Kitabı oku: «Katharine Frensham: A Novel», sayfa 10

"Yes, yes; but it works out the same," Tante answered.

"Not quite," Katharine replied. "It makes one think more mercifully of her."

"Why, that is precisely the sort of thing he says!" Knutty exclaimed.

"Is it?" said Katharine, flushing up to her very eyes. And at that moment there came a sound of sweet melancholy music from the hillside.

"That is Gerda," whispered Tante. "That is one of her favourite Swedish songs – how sweet and melancholy it is."

They listened, arrested and entranced. The stillness of the evening and the pureness of the air made a silent accompaniment to Gerda's beautiful voice.

[Listen]

 
Allt under himmelens fäste
Der sitta stjernor små
Allt under himmelens fäste
Der sitta stjernor små
Den vännen som jag älskat
Den kan jag aldrig få Ah …
 

And the wail of despair at the end of the verse was almost heartrending.

They listened until the sad strains had died away, and then Tante softly translated the words:

 
"High on the dome of heaven shine the bright stars;
The lover whom I love so well, I shall reach him never.
Ah me, ah me!.."
 

She turned impulsively to Katharine.

"But that is not for you, not for you," she said. "You will reach him, I know you will reach him – I feel it. I want you to reach him – something or other tells me that it must and will be so – that – "

The door of the balcony opened hastily, and Ragnhild came to Tante and held out both her hands to help her up.

"Two Englishmen have come and are asking for thee," she said.

"Men du milde Himmel!"¹⁰ cried Tante. "My icebergs, of course!"

She almost ran to the hall, where she found Clifford and Alan standing together like the two forlorn creatures that they were.

"Velkommen, velkommen!" she cried. "I don't know where you've come from, whether from the bottom of the sea or the top of the air! Nor how you've got here! But velkommen, velkommen!"

Their faces brightened up when they saw her and heard her cheery voice with its slight foreign accent.

"Oh, Knutty, it is good to see you again," the man said.

"Yes, by Jove! it is ripping," the boy said.

"Come out into the balcony, dear ones," she said, taking them by the hand as she would have taken two children. "And I'll inquire about your rooms and your food. You look like tired and hungry ghosts."

Katharine was bending over the balcony, looking down fixedly at those wonderful rivers, and with the sound and words of that sad song echoing in her ears and heart. Then she turned round and saw them both; saw the look of shy pleasure on the boy's face, and of gladness on the man's. The music died away, hushed by the gladness of her own heart.

"Velkommen!" she said, coming forward to greet them. "I've learnt that much Norwegian, you see!"

CHAPTER VII

Knutty was overjoyed at the return of her icebergs, and it was pathetic to see how glad they were to be with her again. She thought that, on the whole, they were the better for their journey; but when she questioned Clifford, he told her that Alan had not cared to be with him.

"He is much happier since he has returned and is not alone with me," Clifford said.

"And you?" asked Knutty.

"I am much happier too, Knutty," he said thoughtfully.

And he looked in the direction of the foss, where Katharine had just gone with the Sorenskriver.

"Ah," said Knutty, "you are a strange pair, you and your boy."

He made no reply; but afterwards said in an absent sort of way:

"I think I will take a stroll in the direction of the foss."

"Yes, I should, if I were you," said Knutty, with a twinkle in her eye. "The Sorenskriver will be so pleased to see you, I'm sure."

He glanced at her a little suspiciously, but saw only a grave, preoccupied expression on her naughty old face.

But when he had gone, she laughed to herself and said:

"Yes, there is decidedly daylight, not through a leper's squint, but through a rose-window! Only I must be careful not to turn it into black darkness again. I must see nothing and hear nothing, and I must talk frequently of Marianne – or oughtn't I to talk of her? Nå, I wonder which would be the best plan. If I do speak of her, it will encourage him to remember her; and if I don't speak of her it will encourage him to brood over her in silence. She always was a difficulty, and always will be until – And even then, there's the other iceberg to deal with – ah, and here he comes – made friends with Jens, I see, and no difficulty about the language – Jens never speaking a word, and Alan only saying something occasionally, like his father."

The two boys parted at the Stabur, where Ragnhild was standing on the steps holding a pile of freshly made Fladbröd. Alan looked up at her, took off his little round cricketing-cap, blushed, made his way over to the porch, and sat down by Knutty. And Ragnhild thought:

"That nice English boy. He shall have plenty of multebaer."

So she disappeared into the Stabur and brought out a plateful of multebaer, which she handed him with a friendly nod. He fell to without any hesitation, and Knutty watched him and smiled.

"Well, kjaere," she said, "and what do you think of this part of the world? Glad to be here?"

"Yes, Knutty," he answered. "And it is ripping to see you again."

"Am I so very 'bully'?" she said, in her teasing way.

"Yes," he said, smiling.

"Ah," she said, "I suppose I am!" And they both laughed.

"Jens and I are going fishing this afternoon up to a mountain lake over there," he said. "I wish you'd come too. Do, Knutty."

"Dear one," she answered, "I'll come with pleasure if you'll send over for one of the London cart-horses. Nothing else on this earth could carry me, and then I suppose he couldn't climb! You surely did not think of hoisting me up on one of those yellow ponies? No, I think I'll stop below and eat the fish you bring home. All the same, thank you for the invitation. Many regrets that age and weight, specially weight, prevent me from accepting."

There was a pause, and Alan went on eating his multebaer.

"Did you like your journey to America?" she asked, without looking up from her work.

"Yes," he answered half-heartedly, and his face clouded over. "But – but I was glad to come back."

"Well," she said, "that is what many people say. The New World may be good enough in its way, but the Old World is the Old World, when all is said and done. And you got tired of the Americans, did you?"

"Oh no," he said, "it wasn't that. But – "

He hesitated, and then he blurted out:

"I wish you'd been with us, Knutty. It would have been so different then."

"Nei, stakkar," she said. "You'll make old Knutty too conceited if you go on saying these nice things to her."

He had put down his plate of multebaer, and was now fiddling nervously with a Swedish knife that Knutty had given him. Knutty glanced at him with her sly little old eyes. She knew she was in for confidences if she conducted herself with discretion.

"Give it to me," she said, holding out her hand for the knife. "This is the way it opens – so – and then you stick it through the case – so – and then it's ready to stick anybody you don't like – so – in true Swedish fashion, with which I have great sympathy – there it is!"

The boy went on fiddling with the knife, and then he took his cap off and fiddled with that.

"Du milde Himmel!" thought Knutty. "These icebergs! Why do I ever put up with them?"

"Knutty," the boy began nervously, "I want so dreadfully to ask you something – about – mother. Was she – very unhappy – do you think? I can't get out of my head what Mrs Stanhope said. I tried to forget it – but – "

He looked up hopelessly at Knutty, and broke off.

Knutty gave no sign.

"Twice I nearly ran away from father," the boy went on. "I – I wanted to be alone – not with father – once at New York – and another time at Chicago. There were two fellows going out West from there, and – I wanted to be alone, not with father – and I thought I could get along somehow – other fellows do – and then I remembered how you said that he only had me – and I stayed – but – "

He looked up again at Knutty, and this time she answered:

"I know," she said. "I understand."

"You don't think it beastly of me?" he said.

"No," she said, "not beastly at all; only very, very sad."

"You won't let father know I – I nearly left him?" Alan asked.

"No; you may rely on me," she answered gently. And she knew that she was speaking the truth, and that she would have no heart to tell Clifford. With her quick insight she saw the whole thing in a flash of light. She guessed that Mrs Stanhope had got hold of the boy, and planted in his heart some evil seed which had grown and grown. The difficulty was to find out exactly what she had said to him; and Knutty knew that Alan would be able to tell her only unconsciously, as it were, involuntarily. Her kind old heart bled for the lad when she thought how much he must have suffered, alone and unhelped. His simple words about wanting to get away from his father spoke volumes in themselves. And he seemed to harp on this, for he said almost at once:

"You see, I shall be going back to school, and then to college, and then to work."

"And then out into the world to make your name as a great architect," she said.

He smiled a ghost of a smile.

"Yes," he said; "but far away, Knutty, out in the colonies somewhere."

"Alan," she said suddenly, "you asked me about your mother – whether I thought she had been unhappy. I don't know; I never knew her well enough to be able to say. I thought she seemed happy when I saw her last – about two years ago, I think – and she was looking very beautiful. She was a beautiful woman your mother, and well set-up, too, wasn't she?"

"Yes," she boy said, and his lip quivered. He turned away and leaned against the pillar of the porch.

"Oh, Knutty," he said, turning round to her impetuously, "why did she die? Why isn't she here? There wasn't any need for her to die. She never would have died if father had been kinder to her, if we'd both been kinder to her; but – she was unhappy. Mrs Stanhope said she was unhappy: she told me all about it before we left England. I can't forget what she said – what she said about – about father being the cause of mother's death; that's what she meant – I know that's what she meant… I can't get it out of my head. I never thought of it like that until she told me; but when she spoke as she did, then I knew all at once that – that – that there was something wrong somewhere about mother's death, and that I oughtn't to forget it, being her son – and – and she was fond of me – and – "

He broke off. Knutty had risen, and put her hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Kjaere," she said in a strained voice, "I did not know things were as bad as this with you. My poor boy."

She slipped her arm through the boy's arm and led him away from the courtyard, down past the cowhouse and the hay-barns and through the white gate.

Old Kari was grubbing about, singing her favourite refrain to call the cows back: —

 
"Sulla ma, Sulla ma, Sulla ma, aa kjy!
Sulla ma, Sulla ma, Sulla ma, aa kjy!¹¹
Sullam, sullam, sy-y-y y-y-y!"
 

Bedstemor was in her garden, giving an eye to her red-currant bushes, of which she was specially proud, and casting a sly glance round to see what the Swedish artist-lady was doing perched on that rock in the next field. She was only looking towards the Gaard and measuring the cowhouse in the air. Bedstemor thought there was no harm in that; and any way, these people had to do something.

The Sorenskriver was coming down from the birch-woods, alone and apparently in a disagreeable mood, for he pushed roughly on one side the little golden-haired daughter of one of the cotters who was playing on the hillside.

"These wretched Englishmen," he said, frowning. "Uff, they are always in the way, all over the world. And I was having such a pleasant time with her before this fellow came."

Katharine and Clifford were lingering near the foss. Katharine was making a little water-colour of the lovely scene. Through the trees one could catch a glimpse of the shining river and a bit of the bright blue sky.

"Yes," Clifford was saying, "my old Dane was wise to send us, and we were wise to come back. We were not happy together, Miss Frensham. But since we have returned the boy is happier, and – I am happier too."

Katharine, bending over her work, whispered to herself:

"And I – I am happier too."

But down by Knutty's mountain-ashes, near the black hay-barn, an old woman and a young boy sat, with pale, drawn faces.

CHAPTER VIII

Gerda had pretended to hope that when Tante's English friends arrived on the scene, she would mend her strange ways, and no longer haunt the cowhouse and seek the companionship of old Kari and of Thea, who was so clever at making Fladbröd, and Mette, who had three fatherless babies and a dauntless demeanour which seemed to be particularly attractive to wicked old Knutty. But Tante was incorrigible, and would not for any one's sake have missed her evening visit to that august building. So after her sad talk with Alan, she stood and waited as usual, whilst Mette, that bright gay soul, called the cows down to the Gaard.

"Kom da, stakkar, kom da, stakkar!" ("Come then, my poor little dears!"), she cried merrily.

And Gulkind (yellow cheek), Brungaas (brown goose), Blomros (red rose), and Fjeldros (mountain rose) responded with varying degrees of bellowing and dilatoriness.

When they were safely in their stalls, the singing began. Thea had the softest voice, but Mette had a dramatic delivery. Old Kari acted as prompter when they forgot the words of the old folk-songs, and the cows went on munching steadily and switching their tails in the singers' faces, so that the music was mingled with strange discords of scolding and Knutty's laughter. And then Mette got up, and began to dance some old peasant-dance; and very pretty and graceful she looked, too, in her old cow-dress and torn bodice.

"Come, Thea!" she cried. "Let us dance the Spring-dance for the good Danish lady to see. Fjeldros and Brungaas can wait a few minutes."

"Nei, nei, nei!" cried old Kari. "It is not safe to dance in the cowhouse, Mette. Thou know'st the Huldre will come and throw stones in at the cows. Thou know'st she will come. Ja, ja, I have seen her do it, and the cows were killed. Ak, I am afraid. The Huldre will come."

"Perhaps," said Mette, winking mischievously at Tante – "perhaps it is better to be on the safe side. All the same, I'm not afraid of the long-tailed Huldre."

"Have you seen her often, Kari?" asked Tante.

"Three times," said Kari, shuddering, "and each time she worked me harm. She is mischievous and ugly, not like the beautiful green-dressed Huldre. I saw her once up at the Saeter, when I was alone and had made a big fire. She came and danced and danced before the fire. But I must not waste my time with thee. I must milk Blomros."

"Kari has been taken away by the mountain people," Mette said, winking again at Tante. "Thou shouldst tell the Danish lady."

But Kari buried herself under Blomros; and so Mette, still anxious to entertain her visitor, struck up with the pretty little folk-song, "Home from the Saeter."

[Listen]

 
We have done our many duties,
Cheese have made, have butter churned;
Now we'll lead our willing cattle,
Now we'll lock the saeter door;
Here no longer food can be found,
By the Hudre Folk or ourselves,
Glad are we that home we're going,
Gladder still the cows, I'm sure.
 

When they had finished, Knutty looked round and saw Gerda standing listening.

"Now," said Knutty, "you will understand why I come to the cowhouse. It is my concert-room. Well then, my good friends, good-bye for the present."

"Come back to-morrow," cried Mette. "The milking goes so merrily when thou art here."

"And mind, no dancing!" said Knutty, smiling and putting up her hand in warning. "Remember the long-tailed one!"

Mette's merry laughter sounded after them, and was followed by her finale, the mountain-call to the goats:

"Kille bukken, kille bukken, kille bukken! lammet mit!" with a final flourish which would have made a real prima donna ill for a week from jealousy.

"Mette has got a temperament," said Knutty, still smiling. "Thank Heaven for that! Anything is better than your dead-alivers, your decaying vegetable world. No disrespect to you, kjaere, for you look particularly alive this evening; a nice flush on your face – whether anger or joy, no matter – the effect is the same – life."

"Ejnar and I have found some dwarf-birch," said Gerda, pointing to her green wallet.

"Ah, that is certainly a life-giving discovery," remarked Knutty.

"We've had a lovely afternoon together," continued Gerda, "and we've discussed 'Salix' to our hearts' content."

"Ah," said Knutty, "no wonder you look so animated."

"But just by the group of mountain-ashes we met Fröken Frensham," said Gerda, "and Ejnar left me. And I was angry. But as she had the Sorenskriver and your Englishman with her, I didn't mind so much. Oh, it isn't her fault. She doesn't encourage him; and she cannot help being attractive. But Ejnar – "

"Why, my child," said Knutty, "who ever heard of a live woman being jealous, generous, and just? You can't possibly be an animal – nor even a vegetable – you must be a mineral. I have it – gold!"

"Tante," said Gerda, "wait until you have a husband, and then you won't laugh."

"No, I don't suppose I should!" replied Knutty. "Other people would do the laughing for me."

"No," said Gerda. "They should not laugh at you in my presence, I can tell you."

"Ah," said Knutty, "you're pure gold, kjaere. There, don't fret about that wretch Ejnar. If he ran away from you, we could easily overtake him. He'd be stopping to look at all the plants on the wayside; and the lady, no matter who she was, would leave him in disgust. No self-respecting eloping female could stand that, you know. Come. There's the bell ringing for smoked salmon and cheese."

But although Knutty kept up her spirits that evening, she was greatly disturbed by her talk with Alan, and distressed to know how to help him. When she went to her room, she sat for a long time at the window, thinking and puzzling. Not a single helpful idea suggested itself to her. Her heart was full of pity for the boy and concern for the father. She reflected that it was in keeping with Marianne's character to leave this unnecessary trouble behind her: that all the troubles Marianne ever made had always been perfectly unnecessary. And she worked herself into a rage at the mere thought of Mrs Stanhope, Marianne's friend.

"The beast," she said, "the metallic beast! I'd like to see her whole machinery lynched."

After that she could not keep still, but walked up and down her big room, turning everything over in her mind until her brain was nearly distraught. Once she stood rigid for a moment.

"Had Clifford anything to hide about his wife's death?" she asked herself.

"No, no," she replied angrily. "That is ridiculous – I'm a fool to think of it even for a moment."

Her mind wandered back to the time of Marianne's death. She remembered the doctor had said that Marianne had died from some shock.

"Had Clifford lost his self-control that last night when, by his own telling, he and Marianne had some unhappy words together, and had he perhaps terrified her?" she asked herself.

"No, no," she said. "Why do I think of these absurd things?"

But if she thought of them – she, an old woman with years of judgment and experience to balance her – was it surprising that the young boy, worked upon by Mrs Stanhope's words, was thinking of them?

Knutty broke down.

"My poor icebergs," she cried. "I'm a silly, unhelpful old fool, and no good to either of you. I never could tackle Marianne – never could. She was always too much for me; and although she's dead, she is just the same now – too much for me."

She shook her head in despair, and the tears streamed down her cheeks; but after a few minutes of profound misery she brightened up.

"Nå," she said, brushing her tears away, "of course, of course! Why was I forgetting that dear Katharine Frensham? I was forgetting that I saw daylight. What an old duffer I am! If I cannot help my icebergs, she can – and will. If I cannot tackle Marianne, she can."

Her thoughts turned to Katharine with hope, affection, admiration, and never a faintest touch of jealousy. She had been drawn to her from the beginning; and each new day's companionship had only served to show her more of the Englishwoman's lovable temperament. They all loved her at the Gaard. Her presence was a joy to them; and she passed amongst them as one of those privileged beings for whom barriers are broken down and bridges are built, so that she might go her way at her own pleasure into people's hearts and minds. Yes, Knutty turned to her with hope and belief. And as she was saying to herself that Katharine was the one person in the world to help that lonely man and desolate boy, to build her bridge to reach the man, and her bridge to reach the boy, and a third bridge for the man and the boy to reach each other – as she was saying all this, with never one single jealous thought, there came a soft knock at her door. She did not notice it at first; but she heard it a few seconds later, and when she opened her door, Katharine was standing there.

"My dear," Knutty exclaimed, and she led her visitor into the room.

"I have been uneasy about you," Katharine said, "and could not get to sleep. I felt I must come and see if anything were wrong with you. Why, you haven't been to bed yet. Do you know it is two o'clock?"

"It might be any time in a Norwegian summer night, and I've been busy thinking," said Knutty – "thinking of you, and longing for the morrow to come when I might tell you of some trouble which lies heavy on my heart."

"Most curious," said Katharine. "I had a strong feeling that you wanted me. I thought I heard you calling me."

"I did call you," Knutty said, "none the less loudly because voicelessly. I wanted to tell you that Mrs Stanhope did see Alan before he left England. Your warning to my poor Clifford came too late. She took the boy and made him drink of the poison of disbelief."

Then she gave Katharine an account of her painful interview with Alan. Katharine had previously told Knutty a few particulars of her own encounter with Mrs Stanhope at the Tonedales, and she now, at Knutty's request, repeated the story, adding more details in answer to the old Dane's questionings. Long and anxiously these two new friends, who were learning to regard each other as old friends, discussed the situation.

"I cannot bear that the boy should be suffering in this way," Knutty said. "And I cannot bear that my poor Clifford should know. For he has come back happier – ah, you know something about that, my dear. And I am glad enough to see even the beginning of a change in him. Only it is pathetic that he, without knowing it, should be steering for some happiness in a distant harbour, whilst the boy should be drifting out to sea – alone."

"He shall not drift out to sea," Katharine said. "He must and shall believe in his father again."

"But, my dear, how are you going to manage that?" Knutty asked sadly.

"By my own belief," Katharine answered simply.

"You believe in him?" Knutty said, half to herself.

"Absolutely," Katharine answered, with a proud smile on her face.

"How you comfort me!" said Knutty. "Here have I been wrestling with plans and problems until all my intelligence had gone – all of it except the very best bit of it which called out to you for help. And you come and give me courage at once, not because you have any plans, but because you are yourself."

They were standing together by the window, and Katharine put her arm through Knutty's. They looked a strange pair: Knutty with her unwieldy presence of uncompromising bulk, and Katharine with her own special grace of build and bearing. She was clothed in a blue dressing-gown. Her luxuriant hair fell down far below her waist. The weird Norwegian moon streamed into the room, and shone caressingly around her. It was a wonderful night: without the darkness of the south and without the brightness of the extreme north; a night full of strange half-lights and curious changes. At one moment dark-blue clouds hung over the great valley, mingling with the mists in fantastic fashion. Then the blue clouds would give place to others, rosy-toned or sombre grey, and these two would mingle with the mists. Then the next moment the moon would reassert herself, and her rays would light up the rivers and fill the mists with diamonds. Then there would come a moment when mists and clouds were entirely separated; and between this gap would be seen, as in a dream, a vision of the valley beyond, mysterious and haunting. Verily a land of sombre wonder and mystic charm, this great Gudbrandsdal of Norway, with its legends of mortal and spirit, fit scene for weird happenings and strange beliefs, being a part of that whole wonderful North, the voice of which calls aloud to some of us, and which, once heard, can never be lulled into silence.

The two women stood silently watching the beauty of this Norwegian summer night, arrested in their own personal feelings by Nature's magnetism.

"Behold!" cries Nature, and for the moment we are hers and hers only. Then she releases us, and we turn back to our ordinary life conscious of added strength and richness.

Katharine turned impetuously to Knutty.

"He must and shall believe in his father again," she said. "I know how helpless boys are in their troubles, and how unreachable. But we will reach him – you and I."

"With you as ally," said Knutty, "I believe we could do anything."

"Poor little fellow, poor little fellow!" said Katharine tenderly.

As she spoke she glanced out of the window and saw some one coming down from the birch-woods. She watched the figure approaching nearer and nearer to the Gaard.

"There is some one coming down from the woods," she said. "How distinctly one can see in this strange half-light!"

"One of the cotters, perhaps," suggested Knutty.

"No," said Katharine, "it is the boy – it's Alan."

They watched him, with tears of sympathy in their eyes. They knew by instinct that he had been wandering over the hills, fretting his young heart out. They drew back, so that he might not see them as he passed up the garden.

They heard him go into the back verandah and up the outer stairs leading to his room.

They caught sight of his troubled face.