Warm and gentle as it is, June often comes to the fjord-valleys of
Norway with the voice and the strength of a giant. The glaciers
totter and groan, as if in anger at their own weakness, and send huge
avalanches of stones and ice down into the valleys. The rivers swell and
rush with vociferous brawl out over the mountainsides, and a thousand
tiny brooks join in the general clamor, and dance with noisy chatter
over the moss-grown birch-roots. But later, when the struggle is at an
end, and June has victoriously seated herself upon her throne, her voice
becomes more richly subdued and brings rest and comfort to the ear and
to the troubled heart. It was while the month was in this latter mood
that Brita and her son entered once more the valley whence, twenty-five
years ago, they had fled. Many strange, turbulent emotions stirred the
mother’s bosom, as she saw again the great snow-capped mountains, and
the calm, green valley, her childhood’s home, lying so snugly sheltered
in their mighty embrace. Even Thomas’s breast was moved with vaguely
sympathetic throbs, as this wondrous scene spread itself before him.
They soon succeeded in hiring a farm-house, about half an hour’s walk
from Blakstad, and, according to Brita’s wish, established themselves
there for the summer. She had known the people well, when she was young,
but they never thought of identifying her with the merry maid, who had
once startled the parish by her sudden flight; and she, although she
longed to open her heart to them, let no word fall to betray her real
character. Her conscience accused her of playing a false part, but for
her son’s sake she kept silent.
Then, one day,--it was the second Sunday after their arrival,--she rose
early in the morning, and asked Thomas to accompany her on a walk up
through the valley. There was Sabbath in the air; the soft breath of
summer, laden with the perfume of fresh leaves and field-flowers,
gently wafted into their faces. The sun glittered in the dewy grass, the
crickets sung with a remote voice of wonder, and the air seemed to be
half visible, and moved in trembling wavelets on the path before them.
Resting on her son’s arm, Brita walked slowly up through the flowering
meadows; she hardly knew whither her feet bore her, but her heart
beat violently, and she often was obliged to pause and press her hands
against her bosom, as if to stay the turbulent emotions.
“You are not well, mother,” said the son. “It was imprudent in me to
allow you to exert yourself in this way.”
“Let us sit down on this stone,” answered she. “I shall soon be better.
Do not look so anxiously at me. Indeed, I am not sick.”
He spread his light summer coat on the stone and carefully seated her.
She lifted her veil and raised her eyes to the large red-roofed mansion,
whose dark outlines drew themselves dimly on the dusky background of the
pine forest. Was he still alive, he whose life-hope she had wrecked, he
who had once driven her out into the night with all but a curse upon his
lips? How would he receive her, if she were to return? Ah, she knew him,
and she trembled at the very thought of meeting him. But was not the
guilt hers? Could she depart from this valley, could she die in peace,
without having thrown herself at his feet and implored his forgiveness?
And there, on the opposite side of the valley, lay the home of him who
had been the cause of all her misery. What had been his fate, and did he
still remember those long happy summer days, ah! so long, long ago? She
had dared to ask no questions of the people with whom she lived, but
now a sudden weakness had overtaken her, and she felt that to-day must
decide her fate; she could no longer bear this torture of uncertainty.
Thomas remained standing at her side and looked at her with anxiety
and wonder. He knew that she had concealed many things from him, but
whatever her reasons might be, he was confident that they were just and
weighty. It was not for him to question her about what he might have no
right to know. He felt as if he had never loved her as in this
moment, when she seemed to be most in need of him, and an overwhelming
tenderness took possession of his heart. He suddenly stooped down, took
her pale, thin face between his hands and kissed her. The long pent-up
emotion burst forth in a flood of tears; she buried her face in her lap
and wept long and silently. Then the church-bells began to peal down in
the valley, and the slow mighty sound floated calmly and solemnly up to
them. How many long-forgotten memories of childhood and youth did
they not wake in her bosom--memories of the time when the merry
Glitter-Brita, decked with her shining brooches, wended her way to the
church among the gayly-dressed lads and maidens of the parish?
A cluster of white-stemmed birches threw its shadow over the stone where
the penitent mother was sitting, and the tall grass on both sides of
the path nearly hid her from sight. Presently the church-folk began to
appear, and Brita raised her head and drew her veil down over her face.
No one passed without greeting the strangers, and the women and maidens,
according to old fashion, stopped and courtesied. At last, there came
an old white-haired man, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged woman. His
whole figure was bent forward, and he often stopped and drew his breath
heavily.
“Oh, yes, yes,” he said, ill a hoarse, broken voice, as he passed before
them, “age is gaining on me fast. I can’t move about any more as of old.
But to church I must this day. God help me! I have done much wrong and
need to pray for forgiveness.”
“You had better sit down and rest, father,” said the woman. “Here is a
stone, and the fine lady, I am sure, will allow a weak old man to sit
down beside her.”
Thomas rose and made a sign to the old man to take his seat.
“O yes, yes,” he went on murmuring, as if talking to himself. “Much
wrong--much forgiveness. God help us all--miserable sinners. He who
hateth not father and mother--and daughter is not worthy of me. O,
yes--yes--God comfort us all. Help me up, Grimhild. I think I can move
on again, now.”
Thomas, of course, did not understand a word of what he said, but seeing
that he wished to rise, he willingly offered his assistance, supported
his arm and raised him.
“Thanks to you, young man,” said the peasant. “And may God reward your
kindness.”
And the two, father and daughter, moved on, slowly and laboriously, as
they had come. Thomas stood following them with his eyes, until a low,
half-stifled moan suddenly called him to his mother’s side. Her frame
trembled violently.
“Mother, mother,” implored he, stooping over her, “what has happened?
Why are you no more yourself?”
“Ah, my son, I can bear it no longer,” sobbed she. “God forgive me--thou
must know it all.”
He sat down at her side and drew her closely up to him and she hid her
face on his bosom. There was a long silence, only broken by the loud
chirruping of the crickets.
“My son,” she began at last, still hiding her face, “thou art a child of
guilt.”
“That has been no secret to me, mother,” answered he, gravely and
tenderly, “since I was old enough to know what guilt was.”
She quickly raised her head, and a look of amazement, of joyous
surprise, shone through the tears that veiled her eyes. She could read
nothing but filial love and confidence in those grave, manly features,
and she saw in that moment that all her doubts had been groundless, that
her long prayerful struggle had been for naught.
“I brought thee into the world nameless,” she whispered, “and thou hast
no word of reproach for me?”
“With God’s help, I am strong enough to conquer a name for myself,
mother,” was his answer.
It was the very words of her own secret wish, and upon his lips they
sounded like a blessed assurance, like a miraculous fulfillment of her
motherly prayer.
“Still, another thing, my child,” she went on in a more confident voice.
“This is thy native land,--and the old man who was just sitting here at
my side was--my father.”
And there, in the shadow of the birch-trees, in the summer stillness of
that hour, she told him the story of her love, of her flight, and of the
misery of these long, toilsome five and twenty years.
Late in the afternoon, Brita and her son were seen returning to
the farm-house. A calm, subdued happiness beamed from the mother’s
countenance; she was again at peace with the world and herself, and her
heart was as light as in the days of her early youth. But her bodily
strength had given out, and her limbs almost refused to support her. The
strain upon her nerves and the constant effort had hitherto enabled
her to keep up, but now, when that strain was removed, exhausted nature
claimed its right. The next day--she could not leave her bed, and
with every hour her strength failed. A physician was sent for. He gave
medicine, but no hope. He shook his head gravely, as he went, and both
mother and son knew what that meant.
Toward evening, Bjarne Blakstad was summoned, and came at once. Thomas
left the room, as the old man entered, and what passed in that hour
between father and daughter, only God knows. When the door was again
opened, Brita’s eyes shone with a strange brilliancy, and Bjarne lay on
his knees before the bed, pressing her hand convulsively between both of
his.
“This is my son, father,” said she, in a language which her son did not
understand; and a faint smile of motherly pride and happiness flitted
over her pale features. “I would give him to thee in return for what
thou hast lost; but God has laid his future in another land.”
Bjarne rose, grasped his grandson’s hand, and pressed it; and two heavy
tears ran down his furrowed cheeks. “Alas,” murmured he, “my son, that
we should meet thus.”
There they stood, bound together by the bonds of blood, but, alas, there
lay a world between them.
All night they sat together at the dying woman’s bedside. Not a word
was spoken. Toward morning, as the sun stole into the darkened chamber,
Brita murmured their names, and they laid their hands in hers.
“God be praised,” whispered she, scarcely audibly, “I have found you
both--my father and my son.” A deep pallor spread over her countenance.
She was dead.
Two days later, when the body was laid out, Thomas stood alone in the
room. The windows were covered with white sheets, and a subdued light
fell upon the pale, lifeless countenance. Death had dealt gently with
her, she seemed younger than before, and her light wavy hair fell softly
over the white forehead. Then there came a middle-aged man, with a dull
eye, and a broad forehead, and timidly approached the lonely mourner.
He walked on tip-toe and his figure stooped heavily. For a long while
he stood gazing at the dead body, then he knelt down at the foot of the
coffin, and began to sob violently. At last he arose, took two steps
toward the young man, paused again, and departed silently as he had
come. It was Halvard.
Close under the wall of the little red-painted church, they dug the
grave; and a week later her father was laid to rest at his daughter’s
side.
But the fresh winds blew over the Atlantic and beckoned the son to new
fields of labor in the great land of the future.