Katharine spoke a fair amount of German, and some of the guests at the
Gaard spoke a little English. The fur-merchant from Tromsö spoke English
well; but he scorned at first to show any sign of friendliness to any
one from such an abominable country; and the Sorenskriver was
consistently careful not to be betrayed into the most primitive form of
politeness to this Englishwoman. He knew, of course, that she spoke and
understood German; and he went out of his way on several occasions to
make in his aggressive voice disparaging remarks about England, using
for this purpose the language of Germany. At first Katharine took no
notice; but after a day or two of quiet forbearance she said to him at
dinner, fearlessly but politely:
"Herr Sorenskriver, you insult my country every time we sit down to
dinner. I am sure you do not intend to insult me personally. But you
see, Englishwomen love their country passionately, although they may
know and share its faults. May I ask you to use the Norwegian language,
which I do not understand, when you feel particularly insulting? If,
however, you want to _discuss_ England with me, then let us speak German
together; and I will tell you all I know, and listen to all you have to
say. That is quite another matter. Then you shall say all you have to
say against us; and I will answer you if I can, and bear with your
criticisms if I cannot."
Her words were so simple, her manner was so direct, and her own
temperamental charm was so irresistible, that England, personified in
her, went up twenty-five per cent. in every one's estimation. There was
quite a stir amongst the guests; they all left off eating their beloved
cloudberries (multebaer), of which the Norwegians think so much, and
turned expectantly to the Sorenskriver. The gruff old Norwegian did
something unexpected, both to himself and the whole company.
"Ah," he said, "you carry your flag better than I carry mine, Fröken.
You are right and I am wrong."
Then he lifted his half-filled glass and turned to her with an almost
shy smile on his face.
"Skaal!"[I] he said.
"Skaal!" she answered, raising her glass too, and smiling at him.
"Bravo--skaal to them both!" said every one with one accord; and no one
was surprised afterwards to see the Englishwoman and the Sorenskriver
strolling off together in the direction of the foss in the birch-woods
above the Gaard.
Katharine had conquered him, and the fur-merchant was the next person to
capitulate. He was heard saying to the Swedish professor that, when all
was said and done, the English were people of spirit, and whatever their
politics might be, they were honourable people to trade with. Ejnar,
too, forgot for the moment about the barbarian authorities at Kew
Gardens, and gave such remarkable signs of wanting Katharine's
companionship, not at all from botanical reasons, that Gerda began to
complain to Tante that he was neglecting his work and not taking the
least interest in the Romney poppy. And once he came back from a short
expedition which he himself had planned, leaving poor Gerda to look for
the little rare plant which was the object of the expedition. He said he
was tired and wanted to go home; and he fetched his long pipe and
established himself in a corner of the verandah where Tante and
Katharine were sitting. Gerda came back angry and wanted a divorce; but
Tante laughed and said to her:
"Don't be angry with him. It is only an aberration. It won't do you or
him any harm. He will soon be ready to quarrel with you over the Romney
poppy. And you cannot possibly be angry with _her_. She knows nothing
about it. Every one likes her; she wins every one. It is her nature; her
temperament; her aura. If she has won the Sorenskriver, she could win
the most ferocious Trold ever heard of in Norwegian lore. Don't be angry
with anybody. I think I ought to be the one to be angry. He always
interrupts our conversations. And you always want her when you can get
her. Everybody wants her. Even Bedstemor likes to talk with her. I can
scarcely get a word in. Poor old Tante."
"You wicked old woman, you were talking to her for hours yesterday,"
said Gerda, laughing.
"Nã," said Tante, "yesterday is not to-day."
"I cannot think what you want to talk to her about," said Gerda.
"There are other subjects besides the 'botanik,'" remarked Tante
sternly.
"And, after all, you are both strangers," said Gerda.
"Strangers very often have a great deal to say to each other," answered
Tante. "Ah, and here she comes. Now I insist on you dragging your
wretched Ejnar off to your study and keeping him there. Have a quarrel.
I mean a real botanical quarrel. Do, kjaere. You have not had one for
quite two days. Talk about Salix. That is always a safe subject for a
quarrel. And you need not be afraid that I will bore the barbarian
woman. I will speak only of subjects which interest her."
No, Katharine was not bored. She drifted to Tante on every possible
occasion; and they spoke on many different subjects, but always ended
with Clifford Thornton. It was curious how he came into everything. If
they began about the customs of the peasants, they finished up with
Clifford and his boy. If they started off with Bedstefar's illness,
which was becoming more and more serious, they ended with Clifford
Thornton. If they spoke of England, it was natural enough that they
should speak of Tante's Englishman. If they spoke of America, it was
natural enough that Clifford and his boy should slip into the
conversation. And if they spoke of Scandinavia, and especially of little
Denmark, where he and his boy would soon be arriving, it was natural
enough to refer to the two travellers now on their way home to Europe.
"Ja, ja," said Tante, "he always loved the North. I, who taught him,
took care about that. And his father before him had loved the North.
That was why I was chosen to be the little lad's governess; because I
was a Dane--and not a bad-looking one either in those days, let me tell
you! Yes, I was chosen out of about ten Englishwomen. I shall never
forget that day."
"Tell me about it," Katharine said eagerly; and the old Danish woman,
nothing loth, put down her knitting and gazed dreamily out on the great
valley below. It was about six in the afternoon. All the other guests
had finished their coffee and left the balcony, and Katharine and Tante
were in sole possession. There were no sounds except the never-ceasing
roar of the foss in the Vinstra Valley.
"It was many years ago," Tante said,--"about thirty eight, I think. He
was seven years old when I was called to look after him. I journeyed to
a desolate house in the country, in Surrey, and waited in a dismal
drawing-room with several other ladies, who were all on the same errand.
A tall, stern-looking man came into the room, greeted us courteously,
but scanned us closely. And then he said, 'And which is the Danish
lady?' And I said, 'I am the Dane.' And he said, 'Do you speak English
very badly?' And I said, 'No, I speak it remarkably well.' And he smiled
and said, 'Ah, you're a true Dane, I see. You have a good opinion of
your powers.' And I said, 'Yes, of course I have.' Then I went with him
alone into his study, another depressing room, and we had an interview
of about an hour. I saw he loved the North. It was a passion with him.
He was a lonely impersonal sort of creature; but his face lit up when he
spoke of the North. He asked me to wait whilst he spoke with the other
ladies. Lunch was served in the dining-room; and those of us who were
not being interviewed, tried to enjoy an excellent meal. But every one
was anxious, for the salary was exceptionally high, indeed princely.
When all the interviewing was over, he did a curious thing; but I
thought it considerate and kind to the little person for whose care he
was providing. He went upstairs and brought down to us a
desolate-looking little boy, and said:
"'Clifford, my little son, one of these ladies is going to be good
enough to come and take care of you. I wonder which is the one you would
like best of all.'
"The little fellow shrank back, for he was evidently shy; but he looked
up into his father's stern face, and knew that he had to make an answer.
Then very shyly he glanced round, and his eye rested on me.
"'That one, father,' he said, almost in a whisper.
"So that was how I came to be his governess. He knew what he wanted when
he chose me. I have always wished that he could have known just as
cleverly what he wanted when he chose his wife--that poor Marianne."
And here Tante paused, and gave that sort of pious regulation-sigh which
we are always supposed to offer to the memory of all dead people, good,
bad, or indifferent.
Katharine waited impatiently. She longed to know something about that
dead wife. She longed to know something of Clifford's childhood, of his
youth, his early career--but chiefly of that dead wife: whether he had
loved her, whether she had loved him. She did not try to conceal her
eagerness. She bent forward and touched Tante's hands.
"Tell me about her," she said. "I have only heard what Mrs Stanhope said
of her."
"Ah," said Knutty, "she was her friend. If you have only heard what Mrs
Stanhope said, you have heard only unjust things about my Clifford."
"Yes," replied Katharine, "and believed them to be impossible, and told
her so."
"My dear," said Knutty warmly, "you have a mind that understands. Well,
about this Marianne. She has gone her way, and I suppose custom demands
that one should speak of her respectfully. But I cannot help saying that
she had a Billingsgate temperament. That was the whole trouble. She had
a great deal of beauty, and something of a heart. Indeed, she was not
bad-hearted. I always wished she had been a downright devil; for then my
poor Clifford would have known how to decide on a definite course of
action. I own that I often wished she would run away with another man.
But of course he would have forgiven her. Bah! It was so like her not to
run away. Excuse me, my dear. But I have never learnt not to be
impatient, even with her memory; for she preyed on his kindness and his
great sense of chivalry. I don't know where she originally came from,
and whether it was her original _entourage_ which gave her the
Billingsgate temperament, or whether it was just her natural possession
independent of surroundings. I did not see her until he had married her.
When I saw her, I knew of course that it was her physical charm with
which he had fallen in love. It could not have been her mind. She had
none."
Knutty paused a moment, took off her spectacles to clean them, and then
continued:
"He married her in Berlin, and took her to Aberystwith College, where he
was Professor of Chemistry for two years. Alan was born there. Then his
father died and he gave up teaching. He settled down at 'Falun,' his
country-house, and devoted himself to research-work: as far as she would
let him. But she was jealous of his work, and I believe did her best to
thwart it. I saw that as the time went on. He used to come over to
Denmark partly to see me, and partly on his way to Sweden, which is a
grand hunting-ground for mineralogists. He had always been interested in
mineralogy; indeed, as a child he played with minerals as most children
play with soldiers. Well, one morning he walked into my room
unexpectedly and said, 'Knutty, I came to tell you I've discovered a new
mineral. You know I've had a lot of disappointments over them; but this
one has not cheated me. He is a new fellow beyond all doubt. _And I felt
I must have some one to be glad with me._' That was all he said; but
there was something so pathetic about his obvious need of sympathy that
I felt sure things were not going well with him at home. When I went
over to stay with them, I understood. I had not been three days at
'Falun' before I discovered that Marianne had this unfortunate
temperament, the very worst in the world for his peculiar sensitiveness
and his curiously delicate brain. I knew his brain well. As a child, if
not harassed, he could do wonders at his studies. But he needed an
atmosphere of peace, in which to use his mental machinery successfully.
I learnt to know this, and I gave him peace, dear little chap, and
spared him most of the petty tyrannies which the grown-up impose on
youngsters. But Marianne could give him no peace. Peace was not in her;
nor did she wish for it; nor could she understand that any one wished
for it. Life to her meant scenes: scenes over anything and everything.
Day after day I saw the delicate balance of his brain, so necessary for
the success of his investigations, cruelly disturbed. But to be just to
Marianne, she did not know. And if she had been told, she would not have
understood. I tried to hint at it once or twice; and I might as well
have spoken in the Timbuctoo original dialect. I did not even offend
her. She did not even understand that much of this foreign language. It
was all hopeless. Her aura was impossible. So I said 'Farvel,' and I
never went to stay with them again for any length of time. But
occasionally I went for a day or two to please him. I saw as time went
on, that he was getting some comfort out of the boy. That was a comfort
to me. But I also saw that the brilliant promises of his early manhood
were being unfulfilled. I heard that his scientific friends wondered and
mourned. They did not know the disadvantages with which he had to cope.
Probably they would not have allowed themselves to be thus harassed. But
he was not they, and they were not he. And, after all, a man can only be
himself. And if he is born with a heart as well as a brain, and with an
almost excessive chivalry for the feelings of other people, then he is
terribly at the mercy of his surroundings.
"Yes," she repeated, "at the mercy of his surroundings. And poor
Marianne had no mercy on him: none."
"But if she had no understanding, then it was not that she was
unmerciful, but only ignorant," Katharine said gently.
"Yes, yes; but it works out the same," Tante answered.
"Not quite," Katharine replied. "It makes one think more mercifully of
her."
"Why, that is precisely the sort of thing he says!" Knutty exclaimed.
"Is it?" said Katharine, flushing up to her very eyes. And at that
moment there came a sound of sweet melancholy music from the hillside.
"That is Gerda," whispered Tante. "That is one of her favourite Swedish
songs--how sweet and melancholy it is."
They listened, arrested and entranced. The stillness of the evening and
the pureness of the air made a silent accompaniment to Gerda's beautiful
voice.
Allt un-der himmelens fäst-e Der sitt-a stjer-nor
små Allt un-der himmelens fäst-e Der
sitt-a stjer-nor smaå Den vän-nen som jag
äl-skat Den kan jag ald-rig få Ah ...
[Illustration: Un-named sheet music.]
And the wail of despair at the end of the verse was almost heartrending.
They listened until the sad strains had died away, and then Tante softly
translated the words:
"High on the dome of heaven shine the bright stars;
The lover whom I love so well, I shall reach him never.
Ah me, ah me!...."
She turned impulsively to Katharine.
"But that is not for you, not for you," she said. "You will reach him, I
know you will reach him--I feel it. I want you to reach him--something
or other tells me that it must and will be so--that----"
The door of the balcony opened hastily, and Ragnhild came to Tante and
held out both her hands to help her up.
"Two Englishmen have come and are asking for thee," she said.
"Men du milde Himmel!"[J] cried Tante. "My icebergs, of course!"
She almost ran to the hall, where she found Clifford and Alan standing
together like the two forlorn creatures that they were.
"Velkommen, velkommen!" she cried. "I don't know where you've come from,
whether from the bottom of the sea or the top of the air! Nor how you've
got here! But velkommen, velkommen!"
Their faces brightened up when they saw her and heard her cheery voice
with its slight foreign accent.
"Oh, Knutty, it is good to see you again," the man said.
"Yes, by Jove! it is ripping," the boy said.
"Come out into the balcony, dear ones," she said, taking them by the
hand as she would have taken two children. "And I'll inquire about your
rooms and your food. You look like tired and hungry ghosts."
Katharine was bending over the balcony, looking down fixedly at those
wonderful rivers, and with the sound and words of that sad song echoing
in her ears and heart. Then she turned round and saw them both; saw the
look of shy pleasure on the boy's face, and of gladness on the man's.
The music died away, hushed by the gladness of her own heart.
"Velkommen!" she said, coming forward to greet them. "I've learnt that
much Norwegian, you see!"
[Footnote I: _Skaal!_--Your health!]
[Footnote J: Danish expression--"But Thou, mild Heaven."]