Kitabı oku: «Katharine Frensham: A Novel», sayfa 8

CHAPTER II

Both the botanists and Tante were delighted with the place. Tante, who adored limitless space, had not quite liked the idea of coming to a valley.

"You know I have always hated restraints of any kind, dear ones," she said. "And even at the age of seventy, I desire to continue in the straight path of blessed uncontrol. Valleys make me shudder a little – like conventions! Bah!"

But even she was content when she saw the immense proportions of her prison.

"Well," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "there is space and freedom enough for me, for a little while. All is well with me, dear ones. Go and find your shrubs and be happy. It is true that you have brought your poor stout relation to a place on the mountain-side where she can neither go up nor down. Nothing could have been more cruel. But no matter. She will look at the view and try to feel chastened by patience and all the other dull virtues. And she will go on knitting socks for the dear English soldiers. They will never get them, of course. Still, she will do her best for them, hoping that King Red Tape will allow them to be delivered. Yes, dear ones, hasten to your shrubs and have some stimulating quarrels over them. Tante is content for a minute or two."

And she really was happy, and deeply interested in the owners of the Gaard, rich landowners, Bönder, aristocrats of Norway, direct descendants of kings and chieftains – Vikinger, in fact; proud and reserved: proud of their noble lineage, and reserved of feeling and in manner, and yet, when tactfully approached, capable of the greatest kindness and appreciative understanding: dignified in behaviour, and refined in form and feature, bearing on them, indeed, the royal seal of good birth and good breeding. The Solli family was one of the oldest and noblest in the valley, and had the most important and most highly decorated and carved pew in the old brown church. There were three girls: stately Ragnhild, lovely Ingeborg, and gentle little Helga, the pet of the family. And there were two sons, Karl and Jens. Karl, being the elder, would in time inherit the Gaard, paying his brothers and sisters a share, and giving to his father and mother mysterious dues called Föderaad. But as Solli and his wife were strong and active, and Karl was not even betrothed, there was no occasion for the older people to retire; and meanwhile an older couple still, the grandparents, were eking out their lives in the comfortable old black dower-house in the court of the Gaard. Grandmother (Bedstemor) had never wanted to retire, and bore on her face a settled look of disappointment which had been accentuated by the coming and going of twenty years. Grandfather (Bedstefar) had been ailing for many years. He lay in the big bedroom of the black house, and waited for the caressing hand of Death.

Solli's wife, whose Christian name was Inga, and who in accordance with custom was called Mor (mother) Inga, was, in her stately way, greatly attracted to the old Danish lady, and told her many interesting details about the Gaard. Tante had such perfect tact, and was such a comfortable easy creature to be with, that she found herself soon en rapport with the family. A glass of gooseberry-wine, followed on the next day by some corn-brandy, seemed to indicate that a delightful acquaintanceship was ripening; and when Mor Inga took her to the Stabur (the storehouse), that most sacred precinct of every self-respecting Norwegian Gaard, and showed her the treasures and mysteries of Norwegian housekeeping, every one felt that Fröken Knudsgaard "had arrived." Even the disagreeable old magistrate (Sorenskriver)⁴ from S – , one of the eight or ten guests, admitted that.

"She has seen the Stabur," he said, with a grim smile, and he actually forgot to help himself first to cheese, but passed her a few delicate shavings; a sure sign from him of even passing respect.

After an introduction to the Stabur, any other honour on earth was easy of attainment; and no one was surprised to learn that Ragnhild was going to put up her loom and teach the Danish lady to weave. And Mor Inga fetched great-grandmother's old painted spinning-wheel from the top room of the Stabur and put it in the little balcony which overlooked the courtyard; and she brought some fresh wool from the wool-room – another sacred spot – and sent for old Kari, who was especially clever at carding the wool. And Tante sat and knitted, whilst old Kari carded the wool and Mor Inga span. This was Tante's first introduction to old Kari, eighty years old, and full of fairy lore.

"Ah," whispered Mor Inga to Tante, "Kari can tell thee many stories of the Gudbrandsdal if she likes. But it must be in secret, when there is no young person near to laugh and disbelieve. One day thou shalt give her a little coffee in a packet – all for herself – and then thou wilt hear all sorts of things."

But to-day Kari only carded the wool, smiling amusedly at being in the company of the big Danish lady, who spoke to her so kindly and treated her as though she were a lady herself and not an old parish-woman who had no home of her own. Ja, ja, that was very nice, and Kari scratched her head, and smiled more and more, until even the furrows on her grim old face were filled up with smiles, and her eyes seemed almost young and very bright.

"Ah," said Tante, with a friendly nod, "I know some one who has been very pretty. Oh, I have eyes – sharp, sharp eyes. I can see!"

And Mor Inga laughed and said:

"Kari was beautiful, and she could dance too. They say that in the old days no one could dance the spring-dance like Kari."

"Nei, nei!" said Kari, smiling more and more still. And her thoughts wandered back to her Ole – dead these twenty years and more. He had always said that no one could dance like Kari.

All this kept Fröken Knudsgaard busy; and indeed her distractions increased as the days went on. Sometimes she sat in the balcony which looked over the splendid view, and, seized by a sudden enthusiasm for nature, watched the ever-changing colours of the rivers, and the shadows on the hillsides, and listened to the music of the waterfall down below in the Vinstra gorge. But she did not pretend to be able to live on Nature's great wonders alone. She was delightfully candid about it.

"No, my dear ones," she said to Ejnar and Gerda, "I am the wicked product of a beautifully wicked world. I need my fellow-sinners. It would never have contented me to lie flat on my stomach looking for flowers and grasses, and so forth. Nor would it have been desirable for me. I should never have got up!"

Nevertheless, when her botanists came back from their wanderings, with their green tin wallets full of mystic treasures unguessed at by the uninitiated, she was eagerness itself to know whether they had had "good hunting." And when Gerda said:

"Wicked old Tante, you know you are interested in these things," she answered gaily:

"No, no; but I have accepted my fate. Since my best beloved ones are all scientific sillies, I have to appear to be interested in what they do."

She felt it to be her duty to secure, on behalf of science, a big study for her botanists, and Mor Inga let her have a vast room in one of the out-buildings.

"They must have plenty of room to quarrel in," she explained to Mor Inga. "Everything goes so much more easily if there is generous space."

"And," she added to herself, "it is my experience that scientific people are safer caged up in their laboratories and studies. You know they are all right then. When they are wandering about, they might get lost; but when they are shut up, they are comparatively safe, barring brain fever and explosions, of course."

So she caged her botanists, and felt herself free to amuse herself with human nature whilst they were immersed in the study of nature.

"Well, then, good-bye for the moment," she said, when she shut them up for the first time. "I will now go and have a few disagreeable words with that horrid Sorenskriver, who dislikes my belovèd English. I will go and sit quite near him, and knit my stockings for the dear English soldiers. That annoys him beyond everything. What a delight to see his irritation! Poor Sorenskriver! He suffers, and I enjoy. That is the way in life, and very amusing too. My poor dear ones, what a pity you cannot have a little fun too. Well, I suppose you do get it through your microscopes."

But they had a great deal of fun in a quiet way. No one could be long with Tante without catching a little of her gaiety; and even Ejnar was heard to laugh sometimes over matters which had nothing to do with his work. And Gerda left her cage and went singing in the birchwoods above the Gaard, and along the mountain paths. She was content, too, and had forgotten about the saxifrage. And Tante attempted short little strolls along the easiest road, and always stopped by the black hay-barn near the group of mountain-ashes, which rejoiced her eyes. Here she sat down and took out her opera-glasses, really to observe the clouds, though she pretended always to be looking at the numberless Gaards and barns which covered the hillsides and mountain-slopes. But once she forgot her rôle of indifference to nature, and cried enthusiastically to Gerda:

"By St Olaf! I never saw such soft clouds in my life, nor such colours! And just look at the reflection in the rivers, Gerda. Sapristi, how beautiful!"

"What is this I hear?" cried Gerda. "Tante admiring nature!"

"Oh, that's a big Gaard – that yonder," said Tante, correcting herself with a twinkle in her eye. "I wonder what the name is, and how many cotters they have, and how many children, how many cows up at the Saeter, how many goats, how many cheeses they make, how many sheep they have; whether Bedstefar and Bedstemor are alive, and whether they have as comfortable quarters as our Bedstefar and Bedstemor. Ah, and that reminds me that I am drinking coffee with Bedstemor this afternoon. Help me up, Gerda, and don't stand staring at that cloud as though you had never seen one in your life before."

So Tante drank coffee with picturesque old Bedstemor in the old dower-house of the Gaard.

The principal dwelling-place of the Gaard had been considerably added to in modern times. The old part was in the middle, and new wings had been built on either side, a whole new storey with a slate roof added, and a new balcony and porch. So that the Gaard proper, in which Mor Inga reigned, was a curious mixture of the old and the new: the new part being painted pink, and the old part keeping its ancient glory intact. But Bedstemor's house was untouched by modern hands; in fact, all the houses which formed part of the settlement were just as they had been for two or three hundred years. Bedstemor's house was the largest of them all. There were about eight or nine others, all black or dark brown, all with their roofs covered with long grass, amongst which grew poppies, corn-flowers, and forget-me-nots. They were grouped together round the courtyard, as quaint and picturesque a sight as one might see anywhere. The Stabur stood somewhat apart from the other buildings, and was raised above the ground by tree-trunks which looked like elephants' legs. The Stabur had a conceited, self-contained look after the manner of all true Staburs. It seemed to be saying all the time, "Behold me, I am the Stabur!" The possession of a white bell-tower on its grass-grown roof, and of an old carved door, encouraged its self-importance, and gave it an air of distinction not enjoyed by the other houses. Still, they had their tall white chimneys; and it is obvious that one cannot have everything in life. And some of them also had a more picturesque situation than the Stabur: creeping up the hill, indeed, as though they were thinking of climbing up into the woods, but had stopped to rest by a mountain-ash, or by a graceful birch; whilst others, mounting higher, came to a standstill at last and were used for storing wood. Then there were hay-barns of various sizes and shapes, the most characteristic being those with sloping bridges leading up to the top floor. And last, not least, there was the great cowhouse, forsaken now except for five or six cows which had not gone up to the Saeter. And Ingaros, the most beautiful cow of all, christened after Mor Inga, was sulking partly because she had not gone up to the Saeter, but chiefly because she, the belle of the Gaard and the authorised leader of the herd, had been deprived of her noble collar and bell. Some wretched upstart of a creature was wearing it, so that she might be sure to come home to her calves.

Ingaros had Tante's profound sympathy. She visited her in the cowhouse at milking-time, and exchanged a few understanding greetings with her. Old Kari was milking her and singing a soothing little song, something about a saeter-girl who lost all her cows, and she danced and they all came back again, and then she sang and sang till they ran away again! Tante stood and listened delightedly to the clear, sweet voice of the old woman.

"Ja, ja, Kari," she said, "I believe I have some coffee-berries in my pocket. Such a song deserves a good cup of coffee."

"Stakkar!"⁵ said Kari, smiling with delight. "Thou art a kind one, although thou art not Norwegian. Thou shalt hear all the tunes I know."

CHAPTER III

It was a hot afternoon. Ejnar and Gerda had had a quarrel over "Salix." Ejnar's face wore the dynamite expression, and Gerda was white with anger. Her glacier eyes looked like the eyes of a polar bear, and she was moving her head to and fro in a manner which always meant rebellion. On these occasions she longed for a divorce.

"Give me a divorce at once!" she cried tragically both to Ejnar and Tante.

"My dear one," remarked Tante soothingly, "I don't keep divorces ready in my pocket; and you know Ejnar never has even a handkerchief in his pocket. You should have a divorce at once if we had one handy. Be reasonable. Have I ever denied you anything in this world? Of course you should have one instantly."

Ejnar was silent; but his expression was quite enough to blow up all the royal palaces and personages in the universe. Tante herself did not feel too amiable that afternoon. She had had an angry discussion with the Sorenskriver and another man, a Norwegian fur-merchant, about England; and she was shocked to hear them say things against the English which she knew to be not only untrue, but venomously unjust.

"Why," she said, flourishing her knitting-needles, "even the greatest criminal has some redeeming features. And as with criminals, so with countries. But you leave England no virtues: not one."

The men shrugged their shoulders. It was so obvious to them that England had no virtues. It was so obvious to them that they, who had never been to that detestable country, knew far more about the character of the people than this ridiculous old Danish woman who had spent about twenty years amongst the barbarians. Tante was ruffled. And Ejnar, being in a disagreeable mood, had chimed in too against this much-abused nation.

"Ja," he said in his quiet way, "it is a barbarous country, this England. I know nothing about politics, thank heaven, nothing about wars and so forth. But this I can tell you: that England is the only country which refused to exchange botanical specimens with our Botanical Museum. The barbarian director wrote a rude letter."

"I've told you a dozen times, Ejnar, that it was all probably owing to Red Tape," replied Tante angrily. She could have shaken Ejnar.

"And pray what is this Red Tape?" asked the Sorenskriver contemptuously.

"It is an invisible thread which no one has been able to cut, so far," said Tante. "Every one knows it is there and deplores its presence. If it could once be cut, it would shrivel away, and one of England's dangers would be gone."

"Then you admit she has dangers?" asked the fur-merchant, triumphantly rubbing his hands.

"Ja, ja," said Tante Knudsgaard; "but the greatest of them is Red Tape. She suffers from it in everything – both in war and in peace. But she will overcome all her difficulties and emerge."

"Never, never!" said the Sorenskriver and fur-merchant joyfully together. "Her day is gone."

"Then her twilight and her night will be like the glorious midnight sunlight of your north," said Tante, turning to the fur-merchant who came from the north.

"Pyt!" said the fur-merchant scornfully, and went away.

"Sniksnak!" said the Sorenskriver impatiently.

Tante made no reply, but went on knitting; and in a few minutes finished a sock, which she spread on her knee, and then added it to a great pile beside her on the seat of the courtyard verandah, where every one was awaiting the arrival of the letters.

"That makes twelve pairs for those brave English soldiers," she said, half to herself. And the Sorenskriver moved nearer to the horrid spectacle, attracted to the spot against his own wishes. Tante laughed silently; but, all the same, she was ruffled. Every one was more or less cross.

Solli was worried about the crops, for there had been no rain for a long time, and both corn and potatoes threatened to fail. Also, there was a shortage of water, and that made him anxious about fire. Also, Bedstefar was more ailing than usual, and the doctor had been sent for. Bedstemor came over from her house, sat near Tante, and grumbled a little because Bedstefar was so obstinate about the doctor. But she cheered up when a Swedish lady, an artist, one of the guests, praised her quaint, old-fashioned head-gear, and wanted to take a photograph of her pretty old face.

"Ah," said Bedstemor, "many people have wanted to take a picture of me."

And then every one laughed, and said:

"Ja, Bedstemor, we can well believe it!"

That seemed to put every one in better spirits again; and soon beautiful Ragnhild came out of the kitchen with a bundle of letters and papers, and was the centre of an eager circle. Ejnar stood apart, near the Stabur, not being concerned with human affairs. But Ragnhild had a letter even for him, and took it to him herself. She and all the peasants had a great respect for scholarship.

"There is a letter for the professor. Will he care to have it?" she said gently.

She handed it to him in her own charming way, and even Ejnar was pleased; for Ragnhild was the object of great admiration amongst the men, although she kept them at a distance. And all the women, too, admired her, and were glad when she came amongst them. Tante gave her a good hug when she dropped several letters and papers into her lap, and got in return an affectionate pat of approval on the back.

"Thou hast more than thy share of letters to-day," she said. "I shall give thee none to-morrow."

"I don't want any more!" cried Tante, who had just glanced at one of her letters. "Only think, Ragnhild, some dear friends of mine are coming here. I should like to dance the Halling dance. Help me up, kjaere. I want to dance over to the Botaniker. No use calling to him. He never hears human sounds."

Then gaily the pretty girl and the old Danish woman went arm-in-arm to the Stabur, near which Ejnar and Gerda were standing, their heads buried in a letter. They looked up when they saw her, and cried:

"Such news! such news! It has come from America. She will bring it to us at once. We have only to write and say where we are."

"And I, too, have something coming from America," cried Tante. "My Clifford and his boy!"

"Only think, Tante, that valuable botanical parcel at last!" cried Gerda wildly.

"Only think, my poor icebergs home again!" cried Tante, putting her arm round each of them. "What could be more delightful! Your dried-up flowers and my frozen-up human beings! Let us all be friends again and have some aqua vitæ. I feel at peace even with that wretched old magistrate!"

"Oh, Gerda," said Ejnar, "what joys are before us! Just think of it – the Mariposa lilies and the Romney poppy at last!"

When they had all calmed down a little, Tante read Katharine Frensham's letter, and learned that she wished to bring the botanical parcel as soon as she knew whether Herr and Frue Ebbesen could receive her. She had heard from Professor Thornton that they were perhaps going to Norway. If they had already gone, she could just as easily come there. She added:

"It is curious that I, who knew nothing about Professor Thornton a few weeks ago, should all the time have been in communication with the nephew and niece of his dear Danish friend."

"Ja," said Tante, "waves – waves – wireless telegraphy, as always."

There was a sentence in Clifford's letter which struck Tante as being a remarkable thing for him to have written.

"I have become acquainted with a Miss Frensham," he wrote, "to whom I have given a letter of introduction to you – though she will scarcely need it, being, as she is, on a botanical errand to Ejnar and Gerda, and therefore to you. But I desired not to be left out in the cold where she is concerned."

"Well," reflected Tante, "that is a remarkable thing for an iceberg to say."

And she read the sentence several times in order to make sure that she had caught the meaning. The rest of the letter ran thus: —

"Dear Old Knutty, – Alan and I are coming back, and we shall come and find you somewhere and somehow. We have not been happy together. There is a shadow between us – that shadow which I always feared, – and he has something against me in his young heart which makes easy and close companionship impossible. We have both suffered. There was a man of my own age with his son, a boy of Alan's age, on board. I used to look at them with hungry eyes. They had such a good understanding between them; there were no shadows there. He was a great traveller, an ornithologist. And his boy thought he was the finest hero on earth, and worshipped him. I would not wish that; but I would only ask that Alan should believe in me again, as in the old days before – before Marianne's death. It will be good to hear your voice again, even if you do scold me for throwing over Japan. But, under present conditions, it is waste of money and waste of heart-fibre. Alan will be happier without me. Perhaps you won't scold me after all, Knutty. You are such a wise old Knutty; and I still think you were wise to send us in spite of everything."

"Of course I was wise to send you, my poor Clifford," Knutty said, as she read the letter over and over again in the quiet of her beautiful big bedroom, with its lovely views of the valley, the wood, and the grass-roofed houses. "Of course I was wise to send you – even if you came back the next moment. That doesn't matter. It is the starting-off which counts. My poor boy, I won't scold you. My good, gentle-hearted Clifford. You ought to have had a heart as tough as Knutty's. You would not have wanted to gnaw it then; no temptation then. My poor boy!"

She rubbed two or three tears away from her cheeks, and tapped the floor impatiently with her foot.

"Bah!" she said; "that Marianne, I never could bear her!"

And then something prompted her to turn once more to his letter, and she read the words, "But I desired not to be left out in the cold where she is concerned." A faint smile came over Knutty's face. It disappeared, came again, stayed, deepened and deepened.

"By St Olaf, I believe I see daylight!" she cried.