It was a hot afternoon. Ejnar and Gerda had had a quarrel over "Salix."
Ejnar's face wore the dynamite expression, and Gerda was white with
anger. Her glacier eyes looked like the eyes of a polar bear, and she
was moving her head to and fro in a manner which always meant
rebellion. On these occasions she longed for a divorce.
"Give me a divorce at once!" she cried tragically both to Ejnar and
Tante.
"My dear one," remarked Tante soothingly, "I don't keep divorces ready
in my pocket; and you know Ejnar never has even a handkerchief in his
pocket. You should have a divorce at once if we had one handy. Be
reasonable. Have I ever denied you anything in this world? Of course you
should have one instantly."
Ejnar was silent; but his expression was quite enough to blow up all the
royal palaces and personages in the universe. Tante herself did not feel
too amiable that afternoon. She had had an angry discussion with the
Sorenskriver and another man, a Norwegian fur-merchant, about England;
and she was shocked to hear them say things against the English which
she knew to be not only untrue, but venomously unjust.
"Why," she said, flourishing her knitting-needles, "even the greatest
criminal has some redeeming features. And as with criminals, so with
countries. But you leave England no virtues: not one."
The men shrugged their shoulders. It was so obvious to them that England
had no virtues. It was so obvious to them that they, who had never been
to that detestable country, knew far more about the character of the
people than this ridiculous old Danish woman who had spent about twenty
years amongst the barbarians. Tante was ruffled. And Ejnar, being in a
disagreeable mood, had chimed in too against this much-abused nation.
"Ja," he said in his quiet way, "it is a barbarous country, this
England. I know nothing about politics, thank heaven, nothing about wars
and so forth. But this I can tell you: that England is the only country
which refused to exchange botanical specimens with our Botanical Museum.
The barbarian director wrote a rude letter."
"I've told you a dozen times, Ejnar, that it was all probably owing to
Red Tape," replied Tante angrily. She could have shaken Ejnar.
"And pray what is this Red Tape?" asked the Sorenskriver contemptuously.
"It is an invisible thread which no one has been able to cut, so far,"
said Tante. "Every one knows it is there and deplores its presence. If
it could once be cut, it would shrivel away, and one of England's
dangers would be gone."
"Then you admit she has dangers?" asked the fur-merchant, triumphantly
rubbing his hands.
"Ja, ja," said Tante Knudsgaard; "but the greatest of them is Red Tape.
She suffers from it in everything--both in war and in peace. But she
will overcome all her difficulties and emerge."
"Never, never!" said the Sorenskriver and fur-merchant joyfully
together. "Her day is gone."
"Then her twilight and her night will be like the glorious midnight
sunlight of your north," said Tante, turning to the fur-merchant who
came from the north.
"Pyt!" said the fur-merchant scornfully, and went away.
"Sniksnak!" said the Sorenskriver impatiently.
Tante made no reply, but went on knitting; and in a few minutes finished
a sock, which she spread on her knee, and then added it to a great pile
beside her on the seat of the courtyard verandah, where every one was
awaiting the arrival of the letters.
"That makes twelve pairs for those brave English soldiers," she said,
half to herself. And the Sorenskriver moved nearer to the horrid
spectacle, attracted to the spot against his own wishes. Tante laughed
silently; but, all the same, she was ruffled. Every one was more or less
cross.
Solli was worried about the crops, for there had been no rain for a long
time, and both corn and potatoes threatened to fail. Also, there was a
shortage of water, and that made him anxious about fire. Also,
Bedstefar was more ailing than usual, and the doctor had been sent for.
Bedstemor came over from her house, sat near Tante, and grumbled a
little because Bedstefar was so obstinate about the doctor. But she
cheered up when a Swedish lady, an artist, one of the guests, praised
her quaint, old-fashioned head-gear, and wanted to take a photograph of
her pretty old face.
"Ah," said Bedstemor, "many people have wanted to take a picture of me."
And then every one laughed, and said:
"Ja, Bedstemor, we can well believe it!"
That seemed to put every one in better spirits again; and soon beautiful
Ragnhild came out of the kitchen with a bundle of letters and papers,
and was the centre of an eager circle. Ejnar stood apart, near the
Stabur, not being concerned with human affairs. But Ragnhild had a
letter even for him, and took it to him herself. She and all the
peasants had a great respect for scholarship.
"There is a letter for the professor. Will he care to have it?" she said
gently.
She handed it to him in her own charming way, and even Ejnar was
pleased; for Ragnhild was the object of great admiration amongst the
men, although she kept them at a distance. And all the women, too,
admired her, and were glad when she came amongst them. Tante gave her a
good hug when she dropped several letters and papers into her lap, and
got in return an affectionate pat of approval on the back.
"Thou hast more than thy share of letters to-day," she said. "I shall
give thee none to-morrow."
"I don't want any more!" cried Tante, who had just glanced at one of her
letters. "Only think, Ragnhild, some dear friends of mine are coming
here. I should like to dance the Halling dance. Help me up, kjaere. I
want to dance over to the Botaniker. No use calling to him. He never
hears human sounds."
Then gaily the pretty girl and the old Danish woman went arm-in-arm to
the Stabur, near which Ejnar and Gerda were standing, their heads buried
in a letter. They looked up when they saw her, and cried:
"Such news! such news! It has come from America. She will bring it to us
at once. We have only to write and say where we are."
"And I, too, have something coming from America," cried Tante. "My
Clifford and his boy!"
"Only think, Tante, that valuable botanical parcel at last!" cried Gerda
wildly.
"Only think, my poor icebergs home again!" cried Tante, putting her arm
round each of them. "What could be more delightful! Your dried-up
flowers and my frozen-up human beings! Let us all be friends again and
have some aqua vitae. I feel at peace even with that wretched old
magistrate!"
"Oh, Gerda," said Ejnar, "what joys are before us! Just think of it--the
Mariposa lilies and the Romney poppy at last!"
When they had all calmed down a little, Tante read Katharine Frensham's
letter, and learned that she wished to bring the botanical parcel as
soon as she knew whether Herr and Frue Ebbesen could receive her. She
had heard from Professor Thornton that they were perhaps going to
Norway. If they had already gone, she could just as easily come there.
She added:
"It is curious that I, who knew nothing about Professor Thornton a few
weeks ago, should all the time have been in communication with the
nephew and niece of his dear Danish friend."
"Ja," said Tante, "waves--waves--wireless telegraphy, as always."
There was a sentence in Clifford's letter which struck Tante as being a
remarkable thing for him to have written.
"I have become acquainted with a Miss Frensham," he wrote, "to whom I
have given a letter of introduction to you--though she will scarcely
need it, being, as she is, on a botanical errand to Ejnar and Gerda, and
therefore to you. But I desired not to be left out in the cold where she
is concerned."
"Well," reflected Tante, "that is a remarkable thing for an iceberg to
say."
And she read the sentence several times in order to make sure that she
had caught the meaning. The rest of the letter ran thus:--
"DEAR OLD KNUTTY,--Alan and I are coming back, and we shall come
and find you somewhere and somehow. We have not been happy
together. There is a shadow between us--that shadow which I always
feared,--and he has something against me in his young heart which
makes easy and close companionship impossible. We have both
suffered. There was a man of my own age with his son, a boy of
Alan's age, on board. I used to look at them with hungry eyes. They
had such a good understanding between them; there were no shadows
there. He was a great traveller, an ornithologist. And his boy
thought he was the finest hero on earth, and worshipped him. I
would not wish that; but I would only ask that Alan should believe
in me again, as in the old days before--before Marianne's death. It
will be good to hear your voice again, even if you do scold me for
throwing over Japan. But, under present conditions, it is waste of
money and waste of heart-fibre. Alan will be happier without me.
Perhaps you won't scold me after all, Knutty. You are such a wise
old Knutty; and I still think you were wise to send us in spite of
everything."
"Of course I was wise to send you, my poor Clifford," Knutty said, as
she read the letter over and over again in the quiet of her beautiful
big bedroom, with its lovely views of the valley, the wood, and the
grass-roofed houses. "Of course I was wise to send you--even if you came
back the next moment. That doesn't matter. It is the starting-off which
counts. My poor boy, I won't scold you. My good, gentle-hearted
Clifford. You ought to have had a heart as tough as Knutty's. You would
not have wanted to gnaw it then; no temptation then. My poor boy!"
She rubbed two or three tears away from her cheeks, and tapped the floor
impatiently with her foot.
"Bah!" she said; "that Marianne, I never could bear her!"
And then something prompted her to turn once more to his letter, and she
read the words, "But I desired not to be left out in the cold where she
is concerned." A faint smile came over Knutty's face. It disappeared,
came again, stayed, deepened and deepened.
"By St Olaf, I believe I see daylight!" she cried.