Ho, and Inger claps her hands at once to hear it, for if there is one

thing womenfolk have no sense nor thought of, 'tis the price of land

and properties. But, anyway, sixteen hundred _Kroner_ is no small sum

for folk in the wilds, and Inger has but one fear, that Isak may be

frightened off the deal. But Isak, he sits there just exactly like a

fjeld, and says only: "Ay, it's the big houses he's put up."

"Ay," says Andresen again, "'tis just that. 'Tis the fine big houses

and all."

Just when Andresen is making ready to go, Leopoldine slips out by the

door. A strange thing, but somehow she cannot bring herself to think

of shaking hands with him. So she has found a good place, standing in

the new cowshed, looking out of a window. And with a blue silk ribbon

round her neck, that she hadn't been wearing before, and a wonder she

ever found time to put it on now. There he goes, a trifle short and

stout, spry on his feet, with a light, full beard, eight or ten years

older than herself. Ay, none so bad-looking to her mind!

And then the party came back from church late on Sunday night. All had

gone well, little Rebecca had slept the last few hours of the way

up, and was lifted from the cart and carried indoors without waking.

Sivert has heard a deal of news, but when his mother asks, "Well, what

you've got to tell?" he only says: "Nay, nothing much. Axel he's got a

mowing-machine and a harrow."

"What's that?" says his father, all interested. "Did you see them?"

"Ay, I saw them right enough. Down on the quay."

"Ho! So that was what he must go in to town for," says his father.

And Sivert sits there swelling with pride at knowing better, but says

never a word.

His father might just as well believe that Axel's pressing business in

the town had been to buy machines; his mother too might think so

for all that. Ho, but there was neither of them thought so in their

hearts; they had heard whispers enough of what was the matter; of a

new child-murder case in the wilds.

"Time for bed," says his father at last.

Sivert goes off to bed, swelling with knowledge. Axel had been

summoned for examination; 'twas a big affair--the Lensmand had gone

with him--so big indeed that the Lensmand's lady, who had just had

another child, had left the baby and was gone in to town with her

husband. She had promised to put in a word to the jury herself.

Gossip and scandal all abroad in the village now, and Sivert saw well

enough that a certain earlier crime of the same sort was being called

to mind again. Outside the church, the groups would stop talking as he

came up, and had he not been the man he was, perhaps some would have

turned away from him. Good to be Sivert those days, a man from a big

place to begin with, son of a wealthy landowner--and then beside, to

be known as a clever fellow, a good worker; he ranked before others,

and was looked up to for himself. Sivert had always been well liked

among folk. If only Jensine did not learn too much before they got

home that day! And Sivert had his own affairs to think of--ay, folk in

the wilds can blush and pale as well as other. He had seen Jensine as

she left the church with little Rebecca; she had seen him too, but

went by. He waited a bit, and then drove over to the smith's to fetch

them.

They were sitting at table, all the family at dinner. Sivert is asked

to join them, but has had his dinner, thanks. They knew he would be

coming, they might have waited that bit of a while for him--so they

would have done at Sellanraa, but not here, it seemed.

"Nay, 'tis not what you're used to, I dare say," says the smith's

wife. And, "What news from church?" says the smith, for all he had

been at church himself.

When Jensine and little Rebecca were seated up in the cart again, says

the smith's wife to her daughter: "Well, good-bye, Jensine; we'll

be wanting you home again soon." And that could be taken two ways,

thought Sivert, but he said nothing. If the speech had been more

direct, more plain and outspoken, he might perhaps ... He waits, with

puckered brows, but no more is said.

They drive up homeward, and little Rebecca is the only one with a word

to say; she is full of the wonder of going to church, the priest in

his dress with a silver cross, and the lights and the organ music.

After a long while Jensine says: "'Tis a shameful thing about Barbro

and all."

"What did your mother mean about you coming home soon?" asked Sivert.

"What she meant?"

"Ay. You thinking of leaving us, then?"

"Why, they'll be wanting me home some time, I doubt," says she.

"_Ptro_!" says Sivert, stopping his horse. "Like me to drive back with

you now, perhaps?"

Jensine looks at him; he is pale as death.

"No," says she. And a little after she begins to cry.

Rebecca looks in surprise from one to the other. Oh, but little

Rebecca was a good one to have on a journey like that; she took

Jensine's part and patted her and made her smile again. And when

little Rebecca looked threateningly at her brother and said she was

going to jump down and find a big stick to beat him, Sivert had to

smile too.

"But what did _you_ mean, now, I'd like to know?" says Jensine.

Sivert answered straight out at once: "I meant, if you don't care to

stay with us, why, we must manage without."

And a long while after, said Jensine: "Well, there's Leopoldine, she's

big now, and fit and all to do my work, seems."

Ay, 'twas a sorrowful journey.

Chapter VII

A man walks up the way through the hills. Wind and rain; the autumn

downpour has begun, but the man cares little for that, he looks glad

at heart, and glad he is. 'Tis Axel Ström, coming back from the

town and the court and all--they have let him go free. Ay, a happy

man--first of all, there's a mowing-machine and a harrow for him down

at the quay, and more than that, he's free, and not guilty. Had taken

no part in the killing of a child. Ay, so things can turn out!

But the times he had been through! Standing there as a witness, this

toiler in the fields had known the hardest days of his life. 'Twas no

gain to him to make Barbro's guilt seem greater, and for that reason

he was careful not to say too much, he did not even say all he knew;

every word had to be dragged out of him, and he answered mostly with

but "Yes" and "No." Was it not enough? Was he to make more of it than

there was already? Oh, but there were times when it looked serious

indeed; there were the men of Law, black-robed and dangerous, easy

enough for them, it seemed, just with a word or so, to turn the whole

thing as they pleased, and have him sentenced. But they were kindly

folk after all, and did not try to bring him to destruction. Also, as

it happened, there were powerful influences at work trying to save

Barbro, and it was all to his advantage as well.

Then what on earth was there for him to trouble about?

Barbro herself would hardly try to make things look worse than need be

for her former master and lover; he knew terrible things about this

and an earlier affair of the same sort; she could not be such a fool.

No, Barbro was clever enough; she said a good word for Axel, and

declared that he had known nothing of her having borne a child till

after it was all over. He was different in some ways, perhaps, from

other men, and they did not always get on well together, but a quiet

man, and a good man in every way. No, it was true he had dug a new

grave and buried the body away there, but that was long after, and

by reason he had thought the first place was not dry enough, though

indeed it was, and 'twas only Axel's odd way of thinking.

What need, then, for Axel to fear at all when Barbro took all the

blame on herself that way? And as for Barbro herself, there were

mighty influences at work.

Fru Lensmand Heyerdahl had taken up the case. She went about to high

and low, never sparing herself, demanded to be called as a witness,

and made a speech in court. When her turn came, she stood there before

them all and was a great lady indeed; she took up the question of

infanticide in all its aspects, and gave the court a long harangue

on the subject--it almost seemed as if she had obtained permission

beforehand to say what she pleased. Ay, folk might say what they would

of Fru Lensmand Heyerdahl, but make a speech, that she could, and was

learned in politics and social questions, no doubt about that. 'Twas

a marvel where she found all her words. Now and again the presiding

justice seemed wishful to keep her to the point, but maybe he had not

the heart to interrupt, and let her run on. And at the end of it all,

she volunteered one or two useful items of information, and made a

startling offer to the court.

Leaving out all legal technicalities, what took place was this:

"We women," said Fru Heyerdahl, "we are an unfortunate and oppressed

moiety of humanity. It is the men who make the laws, and we women have

not a word to say in the matter. But can any man put himself in the

position of a woman in childbirth? Has he ever felt the dread of it,

ever known the terrible pangs, ever cried aloud in the anguish of that

hour?

"In the present instance, it is a servant-girl who has borne the

child. A girl, unmarried, and consequently trying all through the

critical time to hide her condition. And why must she seek to hide it?

Because of society. Society despises the unmarried woman who bears

a child. Not only does society offer her no protection, but it

persecutes her, pursues her with contempt and disgrace. Atrocious! No

human creature with any heart at all could help feeling indignant at

such a state of things. Not only is the girl to bring a child into the

world, a thing in itself surely hard enough, but she is to be treated

as a criminal for that very fact. I will venture to say that it was

well for the unfortunate girl now accused before the court that her

child was born by accident when she fell into the water, and drowned.

Well for herself and for the child. As long as society maintains its

present attitude, an unmarried mother should be counted guiltless even

if she does kill her child."

Here a slight murmur was heard from the presiding justice.

"Or at any rate, her punishment should be merely nominal," said Fru

Heyerdahl. "We are all agreed, of course," she went on, "that infant

life should be preserved, but is that to mean that no law of simple

humanity is to apply to the unfortunate mother? Think, consider

what she has been through during all the period of pregnancy, what

suffering she has endured in striving to hide her condition, and all

the time never knowing where to turn for herself and the child when it

comes. No man can imagine it," said she. "The child is at least killed

in kindness. The mother tries to save herself and the child she loves

from the misery of its life. The shame is more than she can bear, and

so the plan gradually forms itself in her mind, to put the child out

of the way. The birth takes place in secret, and the mother is for

four-and-twenty hours in such a delirious state that at the moment

of killing the child she is simply not responsible for her actions.

Practically speaking, she has not herself committed the act at all,

being out of her senses at the time. With every bone in her body

aching still after her delivery, she has to take the little creature's

life and hide away the body--think what an effort of will is demanded

here! Naturally, we all wish all children to live; we are distressed

at the thought that any should be exterminated in such a way. But

it is the fault of society that it is so; the fault of a hopeless,

merciless, scandalmongering, mischievous, and evil-minded society,

ever on the watch to crush an unmarried mother by every means in its

power!

"But--even after such treatment at the hands of society, the

persecuted mother can rise up again. It often happens that these

girls, after one false step of the sort, are led by that very fact to

develop their best and noblest qualities. Let the court inquire of the

superintendents at refuge homes, where unmarried mothers and their

children are received, if this is not the case. And experience has

shown that it is just such girls who have--whom society has forced to

kill their own children, that make the best nurses. Surely that was a

matter for any and all to think seriously about?

"Then there is another side of the question. Why is the man to go

free? The mother found guilty of infanticide is thrust into prison and

tortured, but the father, the seducer, he is never touched. Yet being

as he is the cause of the child's existence, he is a party to the

crime; his share in it, indeed, is greater than the mother's; had it

not been for him, there would have been no crime. Then why should he

be acquitted? Because the laws are made by men. There is the answer.

The enormity of such man-made laws cries of itself to Heaven for

intervention. And there can be no help for us women till we are

allowed a say in the elections, and in the making of laws, ourselves.

"But," said Fru Heyerdahl, "if this is the terrible fate that is meted

out to the guilty--or, let us say, the more clearly guilty--unmarried

mother who has killed her child, what of the innocent one who is

merely suspected of the crime, and has not committed it? What

reparation does society offer to her? None at all! I can testify that

I know the girl here accused; have known her since she was a child;

she has been in my service, and her father is my husband's assistant.

We women venture to think and feel directly in opposition to men's

accusations and persecution; we dare to have our own opinion. The girl

there has been arrested, deprived of her liberty, on suspicion of

having in the first place concealed the birth of a child, and further

of having killed the child so born. I have no doubt in my own mind

that she is not guilty of either--the court will itself arrive at this

self-evident conclusion. Concealment of birth--the child was born in

the middle of the day. True, the mother is alone at the time--but who

could have been with her in any case? The place is far away in the

wilds, the only living soul within reach is a man--how could she

send for a man at such a moment? Any woman will tell you it is

impossible--not to be thought of. And then--it is alleged that she

must have killed the child after. But the child was born in the

water--the mother falls down in an icy stream, and the child is born.

What was she doing by the water? She is a servant-girl, a slave, that

is to say, and has her daily work to do; she is going to fetch juniper

twigs for cleaning. And crossing the stream, she slips and falls in.

And there she lies; the child is born, and is drowned in the water."

Fru Heyerdahl stopped. She could see from the look of the court and

the spectators that she had spoken wonderfully well; there was a great

silence in the place, only Barbro sat dabbing her eyes now and again

for sheer emotion. And Fru Heyerdahl closed with these words: "We

women have some heart, some feeling. I have left my own children in

the care of strangers to travel all this way and appear as a witness

on behalf of the unfortunate girl sitting there. Men's laws cannot

prevent women from thinking; and I think this, that the girl there has

been punished sufficiently for no crime. Acquit her, let her go free,

and I will take charge of her myself. She will make the best nurse I

have ever had."

And Fru Heyerdahl stepped down.

Says the justice then: "But I think you said a moment ago that the

best nurses were those who _had_ killed their children?"

Oh, but the justice was not of a mind to go against Fru Heyerdahl, not

in the least--he was as humane as could be himself, a man as gentle as

a priest. When the advocate for the Crown put a few questions to the

witness afterwards, the justice sat for the most part making notes on

some papers.

The proceedings lasted only till a little over noon; there were few

witnesses, and the case was clear enough. Axel Ström sat hoping for

the best, then suddenly it seemed as if the advocate for the Crown

and Fru Heyerdahl were joining forces to make things awkward for him,

because he had buried the body instead of notifying the death. He was

cross-examined somewhat sharply on this point, and would likely enough

have come out badly if he had not all at once caught sight of Geissler

sitting in the court. Ay, 'twas right enough, Geissler was there. This

gave Axel courage, he no longer felt himself alone against the Law

that was determined to beat him down. And Geissler nodded to him.

Ay, Geissler was come to town. He had not asked to be called as a

witness, but he was there. He had also spent a couple of days before

the case came on in going into the matter himself, and noting down

what he remembered of Axel's own account given him at Maaneland. Most

of the documents seemed to Geissler somewhat unsatisfactory; this

Lensmand Heyerdahl was evidently a narrow-minded person, who had

throughout endeavoured to prove complicity on Axel's part. Fool, idiot

of a man--what did he know of life in the wilds, when he could see

that the child was just what Axel had counted on to keep the woman,

his helpmeet, on the place!

Geissler spoke to the advocate for the Crown, but it seemed there was

little need of intervention there; he wanted to help Axel back to his

farm and his land, but Axel was in no need of help, from the looks

of things. For the case was going well as far as Barbro herself was

concerned, and if she were acquitted, then there could be no question

of any complicity at all. It would depend on the testimony of the

witnesses.

When the few witnesses had been heard--Oline had not been summoned,

but only the Lensmand, Axel himself, the experts, a couple of girls

from the village--when they had been heard, it was time to adjourn for

the midday break, and Geissler went up to the advocate for the Crown

once more. The advocate was of opinion that all was going well for the

girl Barbro, and so much the better. Fru Lensmand Heyerdahl's words

had carried great weight. All depended now upon the finding of the

court.

"Are you at all interested in the girl?" asked the advocate.

"Why, to a certain extent," answered Geissler--"or rather, perhaps, in

the man."

"Has she been in your service too?"

"No, he's never been in my service."

"I was speaking of the girl. It's she that has the sympathy of the

court."

"No, she's never been in my service at all."

"The man--h'm, he doesn't seem to come out of it so well," said

the advocate. "Goes off and buries the body all by himself in the

wood--looks bad, very bad."

"He wanted to have it buried properly, I suppose," said Geissler. "It

hadn't been really buried at all at first."

"Well, of course a woman hadn't the strength of a man to go digging.

And in her state--she must have been done up already. Altogether,"

said the advocate, "I think we've come to take a more humane view of

these infanticide cases generally, of late. If I were to judge, I

should never venture to condemn the girl at all; and from what has

appeared in this case, I shall not venture to demand a conviction."

"Very pleased to hear it," said Geissler, with a bow.

The advocate went on: "As a man, as a private person, I will even go

further, and say: I would never condemn a single unmarried mother for

killing her child."

"Most interesting," said Geissler, "to find the advocate for the Crown

so entirely in agreement with what Fru Heyerdahl said before the

court."

"Oh, Fru Heyerdahl!... Still, to my mind, there was a great deal in

what she said. After all, what is the good of all these convictions?

Unmarried mothers have suffered enough beforehand, and been brought so

low in every human regard by the brutal and callous attitude of the

world--the punishment ought to suffice."

Geissler rose, and said at last: "No doubt. But what about the

children?"

"True," said the advocate, "it's a sad business about the children.

Still, all things considered, perhaps it's just as well. Illegitimate

children have a hard time, and turn out badly as often as not."

Geissler felt perhaps some touch of malice at the portly complacency

of the man of law; he said:

"Erasmus was born out of wedlock."

"Erasmus ...?"

"Erasmus of Rotterdam."

"H'm."

"And Leonardo the same."

"Leonardo da Vinci? Really? Well, of course, there are exceptions,

otherwise there would be no rule. But on the whole...."

"We pass protective measures for beast and bird," said Geissler;

"seems rather strange, doesn't it, not to trouble about our own

young?"

The advocate for the Crown reached out slowly and with dignity after

some papers on the table, as a hint that he had not time to continue

the discussion. "Yes...." said he absently. "Yes, yes, no doubt...."

Geissler expressed his thanks for a most instructive conversation, and

took his leave.

He sat down in the court-house again, to be there in good time. He

was not ill-pleased, maybe, to feel his power; he had knowledge of a

certain piece of wrapping, a man's shirt cut across, to carry--let us

say twigs for a broom; of the body of a child floating in the harbour

at Bergen--ay, he could make matters awkward for the court if he

chose; a word from him would be as effective as a thousand swords. But

Geissler had doubtless no intention of uttering that word now unless

it were needed. Things were going splendidly without; even the

advocate for the Crown had declared himself on the side of the

accused.

The room fills, and the court is sitting again.

An interesting comedy to watch in a little town. The warning gravity

of the advocate for the Crown, the emotional eloquence of the advocate

for the defence. The court sat listening to what appeared to be its

duty in regard to the case of a girl named Barbro, and the death of

her child.

For all that, it was no light matter after all to decide. The advocate

for the Crown was a presentable man to look at, and doubtless also a

man of heart, but something appeared to have annoyed him recently or

possibly he had suddenly remembered that he held a certain office

in the State and was bound to act from that point of view. An

incomprehensible thing, but he was plainly less disposed to be lenient

now than he had been during the morning; if the crime had been

committed, he said, it was a serious matter, and things would look

black indeed if they could with certainty be declared so black as

would appear from the testimony of the witnesses already heard. That

was a matter for the court to decide. He wished to draw attention to

three points: firstly, whether they had before them a concealment of

birth; whether this was clear to the court. He made some personal

remarks on this head. The second point was the wrapping, the piece of

a shirt--why had the accused taken this with her? Was it in order to

make use of it for a certain purpose preconceived? He developed this

suggestion further. His third point was the hurried and suspicious

burial, without any notification of the death to either priest or

Lensmand. Here, the man was the person chiefly responsible, and it

was of the utmost importance that the court should come to the right

conclusion in that respect. For it was obvious that if the man were an

accomplice, and had therefore undertaken the burial himself, then

his servant-girl must have committed a crime before he could be an

accomplice in it.

"H'm," from some one in court.

Axel Ström felt himself again in danger. He looked up without meeting

a single glance; all eyes were fixed on the advocate speaking. But far

down in the court sat Geissler again, looking highly supercilious, as

if bursting with his own superiority, his under-lip thrust forward,

his face turned towards the ceiling. This enormous indifference to the

solemnity of the court, and that "H'm," uttered loudly and without

concealment, cheered Axel mightily; he felt himself no longer alone

against the world.

And now things took a turn again for the better. This advocate for the

Crown seemed at last to think he had done enough, had achieved all

that was possible in the way of directing suspicion and ill-feeling

towards the man; and now he stopped. He did more; he almost, as it

were, faced round, and made no demand for a conviction. He ended by

saying, in so many words, that after the testimony of the witnesses in

the case, he on his part did not call upon the court to convict the

accused.

This was well enough, thought Axel--the business was practically over.

Then came the turn of the advocate for the defence, a young man

who had studied the law, and had now been entrusted with this most

satisfactory case. His tone itself showed the view he took of it;

never had a man been more certain of defending an innocent person than

he. Truth to tell, this Fru Heyerdahl had taken the wind out of his

sails beforehand, and used several of his own intended arguments that

morning; he was annoyed at her having already exploited the "society"

theme--oh, but he could have said some first-rate things about society

himself. He was incensed at the mistaken leniency of the presiding

justice in not stopping her speech; it was a defence in itself, a

brief prepared beforehand--and what was there left for him?

He began at the beginning of the life-story of the girl Barbro. Her

people were not well off, albeit industrious and respectable; she had

gone out to service at an early age, first of all to the Lensmand's.

The court had heard that morning what her mistress, Fru Heyerdahl,

thought of her--no one could wish for a finer recommendation. Barbro

had then gone to Bergen. Here the advocate laid great stress on a most

feelingly written testimonial from two young business men in whose

employ Barbro had been while at Bergen--evidently in a position of

trust. Barbro had come back to act as housekeeper for this unmarried

man in an outlying district. And here her trouble began.

She found herself with child by this man. The learned counsel for the

prosecution had already referred--in the most delicate and considerate

manner, be it said--to the question of concealment of birth. Had

Barbro attempted to conceal her condition; had she denied being with

child? The two witnesses, girls from her own village, had been of

opinion that she was in that condition; but when they had asked her,

she had not denied it at all, she had merely passed the matter off.

What would a young girl naturally do in such a case but pass it off?

No one else had asked her about it at all. Go to her mistress and

confess? She had no mistress; she was mistress on the place herself.

She had a master, certainly, but a girl could not be expected to

confide in a man upon such a matter; she bears her cross herself; does

not sing, does not whisper, but is silent as a Trappist. Concealment?

No, but she kept herself to herself.

The child is born--a sound and healthy boy; had lived and breathed

after birth, but had been suffocated. The court had been made aware

of the circumstances attending this birth: it had taken place in the

water; the mother falls into the stream, and the child is born, but

she is incapable of saving the child. She lies there, unable even to

rise herself till some time after. No marks of violence were to be

seen upon the body; there was nothing to indicate that it had been

intentionally killed; it had been drowned by misadventure at birth,

that was all. The most natural explanation in the world.

His learned colleague had made some mention of a cloth or wrapping,

considering it something of a mystery why she should have taken half a

shirt with her that day. The mystery was clear enough; she had taken

the shirt to carry stripped juniper in. She might have taken--let us

say, a pillow-case; as it was, she had taken this piece of a. shirt.

Something she must have, in any case; she could not carry the stuff

back in her hands. No, there was surely no ground for making a mystery

of this.

One point, however, was not quite so clear: had the accused been

treated with the care and consideration which her condition at the

time demanded? Had her master dealt kindly with her? It would be

as well for him if it were found so. The girl herself had, under

cross-examination, referred to the man in satisfactory terms; and this

again was evidence in itself of her own nobility of character.

The man, on his part, Axel Ström, had likewise in his depositions

refrained from any attempt to add to the burden of the girl, or to

blame her in any way. In this he had acted rightly--not to say wisely,

seeing that his own case depended very largely upon how matters went

with her. By laying the blame on her he would, if she were convicted,

bring about his own downfall.

It was impossible to consider the documents and depositions in the

present case without feeling the deepest sympathy for this young girl

in her forsaken situation. And yet there was no need to appeal to

mercy on her behalf, only to justice and human understanding. She and

her master were in a way betrothed, but a certain dissimilarity of

temperament and interests prevented them from marrying. The girl could

not entrust her future to such a man. It was not a pleasant subject,

but it might be well to return for a moment to the question of the

wrapping that had been spoken of before; it should here be noted that

the girl had taken, not one of her own undergarments, but one of her

master's shirts. The question at once arose: had the man himself

offered the material for the purpose? Here, one was at first inclined

to see a possibility, at any rate, that the man, Axel, had had some

part in the affair.

"H'm," from some one in court. Loud and hard--so much so, indeed,

that the speaker paused, and all looked round to see who might be

responsible for the interruption. The presiding justice frowned.

But, went on the advocate for the defence, collecting himself again,

in this respect, also, we can set our minds at rest, thanks to the

accused herself. It might seem well to her advantage to divide the

blame here, but she had not attempted to do so. She had entirely and

without reserve absolved Axel Ström from any complicity whatever in

the fact of her having taken his shirt instead of something of her own

on her way to the water--that is, on her way to the woods to gather

juniper. There was not the slightest reason for doubting the

asseveration of the accused on this point; her depositions had

throughout been found in accordance with the facts, and the same was

evidently the case in this. Had the shirt been given her by the man,

this would have been to presuppose a killing of the child already

planned--the accused, truthful as she was, had not attempted to

charge even this man with a crime that had never been committed. Her

demeanour throughout had been commendably frank and open; she had

made no endeavour to throw the blame on others. There were frequent

instances before the court of this delicacy of feeling on the part of

the accused, as, for instance, the fact that she had wrapped up the

body of the child as well as she could, and put it away decently, as

the Lensmand had found it.

Here the presiding justice interposed, merely as a matter of form,

observing that it was grave No. 2 which the Lensmand had found--the

grave in which Axel had buried the body after its removal from the

first.

"True, that is true. I stand corrected," said the advocate, with

all proper respect for the president of the court. Perfectly true.

But--Axel had himself stated that he had only carried the body from

one grave and laid it in the other. And there could be no doubt but

that a woman was better able to wrap up a child than was a man--and

who best of all? Surely a mother's tender hand?

The presiding justice nods.

In any case--could not this girl--if she had been of another

sort--have buried the child naked? One might even go so far as to say

that she might have thrown it into a dustbin. She might have left it

out under a tree in the open, to freeze to death--that is to say, of

course, if it had not been dead already. She might have put it in the

oven when left alone, and burnt it up. She might have taken it up to

the river at Sellanraa and thrown it in there. But this mother did

none of these things; she wrapped the dead child neatly in a cloth

and buried it. And if the body had been found wrapped neatly when the

grave was opened, it must be a woman and not a man who had so wrapped

it.

And now, the advocate for the defence went on, it lay with the court

to determine what measure of guilt could properly be attributed to the

girl Barbro in the matter. There was but little remaining for which

she could be blamed at all--indeed, in his, counsel's, opinion, there

was nothing. Unless the court found reason to convict on the charge

of having failed to notify the death. But here, again--the child was

dead, and nothing could alter that; the place was far out in the

wilds, many miles from either priest or Lensmand; natural enough,

surely, to let it sleep the eternal sleep in a neat grave in the

woods. And if it were a crime to have buried it thus, then the accused

was not more guilty than the father of the child--as it was, the

misdemeanour was surely slight enough to be overlooked. Modern

practice was growing more and more disposed to lay more stress

on reforming the criminal than on punishing the crime. It was an

antiquated system which sought to inflict punishment for every mortal

thing--it was the _lex talionis_ of the Old Testament, an eye for an

eye and a tooth for a tooth. There was no longer the spirit of the law

in modern times. The law of the present day was more humane, seeking

to adjust itself according to the degree of criminal intent and

purpose displayed in each case.

No! The court could never convict this girl. It was not the object of

a trial to secure an addition to the number of criminals, but rather

to restore to society a good and useful member. It should be noted

that the accused had now the prospect of a new position where she

would be under the best possible supervision. Fru Lensmand Heyerdahl

had, from her intimate knowledge of the girl, and from her own

valuable experience as a mother, thrown wide the doors of her own home

to the girl; the court would bear in mind the weight of responsibility

attaching to its decision here, and would then convict or acquit the

accused. Finally, he wished to express his thanks to the learned

counsel for the prosecution, who had generously refrained from

demanding a conviction--a pleasing evidence of deep and humane

understanding.

The advocate for the defence sat down.

The remainder of the proceedings did not take long. The summing up was

but a repetition of the same points, as viewed from opposite sides, a

brief synopsis of the action of the play, dry, dull, and dignified. It

had all been managed very satisfactorily all round; both the advocates

had pointed out what the court should consider, and the presiding

justice found his task easy enough.

Lights were lit, a couple of lamps hanging from the ceiling--a

miserable light it was, the justice could hardly see to read his

notes. He mentioned with some severity the point that the child's

death had not been duly notified to the proper authorities--but that,

under the circumstances, should be considered rather the duty of the

father than of the mother, owing to her weakness at the time. The

court had then to determine whether any case had been proved with

regard to concealment of birth and infanticide. Here the evidence

was again recapitulated from beginning to end. Then came the usual

injunction as to being duly conscious of responsibility, which the

court had heard before, and finally, the not uncommon reminder that in

cases of doubt, the scale should be allowed to turn in favour of the

accused.

And now all was clear and ready.

The judges left the room and went into another apartment. They were to

consider a paper with certain questions, which one of them had with

him. They were away five minutes, and returned with a "No" to all the

questions.

No, the girl Barbro had not killed her child.

Then the presiding judge said a few more words, and declared that the

girl Barbro was now free.

The court-house emptied, the comedy was over....

Someone takes Axel Ström by the arm: it is Geissler. "H'm," said he,

"so you're done with that now!"

"Ay," said Axel.

"But they've wasted a lot of your time to no purpose."

"Ay," said Axel again. But he was coming to himself again gradually,

and after a moment he added: "None the less, I'm glad it was no

worse."

"No worse?" said Geissler. "I'd have liked to see them try!" He spoke

with emphasis, and Axel fancied Geissler must have had something to do

with the case himself; that he had intervened. Heaven knows if,

after all, it had not been Geissler himself that had led the whole

proceedings and gained the result he wished. It was a mystery, anyway.

So much at least Axel understood, that Geissler had been on his side

all through.

"I've a deal to thank you for," said he, offering his hand.

"What for?" asked Geissler.

"Why, for--for all this."

Geissler turned it off shortly. "I've done nothing at all. Didn't

trouble to do, anything--'twasn't worth while." But for all that,

Geissler was not displeased, maybe, at being thanked; it was as if he

had been waiting for it, and now it had come. "I've no time to stand

talking now," he said. "Going back tomorrow, are you? Good. Good-bye,

then, and good luck to you." And Geissler strolled off across the

street.

* * * * *

On the boat going home, Axel encountered the Lensmand and his wife,

Barbro and the two girls called as witnesses.

"Well," said Fru Heyerdahl, "aren't you glad it turned out so well?"

Axel said, "Yes"; he was glad it had come out all right in the end.

The Lensmand himself put in a word, and said: "This is the second

of these cases I've had while I've been here--first with Inger from

Sellanraa, and now this. No, it's no good trying to countenance that

sort of thing--justice must take its course."

But Fru Heyerdahl guessed, no doubt, that Axel was not over pleased

with her speech of the day before, and tried to smooth it over, to

make up for it somehow now. "You understood, of course, why I had to

say all that about you yesterday?"

"H'm--ye--es," said Axel.

"You understood, of course, I know. You didn't think I wanted to make

things harder for you in any way. I've always thought well of you, and

I don't mind saying so."

"Ay," said Axel, no more. But he was pleased and touched at her words.

"Yes, I mean it," said Fru Heyerdahl. "But I was obliged to try and

shift the blame a little your way, otherwise Barbro would have been

convicted, and you too. It was all for the best, indeed it was."

"I thank you kindly," said Axel.

"And it was I and no other that went about from one to another through

the place, trying to do what I could for you both. And you saw, of

course, that we all had to do the same thing--make out that you were

partly to blame, so as to get you both off in the end."

"Ay," said Axel.

"Surely you didn't imagine for a moment that I meant any harm to you?

When I've always thought so well of you!"

Ay, this was good to hear after all the disgrace of it. Axel, at any

rate, was so touched that he felt he must do something, give Fru

Heyerdahl something or other, whatever he could find--a piece of meat

perhaps, now autumn was come. He had a young bull....

Fru Lensmand Heyerdahl kept her word; she took Barbro to live with

her. On board the steamer, too, she looked after the girl, and saw

that she was not cold, nor hungry; took care, also, that she did not

get up to any nonsense with the mate from Bergen. The first time it

occurred, she said nothing, but simply called Barbro to her. But a

little while after there was Barbro with him again, her head on one

side, talking Bergen dialect and smiling. Then her mistress called her

up and said: "Really, Barbro, you ought not to be going on like that

among the men now. Remember what you've just been through, and what

you've come from."

"I was only talking to him a minute," said Barbro. "I could hear he

was from Bergen."

Axel did not speak to her. He noticed that she was pale and

clear-skinned now, and her teeth were better. She did not wear either

of his rings....

And now here is Axel tramping up to his own place once more. Wind and

rain, but he is glad at heart; a mowing-machine and a harrow down at

the quay; he had seen them. Oh, that Geissler! Never a word had he

said in town about what he had sent. Ay, an unfathomable man was

Geissler.

Chapter VIII

Axel had no long time to rest at home, as it turned out; the autumn

gales led to fresh trouble and bothersome work that he had brought

upon himself: the telegraph apparatus on his wall announced that the

line was out of order.

Oh, but he had been thinking overmuch of the money, surely, when he

took on that post. It had been a nuisance from the start. Brede Olsen

had fairly threatened him when he went down to fetch the apparatus

and tools; ay, had said to him in as many words: "You don't seem like

remembering how I saved your life last winter!"

"'Twas Oline saved my life," answered Axel.

"Ho, indeed! And didn't I carry you down myself on my own poor

shoulders? Anyway, you were clever enough to buy up my place in

summer-time and leave me homeless in the winter." Ay, Brede was deeply

offended; he went on:

"But you can take the telegraph for me, ay, all the rubble of it for

me. I and mine we'll go down to the village and start on something

there--you don't know what it'll be, but wait and see. What about a

hotel place where folk can get coffee? You see but we'll manage all

right. There's my wife can sell things to eat and drink as well as

another, and I can go out on business and make a heap more than you

ever did. But I don't mind telling you, Axel, I could make things

awkward for you in many odd ways, seeing all I know about the

telegraph and things; ay, 'twould be easy enough both to pull down

poles and cut the line and all. And then you to go running out after

it midway in the busy time. That's all I'll say to you, Axel, and you

bear it in mind...."

Now Axel should have been down and brought up the machines from the

quay--all over gilt and colouring they were, like pictures to see. And

he might have had them to look at all that day, and learn the manner

of using them--but now they must wait. 'Twas none so pleasant to have

to put aside all manner of necessary work to run and see after a

telegraph line. But 'twas the money....

Up on the top of the hill he meets Aronsen. Ay, Aronsen the trader

standing there looking and gazing out into the storm, like a vision

himself. What did he want there? No peace in his mind now, it seems,

but he must go up the fjeld himself and look at the mine with his own

eyes. And this, look you, Trader Aronsen had done from sheer earnest

thought of his own and his family's future. Here he is, face to face

with bare desolation on the forsaken hills, machines lying there to

rust, carts and material of all sorts left out in the open--'twas

dismal to see. Here and there on the walls of the huts were placards,

notices written by hand, forbidding any one to damage or remove the

company's property--tools, carts, or buildings.

Axel stops for a few words with the mad trader, and asks if he has

come out shooting.

"Shooting? Ay, if I could only get within reach of him!"

"Him? Who, then?"

"Why, him that's ruining me and all the rest of us hereabout. Him that

won't sell his bit of fjeld and let things get to work again, and

trade and money passing same as before."

"D'you mean him Geissler, then?"

"Ay, 'tis him I mean. Ought to be shot!"

Axel laughs at this, and says: "Geissler he was in town but a few days

back; you should have talked to him there. But if I might be so bold

as to say, I doubt you'd better leave him alone, after all."

"And why?" asks Aron angrily.

"Why? I've a mind he'd be overwise and mysterious for you in the end."

They argued over this for a while, and Aronsen grew more excited than

ever. At last Axel asked jestingly: "Well, anyway, you'll not be so

hard on us all to run away and leave us to ourselves in the wilds?"

"Huh! Think I'm going to stay fooling about here in your bogs and

never so much as making the price of a pipe?" cried Aron indignantly.

"Find me a buyer and I'll sell out."

"Sell out?" says Axel. "The land's good ordinary land if she's handled

as should be--and what you've got's enough to keep a man."

"Haven't I just said I'll not touch it?" cried Aronsen again in the

gale. "I can do better than that!"

Axel thought if that was so, 'twould be easy to find a buyer; but

Aronsen laughed scornfully at the idea--there was nobody there in the

wilds had money to buy him out.

"Not here in the wilds, maybe, but elsewhere."

"Here's naught but filth and poverty," said Aron bitterly.

"Why, that's as it may be," said Axel in some offence. "But Isak up at

Sellanraa he could buy you out any day."

"Don't believe it," said Aronsen.

"'Tis all one to me what you believe," said Axel, and turned to go.

Aronsen called after him: "Hi, wait a bit! What's that you say--Isak

might take the place, was that what you said?"

"Ay," said Axel, "if 'twas only the money. He's means enough to buy up

five of your Storborg and all!"

Aronsen had gone round keeping wide of Sellanraa on his way up, taking

care not to be seen; but, going back, he called in and had a talk with

Isak. But Isak only shook his head and said nay, 'twas a matter he'd

never thought of, and didn't care to.

But when Eleseus came back home that Christmas, Isak was easier to

deal with. True, he maintained that it was a mad idea to think of

buying Storborg, 'twas nothing had ever been in his mind; still, if

Eleseus thought he could do anything with the place, why, they might

think it over.

Eleseus himself was midways between, as it were; not exactly eager

for it, yet not altogether indifferent. If he did settle down here at

home, then his career in one way was at an end. 'Twas not like being

in a town. That autumn, when a lot of people from his parts had been

up for cross-examination in a certain place, he had taken care not to

show himself; he had no desire to meet any that knew him from that

quarter; they belonged to another world. And was he now to go back to

that same world himself?

His mother was all for buying the place; Sivert, too, said it would be

best. They stuck to Eleseus both of them, and one day the three drove

down to Storborg to see the wonder with their own eyes.

But once there was a prospect of selling, Aronsen became a different

man; he wasn't pressed to get rid of it, not at all. If he did go

away, the place could stand as it was; 'twas a first-rate holding, a

"cash down" place, there'd be no difficulty in selling it any time.

"You'd not give my price," said Aronsen.

They went over the house and stores, the warehouse and sheds,

inspected the miserable remains of the stock, consisting of a few

mouth-organs, watch-chains, boxes of coloured papers, lamps with

hanging ornaments, all utterly unsaleable to sensible folks that lived

on their land. There were a few cases of nails and some cotton print,

and that was all.

Eleseus was constrained to show off a bit, and looked over things with

a knowing air. "I've no use for that sort of truck," said he.

"Why, then, you've no call to buy it," said Aronsen.

"Anyhow, I'll offer you fifteen hundred _Kroner_ for the place as it

stands, with goods, live stock, and the rest," said Eleseus. Oh, he

was careless, enough; his offer was but a show, for something to say.

And they drove back home. No, there was no deal; Eleseus had made a

ridiculous offer, that Aronsen regarded as an insult. "I don't think

much of you, young man," said Aronsen; ay, calling him young man,

considering him but a slip of a lad that had grown conceited in the

town, and thought to teach him, Aronsen, the value of goods.

"I'll not be called 'young man' by you, if you please," said Eleseus,

offended in his turn. They must be mortal enemies after that.

But how could it be that Aronsen had all along been so independent

and so sure of not being forced to sell? There was a reason for it:

Aronsen had a little hope at the back of his mind, after all.

A meeting had been held in the village to consider the position which

had arisen owing to Geissler's refusal to sell his part of the mining

tract. 'Twas not only the outlying settlers who stood to lose by this,

it would be fatal to the whole district.

Why could not folk go on living as well or as poorly now as before

there had been any mine at all? Well, they could not, and that was

all about it. They had grown accustomed to better food, finer bread,

store-bought clothes and higher wages, general extravagance--ay, folk

had learned to reckon with money more, that was the matter. And now

the money was gone again, had slipped away like a shoal of herring out

to sea--'twas dire distress for them all, and what was to be done?

There was no doubt about it: ex-Lensmand Geissler was taking his

revenge upon the village because they had helped his superior to get

him dismissed; equally clear was it that they had underestimated him

at the time. He had not simply disappeared and left. By the simplest

means, merely by demanding an unreasonable price for a mine, he had

succeeded in checking the entire development of the district. Ay, a

strong man! Axel Ström from Maaneland could bear them out in this; he

was the one who had last met Geissler. Brede's girl Barbro had had a

lawsuit in the town, and come home acquitted; but Geissler, he had

been there in court all the time. And if any one suggested that

Geissler was dejected, and a broken man, why, he had only to look at

the costly machines that same Geissler had sent up as a present to

Axel Ström.

This man it was then, who held the fate of the district in his hand;

they would have to come to some agreement with him. What price would

Geissler ultimately be disposed to accept for his mine? They must

ascertain in any case. The Swedes had offered him twenty-five

thousand--Geissler had refused. But suppose the village here, the

commune, were to make up the remainder, simply to get things going

again? If it were not an altogether unheard-of amount, it might be

worth while. Both the trader at the shore station and Aronsen up at

Storborg would be willing to contribute privately and secretly; funds

devoted to such a purpose now would be repaid in the long run.

The end of it was that two men were deputed to call on Geissler and

take up the matter with him. And they were expected back shortly.

So it was, then, that Aronsen cherished a flicker of hope, and thought

he could afford to stand on his dignity with any who offered to buy up

Storborg. But it was not to last.

A week later the deputation returned home with a flat refusal. Oh,

they had done the worst thing possible at the outset, in choosing

Brede Olsen as one of the men they sent--they had taken him as being

one who best could spare the time. They had found Geissler, but he had

only shaken his head and laughed. "Go back home again," he had said.

But Geissler had paid for their journey back.

Then the district was to be left to its fate?

After Aronsen had raged for a while, and grown more and more

desperate, he went up one day to Sellanraa and closed the deal. Ay,

Aronsen did. Eleseus got it for the price he had offered; land and

house and sheds, live stock and goods, for fifteen hundred _Kroner_.

True, on going through the inventory after, it was found that

Aronsen's wife had converted most of the cotton print to her own use;

but trifles of that sort were nothing to a man like Eleseus. It didn't

do to be mean, he said.

Nevertheless, Eleseus was not exactly delighted with things as they

had turned out--his future was settled now, he was to bury himself in

the wilds. He must give up his great plans; he was no longer a young

gentleman in an office, he would never be a Lensmand, not even live in

a town at all. To his father and those at home he made it appear that

he was proud at having secured Storborg at the very price he had

fixed--it would show them he knew what he was about. But that small

triumph did not go very far. He had also the satisfaction of taking

over Andresen, the chief clerk, who was thus, as it were, included in

the bargain. Aronsen had no longer any use for him, until he had a new

place going. It was a pleasant sensation to be Eleseus, when Andresen

came up begging to be allowed to stay; here it was Eleseus who was

master and head of the business--for the first time in his life.

"You can stay, yes," he said. "I shall be wanting an assistant to look

after the place when I'm away on business--opening up connections in

Bergen and Trondhjem," said he.

And Andresen was no bad man to have, as it soon proved; he was a good

worker, and looked after things well when Eleseus was away. 'Twas

only at first he had been somewhat inclined to show and play the

fine gentleman, and that was the fault of his master Aronsen. It was

different now. In the spring, when the bogs were thawed some depth,

Sivert came down from Sellanraa to Storborg, to start a bit of

ditching for his brother, and lo, Andresen himself went out on the

land digging too. Heaven knows what possessed him to do it, for 'twas

no work of his, but that was the sort of man he was. It was not thawed

deep enough yet, and they could not get as far as they wanted by a

long way, but it was something done, at any rate. It was Isak's old

idea to drain the bogs at Storborg and till the land there properly;

the bit of a store was only to be an extra, a convenience, to save

folk going all the way down to the village for a reel of thread.

So Sivert and Andresen stood there digging, and talking now and again

when they stopped for a rest. Andresen had also somehow or other

managed to get hold of a gold piece, a twenty-_Krone_ piece, and

Sivert would gladly have had the bright thing himself; but Andresen

would not part with it--kept it wrapped up in tissue paper in his

chest. Sivert proposed a wrestling match for the money--see who could

throw the other; but Andresen would not risk it. Sivert offered to

stake twenty _Kroner_ in notes against the gold piece, and do all the

digging himself into the bargain if he won; but Andresen took offence

at that. "Ho," said he, "and you'd like to go back home, no doubt, and

say I'm no good at working on the land!" At last they agreed to set

twenty-five _Kroner_ in notes against the gold twenty-_Krone_ piece,

and Sivert slipped home to Sellanraa that night to ask his father for

the money.

A young man's trick, the pretty play of youth! A night's sleep thrown

away, to walk miles up and miles down again, and work next day as

usual--'twas nothing to a young man in his strength, and a bright gold

piece was worth it all. Andresen was a little inclined to make fun of

him over the deal, but Sivert was not at a loss; he had only to let

fall a word of Leopoldine. "There! I was nearly forgetting. Leopoldine

she asked after you...." And Andresen stopped his work of a sudden and

went very red.

Pleasant days for them both, draining and ditching, getting up long

arguments for fun, and working, and arguing again. Now and then

Eleseus would come out and lend a hand, but he soon tired. Eleseus was

not strong either of body or will, but a thorough good fellow for all

that....

"Here's that Oline coming along," Sivert the jester would say. "Now

you'll have to go in and sell her a paper of coffee." And Eleseus was

glad enough to go. Selling Oline some trifle or other meant so many

minutes' rest from throwing heavy clods.

And Oline, poor creature, she might well be needing a pinch of coffee

now and again, whether by chance she managed to get the money from

Axel to pay for it, or bartered a goats' milk cheese in exchange.

Oline was not altogether what she had been; the work at Maaneland was

too hard for her; she was an old woman now, and it was leaving its

mark. Not that she ever confessed to any weakness or ageing herself;

ho! she would have found plenty to say if she had been dismissed.

Tough and irrepressible was Oline; did her work, and found time to

wander over to neighbours here or there for a real good gossip. 'Twas

her plain right, and there was little gossiping at Maaneland. Axel

himself was not given that way.

As for that Barbro case, Oline was displeased, ay, disappointed was

Oline. Both of them acquitted! That Brede's girl Barbro should be let

off when Inger Sellanraa had got eight years was not to Oline's taste

at all; she felt an unchristian annoyance at such favouritism. But the

Almighty would look to things, no doubt, in His own good time! And

Oline nodded, as if prophesying divine retribution at a later date.

Naturally, also, Oline made no secret of her dissatisfaction with the

finding of the court, more especially when she happened to fall out

with her master, Axel, over any little trifle. Then she would deliver

herself, in the old soft-spoken way, of much deep and bitter sarcasm.

"Ay, 'tis strange how the law's changed these days, for all the

wickedness of Sodom and Gomorrah; but the word of the Lord's my guide,

as ever was, and a blessed refuge for the meek."

Oh, Axel was sick and tired of his housekeeper now, and wished her

anywhere. And now with spring coming again, and all the season's work

to do alone; haymaking to come, and what was he to do? 'Twas a poor

look-out. His brother's wife, at Breidablik had written home to

Helgeland trying to find a decent woman to help him, but nothing had

come of it as yet. And in any case, it would mean his having to pay

for the journey.

Nay, 'twas a mean and wicked trick of Barbro to make away with the bit

of a child and then run off herself. A summer and two winters now he

had been forced to make do with Oline, and no saying how much longer

it might be yet. And Barbro, the creature, did she care? He had had a

few words with her down in the village one day that winter, but never

a tear had trickled slowly from her eyes to freeze on her cheek.

"What you've done with rings I gave you?" asks he.

"Rings?"

"Ay, the rings."

"I haven't got them now."

"Ho, so you haven't got them now?"

"'Twas all over between us," said she. "And I couldn't wear them after

that. 'Tis not the way to go on wearing rings when it's all over

between you."

"Well, I'd just like to know what you've done with them, that's all."

"Wanted me to give them back, maybe," said she. "Well, I never thought

you'd have had me put you to that shame."

Axel thought for a moment, and said: "I could have made it up to you

other ways. That you shouldn't lose by it, I mean."

But no, Barbro had got rid of the rings, and never so much as gave

him the chance of buying back a gold ring and a silver ring at a

reasonable price.

For all that, Barbro was not so thoroughly harsh and unlovable,

that she was not. She had a long apron thing that fastened over the

shoulders and with tucks at the edge, and a strip of white stuff up

round her neck--ay, she looked well. There were some said she'd found

a lad already down in the village to go sweethearting with, though

maybe 'twas but their talk, after all. Fru Heyerdahl kept a watchful

eye on her at any rate, and took care not to let her go to the

Christmas dances.

Ay, Fru Heyerdahl was careful enough, that she was; here was Axel

standing talking to his former servant-girl about a matter of two

rings, and suddenly Fru Heyerdahl comes right between them and says:

"Barbro, I thought you were going to the store?" Off goes Barbro. And

her mistress turns to Axel and says: "Have you come down with some

meat, or something?"

"H'm," said Axel, just that, and touched his cap.

Now it was Fru Heyerdahl that had praised him up so that last autumn,

saying he was a splendid fellow and she had always thought well of

him; and one good turn was worth another, no doubt. Axel knew the way

of doing things; 'twas an old story, when simple folk had dealing with

their betters, with authority. And he had thought at once of a piece

of butcher's meat, a bull he had, that might be useful there. But time

went on, and month and month passed by and autumn was gone, and the

bull was never killed. And what harm could it do, after all, if he

kept it for himself?--give it away, and he would be so much poorer.

And 'twas a fine beast, anyway.

"H'm, _Goddag_. Nay," said Axel, shaking his head; he'd no meat with

him today.

But Fru Heyerdahl seemed to be guessing his thoughts, for she said:

"I've heard you've an ox, or what?"

"Ay, so I have," said Axel.

"Are you going to keep it?"

"Ay, I'll be keeping him yet."

"I see. You've no sheep to be killed?"

"Not now I haven't. 'Tis this way, I've never had but what's to be

kept on the place."

"Oh, I see," said Fru Heyerdahl; "well, that was all." And she went on

her way.

Axel drove up homeward, but he could not help thinking somewhat of

what had passed; he rather feared he had made a false step somehow.

The Lensmand's lady had been an important witness once; for and

against him, but important anyway. He had been through an unpleasant

time on that occasion, but, after all, he had got out of it in the

end--got out of a very awkward business in connection with the body of

a child found buried on his land. Perhaps, after all, he had better

kill that sheep.

And, strangely enough, this thought was somehow connected with Barbro.

If he came down bringing sheep for her mistress it could hardly fail

to make a certain impression on Barbro herself.

But again the days went on, and nothing evil happened for their going

on. Next time he drove; down to the village he had no sheep on his

cart, no, still no sheep. But at the last moment he had taken a lamb.

A big lamb, though; not a miserable little one by any means, and he

delivered it with these words:

"'Tis rare tough meat on a wether, and no sort of a gift to bring. But

this is none so bad."

But Fru Heyerdahl would not hear of taking it as a gift. "Say what you

want for it," she said. Oh, a fine lady, 'twas not her way to take

gifts from folk! And the end of it was that Axel got a good price for

his lamb.

He saw nothing of Barbro at all. Lensmand's lady had seen him coming,

and got her out of the way. And good luck go with her--Barbro that had

cheated him out of his help for a year and a half!

Chapter IX

That spring something unexpected happened--something of importance

indeed; work at the mine was started again; Geissler had sold his

land. Inconceivable! Oh, but Geissler was an unfathomable mind; he

could make a bargain or refuse, shake his head for a "No," or nod the

same for "Yes." Could make the whole village smile again.

Conscience had pricked him, maybe; he had no longer the heart to see

the district where he had been Lensmand famishing on home-made gruel

and short of money. Or had he got his quarter of a million? Possibly,

again, Geissler himself had at last begun to feel the need of money,

and had been forced to sell for what he could get. Twenty-five or

fifty thousand was not to be despised, after all. As a matter of fact,

there were rumours that it was his eldest son who had settled the

business on his father's account.

Be that as it might, work was recommenced; the same engineer came

again with his gangs of men, and the work went on anew. The same work,

ay, but in a different fashion now, going backwards, as it were.

All seemed in regular order: the Swedish mine-owners had brought their

men, and dynamite and money--what could be wrong, anyway? Even Aronsen

came back again, Aronsen the trader, who had set his mind on buying

back Storborg from Eleseus.

"No," said Eleseus. "It's not for sale."

"You'll sell, I suppose, if you're offered enough?"

"No."

No, Eleseus was not going to sell Storborg. The truth was, he had

changed his mind somewhat as to the position; it was none so bad,

after all, to be owner of a trading station in the hills; he had a

fine verandah with coloured glass windows, and a chief clerk to do

all the work, while he himself went about the country travelling. Ay,

travelling first class, with fine folks. One day, perhaps, he might

be able to go as far as America--he often thought of that. Even these

little journeys on business to the towns down in the south were

something to live on for a long time after. Not that he let himself go

altogether, and chartered a steamer of his own and held wild orgies on

the way--orgies were not in his line. A strange fellow, was Eleseus;

he no longer cared about girls, had given up such things altogether,

lost all interest in them. No, but after all, he was the Margrave's

son, and travelled first class and bought up loads of goods. And each

time he came back a little finer than before, a greater man; the last

time, he even wore galoshes to keep his feet dry. "What's that--you

taken to wearing two pairs of shoes?" they said.

"I've been suffering from chilblains lately," says Eleseus.

And every one sympathized with Eleseus and his chilblains.

Glorious days--a grand life, with no end of leisure. No, he was not

going to sell Storborg. What, go back to a little town and stand

behind the counter in a little shop, and no chief clerk of his own at

all? Moreover, he had made up his mind now to develop the business

on a grand scale. The Swedes had come back again and would flood the

place with money; he would be a fool to sell out now. Aronsen was

forced to go back each time with a flat refusal, more and more

disgusted at his own lack of foresight in ever having given up the

place.

Oh, but Aronsen might have saved himself a deal of self-reproach, and

likewise Eleseus with his plans and intentions, that he might have

kept in moderation. And more than all, the village would have done

well to be less confident, instead of going about smiling and rubbing

its hands like angels sure of being blessed--no call for them to do so

if they had but known. For now came disappointment, and no little one

at that. Who would ever have thought it; work at the mine commenced

again, true enough--but at the other end of the fjeld, eight miles

away, on the southern boundary of Geissler's holding, far off in

another district altogether, a district with which they were in no

way concerned. And from there the work was to make its way gradually

northward to the original mine, Isak's mine, to be a blessing to folk

in the wilds and in the village. At best, it would take years, any

number of years, a generation.

The news came like a dynamite charge of the heaviest sort, with shock

and stopping of ears. The village folk were overcome with grief. Some

blamed Geissler; 'twas Geissler, that devil of a man, who had tricked

them once more. Others huddled together at a meeting and sent out a

new deputation of trusty men, this time to the mining company, to the

engineer. But nothing came of it; the engineer explained that he was

obliged to start work from the south because that was nearest the sea,

and saved the need of an aerial railway, reduced the transport almost

to nil. No, the work must begin that way; no more to be said.

Then it was that Aronsen at once rose up and set out for the new

workings, the new promised land. He even tried to get Andresen to go

with him: "What's the sense of you staying on here in the wilds?"

said he. "Much better come with me." But Andresen would not leave;

incomprehensible, but so it was, there was something which held him

to the spot; he seemed to thrive there, had taken root. It must be

Andresen who had changed, for the place was the same as ever. Folk

and things were unaltered; the mining work had turned away to other

tracts, but folk in the wilds had not lost their heads over that; they

had their land to till, their crops, their cattle. No great wealth in

money, true, but in all the necessaries of life, ay, absolutely all.

Even Eleseus was not reduced to misery because the stream of gold was

flowing elsewhere; the worst of it was that in his first exaltation he

had bought great stocks of goods that were now unsaleable. Well, they

could stay there for the time being; it looked well, at any rate, to

have plenty of wares in a store.

No, a man of the wilds did not lose his head. The air was not less

healthy now than before; there were folk enough to admire new clothes;

there was no need of diamonds. Wine was a thing he knew from the feast

at Cana. A man of the wild was not put out by the thought of great

things he could not get; art, newspapers, luxuries, politics, and

such-like were worth just what folk were willing to pay for them,

no more. Growth of the soil was something different, a thing to be

procured at any cost; the only source, the origin of all. A dull and

desolate existence? Nay, least of all. A man had everything; his

powers above, his dreams, his loves, his wealth of superstition.

Sivert, walking one evening by the river, stops on a sudden; there on

the water are a pair of ducks, male and female. They have sighted him;

they are aware of man, and afraid; one of them says something, utters

a little sound, a melody in three tones, and the other answers

with the same. Then they rise, whirl off like two little wheels a

stone's-throw up the river, and settle again. Then, as before, one

speaks and the other answers; the same speech as at first, but mark a

new delight: _it is set two octaves higher_! Sivert stands looking at

the birds, looking past them, far into a dream.

A sound had floated through him, a sweetness, and left him standing

there with a delicate; thin recollection of something wild and

splendid, something he had known before, and forgotten again. He walks

home in silence, says no word of it, makes no boast of it, 'twas not

for worldly speech. And it was but Sivert from Sellanraa, went out one

evening, young and ordinary as he was, and met with this.

It was not the only thing he met with--there were more adventures

beside. Another thing which happened was that Jensine left Sellanraa.

And that made Sivert not a little perturbed in his mind.

Ay, it came to that: Jensine would leave, if you please; she wished it

so. Oh, Jensine was not one of your common sort, none could say that.

Sivert had once offered to drive her back home at once, and on that

occasion she had cried, which was a pity; but afterwards she repented

of that, and made it clear that she repented, and gave notice and

would leave. Ay, a proper way to do.

Nothing could have suited Inger at Sellanraa better than this; Inger

was beginning to grow dissatisfied with her maid. Strange; she had

nothing to say against her, but the sight of the girl annoyed her,

she could hardly endure to have her about the place. It all arose, no

doubt, from Inger's state of mind; she had been heavy and religious

all that winter, and it would not pass off. "Want to leave, do

you? Why, then, well and good," said Inger. It was a blessing, the

fulfilment of nightly prayers. Two grown women they were already, what

did they want with this Jensine, fresh as could be and marriageable

and all? Inger thought with a certain displeasure of that same

marriageableness, thinking, maybe, how she had once been the same

herself.

Her deep religiousness did not pass off. She was not full of vice; she

had tasted, sipped, let us say, but 'twas not her intent to persevere

in that way all through her old age, not by any means; Inger turned

aside with horror from the thought. The mine and all its workmen were

no longer there--and Heaven be praised. Virtue was not only tolerable,

but inevitable, it was a necessary thing; ay, a necessary good, a

special grace.

But the world was all awry. Look now, here was Leopoldine, little

Leopoldine, a seedling, a slip of a child, going about bursting

with sinful health; but an arm round her waist and she would fall

helpless--oh, fie! There were spots on her face now, too--a sign in

itself of wild blood; ay, her mother remembered well enough, 'twas the

wild blood would out. Inger did not condemn her child for a matter of

spots 'on her face; but it must stop, she would have an end of it. And

what did that fellow Andresen want coming up to Sellanraa of Sundays,

to talk fieldwork with Isak? Did the two menfolk imagine the child was

blind? Ay, young folk were young folk as they had ever been, thirty,

forty years ago, but worse than ever now.

"Why, that's as it may be," said Isak, when they spoke of the matter.

"But here's the spring come, and Jensine gone, and who's to manage the

summer work?"

"Leopoldine and I can do the haymaking," said Inger. "Ay, I'd rather

go raking night and day myself," said she bitterly, and on the point

of crying.

Isak could not understand what there was to make such a fuss about;

but he had his own ideas, no doubt, and off he went to the edge of

the wood, with crowbar and pick, and fell to working at a stone. Nay,

indeed, Isak could not see why Jensine should have left them; a good

girl, and a worker. To tell the truth, Isak was often at a loss in all

save the simplest things--his work, his lawful and natural doings. A

broad-shouldered man, well filled out, nothing astral about him at

all; he ate like a man and throve on it, and 'twas rarely he was

thrown off his balance in any way.

Well, here was this stone. There were stones more in plenty, but here

was one to begin with. Isak is looking ahead, to the time when he

will need to build a little house here, a little home for himself and

Inger, and as well to get to work a bit on the site, and clear it,

while Sivert is down at Storborg. Otherwise the boy would be asking

questions, and that was not to Isak's mind. The day must come,

of course, when Sivert would need all there was of the place for

himself--the old folks would be wanting a house apart. Ay, there was

never an end of building at Sellanraa; that fodder loft above the

cowshed was not done yet, though the beams and planks for it were

there all ready.

Well, then, here was this stone. Nothing so big to look at above

ground, but not to be moved at a touch for all that; it must be a

heavy fellow. Isak dug round about it, and tried his crowbar, but it

would not move. He dug again and tried once more, but no. Back to the

house for a spade then, and clear the earth away, then digging

again, trying again--no. A mighty heavy beast to shift, thought Isak

patiently enough. He dug away now for a steady while, but the stone

seemed reaching ever deeper and deeper down, there was no getting a

purchase on it. A nuisance it would be if he had to blast it, after

all. The boring would make such a noise, and call up every one on the

place. He dug. Off again to fetch a levering pole and tried that--no.

He dug again. Isak was beginning to be annoyed with this stone; he

frowned, and looked at the thing, as if he had just come along to make

a general inspection of the stones in that neighbourhood, and

found this one particularly stupid. He criticized it; ay, it was a

round-faced, idiotic stone, no getting hold of it any way--he was

almost inclined to say it was deformed. Blasting? The thing wasn't

worth a charge of powder. And was he to give it up, was he to consider

the possibility of being beaten by a stone?

He dug. Hard work, that it was, but as to giving up ... At last he

got the nose of his lever down and tried it; the stone did not move.

Technically speaking, there was nothing wrong with his method, but it

did not work. What was the matter, then? He had got out stones before

in his life. Was he getting old? Funny thing, he he he! Ridiculous,

indeed. True, he had noticed lately that he was not so strong as he

had been--that is to say, he had noticed nothing of the sort, never

heeded it; 'twas only imagination. And he goes at the stone once more,

with the best will in the world.

Oh, 'twas no little matter when Isak bore down on a levering pole

with all his weight. There he is now, hoisting and hoisting again, a

Cyclop, enormous, with a torso that seems built in one to the knees. A

certain pomp and splendour about him; his equator was astounding.

But the stone did not move.

No help for it; he must dig again. Try blasting? Not a word! No, dig

again. He was intent on his work now. The stone should come up! It

would be wrong to say there was anything at all perverse in this on

Isak's part; it was the ingrown love of a worker on the soil,

but altogether without tenderness. It was a foolish sight; first

gathering, as it were, about the stone from all sides, then making

a dash at it, then digging all round its sides and fumbling at it,

throwing up the earth with his bare hands, ay, so he did. Yet there

was nothing of a caress in it all. Warmth, yes, but the warmth of zeal

alone.

Try the lever again? He thrust it down where there was best hold--no.

An altogether remarkable instance of obstinacy and defiance on the

part of the stone. But it seemed to be giving. Isak tries again, with

a touch of hope; the earth-breaker has a feeling now that the stone

is no longer invincible. Then the lever slipped, throwing him to the

ground. "Devil!" said he. Ay, he said that. His cap had got thrust

down over one ear as he fell, making him look like a robber, like a

Spaniard. He spat.

Here comes Inger. "Isak, come in and have your food now," says she,

kindly and pleasant as can be.

"Ay," says he, but will have her no nearer, and wants no questions.

Oh, but Inger, never dreaming, she comes nearer.

"What's in your mind now?" she asks, to soften him with a hint of the

way he thinks out some new grand thing almost every day.

But Isak is sullen, terribly sullen and stern; he says: "Nay, I don't

know."

And Inger again, foolish that she is--ugh, keeps on talking and asking

and will not go.

"Seeing as you've seen it yourself," says he at last, "I'm getting up

this stone here."

"Ho, going to get him up?"

"Ay."

"And couldn't I help a bit at all?" she asks.

Isak shakes his head. But it was a kindly thought, anyway, that she

would have helped him, and he can hardly be harsh in return.

"If you just wait the least bit of a while," says he, and runs home

for the hammers.

If he could only get the stone rough a bit, knocking off a flake or so

in the right spot, it would give the lever a better hold. Inger holds

the setting-hammer, and Isak strikes. Strikes, strikes. Ay, sure

enough, off goes a flake. "'Twas a good help," says Isak, "and thanks.

But don't trouble about food for me this bit of a while, I must get

this stone up first."

But Inger does not go. And to tell the truth, Isak is pleased enough

to have her there watching him at his work; 'tis a thing has always

pleased him, since their young days. And lo, he gets a fine purchase

now on the lever, and puts his weight into it--the stone moves! "He's

moving," says Inger.

"'Tis but your nonsense," says Isak.

"Nonsense, indeed! But it is!"

Got so far, then--and that was something. The stone was, so to speak,

converted now, was on his side; they were working together. Isak

hoists and heaves with his lever, and the stone moves, but no more. He

keeps at it a while, nothing more. All at once he understands that it

is not merely a question of weight, the dead pull of his body; no, the

fact is that he has no longer his old strength, he has lost the tough

agility that makes all the difference. Weight? An easy matter enough

to hang on with his weight and break an iron-shod pole. No, he was

weakening, that was it. And the patient man is filled with bitterness

at the thought--at least he might have been spared the shame of having

Inger here to see it!

Suddenly he drops the lever and grasps the sledge. A fury takes him,

he is minded to go at it violently now. And see, his cap still hangs

on one ear, robber-fashion, and now he steps mightily, threateningly,

round the stone, trying, as it were, to set himself in the proper

light; ho, he will leave that stone a ruin and a wreck of what it had

been. Why not? When a man is filled with mortal hatred of a stone,

it is a mere formality to crush it. And suppose the stone resists,

suppose it declines to be crushed? Why, let it try--and see which of

the two survives!

But then it is that Inger speaks up, a little timidly, again; seeing,

no doubt, what is troubling him: "What if we both hang on the stick

there?" And the thing she calls a stick is the lever, nothing else.

"No!" cries Isak furiously. But after a moment's thought he says:

"Well, well, since you're here--though you might as well have gone

home. Let's try."

And they get the stone up on edge. Ay, they manage that. And "Puh!"

says Isak.

But now comes a revelation, a strange thing to see. The underside of

the stone is flat, mightily broad, finely cut, smooth and even as

a floor. The stone is but the half of a stone, the other half is

somewhere close by, no doubt. Isak knows well enough that two halves

of the same stone may lie in different places; the frost, no doubt,

that in course of time had shifted them apart. But he is all wonder

and delight at the find; 'tis a useful stone of the best, a door-slab.

A round sum of money would not have filled this fieldworker's mind

with such content. "A fine door-slab," says he proudly.

And Inger, simple creature: "Why! Now how on earth could you tell that

beforehand?"

"H'm," says Isak. "Think I'd go here digging about for nothing?"

They walk home together, Isak enjoying new admiration on false

pretences; 'twas something he had not deserved, but it tasted but

little different from the real thing. He lets it be understood that he

has been looking out for a suitable door-slab for a long time, and had

found it at last. After that, of course, there could be nothing in the

least suspicious about his working there again; he could root about as

much as he pleased on pretext of looking for the other half. And when

Sivert came home, he could get him to help.

But if it had come to this, that he could no longer go out alone and

heave up a stone, why, things were sorely changed; ay, 'twas a bad

look-out, and the more need to get that site cleared quick as might

be. Age was upon him, he was ripening for the chimney-corner. The

triumph he had stolen in the matter of the door-slab faded away in a

few days; 'twas a false thing, and not made to last. Isak stooped a

little now in his walk.

Had he not once been so much of a man that he grew wakeful and

attentive in a moment if one but said a word of stone, a word of

digging? And 'twas no long time since, but a few years, no more. Ay,

and in those days, folk that were shy of a bit of draining work kept

out of his way. Now he was beginning, little by little, to take such

matters more calmly; eyah, _Herregud_! All things were changed, the

land itself was different now, with broad telegraph roads up through

the woods, that had not been there before, and rocks blasted and

sundered up by the water, as they had not been before. And folk, too,

were changed. They did not greet coming and going as in the old days,

but nodded only, or maybe not even that.

But then--in the old days there had been no Sellanraa, but only a turf

hut, while now.... There had been no Margrave in the old days.

Ay, but Margrave, what was he now? A pitiful thing, nothing

superhuman, but old and fading, going the way of all flesh. What

though he had good bowels, and could eat well, when it gave him no

strength? 'Twas Sivert had the strength now, and a mercy it was

so--but think, if Isak had had it too! A sorry thing, to find his

works running down. He had toiled like a man, carrying loads enough

for any beast of burden; now, he could exercise his patience in

resting.

Isak is ill-pleased, heavy at heart.

Here lies an old hat, an old sou'wester, rotting on the ground.

Carried there by the gale, maybe, or maybe the lads had brought it

there to the edge of the wood years ago, when they were little ones.

It lies there year after year, rotting and rotting away; but once it

had been a new sou'wester, all yellow and new. Isak remembers the day

he came home with it from the store, and Inger had said it was a fine

hat. A year or so after, he had taken it to a painter down in the

village, and had it blacked and polished, and the brim done in green.

And when he came home, Inger thought it a finer hat than before. Inger

always thought everything was fine; ay, 'twas a good life those days,

cutting faggots, with Inger to look on--his best days. And when March

and April came, Inger and he would be wild after each other, just like

the birds and beasts in the woods; and when May was come, he would sow

his corn and plant potatoes, living and thriving from day to dawn.

Work and sleep, loving and dreaming, he was like the first big ox, and

that was a wonder to see, big and bright as a king. But there was no

such May to the years now. No such thing.

Isak was sorely despondent for some days. Dark days they were. He felt

neither wish nor strength to start work on the fodder loft--that could

be left for Sivert to do some day. The thing to be done now was the

house for himself--the last house to build. He could not long hide

from Sivert what he was doing; he was clearing the ground, and plain

to see what for. And one day he told.

"There's a good bit of stone if we'd any use for stonework," said he.

"And there's another."

Sivert showed no surprise, and only said: "Ay, first-rate stones."

"What you might think," said his father.

"We've been digging round here now to find that other door-slab piece;

might almost do to build here. I don't know...."

"Ay, 'tis no bad place to build," said Sivert, looking round.

"Think so? 'Twas none so bad, maybe, to have a bit of a place to house

folk if any should come along."

"Ay."

"A couple of rooms'd be as well. You saw how 'twas when they Swedish

gentlemen came, and no proper place to house them. But what you think:

a bit of a kitchen as well, maybe, if 'twas any cooking to be done?"

"Ay, 'twould be a shame to built with never a bit of kitchen," says

Sivert.

"You think so?"

Isak said no more. But Sivert, he was a fine lad to grasp things, and

get into his head all at once just what was needed in a place to put

up Swedish gentlemen that chanced to come along; never so much as

asked a single question, but only said: "Doing it my way, now, you'd

put up a bit of a shed on the north wall. Folks coming along, 'd be

useful to have a shed place to hang up wet clothes and things."

And his father agrees at once: "Ay, the very thing."

They work at their stones again in silence. Then asks Isak: "Eleseus,

he's not come home, I suppose?"

And Sivert answers evasively: "He'll be coming home soon."

'Twas that way with Eleseus: he was all for staying away, living away

on journeys. Couldn't he have written for the goods? But he must go

round and buy them on the spot. Got them so much cheaper. Ay, maybe,

but what about cost of the journey? He had his own way of thinking, it

seemed. And then, what did he want, anyway, with more cotton stuff,

and coloured ribbons for christening caps, and black and white straw

hats, and long tobacco pipes? No one ever bought such things up in the

hills; and the village folk, they only came up to Storborg when they'd

no money. Eleseus was clever enough in his way--only to see him write

on a paper, or do sums with a bit of chalk! "Ay, with a head like

yours," said folk, admiring him. And that was true enough; but he was

spending overmuch. They village folk never paid their owings, and yet

even a fellow like Brede Olsen could come up to Storborg that winter

and get cotton print and coffee and molasses and paraffin on credit.

Isak has laid out a deal of money already for Eleseus, and his store

and his long journeyings about; there's not overmuch left now out of

the riches from the mine--and what then?

"How d'you think he's getting on, Eleseus?" asks Isak suddenly.

"Getting on?" says Sivert, to gain time.

"Doesn't seem to be doing so well."

"H'm. He says it'll go all right."

"You spoken to him about it?"

"Nay; but Andresen he says so."

Isak thought over this, and shook his head. "Nay, I doubt it's going

ill," says he. "Tis a pity for the lad."

And Isak gloomier than ever now, for all he'd been none too bright

before.

But then Sivert flashes out a bit of news: "There's more folk coming

to live now."

"How d'you say?"

"Two new holdings. They've bought up close by us."

Isak stands still with his crowbar in hand; this was news, and good

news, the best that could be. "That makes ten of us here," says he.

And Isak learns exactly where the new men have bought, he knows the

country all round in his head, and nods. "Ay, they've done well there;

wood for firing in plenty, and some big timber here and there. Ground

slopes down sou'west. Ay...."

Settlers--nothing could beat them, anyway--here were new folk coming

to live. The mine had come to nothing, but so much the better for the

land. A desert, a dying place? Far from it, all about was swarming

with life; two new men, four new hands to work, fields and meadows

and homes. Oh, the little green tracts in a forest, a hut and water,

children and cattle about. Corn waving on the moorlands where naught

but horsetail grew before, bluebells nodding on the fells, and yellow

sunlight blazing in the ladyslipper flowers outside a house. And human

beings living there, move and talk and think and are there with heaven

and earth.

Here stands the first of them all, the first man in the wilds. He came

that way, kneedeep in marsh-growth and heather, found a sunny slope

and settled there. Others came after him, they trod a path across the

waste _Almenning_; others again, and the path became a road; carts

drove there now. Isak may be content, may start with a little thrill

of pride; he was the founder of a district, the pioneer.

"Look here, we can't go wasting time on this bit of a house place if

we're to get that fodder loft done this year," says he.

With a new brightness, new spirit; as it were, new courage and life.

Chapter X

A woman tramping up along the road. A steady summer rain falls,

wetting her, but she does not heed it; other things are in her

mind--anxiety. Barbro it is, and no other--Brede's girl, Barbro.

Anxious, ay; not knowing how the venture will end; she has gone from

service at the Lensmand's, and left the village. That is the matter.

She keeps away from all the farms on the road up, unwilling to meet

with folk; easy to see where she was going, with a bundle of clothing

on her back. Ay, going to Maaneland, to take service there again.

Ten months she has been at the Lensmand's now, and 'tis no little

time, reckoned out in days and nights, but an eternity reckoned in

longing and oppression. It had been bearable at first, Fru Heyerdahl

looking after her kindly, giving her aprons and neat things to wear;

'twas a joy to be sent on errands to the store with such fine clothes

to wear. Barbro had been in the village as a child; she knew all the

village folk from the days when she had played there, gone to school

there, kissed the lads there, and joined in many games with stones and

shells. Bearable enough for a month or so. But then Fru Heyerdahl

had begun to be even more careful about her, and when the Christmas

festivities began, she was strict. And what good could ever come of

that? It was bound to spoil things. Barbro could never have endured it

but that she had certain hours of the night to herself; from two to

six in the morning she was more or less safe, and had stolen pleasures

not a few. What about Cook, then, for not reporting her? A nice sort

of woman she must be! Oh, an ordinary woman enough, as the world finds

them; Cook went out without leave herself. They took it in turns. And

it was quite a long time before they were found out. Barbro was by no

means so depraved that it showed in her face, impossible to accuse

her of immorality. Immorality? She made all the resistance one could

expect. When young men asked her to go to a Christmas dance, she said

"No" once, said "No" twice, but the third time she would say: "I'll

try and come from two to six." Just as a decent woman should, not

trying to make herself out worse than she is, and making a display

of daring. She was a servant-girl, serving all her time, and knew no

other recreation than fooling with men. It was all she asked for. Fru

Heyerdahl came and lectured her, lent her books--and a fool for her

pains. Barbro had lived in Bergen and read the papers and been to the

theatre! She was no innocent lamb from the countryside ...

But Fru Heyerdahl must have grown suspicious at last. One day she

comes up at three in the morning to the maids' room and calls:

"Barbro!"

"Yes," answers Cook.

"It's Barbro I want. Isn't she there? Open the door."

Cook opens the door and explains as agreed upon, that Barbro had had

to run home for a minute about something. Home for a minute at this

time of night? Fru Heyerdahl has a good deal to say about that. And

in the morning there is a scene. Brede is sent for, and Fru Heyerdahl

asks: "Was Barbro at home with you last night--at three o'clock?"

Brede is unprepared, but answers: "Three o'clock? Yes, yes, quite

right. We sat up late, there was something we had to talk about," says

Brede.

The Lensmand's lady then solemnly declares that Barbro shall go out no

more at nights.

"No, no," says Brede.

"Not as long as she's in this house."

"No, no; there, you can see, Barbro, I told you so," says her father.

"You can go and see your parents now and then during the day," says

her mistress.

But Fru Heyerdahl was wide awake enough, and her suspicion was not

gone; she waited a week, and tried at four in the morning. "Barbro!"

she called. Oh, but this time 'twas Cook's turn out, and Barbro was at

home; the maids' room was a nest of innocence. Her mistress had to hit

on something in a hurry.

"Did you take in the washing last night?"

"Yes."

"That's a good thing, it's blowing so hard.... Good-night."

But it was not so pleasant for Fru Heyerdahl to get her husband to

wake her in the middle of the night and go padding across herself to

the servants' room to see if they were at home. They could do as they

pleased, she would trouble herself no more.

And if it had not been for sheer ill-luck, Barbro might have stayed

the year out in her place that way. But a few days ago the trouble had

come.

It was in the kitchen, early one morning. Barbro had been having some

words with Cook, and no light words either; they raised their voices,

forgetting all about their mistress. Cook was a mean thing and a

cheat, she had sneaked off last night out of her turn because it was

Sunday. And what excuse had she to give? Going to say good-bye to her

favourite sister that was off to America? Not a bit of it; Cook had

made no excuse at all, but simply said that Sunday night was one had

been owing to her for a long time.

"Oh, you've not an atom of truth nor decency in your body!" said

Barbro.

And there was the mistress in the doorway.

She had come out, perhaps, with no more thought than that the girls

were making too much noise, but now she stood looking, very closely

at Barbro, at Barbro's apron over her breast; ay, leaning forward and

looking very closely indeed. It was a painful moment. And suddenly Fru

Heyerdahl screams and draws back to the door. What on earth can it be?

thinks Barbro, and looks down at herself. _Herregud_! a flea, nothing

more. Barbro cannot help smiling, and being not unused to acting under

critical circumstances, she flicks off the flea at once.

"On the floor!" cried Fru Heyerdahl. "Are you mad, girl? Pick it up

at once!" Barbro begins looking about for it, and once more acts with

presence of mind: she makes as if she had caught the creature, and

drops it realistically into the fire.

"Where did you get it?" asks her mistress angrily.

"Where I got it?"

"Yes, that's what I want to know."

But here Barbro makes a bad mistake. "At the store," she ought to have

said, of course--that would have been quite enough. As it was--she did

not know where she had got the creature, but had an idea it must have

been from Cook.

Cook at the height of passion at once: "From me! You'll please to keep

your fleas to yourself, so there!"

"Anyway, 'twas you was out last night."

Another mistake--she should have said nothing about it. Cook has no

longer any reason for keeping silence, and now she let out the

whole thing, and told all about the nights Barbro had been out. Fru

Heyerdahl mightily indignant; she cares nothing about Cook, 'tis

Barbro she is after, the girl whose character she has answered for.

And even then all might have been well if Barbro had bowed her head

like a reed, and been cast down with shame, and promised all manner of

things for the future--but no. Her mistress is forced to remind her of

all she has done for her, and at that, if you please, Barbro falls to

answering back, ay, so foolish was she, saying impertinent things. Or

perhaps she was cleverer than might seem; trying on purpose, maybe, to

bring the matter to a head, and get out of the place altogether? Says

her mistress:

"After I've saved you from the clutches of the Law."

"As for that," answers Barbro, "I'd have just as pleased if you

hadn't."

"And that's all the thanks I get," says her mistress.

"Least said the better, perhaps," says Barbro. "I wouldn't have got

more than a month or two, anyway, and done with it."

Fru Heyerdahl is speechless for a moment; ay, for a little while she

stands saying nothing, only opening and closing her mouth. The first

thing she says is to tell the girl to go; she will have no more of

her.

"Just as you please," says Barbro.

For some days after that Barbro had been at home with her parents. But

she could not go on staying there. True, her mother sold coffee, and

there came a deal of folk to the house, but Barbro could not live on

that--and maybe she had other reasons of her own for wanting to get

into a settled position again. And so today she had taken a sack of

clothes on her back, and started up along the road over the moors.

Question now, whether Axel Ström would take her? But she had had the

banns put up, anyway, the Sunday before.

Raining, and dirty underfoot, but Barbro tramps on. Evening is drawing

on, but not dark yet at that season of the year. Poor Barbro--she does

not spare herself, but goes on her errand like another; she is bound

for a place, to commence another struggle there. She has never spared

herself, to tell the truth, never been of a lazy sort, and that is why

she has her neat figure now and pretty shape. Barbro is quick to learn

things, and often to her own undoing; what else could one expect? She

had learned to save herself at a pinch, to slip from one scrape to

another, but keeping all along some better qualities; a child's death

is nothing to her, but she can still give sweets to a child alive.

Then she has a fine musical ear, can strum softly and correctly on a

guitar, singing hoarsely the while; pleasant and slightly mournful

to hear. Spared herself? no; so little, indeed, that she has thrown

herself away altogether, and felt no loss. Now and again she cries,

and breaks her heart over this or that in her life--but that is

only natural, it goes with the songs she sings, 'tis the poetry and

friendly sweetness in her; she had fooled herself and many another

with the same. Had she been able to bring the guitar with her this

evening she could have strummed a little for Axel when she came.

She manages so as to arrive late in the, evening; all is quiet

at Maaneland when she reaches there. See, Axel has already begun

haymaking, the grass is cut near the house, and some of the hay

already in. And then she reckons out that Oline, being old, will be

sleeping in the little room, and Axel lying out in the hayshed, just

as she herself had done. She goes to the door she knows so well,

breathless as a thief, and calls softly: "Axel!"