Balholm, the loveliest of all the places on the Sogne Fjord, is perhaps
the quietest place on earth. There is a hotel, kept by two most
delightful Norwegian brothers; there is a bathing-house, a minute
landing-stage, and a sprinkling of little wooden cottages with red-tiled
roofs. The only approach is by water; no dusty high-road is to be found,
no carts and carriages rumble past; if you want rest and quiet, you have
only to seek it on the mountains or by the shore; if you want amusement,
you have only to join the merry Norwegians in the _salon_, who are
always ready to sing or to play, to dance or to talk, or, if
weather-bound, to play games with the zest and animation of children.
Even so limp a specimen of humanity as Cyril Morgan found that, after
all, existence in this primitive region had its charms, while Blanche
said, quite truthfully, that she had never enjoyed herself so much in
her life. There was to her a charming piquancy about both place and
people; and although she was well accustomed to love and admiration, she
found that Frithiof was altogether unlike the men she had hitherto met
in society; there was about him something strangely fresh—he seemed to
harmonize well with the place, and he made all the other men of whom she
could think seem ordinary and prosaic. As for Frithiof he made no secret
of his love for her, it was apparent to all the world—to the
light-hearted Norwegians, who looked on approvingly; to Cyril Morgan,
who wondered what on earth Blanche could see in such an unsophisticated
boy; to Mr. Morgan, who, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, remarked
that there was no help for it—it was Blanche’s way; to Roy Boniface, who
thought the two were well matched, and gave them his good wishes; and to
Cecil, who, as she watched the two a little wistfully, said in her
secret heart what could on no account have been said to any living
being, “I hope, oh, I hope she cares for him enough!”
One morning, a little tired with the previous day’s excursion to the
Suphelle Brae, they idled away the sunny hours on the fjord, Frithiof
rowing, Swanhild lying at full length in the bow with Lillo mounting
guard over her, and Blanche, Sigrid, and Cecil in the stern.
“You have been all this time at Balholm and yet have not seen King
Bele’s grave!” Frithiof had exclaimed in answer to Blanche’s inquiry.
“Look, here it is, just a green mound by that tree.”
“Isn’t it odd,” said Sigrid dreamily, “to think that we are just in the
very place where the Frithiof Saga was really lived?”
“But I thought it was only a legend,” said Cecil.
“Oh, no,” said Frithiof, “the Sagas are not legends, but true stories
handed down by word of mouth.”
“Then I wish you would hand down your saga to us by word of mouth,” said
Blanche, raising her sweet eyes to his. “I shall never take the trouble
to read it for myself in some dry, tiresome book. Tell us the story of
Frithiof now as we drift along in the boat with his old home Framnaes in
sight.”
“I do not think I can tell it really well,” he said: “but I can just
give you the outline of it:
“Frithiof was the only son of a wealthy yeoman who owned land at
Framnaes. His father was a great friend of King Bele, and the king
wished that his only daughter Ingeborg should be educated by the same
wise man who taught Frithiof, so you see it happened that as children
Frithiof and Ingeborg were always together, and by and by was it not
quite natural that they should learn to love each other? It happened
just so, and Frithiof vowed that, although he was only the son of a
yeoman, nothing should separate them or make him give her up. It then
happened that King Bele died, and Frithiof’s father, his great friend,
died at the same time. Then Frithiof went to live at Framnaes over
yonder; he had great possessions, but the most useful were just these
three; a wonderful sword, a wonderful bracelet, and a wonderful ship
called the ‘Ellida,’ which had been given to one of his Viking ancestors
by the sea-god. But though he had all these things, and was the most
powerful man in the kingdom, yet he was always sad, for he could not
forget the old days with Ingeborg. So one day he crossed this fjord to
Bele’s grave, close to Balholm, where Ingeborg’s two brothers Helge and
Halfdan were holding an assembly of the people, and he boldly asked for
Ingeborg’s hand. Helge the King was furious, and rejected him with
scorn, and Frithiof, who would not allow even a king to insult him, drew
his sword and with one blow smote the King’s shield, which hung on a
tree, in two pieces. Soon after this good King Ring of the far North,
who had lost his wife, became a suitor for Ingeborg’s hand; but Helge
and Halfdan insulted his messengers and a war was the consequence. When
Frithiof heard the news of the war he was sitting with his friend at a
game of chess; he refused to help Helge and Halfdan, but knowing that
Ingeborg had been sent for safety to the sacred grove of Balder, he went
to see her in the ‘Ellida,’ though there was a law that whoever ventured
to approach the grove by water should be put to death. Now Ingeborg had
always loved him and she agreed to be betrothed to him, and taking leave
of her, Frithiof went with all haste to tell her brothers. This time
also there was a great assembly at Bele’s grave, and again Frithiof
asked for the hand of Ingeborg, and promised that, if Helge would
consent to their betrothal, he would fight for him. But Helge, instead
of answering him, asked if he had not been to the sacred grove of Balder
contrary to the law? Then all the people shouted to him, ‘Say no,
Frithiof! Say no, and Ingeborg is yours.’ But Frithiof said that though
his happiness hung on that one word he would not tell a lie, that in
truth he had been to Balder’s Temple, but that his presence had not
defiled it, that he and Ingeborg had prayed together and had planned
this offer of peace. But the people forsook him, and King Helge banished
him until he should bring back the tribute due from Angantyr of the
Western Isles; and every one knew that if he escaped with his life on
such an errand it would be a wonder. Once again Frithiof saw Ingeborg,
and he begged her to come with him in his ship the ‘Ellida,’ but
Ingeborg, though she loved him, thought that she owed obedience to her
brothers, and they bade each other farewell; but before he went Frithiof
clasped on her arm the wonderful bracelet. So then they parted, and
Frithiof sailed away and had more adventures than I can tell you, but at
last he returned with the tribute money, and now he thought Ingeborg
would indeed be his. But when he came in sight of Framnaes, he found
that his house and everything belonging to him had been burned to the
ground.”
“No, no, Frithiof; there was his horse and his dog left,” corrected
Sigrid. “Don’t you remember how they came up to him?”
“So they did, but all else was gone; and, worst of all, Ingeborg, they
told him, had been forced by her brothers to marry King Ring, who, if
she had not become his wife, would have taken the kingdom from Helge and
Halfdan. Then Frithiof was in despair, and cried out, ‘Who dare speak to
me of the fidelity of women?’ And it so happened that that very day was
Midsummer-day, and he knew that King Helge, Ingeborg’s brother, would be
in the Temple of Balder. He sought him out, and went straight up to him
and said, ‘You sent me for the lost tribute and I have gained it, but
either you or I must die. Come, fight me! Think of Framnaes that you
burned. Think of Ingeborg whose life you have spoiled!’ And then in
great wrath he flung the tribute-money at Helge’s head, and Helge fell
down senseless. Just then Frithiof caught sight of the bracelet he had
given Ingeborg on the image of Balder, and he tore it off, but in so
doing upset the image, which fell into the flames on the altar. The fire
spread, and spread so that at last the whole temple was burned, and all
the trees of the grove. Next day King Helge gave chase to Frithiof, but
luckily in the night Frithiof’s friend had scuttled all the King’s
ships, and so his effort failed, and Frithiof sailed out to sea in the
‘Ellida.’ Then he became a Viking, and lived a hard life, and won many
victories. At last he came home to Norway and went to King Ring’s court
at Yule-tide, disguised as an old man; but they soon found out that he
was young and beautiful, and he doffed his disguise, and Ingeborg
trembled as she recognized him. Ring knew him not, but liked him well,
and made him his guest. One day he saved Ring when his horse and sledge
had fallen into the water. But another day it so happened that they went
out hunting together, and Ring being tired fell asleep, while Frithiof
kept guard over him. As he watched, a raven came and sung to him, urging
him to kill the King; but a white bird urged him to flee from
temptation, and Frithiof drew his sword and flung it far away out of
reach. Then the King opened his eyes, and told Frithiof that for some
time he had known him, and that he honored him for resisting temptation.
Frithiof, however, felt that he could no longer bear to be near
Ingeborg, since she belonged not to him, and soon he came to take leave
of her and her husband. But good King Ring said that the time of his own
death was come, and he asked Frithiof to take his kingdom and Ingeborg,
and to be good to his son. Then he plunged his sword in his breast, and
so died. Before long the people met to elect a new king, and would have
chosen Frithiof, but he would only be regent till Ring’s son should be
of age. Then Frithiof went away to his father’s grave, and prayed to
Balder, and he built a wonderful new temple for the god, but still peace
did not come to him. And the priest told him that the reason of this was
because he still kept anger and hatred in his heart toward Ingeborg’s
brothers. Helge was dead, but the priest prayed him to be reconciled to
Halfdan. They were standing thus talking in the new temple when Halfdan
unexpectedly appeared, and when he caught sight of his foe, he turned
pale and trembled. But Frithiof, who for the first time saw that
forgiveness is greater than vengeance, walked up to the altar, placed
upon it his sword and shield, and returning, held out his hand to
Halfdan, and the two were reconciled. At that moment there entered the
temple one dressed as a bride, and Frithiof lifted up his eyes and saw
that it was Ingeborg herself. And Halfdan, his pride of birth forgotten
and his anger conquered by his foe’s forgiveness, led his sister to
Frithiof and gave her to be his wife, and in the new Temple of Balder
the Good the lovers received the blessing of the priest.”
“How well you tell it! It is a wonderful story,” said Blanche; and there
was real, genuine pleasure in her dark eyes as she looked across at him.
It was such a contrast to her ordinary life, this quiet Norway, where
all was so simple and true and trustworthy, where no one seemed to
strain after effects. And there was something in Frithiof’s strength,
and spirit, and animation which appealed to her greatly. “My Viking is
adorable!” she used to say to herself; and gradually there stole into
her manner toward him a sort of tender reverence. She no longer teased
him playfully, and their talks together in those long summer days became
less full of mirth and laughter, but more earnest and absorbing.
Cecil saw all this, and she breathed more freely. “Certainly she loves
him,” was her reflection.
Sigrid, too, no longer doubted; indeed, Blanche had altogether won her
heart, and somehow, whenever they were together, the talk always drifted
round to Frithiof’s past, or Frithiof’s future, or Frithiof’s opinions.
She was very happy about it, for she felt sure that Blanche would be a
charming sister-in-law, and love and hope seemed to have developed
Frithiof in a wonderful way; he had suddenly grown manly and
considerate, nor did Sigrid feel, as she had feared, that his new love
interfered with his love for her.
They were bright days for every one, those days at Balholm, with their
merry excursions to the priest’s garden and the fir-woods, to the saeter
on the mountain-side, and to grand old Munkeggen, whose heights towered
above the little wooden hotel. Herr Falck, who had joined them toward
the end of the week, and who climbed Munkeggen as energetically as any
one, was well pleased to see the turn affairs had taken; and every one
was kind, and discreetly left Frithiof and Blanche to themselves as they
toiled up the mountain-side; indeed, Knut, the landlord’s brother, who
as usual had courteously offered his services as guide, was so
thoughtful for the two lovers who were lingering behind, that he
remorselessly hurried up a stout old American lady, who panted after
him, to that “Better resting-place,” which he always insisted was a
little further on.
“Will there be church to-morrow?” asked Blanche, as they rested
half-way. “I should so like to go to a Norwegian service.”
“There will be service at some church within reach,” said Frithiof; “but
I do not much advise you to go; it will be very hot, and the place will
be packed.”
“Why? Are you such a religious people?”
“The peasants are,” he replied. “And of course the women. Church-going
and religion, that is for women; we men do not need that sort of thing.”
She was a little startled by his matter-of-fact, unabashed tone.
“What, are you an agnostic? an atheist?” she exclaimed.
“No, no, not at all,” he said composedly. “I believe in a good
Providence but with so much I am quite satisfied, you see. What does one
need with more? To us men religion, church-going, is—is—how do you call
it in English? I think you say ‘An awful bore,’ Is it not so?”
The slang in foreign accent was irresistible. She was a little shocked,
but she could not help laughing.
“How you Norwegians speak out!” she exclaimed. “Many Englishmen feel
that, but few would say it so plainly.”
“So! I thought an Englishman was nothing if not candid. But for me I
feel no shame. What more would one have than to make the most of life?
That is my religion. I hear that in England there is a book to ask
whether life is worth living? For me I can’t understand that sort of
thing. It is a question that would never have occurred to me. Only to
live is happiness enough. Life is such a very good thing. Do you not
agree?”
“Sometimes,” she said, rather wistfully.
“Only sometimes? No, no, always—to the last breath!” cried Frithiof.
“You say that because things are as you like; because you are happy,”
said Blanche.
“It is true, I am very happy,” he replied. “Who would not be happy
walking with you?”
Something in his manner frightened her a little. She went on
breathlessly and incoherently.
“You wouldn’t say that life is a very good thing if you were like our
poor people in East London, for instance.”
“Indeed, no,” he said gravely. “That must be a great blot on English
life. Here in Norway we have no extremes. No one is very poor, and our
richest men have only what would be counted in England a moderate
income.”
“Perhaps that is why you are such a happy people.”
“Perhaps,” said Frithiof, but he felt little inclined to consider the
problem of the distribution of wealth just then, and the talk drifted
round once more to that absorbing personal talk which was much more
familiar to them.
At length the top of the mountain was reached, and a merry little picnic
ensued. Frithiof was the life of the party, and there was much drinking
of healths and clinking of glasses, and though the cold was intense
every one seemed to enjoy it, and to make fun of any sort of discomfort.
“Come!” said Sigrid to Cecil Boniface, “you and I must add a stone to
the cairn. Let us drag up this great one and put it on the top together
in memory of our friendship.”
They stood laughing and panting under the shelter of the cairn when the
stone was deposited, the merry voices of the rest of the party floating
back to them.
“Do you not think we are dreadful chatterers, we Norwegians?” said
Sigrid.
“I think you are delightful,” said Cecil simply.
Something in her manner touched and pleased Sigrid. She had grown to
like this quiet English girl. They were silent for some minutes, looking
over that wonderful expanse of blue fjords and hoary mountains, flecked
here and there on their somber heights by snow-drifts. Far down below
them a row-boat could be seen on the water, looking scarcely bigger than
the head of a pin: and as Cecil watched the lovely country steeped in
the golden sunshine of that summer afternoon, thoughts of the Frithiof
Saga came thronging through her mind, till it almost seemed to her that
in another moment she should see the dragon ship the “Ellida,” winging
her way over the smooth blue waters.
Knut suggested before long that if they were to be home in time for
supper it might be best to start at once, and the merry party broke up
into little groups. Herr Falck was deep in conversation with Mr. Morgan,
Cyril and Florence as usual kept to themselves, Knut piloted the
American lady in advance of the others, while Roy Boniface joined his
sister and Sigrid, pausing on the way for a little snow-balling in a
great snowdrift just below the summit. Little Swanhild hesitated for a
moment, longing to walk with Blanche, for whom she had formed the sort
of adoring attachment with which children of her age often honor some
grown-up girl; but she was laughingly carried off by some good-natured
friends from Bergen, who divined her intentions, and once more Frithiof
and Blanche were left alone.
“And you must really go on Monday?” asked Frithiof, with a sigh.
“Well,” she said, glancing up at him quickly, “I have been very
troublesome to you, I’m sure—always needing help in climbing! You will
be glad to get rid of me, though you are too polite to tell me so.”
“How can you say such things?” he exclaimed, and again something in his
manner alarmed her a little. “You know—you must know what these days
have been to me.”
The lovely color flooded her cheeks, and she spoke almost at random.
“After all, I believe I should do better if I trusted to my alpenstock!”
And laughingly she began to spring down the rough descent, a little
proud of her own grace and agility, and a little glad to baffle and
tease him for a few minutes.
“Take care! take care!” cried Frithiof, hurrying after her. Then, with a
stifled cry, he sprang forward to rescue her, for the alpenstock had
slipped on a stone, and she was rolling down the steep incline. Even in
the terrible moment itself he had time to think of two distinct
dangers—she might strike her head against one of the bowlders, or, worse
thought still, might be unchecked, and fall over that side of Munkeggen
which was almost precipitous. How he managed it he never realized, but
love seemed to lend him wings, and the next thing he knew was that he
was kneeling on the grass only two or three feet from the sheer
cliff-like side, with Blanche in his arms.
“Are you hurt?” he questioned breathlessly.
“No,” she replied, trembling with excitement. “Not hurt at all, only
shaken and startled.”
He lifted her a little further from the edge. For a minute she lay
passively, then she looked up into his eyes.
“How strong you are,” she said, “and how cleverly you caught me! Yet now
that it is over you look quite haggard and white. I am really not hurt
at all. It punished me well for thinking I could get on without you. You
see I couldn’t!” and a lovely, tender smile dawned in her eyes.
She sat up and took off her hat, smoothing back her disordered hair. A
sort of terror seized Frithiof that in another minute she would propose
going on, and, urged by this fear, he spoke rapidly and impetuously.
“If only I might always serve you!” he cried. “Oh, Blanche, I love you!
I love you! Will you not trust yourself to me?”
Blanche had received already several offers of marriage; they had been
couched in much better terms, but they had lacked the passionate ardor
of Frithiof’s manner. All in a moment she was conquered; she could not
even make a feint of resistance, but just put her hand in his.
“I will always trust you,” she faltered.
Then, as she felt his strong arm round her and his kisses on her cheek,
there flashed through her mind a description she had once read of—
“a strong man from the North,
Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous gray.”
It was a love worth having, she thought to herself; a love to be proud
of!
“But Frithiof,” she began, after a timeless pause, “we must keep our
secret just for a little while. You see my father is not here, and—”
“Let me write to him and ask his consent,” exclaimed Frithiof.
“No, no, do not write. Come over to England in October and see him
yourself, that will be so much better.”
“Must we wait so long?” said Frithiof, his face clouding.
“It is only a few weeks; papa will not be at home till then. Every one
is away from London, you know. Don’t look so anxious; I do not know your
face when it isn’t happy—you were never meant to be grave. As for papa,
I can make him do exactly what I like, you need not be afraid that he
will not consent. Come! I have promised to trust to you, and yet you
doubt me.”
“Doubt you!” he cried. “Never! I trust you, before all the world; and if
you tell me to wait—why then—I must obey.”
“How I love you for saying that,” cried Blanche, clinging to him. “To
think that you who are so strong should say that to me! It seems
wonderful. But indeed, indeed, you need not doubt me. I love you with my
whole heart. I love you as I never thought it possible to love.”
Frithiof again clasped her in his arms, and there came to his mind the
sweet words of Uhland:
“Gestorben war ich
Vor Liebeswonn,
Begraben lag ich
In Ihren Armen;
Erwechet ward ich
Von Ihren Küssen,
Den Himmel sah ich
In Ihren Augen.”