HE was born in the houseman’s lodge; she in the great mansion. He did
not know who his father was; she was the daughter of Grim of Skogli, and
she was the only daughter he had. They were carried to baptism on
the same day, and he was called Truls, because they had to call him
something; she received the name of Borghild, because that had been the
name of every eldest born daughter in the family for thirty generations.
They both cried when the pastor poured the water on their heads; his
mother hushed him, blushed, and looked timidly around her; but the woman
who carried Borghild lifted her high up in her arms so that everybody
could see her, and the pastor smiled benignly, and the parishioners said
that they had never seen so beautiful a child. That was the way in which
they began life--he as a child of sin, she as the daughter of a mighty
race.
They grew up together. She had round cheeks and merry eyes, and her lips
were redder than the red rose. He was of slender growth, his face was
thin and pale, and his eyes had a strange, benumbed gaze, as if they
were puzzling themselves with some sad, life-long riddle which they
never hoped to solve. On the strand where they played the billows came
and went, and they murmured faintly with a sound of infinite remoteness.
Borghild laughed aloud, clapped her hands and threw stones out into
the water, while he sat pale and silent, and saw the great white-winged
sea-birds sailing through the blue ocean of the sky.
“How would you like to live down there in the deep green water?” she
asked him one day, as they sat watching the eider-ducks which swam and
dived, and stood on their heads among the sea-weeds.
“I should like it very well,” he answered, “if you would follow me.”
“No, I won’t follow you,” she cried. “It is cold and wet down in the
water. And I should spoil the ribbons on my new bodice. But when I grow
up and get big and can braid my hair, then I shall row with the young
lads to the church yonder on the headland, and there the old pastor will
marry me, and I shall wear the big silver crown which my mother wore
when she was married.”
“And may I go with you?” asked he, timidly.
“Yes, you may steer my boat and be my helmsman, or--you may be my
bridegroom, if you would like that better.”
“Yes, I think I should rather be your bridegroom,” and he gave her a
long, strange look which almost frightened her.
The years slipped by, and before Borghild knew it, she had grown into
womanhood. The down on Truls’s cheeks became rougher, and he, too, began
to suspect that he was no longer a boy. When the sun was late and the
breeze murmured in the great, dark-crowned pines, they often met by
chance, at the well, on the strand, or on the saeter-green. And the
oftener they met the more they found to talk about; to be sure, it was
she who did the talking, and he looked at her with his large wondering
eyes and listened. She told him of the lamb which had tumbled down
over a steep precipice and still was unhurt, of the baby who pulled
the pastor’s hair last Sunday during the baptismal ceremony, or of the
lumberman, Lars, who drank the kerosene his wife gave him for brandy,
and never knew the difference. But, when the milkmaids passed by, she
would suddenly forget what she had been saying, and then they sat gazing
at each other in silence. Once she told him of the lads who danced with
her at the party at Houg; and she thought she noticed a deeper color on
his face, and that he clinched both his fists and--thrust them into
his pockets. That set her thinking, and the more she thought, the more
curious she grew. He played the violin well; suppose she should ask him
to come and fiddle at the party her father was to give at the end of the
harvest. She resolved to do it, and he, not knowing what moved her,
gave his promise eagerly. It struck her, afterward, that she had done
a wicked thing, but, like most girls, she had not the heart to wrestle
with an uncomfortable thought; she shook it off and began to hum a
snatch of an old song.
“O’er the billows the fleet-footed storm-wind rode,
The billows blue are the merman’s abode,
So strangely that harp was sounding.”
The memory of old times came back to her, the memory of the morning long
years ago, when they sat together on the strand, and he said; “I think I
would rather be your bridegroom, Borghild.” The memory was sweet but it
was bitter too; and the bitterness rose and filled her heart. She threw
her head back proudly, and laughed a strange, hollow laugh. “A bastard’s
bride, ha, ha! A fine tale were that for the parish gossips.” A yellow
butterfly lighted on her arm, and with a fierce frown on her face she
caught it between her fingers. Then she looked pityingly on the dead
wings, as they lay in her hand, and murmured between her teeth: “Poor
thing! Why did you come in my way, unbidden?”
The harvest was rich, and the harvest party was to keep pace with the
harvest. The broad Skogli mansion was festively lighted (for it was
already late in September); the tall, straight tallow candles, stuck in
many-armed candlesticks, shone dimly through a sort of misty halo, and
only suffused the dusk with a faint glimmering of light. And every
time a guest entered, the flames of the candles flickered and twisted
themselves with the wind, struggling to keep erect. And Borghild’s
courage, too, rose and fell with the flickering motion of a flame which
wrestles with the wind. Whenever the latch clicked she lifted her eyes
and looked for Truls, and one moment she wished that she might never
see his face again, and in the next she sent an eager glance toward
the door. Presently he came, threw his fiddle on a bench, and with a
reckless air walked up to her and held out his hand. She hesitated to
return his greeting, but when she saw the deep lines of suffering in
his face, her heart went forward with a great tenderness toward him,
a tenderness such as one feels for a child who is sick, and suffers
without hope of healing. She laid her hand in his, and there it lay for
a while listlessly; for neither dared trust the joy which the sight of
the other enkindled. But when she tried to draw her hand away, he caught
it quickly, and with a sudden fervor of voice he said:
“The sight of you, Borghild, stills the hunger which is raging in my
soul. Beware that you do not play with a life, Borghild, even though it
be a worthless one.”
There was something so hopelessly sad in his words, that they stung her
to the quick. They laid bare a hidden deep in her heart, and she shrank
back st the sight of her own vileness. How could she repair the injury
she had done him? How could she heal the wound she had inflicted? A
number of guests came up to greet her and among them Syvert Stein, a
bold-looking young man, who, during that summer, had led her frequently
in the dance. He had a square face, strong features, and a huge crop of
towy hair. His race was far-famed for wit and daring.
“Tardy is your welcome, Borghild of Skogli,” quoth he. “But what a faint
heart does not give a bold hand can grasp, and what I am not offered I
take unbidden.”
So saying, he flung his arm about her waist, lifted her from the floor
and put her down in the middle of the room. Truls stood and gazed at
them with large, bewildered eyes. He tried hard to despise the braggart,
but ended with envying him.
“Ha, fiddler, strike up a tune that shall ring through marrow and bone,”
shouted Syvert Stein, who struck the floor with his heels and moved his
body to the measure of a spring-dance.
Truls still followed them with his eyes; suddenly he leaped up, and
a wild thought burned in his breast. But with an effort he checked
himself, grasped his violin, and struck a wailing chord of lament. Then
he laid his ear close to the instrument, as if he were listening to
some living voice hidden there within, ran warily with the bow over the
strings, and warbled, and caroled, and sang with maddening glee, and
still with a shivering undercurrent of woe. And the dusk which slept
upon the black rafters was quickened and shook with the weird sound;
every pulse in the wide hall beat more rapidly, and every eye kindled
with a bolder fire. Pressently{sic} a Strong male voice sang out to the
measure of the violin:
“Come, fairest maid, tread the dance with me;
O heigh ho!”
And a clear, tremulous treble answered:
“So gladly tread I the dance with thee;
O heigh ho!”
Truls knew the voices only too well; it was Syvert Stein and Borghild
who were singing a stave. [8]
Syvert--Like brier-roses thy red cheeks blush,
Borghild--And thine are rough like the thorny bush;
Both--An’ a heigho!
Syvert--So fresh and green is the sunny lea;
O heigh ho!
Borghild--The fiddle twangeth so merrily;
O heigh ho!
Syvert--So lightly goeth the lusty reel,
Borghild--And round we whirl like a spinning-wheel;
Both--An’ a heigho!
Syvert--Thine eyes are bright like the sunny fjord;
O heigh ho!
Borghild--And thine do flash like a Viking’s sword;
O heigh ho!
Syvert--So lightly trippeth thy foot along,
Borghild--The air is teeming with joyful song;
Both--An’ a heigh ho!
Syvert--Then fairest maid, while the woods are green,
O heigh ho!
Borghild--And thrushes sing the fresh leaves between;
O heigh ho!
Syvert--Come, let us dance in the gladsome day,
Borghild--Dance hate, and sorrow, and care away;
Both--An’ a heigh ho!
The stave was at an end. The hot and flushed dancers straggled over the
floor by twos and threes, and the big beer-horns were passed from hand
to hand. Truls sat in his corner hugging his violin tightly to
his bosom, only to do something, for he was vaguely afraid of
himself--afraid of the thoughts that might rise--afraid of the deed they
might prompt. He ran his fingers over his forehead, but he hardly
felt the touch of his own hand. It was as if something was dead within
him--as if a string had snapped in his breast, and left it benumbed and
voiceless.
Presently he looked up and saw Borghild standing before him; she held
her arms akimbo, her eyes shone with a strange light, and her features
wore an air of recklessness mingled with pity.
“Ah, Borghild, is it you?” said he, in a hoarse voice. “What do you want
with me? I thought you had done with me now.”
“You are a very unwitty fellow,” answered she, with a forced laugh. “The
branch that does not bend must break.”
She turned quickly on her heel and was lost in the crowd. He sat long
pondering on her words, but their meaning remained hidden to him. The
branch that does not bend must break. Was he the branch, and must he
bend or break? By-and-by he put his hands on his knees, rose with a
slow, uncertain motion, and stalked heavily toward the door. The fresh
night air would do him good. The thought breathes more briskly in God’s
free nature, under the broad canopy of heaven. The white mist rose from
the fields, and made the valley below appear like a white sea whose
nearness you feel, even though you do not see it. And out of the mist
the dark pines stretched their warning hands against the sky, and the
moon was swimming, large and placid, between silvery islands of cloud.
Truls began to beat his arms against his sides, and felt the warm blood
spreading from his heart and thawing the numbness of his limbs. Not
caring whither he went, he struck the path leading upward to the
mountains. He took to humming an old air which happened to come into his
head, only to try if there was life enough left in him to sing. It was
the ballad of Young Kirsten and the Merman:
“The billows fall and the billows swell,
In the night so lone,
In the billows blue doth the merman dwell,
And strangely that harp was sounding.”
He walked on briskly for a while, and, looking back upon the pain he had
endured but a moment ago, he found it quite foolish and irrational. An
absurd merriment took possession of him; but all the while he did
not know where his foot stepped; his head swam, and his pulse beat
feverishly. About midway between the forest and the mansion, where the
field sloped more steeply, grew a clump of birch-trees, whose slender
stems glimmered ghostly white in the moonlight. Something drove Truls to
leave the beaten road, and, obeying the impulse, he steered toward the
birches. A strange sound fell upon his ear, like the moan of one in
distress. It did not startle him; indeed, he was in a mood when nothing
could have caused him wonder. If the sky had suddenly tumbled down upon
him, with moon and all, he would have taken it as a matter of course.
Peering for a moment through the mist, he discerned the outline of a
human figure. With three great strides he reached the birch-tree; at
his feet sat Borghild rocking herself to and fro and weeping piteously.
Without a word he seated himself at her side and tried to catch a
glimpse of her face; but she hid it from him and went on sobbing. Still
there could be no doubt that it was Borghild--one hour ago so merry,
reckless, and defiant, now cowering at his feet and weeping like a
broken-hearted child.
“Borghild,” he said, at last, putting his arm gently about her waist,
“you and I, I think, played together when we were children.”
“So we did, Truls,” answered she, struggling with her tears.
“And as we grew up, we spent many a pleasant hour with each other.”
“Many a pleasant hour.”
She raised her head, and he drew her more closely to him.
“But since then I have done you a great wrong,” began she, after a
while.
“Nothing done that cannot yet be undone,” he took heart to answer.
It was long before her thoughts took shape, and, when at length they
did, she dared not give them utterance. Nevertheless, she was all the
time conscious of one strong desire, from which her conscience shrank as
from a crime; and she wrestled ineffectually with her weakness until her
weakness prevailed.
“I am glad you came,” she faltered. “I knew you would come. There was
something I wished to say to you.”
“And what was it, Borghild?”
“I wanted to ask you to forgive me--”
“Forgive you--”
He sprang up as if something had stung him.
“And why not?” she pleaded, piteously.
“Ah, girl, you know not what you ask,” cried he, with a sternness which
startled her. “If I had more than one life to waste--but you caress with
one hand and stab with the other. Fare thee well, Borghild, for here our
paths separate.”
He turned his back upon her and began to descend the slope.
“For God’s sake, stay, Truls,” implored she, and stretched her arms
appealingly toward him; “tell me, oh, tell me all.”
With a leap he was again at her side, stooped down over her, and, in a
hoarse, passionate whisper, spoke the secret of his life in her ear. She
gazed for a moment steadily into his face, then, in a few hurried words,
she pledged him her love, her faith, her all. And in the stillness of
that summer night they planned together their flight to a greater and
freer land, where no world-old prejudice frowned upon the union of two
kindred souls. They would wait in patience and silence until spring;
then come the fresh winds from the ocean, and, with them, the birds of
passage which awake the longings in the Norsemen’s breasts, and the
American vessels which give courage to many a sinking spirit, strength
to the wearied arm, hope to the hopeless heart.
During that winter Truls and Borghild seldom saw each other. The parish
was filled with rumors, and after the Christmas holiday it was told for
certain that the proud maiden of Skogli had been promised in marriage to
Syvert Stein. It was the general belief that the families had made the
match, and that Borghild, at least, had hardly had any voice in the
matter. Another report was that she had flatly refused to listen to any
proposal from that quarter, and that, when she found that resistance was
vain, she had cried three days and three nights, and refused to take any
food. When this rumor reached the pastor’s ear, he pronounced it an
idle tale; “for,” said he, “Borghild has always been a proper and
well-behaved maiden, and she knows that she must honor father and
mother, that it may be well with her, and she live long upon the land.”
But Borghild sat alone in her gable window and looked longingly toward
the ocean. The glaciers glittered, the rivers swelled, the buds of the
forest burst, and great white sails began to glimmer on the far western
horizon.
If Truls, the Nameless, as scoffers were wont to call him, had been a
greater personage in the valley, it would, no doubt, have shocked the
gossips to know that one fine morning he sold his cow, his gun and his
dog, and wrapped sixty silver dollars in a leathern bag, which he sewed
fast to the girdle he wore about his waist. That same night some one was
heard playing wildly up in the birch copse above the Skogli mansion; now
it sounded like a wail of distress, then like a fierce, defiant laugh,
and now again the music seemed to hush itself into a heart-broken,
sorrowful moan, and the people crossed themselves, and whispered: “Our
Father;” but Borghild sat at her gable window and listened long to the
weird strain. The midnight came, but she stirred not. With the hour
of midnight the music ceased. From the windows of hall and kitchen the
light streamed out into the damp air, and the darkness stood like a wall
on either side; within, maids and lads were busy brewing, baking, and
washing, for in a week there was to be a wedding on the farm.
The week went and the wedding came. Truls had not closed his eyes all
that night, and before daybreak he sauntered down along the beach and
gazed out upon the calm fjord, where the white-winged sea-birds whirled
in great airy surges around the bare crags. Far up above the noisy
throng an ospray sailed on the blue expanse of the sky, and quick as
thought swooped down upon a halibut which had ventured to take a peep
at the rising sun. The huge fish struggled for a moment at the water’s
edge, then, with a powerful stroke of its tail, which sent the spray
hissing through the air, dived below the surface. The bird of prey gave
a loud scream, flapped fiercely with its broad wings, and for several
minutes a thickening cloud of applauding ducks and seagulls and
showers of spray hid the combat from the observer’s eye. When the birds
scattered, the ospray had vanished, and the waters again glittered
calmly in the morning sun. Truls stood long, vacantly staring out upon
the scene of the conflict, and many strange thoughts whirled through his
head.
“Halloo, fiddler!” cried a couple of lads who had come to clear the
wedding boats, “you are early on foot to-day. Here is a scoop. Come on
and help us bail the boats.”
Truls took the scoop, and looked at it as if he had never seen such a
thing before; he moved about heavily, hardly knowing what he did, but
conscious all the while of his own great misery. His limbs seemed half
frozen, and a dull pain gathered about his head and in his breast--in
fact, everywhere and nowhere.
About ten o’clock the bridal procession descended the slope to the
fjord. Syvert Stein, the bridegroom, trod the earth with a firm, springy
step, and spoke many a cheery word to the bride, who walked, silent and
with downcast eyes, at his side. She wore the ancestral bridal crown on
her head, and the little silver disks around its edge tinkled and shook
as she walked. They hailed her with firing of guns and loud hurrahs
as she stepped into the boat; still she did not raise her eyes, but
remained silent. A small cannon, also an heir-loom in the family, was
placed amidships, and Truls, with his violin, took his seat in the prow.
A large solitary cloud, gold-rimmed but with thunder in its breast,
sailed across the sky and threw its shadow over the bridal boat as it
was pushed out from the shore, and the shadow fell upon the bride’s
countenance too; and when she lifted it, the mother of the bridegroom,
who sat opposite her, shrank back, for the countenance looked hard, as
if carved in stone--in the eyes a mute, hopeless appeal; on the lips a
frozen prayer. The shadow of thunder upon a life that was opening--it
was an ill omen, and its gloom sank into the hearts of the wedding
guests. They spoke in undertones and threw pitying glances at the bride.
Then at length Syvert Stein lost his patience.
“In sooth,” cried he, springing up from his seat, “where is to-day the
cheer that is wont to abide in the Norseman’s breast? Methinks I see but
sullen airs and ill-boding glances. Ha, fiddler, now move your strings
lustily! None of your funeral airs, my lad, but a merry tune that shall
sing through marrow and bone, and make the heart leap in the bosom.”
Truls heard the words, and in a slow, mechanical way he took the violin
out of its case and raised it to his chin. Syvert in the mean while put
a huge silver beer-jug to his mouth, and, pledging his guests, emptied
it even to the dregs. But the bride’s cheek was pale; and it was so
still in the boat that every man could hear his own breathing.
“Ha, to-day is Syvert Stein’s wedding-day!” shouted the bridegroom,
growing hot with wrath. “Let us try if the iron voice of the cannon can
wake my guests from their slumber.”
He struck a match and put it to the touch-hole of the cannon; a long
boom rolled away over the surface of the waters and startled the echoes
of the distant glaciers. A faint hurrah sounded from the nearest craft,
but there came no response from the bridal boat. Syvert pulled the
powder-horn from his pocket, laughed a wild laugh, and poured the whole
contents of the horn into the mouth of the cannon.
“Now may the devil care for his own,” roared he, and sprang up upon the
row-bench. Then there came a low murmuring strain as of wavelets that
ripple against a sandy shore. Borghild lifted her eyes, and they met
those of the fiddler.
“Ah, I think I should rather be your bridegroom,” whispered she, and a
ray of life stole into her stony visage.
And she saw herself as a little rosy-cheeked girl sitting at his side
on the beach fifteen years ago. But the music gathered strength from
her glance, and onward it rushed through the noisy years of boyhood,
shouting with wanton voice in the lonely glen, lowing with the cattle
on the mountain pastures, and leaping like the trout at eventide in the
brawling rapids; but through it all there ran a warm strain of boyish
loyalty and strong devotion, and it thawed her frozen heart; for she
knew that it was all for her and for her only. And it seemed such a
beautiful thing, this long faithful life, which through sorrow and joy,
through sunshine and gloom, for better for worse, had clung so fast to
her. The wedding guests raised their heads, and a murmur of applause ran
over the waters.
“Bravo!” cried the bridegroom. “Now at last the tongues are loosed.”
Truls’s gaze dwelt with tender sadness on the bride. Then came from the
strings some airy quivering chords, faintly flushed like the petals of
the rose, and fragrant like lilies of the valley; and they swelled with
a strong, awakening life, and rose with a stormy fullness until they
seemed on the point of bursting, when again they hushed themselves and
sank into a low, disconsolate whisper. Once more the tones stretched
out their arms imploringly, and again they wrestled despairingly with
themselves, fled with a stern voice of warning, returned once more,
wept, shuddered, and were silent.
“Beware that thou dost not play with a life!” sighed the bride, “even
though it be a worthless one.”
The wedding guests clapped their hands and shouted wildly against the
sky. The bride’s countenance burned with a strange feverish glow. The
fiddler arose in the prow of the boat, his eyes flamed, he struck the
strings madly, and the air trembled with melodious rapture. The voice
of that music no living tongue can interpret. But the bride fathomed its
meaning; her bosom labored vehemently, her lips quivered for an instant
convulsively, and she burst into tears. A dark suspicion shot through
the bridegroom’s mind. He stared intently upon the weeping Borghild then
turned his gaze to the fiddler, who, still regarding her, stood playing,
with a half-frenzied look and motion.
“You cursed wretch!” shrieked Syvert, and made a leap over two benches
to where Truls was standing. It came so unexpectedly that Truls had
no time to prepare for defense; so he merely stretched out the hand in
which he held the violin to ward off the blow which he saw was coming;
but Syvert tore the instrument from his grasp and dashed it against
the cannon, and, as it happened, just against the touch-hole. With a
tremendous crash something black darted through the air and a white
smoke brooded over the bridal boat. The bridegroom stood pale and
stunned. At his feet lay Borghild--lay for a moment still, as if
lifeless, then rose on her elbows, and a dark red current broke from her
breast. The smoke scattered. No one saw how it was done; but a moment
later Truls, the Nameless, lay kneeling at Borghild’s side.
“It WAS a worthless life, beloved,” whispered he, tenderly. “Now it is
at an end.”
And he lifted her up in his arms as one lifts a beloved child, pressed
a kiss on her pale lips, and leaped into the water. Like lead they fell
into the sea. A throng of white bubbles whirled up to the surface. A
loud wail rose from the bridal fleet, and before the day was at an end
it filled the valley; but the wail did not recall Truls, the Nameless,
or Borghild his bride.
What life denied them, would to God that death may yield them!