So Katharine started off to Norway, taking the boat from the London
Docks. By a curious chance Mrs Stanhope was on board too, and the
presence of this bigot, Marianne's friend, Clifford Thornton's enemy,
stirred Katharine to her depths. They had bowed stiffly, and then had
contented themselves with glaring at each other.
It was a rough passage, and they were the only two women who did not
retreat to their cabins. They sat side by side, in silence, in a
sheltered part of the boat, having no choice to go elsewhere.
But although no words were spoken between them, an active warfare went
on unceasingly: encounter after encounter, and the victory to neither.
The voyage came to an end, Christiania was reached, and the two women
went, each her own way; each thankful to be free of the other.
But Mrs Stanhope, without knowing it, had sown fresh seeds of love and
protection in Katharine's heart for Clifford Thornton. More than ever
her thoughts turned to him. More than ever she found herself weaving a
fancy fabric of happiness and love. Then she rent it in pieces and began
it over again. She had to begin it again each time she had destroyed it,
and each time some new beauty was added.
And thus busy with her work of destroying and restoring, the train bore
her past beautiful Lake Mjösen, the biggest lake in Norway, and into the
Gudbrandsdal, where she at once made the acquaintance of the river
Laagen, the glacier river which Knutty, Ejnar, and Gerda were learning
to love in their upland Gaard. She thought of them as old friends. It
seemed to be quite natural that she was coming to them. She longed to
see Knutty. She knew that she would not have one minute's shyness with
Clifford's old Dane.
But she had not any idea how eagerly she was awaited. Tante was most
impatient to see her, and kept on murmuring to herself, "By St Olaf, I
see daylight through a leper's squint!" And when asked to explain these
mysterious words, she only said:
"Keep to your own department, botanists. Don't interfere with the
section marked human nature."
And Ejnar and Gerda were wild with delight, and even spoke soft words
together about "Salix." Of course they only looked upon Katharine as the
bringer of the parcel: having no value in herself, being, as it were,
only a base instrument. It made no difference to them whether she was
fair or dark, tall or short, agreeable or disagreeable, electric or
soporific, with an attractive aura or an antipathetic personality.
"What on earth does it matter so long as she brings the parcel safely?"
said Ejnar, in answer to Tante's repeated, "I wonder whether."
"That sort of thing matters very much to people who are alive," replied
Tante sternly. "Of course to people who are prematurely dead, like
botanists, nothing matters except the parcel. My belovèd Ejnar, I am
delighted to see you so happy; but I must entreat you not to sing. You
are frightening the horse; he looked round then to see whether an
ostrich was driving him. And you observe we are on the most dangerous
part of the cliff. Don't let us have an accident until we have embraced
the parcel and received the bringer of it with indulgence.--And do
remember to thank her, Gerda. And don't let Ejnar ask for the parcel the
minute he sees her. Let us show the English barbarian woman that we know
how to behave.--Ah, here we are on the level. Now, Ejnar, you can sing
as much as you please. What a curious voice--not human! The sort of
voice you would expect a decaying plant to have. But how happy you must
be! You don't often sing, I think."
"Ja, I am very happy," said Ejnar, smiling radiantly. "I only sang once
before in my life, after Gerda accepted me, when I was alone in the
woods."
"A good thing she didn't hear you, or else she might have changed her
mind," remarked Tante.
"Dear ones, dear ones," said Gerda, "here is the train. Oh, Ejnar, how I
hope we shall not quarrel over the parcel. I know we shall, though."
They hurried out of the carriage, all of them in a state of great
excitement, and Tante, very red and hot, but her face beaming with
kindness and pleasant expectancy. She looked up and saw Katharine
standing at the window.
"That is Miss Frensham," she said.
"How do you know?" said Gerda and Ejnar. "You've never seen her."
"Instinct, stupid ones!" answered Knutty breathlessly. "Of course it is
Miss Frensham. Come along now, and remember to say nothing about the
parcel, Ejnar."
Then she pressed forward, and just as Katharine was stepping out of the
train, she put out her hand and said: "Welcome, Miss Frensham. I am
Fröken Knudsgaard, and these are my botanists--your friends. We are so
glad to see you."
"Ja, ja!" cried Ejnar and Gerda.
"And I to see you," Katharine answered. "It is like coming to see old
friends. And I have the parcel quite safely here in my little
travelling-box. I put it there so that there might not be one moment's
delay. For, of course, you must be feeling impatient. I am sure I
should."
With those simple but magic words Katharine immediately won her way into
the botanical hearts of the botanists; and Knutty, looking at her dear
frank face and delightful appearance, felt a glow of pleasure such as
she had not been conscious of for many long years.
Then the clever Norwegian ponies, those yellow little fellows, full of
mountain-wisdom and resource, drew the carriage slowly up the winding
road which led to the Solli Gaard. Like all true Norwegians, they did
exactly what they wished: rested when they wished, and went on when they
wished: went very near the edge when they felt so inclined, or paused to
drink of the brook running into the hollow tree-trunk placed there for
their benefit. As Knutty said, they allowed plenty of time to look at
the graceful birches which crept up from the valley, lined the hillside,
were shimmering in the sunlight, trembling in the breezes, and sending
out their own delicious fragrance laden with subtle sweetness.
"Ja, ja," said Knutty, "the birches are at their best to-day, to
welcome the Englishwoman to beautiful Norway!"