When Clifford said good-bye to Knutty and passed out of sight into the
birch-woods, he had no intention of going in any definite direction. He
wished to get on to the heights somewhere and be alone with Nature, that
tender nurse who is ever waiting to hold out her healing hands to the
sick of body and of spirit. She had never failed him, and he knew that
she would not fail him now; that she would minister to him in her own
beautiful, strengthening way, until she had made him whole; putting balm
on stinging wounds, and exchanging his cup of bitterness for a phial of
courage. He had always loved her, always sought her out, always laid
everything before her, and learnt from her, over and over again, the
relative value and the actual size of the difficulties which life
presented to him. He had carried out to her some burden which seemed
enormous, and brought it back from her so shrunk that he would scarcely
have known it for his burden; rather for some one else's load, which is
always deemed lighter. So he went to seek her help. He strolled through
the birch-woods, scarcely noticing where he trod; gained the open
slopes, and then climbed slowly in the direction of a little isolated
Saeter which commanded a view of the fine Rondane mountains. He paused
now and then, and dug his stick into the springy moss and the stunted
juniper-bushes.
"The boy always loved me," he said bitterly. "And now?"
And Nature said:
"He will love you again."
"Ever since the little fellow could find his way about he wanted to be
with me," he said bitterly. "And now?"
And Nature said:
"He will want to be with you again."
"It is all so much worse than I thought," the man said bitterly. "At the
very worst I thought that he might have believed I had been unkind to
Marianne. But----"
And Nature said:
"He did not know what he did believe. The tiny cone of disbelief had
grown into one of my giant forest-trees. But now we have hewn down that
giant tree, used it to defeat itself, and made a strong bridge of it,
over which the boy passes to reach you again."
"Passes back to me as he was before?" the man asked.
And Nature said:
"No, no, passes forward, onward to meet you at another point. For you,
too, have passed on."
"Ah," cried the man, "I have been forgetting him. All my thoughts have
been for her--and this is my just punishment, that in the midst of my
selfish happiness I should be wounded in my tenderest affections, and
reminded of the bitter past--reminded of the manner of Marianne's death
and my share in it."
"Morbid conscientiousness, morbid conscientiousness," Nature said.
"Often have you and I fought out that battle together--fought it out at
midnight on the moors and on the mountains, and along the lonely country
roads. And now we must fight it out again; here, this very moment, with
the Rondane in front of us, and the snow-peaks in the distance, and the
great Gudbrandsdal spread out below us."
So they fought it out, and it was a hard battle, a hand-to-hand fight;
for the man was stubborn, and prepared to defend his fortress of
self-reproach and sadness to the bitter end. But Nature gathered
together all her forces--and conquered.
And when the dire battle was over, she held out her hands to him, and
ministered to him; at her bidding the bracing mountain air sent currents
of fresh life into the man's body; the great expanse sent a thrill of
freedom into his soul; the magnificence of earth and sky sent a thrill
of gratitude and gladness into his spirit.
"The earth is beautiful and life is splendid!" he cried, as he lifted up
his head and passed on his way.
"Ah," said Nature softly.
"The boy loves me!" he cried. "We shall have a closer friendship than
before."
"Ah," said Nature gently.
"I have the right to love her!" he cried. "I shall seek her out and
tell her everything."
"Ah," said Nature softly.
"Yes," the man cried. "I shall tell her everything about my poor
Marianne's death. She has a great heart and a noble mind. She will
understand. My beautiful love----"
"Ah," said Nature tenderly. "I can safely leave him now--conquered and
renewed."
And yet she paused for a moment, fearful to leave his side until she was
certain that the child whom she had always loved had reached a firm
foothold of healthy human instincts.
"My beautiful love!" he cried. "You understood from the very beginning,
and came to warn me of Mrs Stanhope's slanderous tongue. I little
guessed what she was capable of saying to my boy; but you knew, and did
not shrink from me."
Then, as his thoughts turned to Mrs Stanhope, anger and indignation took
possession of him.
"I will go and find her now," he cried. "I will find my way over the
mountains somehow, and see her face to face."
"Ah," said Nature, smiling, "I can leave him now in the safe keeping of
human love and healthy human anger."
So she left his immediate presence, and he became unconscious of his
surroundings, and tramped across the rough mountainous country
determined to reach Mrs Stanhope. He did not notice the signs in the
heavens; the gathering storm gave him no warning; or at least no warning
reached him. The storm broke loose at last, and aroused him to the
knowledge that he was miles away from the Gaard, lost on the mountains,
and alone with Nature in her wildest mood. The heavens were in raging
tumult; the thunder was terrific; the lightning appalling. At first
there was no rain. The man leaned against a rock and watched the awful
splendour of the scene; watched the opening of the clouds and the
passing of the lightning. It held him spellbound, entranced. He had
always loved to be out in a great storm. He stood there, an unconscious
target for its fury, and nothing harmed him; the lightning played around
him, tore up the ground within a few yards of his feet, withered up a
stunted juniper-bush within reach of his arm. Nature, working harm and
bringing sorrow in other directions, spared him to those who loved him
and were waiting for him.
So he stood, confronting the storm, with all personal thoughts and
emotions in abeyance. But when the rain poured down in torrents, he
began to think of finding shelter, and remembered that he had passed a
lonely little Saeter. He had only a vague idea of his bearings; and,
indeed, without knowing it, as he tried to retrace his steps he was
wandering farther away, both from that Saeter and from the Gaard.
He became distressed about the anxiety which his prolonged absence would
be causing to his friends: to dear old Knutty, who had seen him start
off so sadly: to his boy: to Katharine. He knew that they were waiting
for him, and wanting him, and that they were watching the storm, and
watching the evening fading into the night. He knew so well that Knutty
would pretend not to be troubled, and would scold every one who even
suggested that there might be cause for anxiety. He almost heard her
saying:
"He loves a thunderstorm. The silly fellow, I know him well!"
He smiled as he thought of her.
"My dear old Dane!" he said. "My dear old brick of a Dane!"
He wandered on and on trying to find the Saeter, changing his direction
several times, but in vain. But at last he caught sight of a habitation
at some distance, and made straight for it, thankful to have found a
haven. There was a light in the hut. Clifford knocked, and the door was
instantly opened. There was a fire in the stove.
"Ak," said the old woman who opened the door, "I thought it was my son.
But you are welcome. It is a fearful night. Many times I thought the hut
was struck. I am glad for company."
The son came in a few minutes afterwards, and she made hot coffee for
them both, whilst they dried themselves before the crackling logs. And
overcome by the genial warmth and his long wanderings, Clifford slept.
And he dreamed of Katharine. He dreamed that he, who had always found
speech difficult, was able to tell her the story of Marianne's death. He
dreamed that he went on telling her, and she went on listening; and it
was such an easy matter to tell, that he only wondered he had been
silent so long.
"And that is all," he said, and he waited for her to speak as she turned
her dear face towards him. But when she was beginning to speak, he
awoke.
He awoke, glad and strong. He who had come out broken and embittered,
was going back made whole and sound. He thought of his last words to
Knutty:
"I shall be better later."
They had come true. The long wrestle with morbid conscientiousness, his
defeat, his wanderings, the great storm, the safe arrival at a haven,
his dream, and now his glad awakening had made him whole.
The storm had died down about two in the morning, and it was nearly six
before he awoke. He could scarcely wait to drink the coffee which the
old woman prepared for him; scarcely wait to hear her directions for
getting back to the Gaard. He was off like some impatient boy before she
had finished telling him.
His step was brisk, his heart was light, his grave face was smiling. He
sang. He did not notice that the way was long and rough. Everything in
life seemed easy to him. He trod on air. At last, after several hours,
he saw the smoke of the Solli Gaard. He hastened through the
birch-woods, down the hillside, and into the courtyard. There was a
group of people standing round the carriage, which had evidently just
come back from a journey. Mor Inga and Gerda were helping Knutty out of
the carriage. Ejnar, Alan, and the Sorenskriver, Solli, Ragnhild, and
every one belonging to the Gaard, including old Kari, crowded round her.
"Thank God, thank God, it was not he," she was saying.
Then old Kari looked up and saw Clifford. She firmly believed him to be
dead and thought this was his ghost.
"Aa Jösses!"[Q] she cried, falling down on her knees and folding her
hands in prayer.
They all turned and saw him. Alan rushed forward to meet his father.
"Oh, father," the boy cried, "we thought you were dead--killed by the
lightning."
Then his pent-up feelings found their freedom in an outburst of
passionate, healing tears. Clifford folded him in his arms and
comforted him.
"And you cared so much?" the father asked, with a thrill of gladness.
"Yes, yes!" the boy whispered, clinging close to him.
Then arm-in-arm they came to Knutty, who in her unselfishness had stood
back, wanting her two icebergs to have their meeting to themselves.
"Dear one," she said, with tears in her eyes, "I have done all my
crying, and every one can tell you that I have behaved disgracefully.
And now I can do my scolding. How dared you give us so much anxiety? Ak,
it is all too much for me. I'm going to cry after all."
He stooped and kissed her hand.
"Don't scold me, and don't cry, dear Knutty," he said. "I have come back
from the mountains strong and glad."
They all pressed round him, greeting him warmly. Every one belonging to
the Gaard seemed to him to be there, except Katharine. And he hungered
for the sight of her.
"Knutty," he asked, "where is she--where is Miss Frensham?"
Knutty led him away and told him in broken words the history of the
morning, and their fearful anxiety, and Katharine's tender kindness.
"And she stayed there with the dead Englishman," Knutty said gently.
"She said she could not leave him alone, and that you would understand.
She said you would come down safely from the mountains, and the joy of
reunion would be ours, and that she would be with us in spirit. I know,
kjaere, she suffered greatly in staying behind."
The man's lip quivered.
"I will go to her," he said.
And the next moment he had prevailed on Solli to change the horses and
let Jens come with him. It was all done so quickly that Solli had no
time to relent. Clifford sprang in, signed to Alan to follow him, and
they were off. Old Kari, rather sullen at having been done out of the
ghost, retired crestfallen to the cowhouse.
But Gerda and Tante, Mor Inga and Ragnhild, stood watching the carriage
until it had wound round the hill and was out of sight.
"Nã," said Gerda, turning to Tante, "I begin to think that your
Englishman is going to fall in love with Fröken Frensham. Who would have
imagined such a thing?"
"Every one except you," replied Tante, giving her a hug.
"And why not myself?" asked Gerda.
"Because you are an unilluminated botanical duffer!" answered Tante.
[Footnote Q: Oh, Jesus.]