Although it was the middle of August, a bitterly cold wind blew round
the dreary little posting station of Hjerkin, on the Dovrefield, and at
the very time when Frithiof lay dying in the intolerable heat of London,
Sigrid, shivering with cold, paced drearily along the bleak mountain
road with her aunt. They had come to the Dovrefield a fortnight before
for the summer holiday, but the weather had been unfavorable, and away
from home, with nothing very particular to occupy their time, Fru
Grönvold and Sigrid seemed to jar upon each other more than ever.
Apparently the subject they were discussing was not at all to the girl’s
taste, for as they walked along there were two ominous little
depressions in her forehead, nor did her black fur hat entirely account
for the shadow that overspread her face.
“Yes,” said Fru Grönvold emphatically, “I am sorry to have to say such a
thing of you, Sigrid, but it really seems to me that you are playing the
part of the dog in the manger. You profess absolute indifference to
every man you meet, yet you go on absorbing attention, and standing in
Karen’s light, in a way which I assure you is very trying to me.”
Sigrid’s cheek flamed.
“I have done nothing to justify you in saying such a thing,” she said
angrily.
“What!” cried Fru Grönvold. “Did not that Swedish botanist talk to you
incessantly? Does not the English officer follow you about whenever he
has the opportunity?”
“The botanist talked because we had a subject in common,” replied
Sigrid. “And probably the officer prefers talking to me because my
English is more fluent than Karen’s.”
“And that I suppose was the reason that you must be the one to teach him
the _spring dans_? And the one to sing him the ‘Bridal Song of the
Hardanger’?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sigrid, with an impatient little stamp of the foot, “am
I to be forever thinking of this wretched scheming and match-making? Can
I not even try to amuse a middle-aged Englishman who is disappointed of
his reindeer, and finds himself stranded in a dreary little inn with a
handful of foreigners? I have only been courteous to him—nothing more;
and if I like talking to him it is merely because he comes from
England.”
“I don’t wish to be hard on you,” said Fru Grönvold, “but naturally I
have the feelings of a mother, and do not like to see Karen eclipsed. I
accuse you of nothing worse, my dear, than a slight forwardness—a little
deficiency in tact. There is no occasion for anger on your part.”
Sigrid bit her lip hard to keep back the retort that she longed to make,
and they walked in silence toward the little cluster of wooden buildings
on the hill-side, the lowest of which contained the bedrooms, while
further up the hill the kitchen and dining-room stood on one side of the
open courtyard, and on the other the prettily arranged public
sitting-room. In warm weather Hjerkin is a little paradise, but on this
windy day, under a leaden sky, it seemed the most depressing place on
earth.
“I shall go in and write to Frithiof,” said Sigrid, at length. And
escaping gladly from Fru Grönvold, she ran up to her room.
“Here we are at Hjerkin,” she wrote, “for a month, and it is more
desolate than I can describe to you, uncle and Oscar out shooting all
day long, and scarcely a soul to speak to, for most of the English have
been driven away by the bad weather, and two girls from Stockholm who
were here for their health are leaving this afternoon, unable to bear
the dullness any longer. If something doesn’t happen soon I think I
shall grow desperate. But surely something will happen. We can’t be
meant to go on in this wretched way, apart from each other. I am
disappointed that you think there is no chance of any opening for me in
London. If it were not for Swanhild I think I should try for work—any
sort of work except teaching—at Christiania. But I can’t bear to leave
her, and uncle would object to my trying for anything of the sort in
Bergen. I can’t help thinking of the old times when we were children,
and of the summer holidays then. Don’t you remember when we had the
island all to ourselves, and used to rush down the fir-hill, and
frighten poor old Gro?”
* * * * *
She stopped writing because the thought of those past days had blinded
her with tears, and because the longing for her father’s presence had
overwhelmed her; they had been so much to each other that there was not
an hour in the day when she did not miss him. The dreary wind howling
and whistling round the little wooden house seemed to harmonize only too
well with her sadness, and when the unwelcome supper-bell began to ring
she wrapped her shawl about her, and climbed the steep path to the
dining-room, slowly and reluctantly, with a look on her pale face which
it was sad to see in one so young.
Swanhild came dancing to meet her.
“Major Brown has got us such beautiful trout for supper, Sigrid, and
uncle says I may go out fishing, too, some day. And you’ll come with us,
wont you?”
“You had better take Karen,” said Sigrid listlessly. “You know I never
did care much for fishing. You shall catch them and I will eat them,”
she added, with a dreary little smile. And throughout supper she hardly
spoke, and at the first opportunity slipped away quietly, only, however,
to be pursued by Swanhild.
“What is the matter?” said the child, slipping her arm round her
sister’s waist. “Are you not coming to the sitting-room?”
“No,” said Sigrid, “I am tired, and it is so cold in there. I am going
into the kitchen to buy some stamps. Frithiof’s letter ought to go
to-morrow.”
As she spoke she opened the door of the roomy old kitchen, which is the
pride of Hjerkin. Its three windows were shaded by snowy muslin
curtains; its spotless floor was strewn with juniper; the walls, painted
a peacock-blue, were hung with bright dish-covers, warming-pans, quaint
old bellows and kitchen implements. There was a tall old clock in a
black and gold case, a pretty corner cupboard in shaded brown, and a
huge, old-fashioned cabinet with cunning little drawers and nooks and
corners, all painted in red and blue and green, with an amount of
gilding which gave it quite an Eastern look.
“Ah, how cozy the fire looks!” cried Swanhild, crossing over to the
curious old grate which filled the whole of one corner of the room, and
which certainly did look very tempting with its bright copper kettles
and saucepans all glowing in the ruddy light.
“Bless your heart,” said the kind old landlady, “sit down and warm
yourself.”
And one of the white-sleeved servant-girls brought a little chair which
stood by a long wooden settle, and put it close by the fire for the
child, and Sigrid, her purchase made, joined the little group, and sat
silently warming her hands, finding a sort of comfort in the mere
physical heat, and in the relief of being away from her aunt. The
landlady told Swanhild stories, and Sigrid listened dreamily, letting
her thoughts wander off now and then to Frithiof, or back into the far
past, or away into the future which looked so dreary. Still the kindness
of these people, and the interest and novelty of her glimpse into a
different sort of life, warmed her heart and cheered her a little.
Sitting there in the firelight she felt more at home than she had done
for many months.
“Come, Swanhild,” she said at last reluctantly, “it is ten o’clock, and
time you were in bed.”
And thanking the landlady for her kindness, the two sisters crossed over
the courtyard to the sitting-room, where Fru Grönvold was watching the
progress of a rubber in which Karen was Major Brown’s partner, and had
just incurred his wrath by revoking.
“Where in the world have you been?” said Fru Grönvold, knitting
vehemently. “We couldn’t think what had become of you both.”
“I went to the kitchen to get some stamps,” said Sigrid coldly. She
always resented her aunt’s questioning.
“And it was so lovely and warm in there,” said Swanhild gayly, “and Fru
Hjerkin has been telling me such beautiful stories about the Trolds. Her
mother really saw one, do you know.”
After this a cold good-night was exchanged, and Fru Grönvold’s brow grew
darker still when Major Brown called out in his hearty way:
“What, going so early, Miss Falck? We have missed you sadly to-night.”
Then, as she said something about the English mail, “Yes, yes, quite
right. And I ought to be writing home, too, instead of playing.”
“That means that he will not have another rubber,” thought Sigrid, as
she hurried down the hill to the _dépendence_, “and I shall be blamed
for it.”
She fell into a state of blank depression, and long after Swanhild was
fast asleep she sat struggling with the English letter, which, do what
she would, refused to have a cheerful tone forced into it.
“The only comfort is,” she thought, “that the worst has happened to us;
what comes now must be for the better. How the wind is raging round the
house and shrieking at the windows! And, oh, how dreary and wretched
this life is!”
And in very low spirits she blew out the candle, and lay down to sleep
as best she might in a bed which shook beneath her in the gale.
With much that was noble in Sigrid’s nature there was interwoven a
certain fault of which she herself was keenly conscious. She could love
a few with the most ardent and devoted love, but her sympathies were not
wide; to the vast majority of those she met she was absolutely
indifferent, and though naturally bright and courteous and desirous of
giving pleasure, yet she was too deeply reserved to depend at all on the
outer circle of friends; she liked them well enough, but it would not
greatly have troubled her had she never met them again. Very few had the
power to call out all the depths of tenderness, all the womanly
sweetness which really characterized her, while a great many repelled
her, and called out the harder side of her nature.
It was thus with Fru Grönvold. To her aunt, Sigrid was like an icicle,
and her hatred of the little schemes and hopes and anxieties which
filled Fru Grönvold’s mind blinded her to much that was worthy of all
admiration. However, like all the Falcks, Sigrid was conscientious, and
she had been struggling on through the spring and summer, making
spasmodic efforts to overcome her strong dislike to one who in the main
was kind to her, and the very fact that she had tried made her now more
conscious of her failure.
“My life is slipping by,” she thought to herself, “and somehow I am not
making the most of it. I am harder and colder than before all this
trouble came; I was a mere fine-weather character, and the storm was too
much for me. If I go on hating auntie perhaps I shall infect Swanhild,
and make her turn into just such another narrow-hearted woman. Oh, why
does one have to live with people that rub one just the wrong way?”
She fell asleep before she had solved this problem, but woke early and
with a restless craving, which she could not have explained, dressed
hastily, put on all the wraps that she possessed, and went out into the
fresh morning air.
“I have got to put up with this life,” she said to herself, “and I shall
just walk off this stupid discontented mood. What can’t be cured must be
endured. Oh, how beautiful it is out all alone in the early morning! I
am glad the wind is quite gone down, it has just cooled the air so that
to breathe it is like drinking iced water. After all, one can’t talk of
merely enduring life when there is all this left to one.”
Leaving the steep high-road, she struck off to the left, intent on
gaining the top of Hjerkinshö. Not a house was in sight, not a trace of
any living being; she walked on rapidly, for, although the long upward
slope was in parts fairly steep, the gray lichen with which the ground
was thickly covered was so springy and delicious to walk on that she
felt no fatigue, the refreshing little scrunch that it made beneath her
feet seemed in itself to invigorate her. By the time she reached the top
of the hill she was glowing with exercise, and was glad to sit down and
rest by the cairn of stones. All around her lay one great undulating
sweep of gray country, warmed by the bright sunlight of the summer
morning, and relieved here and there by the purple shadow of some cloud.
Beyond, there rose tier above tier of snowy peaks, Snehaetten standing
out the most nobly of all, and some eighty attendant peaks ranged round
the horizon line as though they were courtiers in attendance on the
monarch of the district. At first Sigrid was so taken up by this
wonderful panorama that she had not a thought for anything beyond it,
but after awhile the strange stillness roused her; for the first time in
her life she had come into absolute silence, and what made the silence
was the infinite space.
“If one could always be in a peace like this,” she thought, “surely life
would be beautiful then! If one could get out of all the littleness and
narrowness of one’s own heart, and be silent and quiet from all the
worries and vexations and dislikes of life! Perhaps it was the longing
for this that made women go into convents; some go still into places
where they never speak. That would never suit me; out of sheer
perversity I should want to talk directly. But if one could always have
a great wide open space like this that one could go into when one began
to get cross—”
But there all definite thought was suddenly broken, because nature and
her own need had torn down a veil, and there rushed into her
consciousness a perception of an infinite calm, into which all might at
any moment retire. The sense of that Presence which had so clearly
dawned on her on the night of her father’s death returned to her now
more vividly, and for the first time in her life she was absolutely at
rest.
After a time she rose and walked quietly home, full of an eager
hopefulness, to begin what she rightly felt would be a new life. She
stopped to pick a lovely handful of flowers for her aunt; she smiled at
the thought of the annoyance she had felt on the previous night about
such a trifle, and went forward almost gayly to meet the old troubles
which but a few hours before had seemed intolerable, but now looked
slight and easy.
Poor Sigrid! she had yet to learn that with fresh strength comes harder
fighting in the battle of life, and that of those to whom much is given
much will be required.
They were very cheerful that morning at breakfast; Fru Grönvold seemed
pleased with the flowers, and everything went smoothly. Afterward, when
they were standing in a little group outside the door, she even passed
her arm within Sigrid’s quite tenderly, and talked in the most amiable
way imaginable of the excursion which was being planned to Kongswold.
“Look! look!” cried Swanhild merrily, “here are some travelers. Two
carioles and a stolkjaerre coming up the hill. Oh! I hope they will be
nice, and that they will stay here.”
The arrival caused quite a little bustle of excitement, and many
speculations were made as to the relationship of the two sportsmen and
the two ladies in the stolkjaerre. Major Brown came forward to do the
honors of the place, as the landlord happened not to be at hand.
“Is there any one of the name of Falck here?” asked one of the travelers
as he dismounted from his cariole. “We were at Dombaas last night and
promised to bring this on; we told the landlord that we meant to sleep
at Fokstuen, but he said there was no quicker way of delivery. Seems a
strange mode of delivering telegrams, doesn’t it?”
“Why, Miss Falck, I see it is for you,” said Major Brown, glancing at
the direction.
She stepped hastily forward to take it from him with flushed cheeks and
trembling hands; it seemed an eternity before she had torn it open, and
the few words within half paralyzed her.
For a moment all seemed to stand still, then she became conscious of the
voices around.
“Oh, we were almost blown away at Fokstuen,” said one.
“But such _flatbrod_ as they make there!” said another, “we brought away
quite a tinful.”
“Nothing wrong, my dear, I hope?” said Fru Grönvold. “Child, child, what
is it? Let me read.”
Then came an almost irresistible impulse to burst into a flood of tears,
checked only by the presence of so many strangers, and by the necessity
of explaining to her aunt.
“It is in English,” she said in a trembling voice. “From Mr. Boniface.
It says only, ‘Frithiof dangerously ill. Come.’”
“Poor child! you shall go at once,” said Fru Grönvold. “What can be
wrong with Frithiof? Dangerously ill! See, it was sent from London
yesterday. You shall not lose a moment, my dear. Here is your uncle,
I’ll tell him everything, and do you go and pack what things you need.”
The girl obeyed; it seemed as if when once she had moved she was capable
only of the one fear—the terrible fear lest she should miss the English
steamer. Already it was far too late to think of catching the Thursday
steamer from Christiania to London, but she must strain every nerve to
catch the next one. Like one in a frightful dream she hastily packed,
while Swanhild ran to and fro on messages, her tears falling fast, for
she, poor little soul, would be left behind, since it was impossible
that she should be taken to London lodgings, where, for aught they knew,
Frithiof might be laid up with some infectious illness. In all her
terrible anxiety Sigrid felt for the child, and with a keen pang
remembered that she had not set her the best of examples, and that all
her plans for a new life, and for greater sympathy with her aunt, were
now at an end. The old life with all its lost opportunities was over—it
was over, and she rightly felt that she had failed.
“I have murmured and rebelled,” she thought to herself, “and now God is
going to take from me even a chance of making up for it. Oh, how hard it
is to try too late!”
“We have been looking out the routes, dear,” said Fru Grönvold, coming
into the room, “and the best way will be for you to try for the Friday
afternoon boat from Christiania; it generally gets to Hull a little
before the Saturday one from Bergen, your uncle says.”
“When can I start?” asked Sigrid eagerly.
“You must start almost at once for Lille-elvedal; it will be a terribly
tiring drive for you, I’m afraid—eighty-four kilometers and a rough
road. But still there is time to do it, which is the great thing. At
Lille-elvedal you will take the night train to Christiania; it is a
quick one, and will get you there in ten hours, quite in time to catch
the afternoon boat, you see. Your uncle will take you and see you into
the train, and if you like we can telegraph to some friend to meet you
at the Christiania station: the worst of it is, I fear most people are
away just now.”
“Oh, I shall not want any one,” said Sigrid. “If only I can catch the
steamer nothing matters.”
“And do not worry more than you can help,” said Fru Grönvold. “Who
knows? You may find him much better.”
“They would not have sent unless they feared—” Sigrid broke off
abruptly, unable to finish her sentence. And then with a few incoherent
words she clung to her aunt, asking her forgiveness for having annoyed
her so often, and thanking her for all her kindness. And Fru Grönvold,
whose conscience also pricked her, kissed the girl, and cried over her,
and was goodness itself.
Then came the wrench of parting with poor Swanhild, who broke down
altogether, and had to be left in the desolate little bedroom sobbing
her heart out, while Sigrid went downstairs with her aunt, bade a
hurried farewell to Major Brown, Oscar, and Karen; then, with a pale,
tearless face she climbed into the stolkjaerre, and was driven slowly
away in the direction of Dalen.
Her uncle talked kindly, speculating much as to the cause of Frithiof’s
illness, and she answered as guardedly as she could, all the time
feeling convinced that somehow Blanche Morgan was at the bottom of it
all. Were they never to come to the end of the cruel mischief wrought by
one selfish woman’s vanity? One thing was clear to her; if Frithiof was
spared to them she could never leave him again, and the thought of a
possible exile from Norway made her look back lingeringly at the scenes
she was leaving. Snehaetten’s lofty peaks still appeared in the
distance, rising white and shining into the clear blue sky; what ages it
seemed since she had watched it from Hjerkinshö in the wonderful
stillness which had preceded this great storm! Below her, to the right,
lay a lovely, smiling valley with birch and fir-trees, and beyond were
round-topped mountains, with here and there patches of snow gleaming out
of black, rocky clefts.
But soon all thought of her present surroundings was crowded out by the
one absorbing anxiety, and all the more because of her father’s recent
death hope seemed to die within her, and something seemed to tell her
that this hurried journey would be in vain. Each time the grisly fear
clutched at her heart, the slowness of their progress drove her almost
frantic, and the easy-going people at Dalen, who leisurely fetched a
horse which proved to be lame, and then, after much remonstrance,
leisurely fetched another, tried her patience almost beyond bearing.
With her own hands she helped to harness the fresh pony, and at the
dreary little station of Kroghaugen, where all seemed as quiet as the
grave, she not only made the people bestir themselves, but on hearing
that it was necessary to make some sort of a meal there, fetched the
fagots herself to relight the fire, and never rested till all that the
place would afford was set before Herr Grönvold.
* * * * *
At length the final change had been made. Ryhaugen was passed, and they
drove on as rapidly as might be for the last stage of their journey. At
any other time the beautiful fir forest through which they were passing
would have delighted her, and the silvery river in the valley below,
with its many windings and its musical ripple, would have made her long
to stay. Now she scarcely saw them; and when, in the heart of the
forest, the skydsgut declared that his horse must rest for half an hour,
she was in despair.
“But there is plenty of time, dear,” said her uncle kindly. “Come and
take a turn with me; it will rest you.”
She paced to and fro with him, trying to conquer the frenzy of
impatience which threatened to overmaster her.
“See,” he said at length, as they sat down to rest on one of the
moss-covered boulders, “I will give you now, while we are quiet and
alone, the money for your passage. Here is a check for fifty pounds, you
will have time to get it cashed in Christiania”; then as she protested
that it was far too much, “No, no; you will need it all in England. It
may prove a long illness; and, in any case,” he added awkwardly, “there
must be expenses.”
Sigrid, with a horrible choking in her throat, thanked him for his help,
but that “in any case” rang in her ears all through the drive, all
through the waiting at the hotel at Lille-elvedal, all through that
weary journey in the train.
Yet it was not until she stood on board the _Angelo_ that tears came to
her relief. A great crowd had collected on the quays, for a number of
emigrants were crossing over to England _en route_ for America. Sigrid,
standing there all alone, watched many a parting, saw strong men step on
to the deck sobbing like children, saw women weeping as though their
hearts would break. And when the crowd of those left behind on the quay
began to sing the songs of the country, great drops gathered in her eyes
and slowly fell. They sung with subdued voices. “For Norge, Kjaempers
Foderland,” and “Det Norske Flagg.” Last of all, as the great steamer
moved off, they sung, with a depth of pathos which touched even the
unconcerned foreigners on board, “Ja, vi elsker dette landet.”
The bustle and confusion on the steamer, the busy sailors, the weeping
emigrants, the black mass of people on shore waving their hats and
handkerchiefs, some sobbing, some singing to cheer the travelers, and
behind the beautiful city of Christiania with its spires and towers, all
this had to Sigrid the strangest feeling of unreality; yet it was a
scene that no one present could ever forget. Bravely the friends on
shore sung out, their voices bridging over the widening waters of the
fjord, the sweet air well suiting the fervor of the words:
“Yes, we love with fond devotion Norway’s mountain domes,
Rising storm-lashed o’er the ocean, with their thousand homes—
Love our country when we’re bending thoughts to fathers grand,
And to saga night that’s sending dreams upon our land.
Harald on its throne ascended by his mighty sword;
Hakon Norway’s rights defended, helped by Oyvind’s sword;
From the blood of Olaf sainted, Christ’s red cross arose.”
But there the distance became too great for words to traverse it, only
the wild beauty of the music floated after the outward-bound vessel, and
many a man strained his ears to listen to voices which should never
again be heard by him on earth, and many a woman hid her face and sobbed
with passionate grief.