, there was young Oglio, who had such a passion for
you; think of the cruelty of forsaking him for this stranger."
"I cannot forsake that bad man, for I always hated him, and never would
listen to him," cried Viola. "And if the Signora thinks I am only fit
to marry such a little, idle, impertinent coxcomb, then the Signora
thinks very ill of me."
"But then the conscience of the thing, Viola! To renounce your religion
just to gratify a mere freak of fancy which you will outgrow in less
than a month! Really, when I think of it, I feel that I ought to use
the authority given me by your poor mother on her death-bed, and
absolutely refuse my consent to this crime."
"Renounce my religion! Our holy mother forbid!" cried Viola. "Olaf will
surely embrace it so soon as he comes under my influence. He already
says I can wind him round my finger."
"It is very silly in you to repeat such nonsense. Ah! if you but knew
men as I do. The winding is all on the other side, I assure you."
"It _was_ silly," replied Viola; "I hope the Signora will pardon me.
But it is so long since any one was so good as to love me! It is so
lonely, so sad to be an orphan in this great world, so full of fathers
and mothers."
"None can be so sad or so lonely as they who peril their souls as you
are about to risk yours," returned her mistress, severely.
Viola became very pale, but was silent, and at that time no further
conversation took place. At her next interview with Olaf she related
to him all that had passed, and begged to know if in marrying him she
should be forced to renounce the religion in which she had been brought
up.
"Nay," said Olaf, smiling, "I do not intend to be so hard a master,
little one."
Viola was satisfied. "I shall soon convert him," she said to herself.
"I will not frighten her," was Olaf's secret thought. "The little thing
loves me dearly; I shall soon hear no more of her beads and mummeries.
We shall go to church every Sunday; by and by we shall have children;
they shall have dark eyes and dark hair, and be Lutherans, every one of
them."
So in spite of obstacles, true love ran smoothly with the twain into
wedded life.
Olaf was put into a position to earn his bread and that of his wife,
and after taking leave of their friends, he bore his little treasure
to his home, where his aged father and mother yet lived. Viola's life
had been hitherto spent in a sunny land, which had for her little
real sunshine. Her parents died when she was quite a child, and the
mistress into whose hands she then passed was too self-absorbed to ask
the question whether this human being had emotions, and passions like
her own. Now she went from seeming luxury to the real luxury of being
beloved. Olaf's father and mother opened their hearts and took her in
without delay; they liked her quaint, lively ways, and her foreign
habits were a pleasant marvel, breaking in on the monotony of their
hard lives. She, for her part, was young and flexible, and adapted
herself readily to her new duties.
So their domestic life moved on harmoniously in the main, and Olaf took
great delight in teaching his wife to speak the language of his own
people, and in hearing her pretty, foreign accent which gave a charm
to everything she said. She learned with marvelous rapidity, and the
long winter evenings, full as they were of necessary work, gave leisure
for reading, also. There was only one point on which the two differed
seriously, and this was a vital one, their religion. At first Viola
began with great zeal to use various arguments with Olaf to convince
him how much she was in the right and how far he was wrong, but he
would not argue; he only laughed at her, called her his little one,
told her what beautiful hair she had, and the like. Then Viola would
turn pale and look displeased, but soon would whisper to herself, "But
he loves me!" and in that sweet conviction recover her good-humor.
Meanwhile she watched his honest, Christian life with increasing
respect. She could not help seeing that in his measure, religion
reigned over every detail of his existence, nor fail to contrast it
with that of her mistress, who, while faithful to fast and feast,
and scrupulous as to prayers and masses, did not hesitate to indulge
herself in falsehood and passion.
It seemed strange to her that she had been able to respect the religion
of one whose violence through many years of her servitude had left
visible marks on her flesh; then reproaching herself for such thoughts
she did penance in secret, and redoubled her zeal on behalf of her
husband.
With early May came spring, with buds and blossoms, and Viola welcomed
the home of her adoption in its new dress. She surprised her husband
by appearing one Sunday morning in the national costume worn by the
Dalecarnians on all holidays. For the first time he asked her to go
with him to church, and for the first time she was in the mood to
gratify him. Hitherto, she had resolved, come what might, never to
set foot within that dangerous spot, but on this, of all days, should
she and Olaf worship apart? Had she not a sweet secret to whisper in
his ear that would make him love her better than ever, and would it
be so very great a sin just for that once to kneel with him? So with
her heart throbbing beneath her new costume, the prettiest little
peasant of the whole picturesque scene, she entered the church with
mingled curiosity and fear. Watching Olaf, to do as he did, she stood,
with folded hands, to utter, silently, a few words of prayer, then
seating herself, she cast timid glances about her. The aspect of the
congregation was earnest and reverent. So many rosy, blonde children
she never had seen, and coming back from higher thoughts to every-day
matters, especially to the subject that at this time lay near her
heart, she hoped her little daughter--for surely it was to be a little
daughter--might be just like a fair, sweet child who sat opposite,
with large blue eyes like Olaf's, and hair almost silvery in its soft
beauty. And then she smiled to herself to think how quaint and charming
her child should look in a little costume of its own, embroidered with
her own hands; but after all, would it not be best to have a boy? would
not Olaf like a boy? Of course he would! Then it should be a boy tall
and strong and ruddy; not the slender, dark-eyed little fellow she
had pictured to herself in years gone by, when dreaming of a home and
children, but a real Swedish yeoman, with buckles on his shoes and a
picturesque holiday suit like his father's. She laughed as this image
presented itself to her imagination: a little low laugh, but Olaf heard
it, and turned quickly and looked in her face. Tears of vexation filled
her eyes. "Oh, Olaf," she whispered to herself, "you would forgive me
if you knew why I laughed, I am sure you would!" Olaf's countenance was
serious, but he looked down kindly on his little wife, who sat abashed
beneath his glance, recalling her wandering thoughts.
"Here I have been trying so long to convert him," she said to herself,
"and after all he is far better than I am. Nothing could make _him_
laugh in church!" Thus humbled, Viola entered into the service with all
her heart, and listened to the sermon with eager attention, striving to
catch its meaning, though only able to do so in a dim and misty way, so
new was the language. There were many old people in the congregation,
some of whom slept through the whole service, while others coughed;
there was also no small variety of babies, who cried whenever they saw
fit, and were pacified with onions by their mothers.
"I never will bring my baby to church," thought Viola, "and on no
account will I feed it with onions! But here I am again, as wicked as
ever, and not listening to the sermon at all. Ah, I will pinch myself
black-and-blue till I learn to fix my thoughts better! Oh, Jesus--the
Jesus Olaf loves--come and help me to be good!"
This prayer went forth from the very depths of her heart, and an
answer came at once. It seemed as if scales fell from her eyes at
that moment, and she felt her soul united to Olaf's and those of the
true souls about her; felt the points of union and forgot the points
of difference, and with all the warmth of her nature, gave herself to
Christ. Ever after, this beautiful Sunday lived in her mind and in that
of Olaf's as the bright spot in their lives, for thenceforth there was
no discussion, no 'my religion,' and 'thy religion,' but a gradual,
quiet union of belief and practice.
"There's the lunch-bell!" said Mrs. Grey, as Laura finished the last
sentence. "We'll hear the rest after we have sustained ourselves with
oysters and other creature comforts. Gabrielle, my dear, please don't
drag on your father so; you may love him to your heart's content, but
you needn't eat him up."
Gabrielle would once have fired up at even as good-humored banter as
this, and Frank was astonished to see her loosen the hold she had on
his arm, and let him follow his mother's significant glance, and offer
it to his wife.
After lunch there was an hour with the little ones, and any amount of
fun and frolic, headed by the Rev. Cyril, whose specialty it was to
be a bear, and go round, on all-fours, after a shrieking, laughing,
scampering crowd.
At length, order was restored, the family group reassembled, and Laura
continued her story.