Gunnar: A Norse Romance: Part v

XII.

THREE YEARS LATER.

THREE years are a long time to look forward to, but how short they appear when once they are past! That this was Ragnhild’s experience, she half reluctantly confessed to herself, as in the third spring after the long remembered Berg wedding she wandered with her flocks to the mountains, where the old saeter cottages stood ready to receive her. And still, hew wretched had she been in the first months after he had left her, how slowly and miserably had the days crept along! She had said that she would never more be happy, and happy she had not been ; but time, the healer of all wounds, had also blunted the sting of her sorrow. She no longer thought of Gunnar with pain or regret ; for her faith in him was great, and as the echo of his many and, as she now thought, wonderful words rung in her memory, she was even at times filled with an heroic devotion which made her strong to bear many a hard struggle which was to come.

Lars seemed to have grown much gentler since the affray at the wedding. He had been obliged to keep his bed for months, and it had even for some time been doubtful whether he was to regain his health at all. Of marriage there had been little said of late ; and if people had not known both Atle Henjum and his sister so well, they might have supposed that the whole plan had been abandoned long ago. But Atle had been waiting for a favorable moment. This he now believed to have come ; Ragnhild was composed and cheerful, Lars again as strong as ever, and, to make everything complete, the fishery had yielded this year nearly twice as much as usual, so the widow would be fully able to make a magnificent wedding, and that without touching either bankbook or the silver dollars on the bottom of her chests. Lars had accordingly set out again for a visit to Rimul; and had he come an hour earlier, he would probably have found Ragnhild at home. Now he came in vain.

The little cottage at Henjumhei drawing, and by selling his sketches and compositions to illustrated papers. About Ragnhild he wrote not a word.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,

looked cheerless and desolate since Gunnar had gone. The rock still stood frowning over it ; the overhanging birch-trees still shook their yellow flower-dust upon its roof, and wafted their spring breath in through the open windows; the brisk river had not yet ceased to shower its cold spray over its walls ; and yet, if you happened to enter, you would hardly have said that it was the same cottage you had seen years ago. There sat old Gunhild on the hearth, and spun early and late, spun and spun day after day, and never tired. Never tired ? Perhaps if you looked more closely, you would find that three years had wrought great changes in old Gunhild. She is no longer the cheerful, vigorous woman she used to be. She talks very little now, for she has no one to talk with. Thor was always a man of few words, and now they are fewer than ever. Moreover he spends all his day in field and forest ; and when he comes home late at night, hungry and tired, it is only to sit down in the fireside corner and there smoke on in silence, until sleep comes and makes the silence deeper. They had heard from Gunnar only twice in the three years he had been gone. In the first letter, which came some six or seven months after his departure, he had told them of his nightly flight from the valley, of his long wanderings and many hardships before he reached the capital and was finally admitted to the Academy of Art. The second letter was filled with enthusiastic praises of his friend Herr Vogt, a young man who was studying at the University, and who, from the time of their first meeting, had never ceased to shower upon him new tokens of regard. Time and daily intercourse had now ripened their intimacy into the warmest and sincerest friendship. Vogt was the son of a wealthy clergyman, who lived at some distance from the city, and Gunnar had received repeated invitations to spend his vacation at his home, which, however, for some reason or other, he had declined. He had hitherto made his way by giving lessons in

Strange it may seem that, in spite of Gunnar’s success and happiness, his grandmother mourned him almost as if he had been dead. “ Was it not what I always said, Thor, that that picture business would be sure to lead the child astray ? But you never would listen to me, you Thor, when I told you to set the boy to honest work. There is no blessing in stepping beyond one’s own station, my father used to say ; and sure enough, there can come no lasting blessing from it either, Thor.”

“ It is often hard to tell where one’s station is,” Thor would answer.

One day he had been helping the girls to get the saeter cottages in order; and as there were a hundred things to do, and he the surest hand to do them, time had slipped by unnoticed, and the sun had already risen before he was on his homeward way: for sunset and sunrise follow close in each other’s track in the month of midsummer. As he passed the parsonage, he saw the old pastor walking in his garden, with slippers and dressinggown, and a long-stemmed meerschaum pipe in his mouth.

“ Good morning, Thor,” said the pastor, with a friendly nod.

“ Good morning. The pastor is early on foot to-day.” And Thor pulled his red, pointed cap from his head and held it respectfully in his hand, while the pastor addressed him.

“ When one gets old one cannot always sleep at pleasure ; and when light and darkness are no longer the distinctions between day and night, one is often tempted to get up both in season and out of season, according as wakefulness or weariness bids. In sleepless nights, however, I always have something to go by. As soon as I hear my hens cackling in the yard, I know the hour, and then there is no longer any question about staying in bed.”

“ I think the pastor once told me,” observed Thor, taking a few steps forward, and leaning over the railing, “that he was always a light sleeper. And when a man has so much in his head as we know the pastor has, it is no wonder that he finds little time for rest.” tradition could never have found a happier and more poetic expression than in those unfathomable, inwardlooking eyes, in the harmoniously dramatic gesture of the raised hand, suggesting the idea that she is listening to some word or sound which, we feel sure, none but herself can hear,—

“ But how with yourself, Thor ? Age seems to be gaining on you fast. You do not look half as vigorous as you did a few years ago.”

“ One has to take things as they come.” Here Thor paused, raised his head abruptly, and looked full into the pastors face. “ I suppose every one has his share of troubles,” he added,rather hurriedly.

“ Come in, Thor,” and the minister opened the garden gate ; “ come and sit down with me on this bench here. It is a very long time since we had a good talk together.”

Thor entered and took a seat at the farther end of the bench.

“ I do not wish to intrude on you,” continued the pastor, striking a match on the bench, and proceeding to light his pipe, which during the conversation had been neglected. “ I have no intention of being inquisitive ; but as your pastor, I might perhaps be able to bring you aid and counsel in the sorrows and troubles which beset you.” Although thus invited to speak, Thor for some time remained silent, while the minister, with eager sympathy, watched the struggling emotions in his rugged features. It was not Thor’s habit to speak; sympathy and confidence were quite unknown things to him.

“ Pastor,” he broke forth at last, and his voice trembled as he spoke, “you may remember Gunnar, my son. God knows I miss him very much.”

A peasant’s mode of thought is simple, and simple is his way of uttering it ; but the minister saw through Thor’s rough speech into the deep, loving nature beyond.

“ Thor,” said he, “I do not wonder that you miss your son ; I confess, I often miss him myself. But then we must believe that God knows what is best for us all. And as regards Gunnar, I can give you great proofs that God holds his protecting hand over him. It was not for nothing I called you, as you passed. Only look here ! ” The pastor pulled a letter and a newspaper out of his breast-pocket, and handed both to the peasant, while kindness and triumphant joy beamed forth from his countenance. “But wait a minute,” continued he, “perhaps I had better take the paper, and, if you would like to listen, I will read you something that may possibly interest you.”

“ I am not very good at letters,” answered Thor, quietly. “ I should like much if the pastor would be kind enough to read.”

The other unfolded the paper and began : “ The gold medal of the Academy of Art was this year awarded Mr. Gunnar Thorsen Henjumhei, from the parish of T —— in Bergen Stift; and a

stipend for two years of foreign travel, to which this prize entitles him, will be conferred on him from August 1st, prox. Never, since the earliest days of the Academy, has an opportunity been afforded us of expressing a heartier approval of its decisions than on this occasion. Mr. Henjumhei is evidently a genius of no ordinary scope, and we dare confidently to predict for him a place among the stars of the first magnitude, on the northern horizon of art. This is certainly much to say, but not too much ; for even the slightest glance at his Hulder (now on exhibition in the Academy) will convince the beholder that here is one of the favored few whom Nature has truly admitted into her confidence. Judged, however, by the strictest rules of art, the Hulder is not perfect, and perhaps far from perfect. But it is not conventional perfection we ask from our young artists. Mr. Henjumhei’s Hulder possesses qualities compared with which, we had nearly said, even perfection would be of small account. The Hulder, in spite of imperfect foreshortenings and unwieldy drapery, is all instinct with the native fire of genius, and glows with a life which neither rules nor teachings could impart. The weird grandeur of the “ Ragnhild,” said Ingeborg, with an unusual tremor in her voice, “come into the stabur here, child, and let me speak to you.” And she opened the heavy iron door, and Ragnhild followed. It was a large, spacious apartment, lighted by a few small, barred openings high up on the wall. All around the room stood bins, filled with grain of various kinds, and from the ceiling hung, in long-continued rows, hams, and pieces of smoked and salted beef. But what especially attracted the eye were three huge chests with vaulted covers, elaborately carved and painted, and exhibiting the likenesses of mermaids, dwarfs, trolds, and other fabulous creatures. Through all these fanciful surroundings could clearly be traced the shapes of four or five letters, probably the initials of some long deceased ancestor or ancestress of the Henjum and Rimul families. The widow took the young girl’s hand, and led her up to within four or five steps of the chests. “ Mother,” said she, at length, “pray tell me, what does all this mean.”

And again, the light, sportful airiness, the deep, nameless longings, which, as they are blended in our popular superstition, give such a rich charm to this legendary being,— these are traits which the artist can well feel and express, but are of too subtile a nature for the critic to dissect and analyze. She is, as the ballad expresses it, ‘the grace of the sunshine to the fir-tree’s grotesqueness wed.’

“ Before closing our notice, we shall in confidence relate, what a bird has sung to us, namely, that Mr. Henjumhei caught the inspiration for his Hulder from some fair damsel in his native valley, to whom the picture in some points is said to bear a striking resemblance. If true, we will hope, in the interest of art, that he may soon find the charm to bind the wayward sprite. For, in sooth, he is a youth of whom any damsel, yea, old Norway herself, may justly be proud.”

The paster’s incorrigible pipe had again gone out during the reading. While lighting it, his eyes were firmly riveted on his listener. Thor sat immovable as a statue; but a tear trembled in his eyelid, and stole down his weather-furrowed cheek.

“ Good by, pastor,” said he, rose quickly, and went.

It was about seven o’clock in the morning when Thor saw his cottage peeping forth between the light birchtrees. The night must have been very damp: every tiny leaf and sprig was hung with glittering dew-drops, and as the sun smote them they played and sparkled as from a luminous life within them. Thor looked up, took two steps backward, shaded his eyes with his hand, and gazed again. For fifty years had he lived in that cottage, and how many a time in those years the sun and the dew had lent it their beauty ! To him it was as if to-day he saw it for the first time, at least since those early years he had struggled so bravely to forget. On the bench before the door sat his old mother with her knittingwork. “Poor thing,” muttered he, “ she wants to do everything for the best. But well for the boy that he was stronger than his father, or rather that a stronger hand came in between him and us. ‘A youth whom old Norway herself may justly be proud of,’ ” added he musingly. “ I knew well there was the right mettle in him.”

Then, of course, Thor hastened to his mother with his news, that she might also know and share his joy. No, his joy was one which none but himself could feel, and none but his God should share it with him. So he wandered down toward the river, seated himself on a large moss-grown stone, where a heavy-browed fir stooped out over the rapids, and watched the strong, tumultuous life of the whirling waters.

The sun already stood high in the heavens, when old Gunhild, lifting her eyes from her knitting, and adjusting her spectacles, which had slid down to the tip of her nose, saw her son coming up toward the bench where she sat. Her quick eye caught the change in him. A calm, trustful happiness pervaded his whole being, and beamed forth from his countenance.

“ Son,” said she, “ I should say that you must bring good news from the saeter.”

“ So I do, mother,” replied he, “ and from farther off too than the saeter.”

“Thor,” cried she, dropping her knitting in her lap, “has the boy come ? ”

“ Not that I know,” said Thor, “but here, let him speak for himself.’' And he took the letter out from his inside waistcoat-pocket, sat down at his mother’s side, and broke the seal.

“No, no,” demanded she, “ let me look at the seal, let me see the address and the postmark.”

“ Mother,” said Thor, laughing, “ one would suppose you were ten years old. Now come, let us read together; and when I can’t make it out, then you shall help me.” The letter was written on a large sheet, folded together without envelope, in the old fashion. The father glanced down the whole sheet, turned over on the next page, then to the first again, and finally began : —

“ My dear Father and Grandmother— ”

“ The blessed child, the blessed child ! ” interrupted the latter, already wiping her eyes with her apron, and nodding her head.

“ Hush now, yon must please be quiet for a minute.”

“ My dear Father and Grandmother:— Hurrah! here I stand, with the gold medal in my hand, and my head dizzy with the glorious thought of two years of foreign travel. Alone did the poor boy set out in quest of his beautiful princess, and long was the way. Perhaps even his father and his mother, and every one he loved, sent him, if not a curse, at least a pitying smile or a shoulder-shrug, for company on his journey. They knew nothing of his princess, and cared to know nothing. But the boy knew her, and knew that she was to be his. Many strange creatures did he meet on his wanderings. Both Necken and the Hulder, and numberless Trolds, large and small, sat waiting for him along the wayside, some to help him, others to do him harm. O, if you could have seen the Hulder of my heart! She it was who taught me the way to the mountain. Now I can discern the luminous path that leads to the castle, where sleeps the beautiful princess.

“ An hour ago I stood with some twenty others in the vestibule of the Academy, awaiting the final declaration of the prizes. My heart was now in my throat, now in my boots, and everywhere else, except where it ought to have been. The stairs and the square were crowded with people, and we twenty culprits stood there, heated and anxious or shivering, according to each one’s particular temperament, but struggling hard to look unconcerned. The rest is to me like a dream. I only know that I rushed out desperately, hugged to my heart the first man I happened to meet, which fortunately was Vogt,and now I sit here trying to make you believe that all this is not a fleeting vision, but true and sober reality.

“I need not write more, for I shall soon be with you. In two days I shall start on a pedestrian journey with Vogt, for the purpose of studying our great mountains and glaciers with my new eyes. Vogt will visit the parsonage. His father, who is a clergyman and an old college friend of our pastor’s, once spent some time in our valley, and, I believe, knows the Henjum people quite well. Promise me, however, that you will tell no one but your self that I am coming. I have my own reasons for wishing it to be a secret. How happy I shall be to sit once again on the hearth in our cottage and hear once more grandmother’s old stories ; for grandmother must tell them all over again ! My affectionate greetings to you all, father, grandmother, the birchtrees, and the old cottage.

“ Your son,

“GUNNAR THORSEN HENJUMHEI.”

“Heaven be praised,” sobbed Gunhild, who towards the close had found ample use for her apron, — “ Heaven be praised for all its dispensations, both good and evil. Yea, God knows we have mourned enough for the blessed child. And now he will come again. O, yes, I knew he would come home again, I always knew it! You well remember what I used to say to you, Thor. ‘ Thor,’ I would say, ‘ the boy will soon find — ’ ”

But Thor had already betaken himself to the river, where he still sat poring over his letter, and reading it half aloud to himself; while Gunhild indefinitely continued her soliloquy, with only the pines and the birch-trees listening.

XIII.

RHYME-OLA’S MESSAGE.

IT was of course not long before the rumor of Gunnar’s great good fortune spread through the valley, from one end to the other, and as rumors are wont to do, expanded on its flight into fabulous dimensions. Among the first whom it reached was Rhyme-Ola, and it is doubtful if Thor Henjumhei himself rejoiced more in it; but RhymeOla had his own way of showing his emotions ; on this occasion, it is said, he danced, laughed, and wept, and on the whole behaved so that people thought he had gone mad. The next thing he did was to appoint himself the sole authorized bearer of the message ; and, beginning at the eastern end of the valley, he wandered from farm to farm and from cottage to cottage, proclaiming the great tidings.

Old Gunhild Henjumhei had grown quite lame and stiff of late years, and had not been able to move about much. But as next Sermon-Sunday approached, she began making extensive preparations in the way of arranging and increasing her wardrobe.¹ For to church she would go on that day, she said, whether she should have to creep or to walk. “ And my best red striped skirt, which has lain so long at the bottom of my chest, I shall then put on. For I want to look my best, for the blessed child’s sake. And if I were you, Thor, I certainly should have a new jacket made before Sunday. You have worn this quite long enough now.”

Thor, after some faint resistance, had to yield the point. And the Sermon-Sunday came. Most of the people had already arrived, and stood in scattered groups, talking by the wall or in the church-yard, when Thor came slowly marching in through the gate, with his old mother leaning on his arm. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, but walked straight toward the church door. But Gunhild protested, “ Wait a moment, Thor,” demanded she, half aloud, “ I am an old woman, you know, and cannot trot. along as fast as you, perhaps, would like. Let us rest a little here, as other people do, to greet friends and neighbors.” Thor had again to yield, though this time rather reluctantly ; for to him, the attention they attracted had no part in the joy he felt for his son. Not so with Gunhild ; she was not loath to receive her due share of the public notice. They stepped into the small paths between the graves, and walked over towards the southern gate where the women were standing. There they stopped, and Gunhild leaned against the white stone fence. Four or five elderly women came up to speak to her. Two of them were gardmen’s wives. Thor withdrew to join the crowd which stood nearest. All eyes were turned on him as he approached.

“ Well met, Thor Henjumhei,” broke forth a chorus of voices. “ And thanks for last meeting,” added two or three men, reaching him their hands.

“ Well met,” said Thor, shaking hands round, “and thanks to yourselves. A goodly number of church-folks today,” continued he, “ more than I ever remember to have seen in harvesttimes.”

“ A pastor like ours is well worth hearing,” replied a tall, grave man, who stood next to him.

“ They say your son has come to great honor in the capital, Thor,” cried a high-pitched voice from the opposite side of the crowd. It was Peer Berg, the father of the “Wild Ducks.”

“ About the honor, I know but little. He has struggled bravely, and has had the luck with him, God be praised.”

“ The rumor goes that the king himself has spoken to him, and promised to send him to Roman-town and German-land,” ejaculated one, who evidently made some pretensions to a knowledge of geography.

“ If that were true, I should most likely have heard of it,” was Thor’s reply.

“Is it not true, either,”asked Peer Berg,“ that he gained all the biggest gold and silver pieces in the Ca - Ca - Camedy, or whatever you call it, and that all in one rub ? ”

Thor answered something, but “ the iron tongues of the steeple” spoke with a mightier voice ; the air quivered as with full-throated song, and he listened, and forgot what he was about to say. The crowds broke up, and scattered ; and with slow and solemn tread the people drew toward the churchdoor. Soon the church-yard was almost deserted ; the entrance-hymn was already streaming out through the open windows, when Thor and Gunhild had reached the door. Then a pretty young girl, in her Sunday dress, with rich, sunny hair, came quickly up to them, looked rather shyly around her, and seized Gunhild’s hand, and shook it. “ I also wanted to shake hands with you,” said she, dropping her eyes, and looking on the ground. For a moment she stood still, holding her hand, and hesitating, as if she wanted to say something more, then again dropped it, and vanished through the open door.

“ Bless the child,” said Gunhild, “ she certainly had something on her heart.”

The girl was Ragnhild Rimul.

Walking home from church that same Sunday, Ragnhild met her mother’s brother, Atle Henjum. He was just coming down the hillside from Rimul, and had probably been paying Ingeborg a sabbath visit. He gave her a friendly nod as she passed. There was nothing unusual in Atle’s going to see his sister ; and still, without knowing why, she felt strangely oppressed after having seen him. And then that nod ; he usually took no notice of her whatever. When she gained the Rimul gate, an unaccountable anxiety took such possession of her that she had to stop to compose herself before entering. The yard looked scrupulously swept and clean, as it always did on Sundays ; but to-day it bore a most distressing air of awkward, self-conscious stiffness. On the stair-case of the stabur, or store-house, sat her mother feeding the poultry, but as Ragnhild felt, evidently waiting for her to come home. As she came within sight, Ingeborg rose and beckoned to her. The poultry knew her too well to mind her presence. Only the cock laid his head on one side, and looked up at her with a knowing air, as if to make her understand that he was well aware of what was coming.

“ What was the text to-day ? ” asked Ingeborg, as her daughter stood before her.

“About the Pharisee and the Publican,” answered Ragnhild.

“ And what did the pastor say ? ” ‘‘Well, I could hardly tell, but it was uncommonly fine everything he did say.”

“ Much church-people ? ”

“ A great many.” Ragnhild was still standing in the yard, her mother a few steps up the stairs. She fixed a strange, searching glance on the daughter, and that firm decision in the lines about her mouth gradually relaxed into an anxious, quivering doubt.

“ Ragnhild,” said she suddenly, “ you do not tell half of what you think.” Ragnhild raised her large, innocent eyes in wonder, but as they met her mother’s a deep blush stole over her cheeks ; bewildered, she dropped her hymn-book and handkerchief, and quickly stooped down to recover them. It was a good while before she found them.

“ Daughter,” said she, solemnly, and pointing to the middle one, “ can you read those letters ? ”

“ L. A. S. H.,” whispered Ragnhild.

“And those other letters underneath,” continued the mother.

“ R. S. D. H.”

“ Do you know what they mean ? ”

“ No.”

“Ragnhild, Ragnhild,” exclaimed the mother, dropping her hand, and with arms akimbo placing herself right in front of the culprit, “do you mean to say that you do not know the names of your own grandmother and grandfather ? ”

Ragnhild remained silent.

“ Then,” continued Ingeborg, indignantly, “ it is high time that you should know them. Those letters above stand for the name of my father, Lars Atle’s Son Henjum, and the letters underneath stand for the name of my mother, from whom you were called, Ragnhild Sigurd’s Daughter Henjum. It is strange that her father’s name also was Sigurd. For now, as you know, those names will soon again be united.” Ragnhild stared in hopeless bewilderment on the ominous letters, as if but dimly divining their hidden meaning. Seeing that she had failed to make herself understood, Ingeborg quickly drew a large bunch of keys out of her pocket, and opened the three chests. Then she raised the covers, and without delay disclosed their hidden treasures. There were silver spoons, with large crowned balls at the end of their handles, curiously wrought brooches, and silver breast plates, a fine, glittering bridal crown (an heirloom from immemorial times), heavy, snow-white linen for table-cloths, sheets, and female apparel, all covered with a perfect maze of elaborate embroidery, skirts and bodices of darker and brighter colors, and numerous other articles, such as ancient wealth and family pride hoard up from generation to generation. While the widow sat deeply engrossed in the contemplation of her riches, and with evident satisfaction surveyed, unfolded, and displayed every separate article, Ragnhild stood still aghast, gazing in mute astonishment. Now and then her features lighted up for a moment at the sight of some rich garment or ornament, but soon again were overcast, as by coming evil. Having finished all her preparations, Ingeborg beckoned her daughter to come nearer.

“ Child,” said she, passing her arm round the young girl’s waist, and dropping her voice into a gentle whisper, “do you know to whom all these things belong ? ”

“ They are yours,” murmured Ragnhild.

“ No, child, they are no longer mine. I have no heir but you and all that has hitherto been mine is now to be yours.” And she raised her head, and gazed into the daughter’s countenance to see if she were not overpowered by such a prospect. But Ragnhild’s features betrayed no pleasurable emotion ; a shade of painful disappointment flitted over the mother’s face; she ran her hand across her forehead, and stooped forward as in deep thought. Then suddenly a new idea struck her.

“ Come, child,” said she, “ let me see how this bridal crown will fit you. It is a beautiful crown. I have worn it once myself, and my grandmother and my great-grandmother before me.” So saying, she placed the crown on Ragnhild’s sunny head ; the latter smiled faintly, and mechanically submitted to her mother’s strange freaks.

“ And then this bodice, and this breast-plate,” cried Ingeborg, with renewed hope, “they will fit yon within a hair, and be so becoming.” Ragnhild made no motion to accept the proffered gifts ; she stood as if petrified.

“What does it mean?” asked the widow astounded, dropping the breastplate in her lap. “Well, I thought you were old enough to know what it means to put on a bridal-crown. However, the case is simply this. My brother Atle Henjum, while you were still a child, asked your hand for his son Lars. To me, of course, nothing could be more desirable than to see you, my only child, so honorably matched and so well cared for. Therefore, I gave my consent. It was this I wished to make known to you to-day. Atle Henjum has been here this morning, and has renewed his offer. He wishes the wedding to take place soon, and I have long been of the same mind. You are no longer a child now, but a grown woman. At twenty I was married myself, and it is my belief that that is the right age to marry.”

The words hummed and buzzed at Ragnhild’s ears ; she heard them, but they were to her only so many sounds, without any special import. Now they seemed to come floating from far away, sometimes to ring piercingly through her torpid senses, and then again they receded into a dim distance. She marry Lars Henjum ? She certainly had heard some parish talk about that long ago — O, yes, so very long ago, she thought now ; for the idea was as strange to her as if she had never heard it. And Lars, how ugly he looked to her, with his broad, ox-like brow and dull, staring eyes. And her thought grasped despairingly for Gunnar ; for in all the fairy-winged dreams which had risen from her soul in the summer stillness, he had been her lord and hero.

“ Well,” continued Ingeborg, having still received no answer, “ you now know my will. It can certainly not be any great surprise to you. But with regard to the time, and some few other things,

I should like to know what you think.”

There followed another long, painful silence. Ingeborg stared, she knit her brow ; a deep crimson shot over her face, even up to her head-gear.

“Ragnhild Rimul,” cried she, with rising indignation, “if you have so far forgotten your birth and your mother’s name as still to remember that wandering beggar and vagabond, whose shame — ”

“ O mother ! ” implored the girl, and burst into tears. But the widow,—she clasped her hands over her forehead, pressed them convulsively against her temples, stooped down, and hid her face in her lap ; and a heavy, struggling moan was the last farewell to a mother’s life-hope. When she again lifted her eyes Ragnhild was gone.

The maids wondered much that day what had become of the house-wife. They searched the house, the barns, and the fields, but they searched in vain. Toward evening they found her again, sitting in her accustomed seat at the south window, and the old silverclasped Bible lay open before her. But no one durst ask when she came or where she had been. She glanced up whenever the door-latch moved, then again bent over her Bible.

What were your thoughts then, Ingeborg Rimul ? Why did your stately figure stoop, as you staggered from the stabur over to the house, hardly able to bear the burden of your self-wrought grief? And when you opened the Holy Book and sat down to read its well-known pages, why did those words, given to console the afflicted, refuse to comfort thee ? All, Ingeborg Rimul, it was not the Word of God that was foremost in your mind that night. No, you remember still how your wayward thoughts wandered back to a time which you had long vainly striven to forget. And that moon-lit summer-night returned to your memory, when you sat under the birch-tree at the river, and your golden head rested lovingly on his bosom. Ah, if he,— if Thoralf Vogt had known of all the weary, sleepless nights that followed those days of bliss ; if he could have counted the tears that flowed from your eyes, Ingeborg Rimul, before your faith and your hopes were crushed, — then you thought he would not have given you up so easilyBut you have changed much since those days. Then your faith in man and God was strong, for you loved as only a nature like yours can love. But, as I say, you have changed much ; now you think you can repair one sin by adding to it another, and a greater one : you sacrificed your own happiness, now you offer upon the same altar the life of your child, Ragnhild, your only daughter.

XIV.

AT THE PARSONAGE.

“WHAT should she do, where should she go ? ” These were Ragnhild’s first thoughts, as after a short flight upward through the birch-grove, she sunk down under a large drooping tree, hid her face in her lap, and wept and wept, and could never weep out her trouble, for the more she wept the more she felt the need of weeping. And the slender birch-boughs waved and trembled ; then a faint rustling would steal through the fluttering leaves, as if the tree were trying to hush its own emotion. Hard by stood a steep, half-mossgrown rock, over which the water came trickling down in slow, strange, forestlike silence ; and a clear pool underneath peered upwards with its calm gaze. But Ragnhild wept, — wept until the tears dimmed even her grief, and she at last hardly knew why she was weeping. Her thoughts had wandered far that day, no wonder they were weary. Hush ! what a song-rich soul has the northern forest ! And its life itself, — what a full-swelling tide of melody. But that was not the voice of the forest. She raised her head, wondered, and listened. A strange, soft crooning seemed to grow out of the silence, and then fade into silence again. Suddenly the thought of trolds and elfmaidens flashed through her mind. She sprang up and ran, until she plainly heard somebody calling her name. She paused and looked timidly around. There sat Rhyme-Ola upon the rock swinging his ragged hat in one hand, and a bundle of papers in the other. It was plainly the papers he wished her to see ; for as she hesitated, he flung his hat away, and again waved them towards her.

“ Ragnhild,” cried he, “ was it not what I always used to say ? ”

Ragnhild took a few steps toward the pool, smoothed her hair, and washed off the marks of her tears ; then by the aid of a small birch and some juniper bushes, climbed the rock to where Rhyme-Ola was standing.

“ It was the very thing, I have always said, Ragnhild,” repeated he, as if he were taking up the thread of a conversation, which had been broken off a minute ago.

“ What is it you have always been saying, Rhyme-Ola ? ” asked Ragnhild, astonished, as, flushed and panting, she gained the singer’s lofty haunt.

“ Take a seat, make yourself at home,” said he ; “ I am going to tell you all about it.”

She dropped upon a stone and sat looking expectantly into his face.

“You remember,” resumed the other, “ how often I used to say that the valley would hear of him when they least expected it.”

Ragnhild had no recollection of such a prophecy on the part of Rhyme-Ola, but, hardly knowing what he meant, she answered musingly, “O —yes,” then, suddenly throwing herself forward, added in breathless haste, “And what have they heard of him, Rhyme-Ola? ”

“ Look here, Ragnhild,” cried her companion, gayly, “ if you have not heard strange things before, you may be sure you will hear them now. It was only what I always said; but nobody would believe me, not even you Ragnhild.”

“Yes, yes, I do believe you,” exclaimed the girl impatiently. “ Only pray tell; what is it you have heard ? ”

Rhyme-Ola took one of the papers he held in his hand, unfolded it, and handed it to Ragnhild.

“You will find something there,” said he ; “ I can’t read, you know, so I can’t tell you where it is. The pastor told me it was there. He gave me the papers yesterday, and I promised him to carry them to the judge for him ; for they two keep the papers together. But I have been keeping them to show them to you, Ragnhild, for I knew that, next myself, there was nobody in the valley who would care more to see it.”

She did not seem quite to catch his meaning ; she opened her mouth, and the question she was about to ask — well, she did not exactly forget it, but it just vanished on her lips, and she did not know what had become of it. So she sat there only gazing on RhymeOla, but said not a word.

“ Well, well, Ragnhild,” said he, visibly disappointed, “ if you don’t care to read it, I am sure I sha’n’t urge you.” And he reached his hand out to take the paper back again ; but she snatched it, then sprang up, and down she ran over the steep hillside, so loose earth and boulders came rumbling after in her track.

“ Ragnhild, Ragnhild, don’t you hear, it is the pastor’s paper,” cried RhymeOla. A heavy boulder with a fierce rush dashed against a huge-stemmed fir. That was all the answer he got. A minute after he saw her light figure vanish in the dense birch copse below.

Since the time of her confirmation, Ragnhild no longer slept in her mother’s room. Up stairs in the eastern gable of the house, a little chamber had been fitted up for her, and a very pretty chamber it was. It was five years now since she was confirmed, and still the girlish pride she took in her little bower was as fresh as the first day she entered it. She had spent so many happy hours up there. The furniture was perhaps scanty enough ; but it was all, if not more than she required. Near the door stood the large painted chest in which she kept her wardrobe ; then a bed in the wall, which, however, no one could see, unless when the trap-door was opened through which she entered it ; but the door was generally open, and the snowwhite sheets, the sheep skins, and the rag blankets which Ragnhild herself had woven were always in such perfect order that she hardly would mind if you stepped near and took a look at it. The walls, which had retained their natural tint of the wood, were decorated with a small lookingglass, a colored print of Prince Gustaf, and the following verses painted in red letters, one at the head and the other at the foot of the bed : —

When Ragnhild woke up the next morning, her first thought was the newspaper, which she had hid under her pillow; but the wish she made when she did it, she would not for any prize have told to living mortal. She again examined the paper, read the article through, word for word, to assure herself that it was all true, and that she had not merely dreamed it. The words “art” and “artist” struck her singularly; Gunnar was an artist, it said. What was an artist ? She had some faint notion that his pictures might have something to do with it, in fact, she knew they had ; but the word was strange to her, and she had no very definite idea of what it meant. She rose and went with one of the maids to the cow-stable to milk the two cows they kept on the homepasture, then helped in scouring the milk-pails; but still the word “artist” haunted her, and would let her have no peace. She must find out what an artist meant. Suppose she asked Thor Henjumhei ? No, that would never do ; he might suspect more than she wished to betray. But the old pastor, — he was the very man ; learned was he, so he would be likely to know, and a better man to come to in trouble there never was. It never had happened before that Ragnhild had forgot her work or left it half done ; but this morning it did happen. Ingeborg opened her eyes wide, when she saw her spring out of the gate with her Sunday skirt and bodice on, and lightly dance down the hillside towards the river. “Well, well,” muttered she, glancing at the half-scoured milk pails on the hearthstone, “if that were what I had taught my daughter! But when one stone loosens and rolls, then the whole heap will be sure to follow. Alas ! ” added she, with a sigh, “ I am afraid that child will do me but little honor.”

It was a clear, sunny summer morning. In the pastor’s study windows and doors were thrown wide open, and the sunshine glinted through the blooming apple-trees in the orchard into the little room, where the the worthy clergyman sat at his desk poring over some documents connected with the poor fund or some other equally distracting matter. Again and again he allowed his pipe to go out, turned the papers over and over, and scratched his head in a kind of comic despair whenever a new difficulty presented itself.

A slight knock at the door called the pastor’s attention from his papers ; he glanced up, and saw a fair young maiden standing in the hall waiting to be admitted. He rubbed his glasses, put them on his nose, and looked at her.

“Ah, Ragnhild Rimul! ” cried he, agreeably surprised. “ Come in, my child. You are very welcome. You do not at all disturb me; you need have no fear of that. Come in. How is your good mother ? ”

Ragnhild in the meantime, after having made a deep courtesy to the pastor, had found a chair at the door, where she sat down, modestly looking on the floor without saying a word.

“And your good mother is well, my child?” repeated the old man. Ragnhild stammered something to the effect that her good mother, when she saw her last, was enjoying her usual good health. The pastor expressed his gratification at so desirable a state of affairs, and hoped that the daughter also was enjoying the same blessing. Now, here was a chance for introducing her question, but Ragnhild felt so bashful and embarrassed that she could do nothing but twirl and twist the corners of her apron, and hardly knew herself what she wanted to say. Indeed, she had talked frankly with the kind old man so many a time before, and had never felt the least hesitation. She had always had the most unbounded reverence for him, and had been used to think that, next to God, there was none who knew more than he. To-day was the first time she had anything she wished to hide from him ; and it was this which made her heart sink, as her eyes met his. In this minute she had a vague sensation that he already must have discovered her secret, and she was ashamed of herself for ever having wished to keep it from him. He saw her embarrassment, and tried to come to her assistance ; but she heard nothing of what he said. Then he also was silent, and although she still sat gazing on the floor, she could feel his eyes fixed steadily on her. She must speak. And she summoned all her courage, gave her apron a desperate twist, and, in a voice half choked by the tears, suddenly broke out :

“Wouldn’t father please tell me what it means to be an artist ? ”

And with a powerful effort, she swallowed her tears and tried to look unconcerned.

“What it means to be an artist?” said the pastor, with ill concealed astonishment. “ My dear child, what have you got to do with artists?”

“Well, I just wished to know,” answered she boldly, but pressed her hands against the chair, and set her teeth firmly the moment she had spoken ; for, in spite of the warmth, they seemed alarmingly disposed to clatter.

“ An artist ? Well, to be an artist is to be engaged in the study of Art, whether it be Architecture or Music or . . . . . But perhaps you will have some difficulty in understanding — ”

Ragnhild certainly had difficulty in understanding, which he, in fact, did not wonder at. And mistrusting his own information on the subject, he arose, pulled a large volume ot his Encyclopedia out from the book-case, and without further introduction began to read. But one regiment of big words marched up, followed by another of still more promising dimensions, until at last even the pastor despaired, and shut the book in disgust. Having put it back in its place, he went up to Ragnhild, slopped in front of her, and looked at her in wonder.

“ My dearest child,” said he tenderly, “ if you are in trouble or distress, be assured that I shall be glad to do anything in my power to help you. You know you can trust me, child, do you not ? ”

That was too much for a poor overburdened heart. “ Father,” cried she, “ I am so unhappy,” and a shower of tears nearly choked the confession, “I love Gunnar so much. I always did love him. But mother does n’t like him, and she calls him a beggar and a vagabond, and that hurts me so much. For you know he is no vagabond, father, and not a beggar either.”

“ Yes, dearest child, I know. A nobler and worthier youth our parish never bore.”

“ That was what the paper said too,” sobbed she, —“and then it cannot be any sin to love him, can it, father ? ”

The pastor made no answer. She stayed her weeping, and lifted her tearfilled eyes on him imploringly. It was not in his power to resist.

“ No, child,” said he warmly, “it is no sin to love. And,” added he, after a moment’s pause, “if ever a youth was worthy of a maiden’s love, he is.”

“ O, thank you, father ! ” cried she, “ for that was the truest word — ”

Your mouth ever uttered, was what she was about to say, but suddenly remembering that that would not be a proper thing to say to her pastor, she restrained her joy, and after some hesitation continued : “ I was so afraid that I might be wrong! but now, when I know that you also think what my love for him had early taught me to think, I shall never more be in doubt. . . . . . And if you would please tell my mother so, she would also learn to think differently, for she would believe you, father, although she would no one else.”

The pastor folded his hands on his back under his dressing-gown, and began walking briskly up and down on the floor. There was no denying that his sympathy for the poor girl was strong and heartfelt ; and he now suddenly discovered that he had allowed his warm heart to run away with his judgment. Of course, he was not ignorant of the Henjum and Rimul marriage scheme, and even if he had been, it would be unpardonable in him as a minister to encourage a daughter to rebel against her mother’s wish. “Alas!” sighed he, “ I always find myself running into this kind of scrapes. How often shall I suffer, before I learn ? And what is now to be done ? ” A thought struck him. Ragnhild was well versed in her catechism ; he could refer to no higher authority. So he stopped again before her, “Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother,” said he, slowly and solemnly, “that it may go well with thee, and thou shalt long live in the land.”

This done, he again resumed his walk, and having found a new argument, again stopped.

“ He that honoreth net father and mother — ”

His eye met a sweet, puzzled look in her innocent face, and he had not the heart to go on. Then a faint smile flitted over her features, for her quick eye had already told her where his sympathies were in spite of the stern words of the law. It is, indeed, inconceivable where she found the courage to say what she did say, and she often thought so herself afterwards, but as the answer came to her, she had already uttered it before she had time for a second thought.

“ Thou shalt obey God,” faltered she, “ rather than men.” It struck him singularly to have the ignorant peasant girl meet him so promptly on his own ground. It was now his turn to look puzzled. He dropped down in an easychair at the desk, laid his hand on his forehead, and sat long as if in deep thought. Ragnhild, fearing her presence might be unwelcome to him, arose and walked towards the door.

“ I hope you will excuse me if I have disturbed you, father,” said she ; “ farewell.”

“ Stay, child, stay,” demanded he, without changing his attitude. And she remained standing at the door, looking at him, and wondering what he could be thinking. And the silence lasted a long while, until at length she feared he had forgotten her altogether. She took a few steps toward the writing-desk, made a deep courtesy, and said :

“ Father, I think my mother will miss me, if I stay longer.”

Then he arose, grasped the hand she reached him, and with warmth and earnestness said :

“ Ragnhild, if you have failed to get the help and the advice you might justly expect from me, as your pastor, you will not think that it has been from any unwillingness on my part, or from indifference to your welfare. Perhaps it rather was because I felt too much for you both. But the matter you have mentioned to me to-day is one in which no human helper will avail you. Therefore pray to God, that He will help you, and act then in accordance with what your own conscience tells you to be His will, and you will never go astray. And now, child, may God bless you. Farewell ! ”

Ragnhild would have thanked the old man if she had been able. As it was, she could only falter a faint farewell, and hurry out into the clear, sunteeming morning. He went to the window, lit his pipe for the twentieth time, and saw her skipping down the road past the little white church, until the forest and the distance hid her from his sight.

“Ah, yes, yes,” murmured he, “ it is the old, old story.”

H. H. Boyesen.