Vocabulary: "Vardoeger" -- there is an old Scandanavian superstition that every man is followed a vardoeger, an invisible animal resembling him in character.
Translated from the Norwegian by William Neinemann, 1896, London, England.
Fiddler Ole Haugen was a poor cottar high among the mountains. He hada daughter, Aslaug, who had inherited his cleverness. Though she couldnot play his fiddle, there was music in everything she did--in hertalk, her singing, her walk, her dancing.
At the great farm of Tingvold, down in the valley, a young man hadcome home from his travels. He was the third son of the rich peasantowner, but his two elder brothers had been drowned in a flood, so thefarm was to come to him. He met Aslaug at a wedding and fell in lovewith her. In those days it was an unheard-of thing that a well-to-dopeasant of old family should court a girl of Aslaug's class. But thisyoung fellow had been long away, and he let his parents know that hehad made enough out in the world to live upon, and that if he couldnot have what he wanted at home, he would let the farm go. It wasprophesied that this indifference to the claims of family and propertywould bring its own punishment. Some said that Ole Haugen had broughtit about, by means only darkly hinted at.
So much is certain, that while the conflict between the young man andhis parents was going on, Haugen was in the best of spirits. When thebattle was over, he said that he had already made them a Bridal March,one that would never go out of the family of Tingvold--but woe to thegirl, he added, whom it did not play to church as happy a bride as thecottar's daughter, Aslaug Haugen! And here again people talked of theinfluence of some mysterious evil power.
So runs the story. It is a fact that to this day the people of thatmountain district have a peculiar gift of music and song, which thenmust have been greater still. Such a thing is not kept up without someone caring for and adding to the original treasure, and Ole Haugen wasthe man who did it in his time.
Tradition goes on to tell that just as Ole Haugen's Bridal March wasthe merriest ever heard, so the bridal pair that it played to church,that were met by it again as they came from the altar, and that drovehome with its strain in their ears, were the happiest couple that hadever been seen. And though the race of Tingvold had always been ahandsome race, and after this were handsomer than ever, it ismaintained that none, before or after, could equal this particularcouple.
With Ole Haugen legend ends, and now history begins. Ole's bridalmarch kept its place in the house of Tingvold. It was sung, andhummed, and whistled, and fiddled, in the house and in the stable, inthe field and on the mountain-side. The only child born of themarriage, little Astrid, was rocked and sung to sleep with it bymother, by father, and by servants, and it was one of the first thingsshe herself learned. There was music in the race, and this brightlittle one had her full share of it, and soon could hum her parent'striumphal march, the talisman of her family, in quite a masterly way.
It was hardly to be wondered at that when she grew up, she too wishedto choose her lover. Many came to woo, but at the age of twenty-threethe rich and gifted girl was still single. The reason came out atlast. In the house lived a quick-witted youth, whom Aslaug had takenin out of pity. He went by the name of the tramp or gipsy, though hewas neither. But Aslaug was ready enough to call him so when sheheard that Astrid and he were betrothed. They had pledged faith toeach other in all secrecy out on the hill pastures, and had sung thebridal march together, she on the height, he answering from below.
The lad was sent away at once. No one could now show more pride ofrace than Aslaug, the poor cottar's daughter. Astrid's father calledto mind what was prophesied when he broke the tradition of his family.Had it now come to a husband being taken in from the wayside? Wherewould it end? And the neighbours said much the same.
"The tramp," Knut by name, soon became well known to every one, as hetook to dealing in cattle on his own account. He was the first in thatpart of the country to do it to any extent, and his enterprise hadbegun to benefit the whole district, raising prices, and bringing incapital. But he was apt to bring drinking bouts, and often fighting,in his train; and this was all that people talked of as yet; they hadnot begun to understand his capabilities as a business man.
Astrid was determined, and she was twenty-three, and her parents cameto see that either the farm must go out of the family or Knut mustcome into it; through their own marriage they had lost the moralauthority that might have stood them in good stead now. So Astrid hadher way. One fine day the handsome, merry Knut drove with her tochurch. The strains of the family bridal march, her grandfather'smasterpiece, were wafted back over the great procession, and the twoseemed to be sitting humming it quietly, and very happy they looked.And every one wondered how the parents looked so happy too, for theyhad opposed the marriage long and obstinately.
After the wedding Knut took over the farm, and the old people retiredon their allowance. It was such a liberal one that people could notunderstand how Knut and Astrid were able to afford it; for though thefarm was the largest in the district, it was not well-cultivated. Butthis was not all. Three times the number of workpeople were taken on,and everything was started in a new way, with an outlay unheard of inthese parts. Certain ruin was foretold. But "the tramp"--for hisnickname had stuck to him--was as merry as ever, and seemed to haveinfected Astrid with his humour. The quiet, gentle girl became thelively, buxom wife. Her parents were satisfied. At last people beganto understand that Knut had brought to Tingvold what no one had hadthere before, working capital! And along with it he had brought theexperience gained in trading, and a gift of handling commodities andmoney, and of keeping servants willing and happy.
In twelve years one would hardly have known Tingvold again. House andoutbuildings were different; there were three times as manyworkpeople, they were three times as well off, and Knut himself, inhis broadcloth coat, sat in the evenings and smoked his meerschaumpipe and drank his glass of toddy with the Captain and the Pastor andthe Bailiff. To Astrid he was the cleverest and best man in the world,and she was fond of telling how in his young days he had fought anddrunk just to get himself talked about, and to frighten her; "for hewas so cunning!"
She followed him in everything except in leaving off peasant dress andcustoms; to these she always kept. Knut did not interfere with otherpeople's ways, so this caused no trouble between them. He lived withhis "set," and his wife saw to their entertainment, which was,however, modest enough, for he was too prudent a man to makeunnecessary show or outlay of any kind. Some said that he gained moreby the card-playing, and by the popularity this mode of life won forhim, than all he laid out upon it, but this was probably puremalevolence.
They had several children, but the only one whose history concerns usis the eldest son, Endrid, who was to inherit the farm and carry onthe honour of the house. He had all the good looks of his race, butnot much in the way of brains, as is often the case with children ofspecially active-minded parents. His father soon observed this, andtried to make up for it by giving him a very good education. A tutorwas brought into the house for the children, and when Endrid grew uphe was sent to one of the agricultural training schools that were nowbeginning to flourish in Norway, and after that to finish off in town.He came home again a quiet young fellow, with a rather over-burdenedbrain and fewer town ways than his father had hoped for. But Endridwas a slow-witted youth.
The Pastor and the Captain, both with large families of daughters, hadtheir eye on him. But if this was the reason of the increasedattention they paid to Knut, they made a great mistake; the idea of amarriage between his son and a poor pastor's or captain's daughter,with no training to fit her for a rich farmer's wife, was soridiculous to him that he did not even think it necessary to warnEndrid. And indeed no warning was needed, for the lad saw as well ashis father that, though there was no need for his bringing more wealthinto the family through his marriage, it would be of advantage if hecould again connect it with one of equal birth and position. But, asill-luck would have it, he was but an awkward wooer. The worst of itwas that he began to get the name of being a fortune-hunter; and whenonce a young man gets this reputation, the peasants fight shy of him.Endrid soon noticed this himself; for though he was not particularlyquick, to make up for it he was very sensitive. He saw that it did notimprove his position that he was dressed like a townsman, and "hadlearning," as the country people said. The boy was sound at heart, andthe result of the slights he met with was that by degrees he left offhis town dress and town speech, and began to work on his father'sgreat farm as a simple labourer. His father understood--he had begunto understand before the lad did--and he told his wife to take nonotice. So they said nothing about marriage, nor about the change inEndrid's ways; only his father was more and more friendly to him, andconsulted him in everything connected with the farm and with hisother trade, and at last gave the management of the farm altogetherinto his hands. And of this they never needed to repent.
So the time passed till Endrid was thirty-one. He had been steadilyadding to his father's wealth and to his own experience andindependence; but had never made the smallest attempt at courtship;had not looked at a girl, either in their own district or elsewhere.And now his parents were beginning to fear that he had given upthoughts of it altogether. But this was not the case.
On a neighbouring farm lived in good circumstances anotherwell-descended peasant family, that had at different timesintermarried with the race of Tingvold. A girl was growing up therewhom Endrid had been fond of since she was a little child; no doubt hehad quietly set his heart on her, for only six months after herconfirmation he spoke. She was seventeen then and he thirty-one.Randi, that was the girl's name, did not know at first what to answer;she consulted her parents, but they said she must decide for herself.He was a good man, and from a worldly point of view she could not makea better match, but the difference in their ages was great, and shemust know herself if she had the courage to undertake the new dutiesand cares that would come upon her as mistress of the large farm. Thegirl felt that her parents would rather have her say Yes than No, butshe was really afraid. She went to his mother, whom she had alwaysliked, and found to her surprise that she knew nothing. But the motherwas so delighted with the idea that with all her might she urged Randito accept him. "I'll help you," she said. "Father will want noallowance from the farm. He has all he needs, and he doesn't wish hischildren to be longing for his death. Things will be divided at once,and the little that we keep to live on will be divided too when we aregone. So you see there will be no trouble with us." Yes, Randi knewall along that Knut and Astrid were kind and nice. "And the boy," saidAstrid, "is good and thoughtful about everything." Yes, Randi hadfelt that too; she was not afraid but that she would get on withhim--if she were only capable enough herself!
A few days later everything was settled. Endrid was happy, and so werehis parents; for this was a much respected family that he was marryinginto, and the girl was both nice-looking and clever; there was not abetter match for him in the district. The parents on both sidesconsulted together, and settled that the wedding should be just beforeharvest, as there was nothing to wait for.
The neighbourhood generally did not look on the engagement in the samelight as the parties concerned. It was said that the pretty young girlhad "sold herself." She was so young that she hardly knew whatmarriage was, and the sly Knut had pushed forward his son before anyother lovers had the chance. Something of this came to Randi's ears,but Endrid was so loving to her, and in such a quiet, almost humbleway, that she would not break off with him; only it made her a littlecool. Both his and her parents heard what was said, but took nonotice.
Perhaps just because of this talk they determined to hold the weddingin great style, and this, for the same reason, was not unacceptable toRandi. Knut's friends, the Pastor, the Captain, and the Bailiff, withtheir large families, were to be among the guests, and some of themwere to accompany the pair to church. On their account Knut wanted todispense with the fiddlers--it was too old-fashioned and peasant-like.But Astrid insisted that they must be played to church and home againwith the Bridal March of her race. It had made her and her husband sohappy; they could not but wish to hear it again on their dearchildren's great festival day. There was not much sentiment aboutKnut; but he let his wife have her way. The bride's parents got a hintthat they might engage the fiddlers, who were asked to play the oldMarch, the family Bridal March, that had lain quiet now for a time,because this generation had worked without song.
But alas! on the wedding day the rain poured hard. The players had towrap up their fiddles as soon as they had played the bridal party awayfrom the farm, and they did not take them out again till they camewithin sound of the church-bells. Then a boy had to stand up at theback of the cart and hold an umbrella over them, and below it they sathuddled together and sawed away. The March did not sound like itselfin such weather, naturally enough, nor was it a very merry-lookingbridal procession that followed. The bridegroom sat with the highbridegroom's hat between his legs and a sou'-wester on his head; hehad on a great fur coat, and he held an umbrella over the bride, who,with one shawl on the top of another, to protect the bridal crown andthe rest of her finery, looked more like a wet hayrick than a humanbeing. On they came, carriage after carriage, the men dripping, thewomen hidden away under their wrappings. It looked like a sort ofbewitched procession, in which one could not recognise a single face;for there was not a face to be seen, nothing but huddled-up heaps ofwool or fur. A laugh broke out among the specially large crowdgathered at the church on account of the great wedding. At first itwas stifled, but it grew louder with each carriage that drove up. Atthe large house where the procession was to alight and the dresseswere to be arranged a little for going into church, a hay-cart hadbeen drawn out of the way, into the corner formed by the porch.Mounted on it stood a pedlar, a joking fellow, Aslak by name. Just asthe bride was lifted down he called: "Devil take me if Ole Haugen'sBridal March is any good to-day!"
He said no more, but that was plenty. The crowd laughed, and thoughmany of them tried not to let it be seen that they were laughing, itwas clearly felt what all were thinking and trying to hide.
When they took off the bride's shawls they saw that she was as whiteas a sheet. She began to cry, tried to laugh, cried again--and thenall at once the feeling came over her that she could not go into thechurch. Amidst great excitement she was laid on a bed in a quiet room,for such a violent fit of crying had seized her that they were muchalarmed. Her good parents stood beside the bed, and when she beggedthem to let her go back, they said that she might do just as sheliked. Then her eyes fell on Endrid. Any one so utterly miserable andhelpless she had never seen before; and beside him stood his mother,silent and motionless, with the tears running down her face and hereyes fixed on Randi's. Then Randi raised herself on her elbow andlooked straight in front of her for a little, still sobbing after thefit of crying. "No, no,!" she said, "I'm going to church." Once moreshe lay back and cried for a little, and then she got up. She saidthat she would have no more music, so the fiddlers were dismissed--andthe story did not lose in their telling when they got among the crowd.
It was a mournful bridal procession that now moved on towards thechurch. The rain allowed of the bride and bridegroom hiding theirfaces from the curiosity of the onlookers till they got inside; butthey felt that they were running the gauntlet, and they felt too thattheir own friends were annoyed at being laughed at as part of such afoolish procession.
The grave of the famous fiddler, Ole Haugen, lay close by thechurch-door. Without saying much about it, the family had alwaystended it, and a new head-board had been put up when the old one hadrotted away below. The upper part of it was in the shape of a wheel,as Ole himself had desired. The grave was in a sunny spot, and wasthickly overgrown with wild flowers. Every churchgoer that had everstood by it had heard from some one or other how a botanist ingovernment pay, making a collection of the plants and flowers of thevalley and the mountains round about, had found flowers on that gravethat did not grow anywhere else in the neighbourhood. And thepeasants, who as a rule cared little about what they called "weeds,"took pride in these particular ones--a pride mixed with curiosity andeven awe. Some of the flowers were remarkably beautiful. But as thebridal pair passed the grave, Endrid, who was holding Randi's hand,felt that she shivered; immediately she began to cry again, walkedcrying into the church, and was led crying to her place. No bridewithin the memory of man had made such an entrance into that church.
She felt as she sat there that all this was helping to confirm thereport that she had been sold. The thought of the shame she wasbringing on her parents made her turn cold, and for a little she wasable to stop crying. But at the altar she was moved again by some wordof the priest's, and immediately the thought of all she had gonethrough that day came over her; and for the moment she had the feelingthat never, no, never again, could she look people in the face, andleast of all her own father and mother.
Things got no better as the day went on. She was not able to sit withthe guests at the dinner-table; in the evening she was half coaxed,half forced to appear at supper, but she spoiled every one's pleasure,and had to be taken away to bed. The wedding festivities, that were tohave gone on for several days, ended that evening. It was given outthat the bride was ill.
Though neither those who said this nor those who heard it believed it,it was only too true. She was really ill, and she did not soonrecover. One consequence of this was that their first child wassickly. The parents were not the less devoted to it from understandingthat they themselves were to a certain extent the cause of itssuffering. They never left that child. They never went to church, forthey had got shy of people. For two years God gave them the joy of thechild, and then He took it from them.
The first thought that struck them after this blow was that they hadbeen too fond of their child. That was why they had lost it. So, whenanother came, it seemed as if neither of them dared to show their lovefor it. But this little one, though it too was sickly at first, grewstronger, and was so sweet and bright that they could not restraintheir feelings. A new, pure happiness had come to them; they couldalmost forget all that had happened. When this child was two yearsold, God took it too.
Some people seem to be chosen out by sorrow. They are the very peoplethat seem to us to need it least, but at the same time they are thosethat are best fitted to bear trials and yet to keep their faith. Thesetwo had early sought God together; after this they lived as it were inHis presence. The life at Tingvold had long been a quiet one; now thehouse was like a church before the priest comes in. The work went onperfectly steadily, but at intervals during the day Endrid and Randiworshipped together, communing with those "on the other side." It madeno change in their habits that Randi, soon after their last loss, hada little daughter. The children that were dead were boys, and thismade them not care so much for a girl. Besides they did not know ifthey were to be allowed to keep her. But the health and happinessthat the mother had enjoyed up to the time of the death of the lastlittle boy, had benefited this child, who soon showed herself to be abright little girl, with her mother's pretty face. The two lonelypeople again felt the temptation to be hopeful and happy in theirchild; but the fateful two years were not over, and they dared not. Asthe time drew near, they felt as if they had only been allowed arespite.
Knut and Astrid kept a good deal to themselves. The way in which theyoung people had taken things did not allow of much sympathy orconsolation being offered them. Besides, Knut was too lively andworldly-minded to sit long in a house of mourning or to be alwayscoming in upon a prayer meeting. He moved to a small farm that he hadbought and let, but now took back into his own hands. There hearranged everything so comfortably and nicely for his dear Astrid,that people whose intention it was to go to Tingvold, rather stayedand laughed with him than went on to cry with his children.
One day when Astrid was in her daughter-in-law's house, she noticedhow little Mildrid went about quite alone; it seemed as if her motherhardly dared to touch her. When the father came in, she saw the samemournful sort of reserve towards his own, only child. She concealedher thoughts, but when she got home to her own dear Knut, she told himhow things stood at Tingvold, and added: "Our place is there now.Little Mildrid needs some one that dares to love her; pretty, sweetlittle child that she is!" Knut was infected by her eagerness, and thetwo old people packed up and went home.
Mildrid was now much with her grandparents, and they taught herparents to love her. When she was five years old her mother hadanother daughter, who was called Beret; and after this Mildrid livedalmost altogether with the old people. The anxious parents began oncemore to feel as if there might yet be pleasure for them in life, and achange in the popular feeling towards them helped them.
After the loss of the second child, though there were often thetraces of tears on their faces, no one had ever seen them weep--theirgrief was silent. There was no changing of servants at Tingvold, thatwas one result of the peaceful, God-fearing life there; nothing butpraise of master and mistress was ever heard. They themselves knewthis, and it gave them a feeling of comfort and security. Relationsand friends began to visit them again; and went on doing so, eventhough the Tingvold people made no return.
But they had not been at church since their wedding-day! They partookof the Communion at home, and held worship there. But when the secondgirl was born, they were so desirous to be her godparents themselvesthat they made up their minds to venture. They stood together at theirchildren's graves; they passed Ole Haugen's without word or movement;the whole congregation showed them respect. But they continued to keepthemselves very much to themselves, and a pious peace rested overtheir house.
One day in her grandmother's house little Mildrid was heard singingthe Bridal March. Old Astrid stopped her work in a fright, and askedher where in the world she had learned that. The child answered: "Fromyou, grandmother." Knut, who was sitting in the house, laughedheartily, for he knew that Astrid had a habit of humming it when shesat at work. But they both said to little Mildrid that she must neversing it when her parents were within hearing. Like a child, she asked"Why?" But to this question she got no answer. One evening she heardthe new herd-boy singing it as he was cutting wood. She told hergrandmother, who had heard it too. All grandmother said was: "He'llnot grow old here!"--and sure enough he had to go next day. No reasonwas given; he got his wages and was sent about his business. Mildridwas so excited about this, that grandmother had to try to tell her thestory of the Bridal March. The little eight year old girl understoodit well enough, and what she did not understand then became clear toher later. It had an influence on her child-life, and especially onher conduct towards her parents, that nothing else had or could havehad.
She had always noticed that they liked quietness. It was no hardshipto her to please them in this; they were so gentle, and talked so muchand so sweetly to her of the children's great Friend in heaven, thatit cast a sort of charm over the whole house. The story of the BridalMarch affected her deeply, and gave her an understanding of all thatthey had gone through. She carefully avoided recalling to them anypainful memories, and showed them the tenderest affection, sharingwith them their love of God, their truthfulness, their quietness,their industry. And she taught Beret to do the same.
In their grandfather's house the life that had to be suppressed athome got leave to expand. Here there was singing and dancing and playand story-telling. So the sisters' young days passed between devotionto their melancholy parents in the quiet house, and the glad life theywere allowed to take part in at their grandfather's. The familieslived in perfect understanding. It was the parents who told them to goto the old people and enjoy themselves, and the old people who toldthem to go back again, "and be sure to be good girls."
When a girl between the age of twelve and sixteen takes a sisterbetween seven and eleven into her full confidence, the confidence isrewarded by great devotion. But the little one is apt to become tooold for her years. This happened with Beret, while Mildrid only gainedby being forbearing and kind and sympathetic--and she made her parentsand grandparents happy.
There is no more to tell till Mildrid was in her fifteenth year; thenold Knut died, suddenly and easily. There seemed almost no timebetween the day when he sat joking in the chimney-corner and the daywhen he lay in his coffin.
After this, grandmother's greatest pleasure was to have Mildridsitting on a stool at her feet, as she had done ever since she was alittle child, and to tell her stories about Knut, or else to get herto hum the Bridal March. As Astrid sat listening to it, she saw Knut'shandsome dark head as she used to see it in her young days; shefollowed him out to the mountain-side, where he blew the March on hisherd-boy's horn, she drove to church by his side--all his brightnessand cleverness lived again for her!
But in Mildrid's soul a new feeling began to stir. Whilst she sat andsang for grandmother, she asked herself: "Will it ever be played forme?" The thought grew upon her, the March spoke to her of such radianthappiness. She saw a bride's crown glittering in its sunshine, and along, bright future beyond that. Sixteen--and she asked herself:"Shall I, shall I ever have some one sitting beside me, with theBridal March shining in his eyes? Only think, if father and motherwere one day to drive with me in such a procession, with the peoplegreeting us on every side, on to the house where mother was jeered atthat day, past Ole Haugen's flower-covered grave, up to the altar, ina glory of happiness! Think what it would be if I could give fatherand mother that consolation!" And the child's heart swelled, imaginingall this to herself, swelled with pride and with devotion to thosedear parents who had suffered so much.
These were the first thoughts that she did not confide to Beret. Soonthere were more. Beret, who was now eleven, noticed that she was leftmore to herself, but did not understand that she was being graduallyshut out from Mildrid's confidence, till she saw another taken intoher place. This was Inga, from the neighbouring farm, a girl ofeighteen, their own cousin, newly betrothed. When Mildrid and Ingawalked about in the fields, whispering and laughing, with their armsround each other, as girls love to go, poor Beret would throw herselfdown and cry with jealousy.
The time came on for Mildrid to be confirmed; she made acquaintancewith other young people of her own age, and some of them began to comeup to Tingvold on Sundays. Mildrid saw them either out of doors or inher grandmother's room. Tingvold had always been a forbidden, andconsequently mysteriously attractive place to the young people. Buteven now, only those with a certain quietness and seriousness ofdisposition went there, for it could not be denied that there wassomething subdued about Mildrid, that did not attract every one.
At this particular time there was a great deal of music and singingamong the youth of the district. For some reason or other there aresuch periods, and these periods have their leaders. One of the leadersnow was, curiously enough, again of the race of Haugen.
Amongst a people where once on a time, even though it were hundreds ofyears ago, almost every man and woman sought and found expression fortheir intensest feelings and experiences in song, and were ablethemselves to make the verses that gave them relief--amongst such apeople the art can never quite die out. Here and there, even though itdoes not make itself heard, it must exist, ready on occasion to beawakened to new life. But in this district songs had been made andsung from time immemorial. It was by no mere chance that Ole Haugenwas born here, and here became what he was. Now it was his grandson inwhom the gift had reappeared.
Ole's son had been so much younger than the daughter who had marriedinto the Tingvold family, that the latter, already a married woman,had stood godmother to her little brother. After a life full ofchanges, this son, as an old man, had come into possession of hisfather's home and little bit of land far up on the mountain-side; and,strangely enough, not till then did he marry. He had several children,among them a boy called Hans, who seemed to have inherited hisgrandfather's gifts--not exactly in the way of fiddle-playing, thoughhe did play--but he sang the old songs beautifully and made new oneshimself. People's appreciation of his songs was not a little added toby the fact that so few knew himself; there were not many that hadeven seen him. His old father had been a hunter, and while the boyswere quite small, the old man took them out to the hillside and taughtthem to load and aim a gun. They always remembered how pleased he waswhen they were able to earn enough with their shooting to pay fortheir own powder and shot. He did not live long after this, and soonafter his death their mother died too, and the children were left totake care of themselves, which they managed to do. The boys hunted andthe girls looked after the little hill farm. People turned to look atthem when they once in a way showed themselves in the valley; theywere so seldom there. It was a long, bad road down. In winter theyoccasionally came to sell or send off the produce of their hunting; insummer they were busy with the strangers. Their little holding was thehighest lying in the district, and it became famed for having thatpure mountain air which cures people suffering from their lungs ornerves, better than any yet discovered medicine; every year they hadas many summer visitors, from town, and even from abroad, as theycould accommodate. They added several rooms to their house, and stillit was always full. So these brothers and sisters, from being poor,very poor, came to be quite well-to-do. Intercourse with so manystrangers had made them a little different from the other countrypeople--they even knew something of foreign languages. Hans was nowtwenty-seven. Some years before he had bought up his brothers' andsisters' shares, so that the whole place belonged to him.
Not one of the family had ever set foot in the house of theirrelations at Tingvold. Endrid and Randi Tingvold, though they haddoubtless never put the feeling into words, could just as little bearto hear the name of Haugen as to hear the Bridal March. Thesechildren's poor father had been made to feel this, and in consequence,Hans had forbidden his brothers and sisters ever to go to the house.But the girls at Tingvold, who loved music, longed to makeacquaintance with Hans, and when they and their girl friends weretogether, they talked more about the family at Haugen than aboutanything else. Hans's songs and tunes were sung and danced to, andthey were for ever planning how they could manage to meet the youngfarmer of Haugen.
After this happy time of young companionship came Mildrid'sconfirmation. Just before it there was a quiet pause, and after itcame another. Mildrid, now about seventeen, spent the autumn almostalone with her parents. In spring, or rather summer, she was, like allthe other girls after their confirmation, to go to the soeter incharge of cattle. She was delighted at the thought of this, especiallyas her friend Inga was to be at the next soeter.
At last her longing for the time to come grew so strong that she hadno peace at home, and Beret, who was to accompany her, grew restlesstoo. When they got settled in the soeter Beret was quite absorbed inthe new, strange life, but Mildrid was still restless. She had herbusy times with the cattle and the milk, but there were long idlehours that she did not know how to dispose of. Some days she spentthem with Inga, listening to her stories of her lover, but often shehad no inclination to go there. She was glad when Inga came to her,and affectionate, as if she wanted to make up for her faithlessness.She seldom talked to Beret, and often when Beret talked to her,answered nothing but Yes or No. When Inga came, Beret took herselfoff, and when Mildrid went to see Inga, Beret went crying away afterthe cows, and had the herd-boys for company. Mildrid felt that therewas something wrong in all this, but with the best will she could notset it right.
She was sitting one day near the soeter, herding the goats andsheep, because one of the herd-boys had played truant and she had todo his work. It was a warm midday; she was sitting in the shade of ahillock overgrown with birch and underwood; she had thrown off herjacket and taken her knitting in her hand, and was expecting Inga.Something rustled behind her. "There she comes," thought Mildrid, andlooked up.
But there was more noise than Inga was likely to make, and such abreaking and cracking among the bushes. Mildrid turned pale, got up,and saw something hairy and a pair of eyes below it--it must be abear's head! She wanted to scream, but no voice would come; she wantedto run, but could not stir. The thing raised itself up--it was a tall,broad-shouldered man with a fur cap, a gun in his hand. He stoppedshort among the bushes and looked at her sharply for a second or two,then took a step forward, a jump, and stood in the field beside her.Something moved at her feet, and she gave a little cry; it was hisdog, that she had not seen before.
"Oh, dear!" she said; "I thought it was a bear breaking through thebushes, and I got such a fright!" And she tried to laugh.
"Well, it might almost have been that," said he, speaking in a veryquiet voice; "Kvas and I were on the track of a bear; but now we havelost it; and if I have a 'Vardoeger,' it is certainly a bear."
He smiled. She looked at him. Who can he be? Tall, broad-shouldered,wiry; his eyes restless, so that she could not see them rightly;besides, she was standing quite close to him, just where he hadsuddenly appeared before her with his dog and his gun.
She felt the inclination to say, "Go away!" but instead she drew backa few steps, and asked: "Who are you?" She was really frightened.
"Hans Haugen," answered the man rather absently; for he was payingattention to the dog, which seemed to have found the track of the bearagain. He was just going to add, "Good-bye!" but when he looked at hershe was blushing; cheeks, neck, and bosom crimson.
"What's the matter?" said he, astonished.
She did not know what to do or where to go, whether to run away or tosit down.
"Who are you?" asked Hans in his turn.
Once again she turned crimson, for to tell him her name was to tellhim everything.
"Who are you?" he repeated, as if it were the most natural question inthe world, and deserved an answer.
And she could not refuse the answer, though she felt ashamed ofherself, and ashamed of her parents, who had neglected their ownkindred. The name had to be said. "Mildrid Tingvold," she whispered,and burst into tears.
It was true enough; the Tingvold people had given him little reason tocare for them. Of his own free will he would scarcely have spoken toone of them. But he had never foreseen anything like this, and helooked at the girl in amazement. He seemed to remember some story ofher mother having cried like that in church on her wedding-day."Perhaps it's in the family," he thought, and turned to go. "Forgiveme for having frightened you," he said, and took his way up thehillside after his dog.
By the time she ventured to look up he had just reached the top of theridge, and there he turned to look at her. It was only for an instant,for at that moment the dog barked on the other side. Hans gave astart, held his gun in readiness, and hurried on. Mildrid was stillgazing at the place where he had stood, when a shot startled her.Could that be the bear? Could it have been so near her?
Off she went, climbing where he had just climbed, till she stood wherehe had stood, shading her eyes with her hand, and--sure enough, therehe was, half hidden by a bush, on his knees beside a huge bear! Beforeshe knew what she was doing, she was down beside him. He gave her asmile of welcome, and explained to her, in his low voice, how it hadhappened that they had lost the track and the dog had not scented theanimal till they were almost upon it. By this time she had forgottenher tears and her bashfulness, and he had drawn his knife to skin thebear on the spot. The flesh was of no value at this time; he meant tobury the carcass and take only the skin. So she held, and he skinned;then she ran down to the soeter for an axe and a spade; and althoughshe still felt afraid of the bear, and it had a bad smell, she kept onhelping him till all was finished. By this time it was long pasttwelve o'clock, and he invited himself to dinner at the soeter. Hewashed himself and the skin, no small piece of work, and then came inand sat beside her while she finished preparing the food.
He chatted about one thing and another, easily and pleasantly, in thelow voice that seems to become natural to people who are much alone.Mildrid gave the shortest answers possible, and when it came tositting opposite him at the table, she could neither speak nor eat,and there was often silence between them. When she had finished heturned round his chair and filled and lit his pipe. He too was quieternow, and presently he got up. "I must be going," he said, holding outhis hand, "it's a long way home from here." Then added, in a stilllower voice: "Do you sit every day where you were to-day?" He held herhand for a moment, expecting an answer; but she dared not look up,much less speak. Then she felt him press her hand quickly. "Good-bye,then, and thank you!" he said in a louder tone, and before she couldcollect herself, she saw him, with the bearskin over his shoulder, thegun in his hand, and the dog at his side, striding away over theheather. There was a dip in the hills just there, and she saw himclear against the sky; his light, firm step taking him quickly away.She watched till he was out of sight, then came outside and sat down,still looking in the same direction.
Not till now was she aware that her heart was beating so violentlythat she had to press her hands over it. In a minute or two she laydown on the grass, leaning her head on her arm, and began to gocarefully over every event of the day. She saw him start up among thebushes and stand before her, strong and active, looking restlesslyround. She felt over again the bewilderment and the fright, and hertears of shame. She saw him against the sun, on the height; she heardthe shot, and was again on her knees before him, helping him with theskinning of the bear. She heard once more every word that he said, inthat low voice that sounded so friendly, and that touched her heart asshe thought of it; she listened to it as he sat beside the hearthwhile she was cooking, and then at table with her. She felt that shehad no longer dared to look into his face, so that at last she hadmade him feel awkward too; for he had grown silent. Then she heard himspeak once again, as he took her hand; and she felt his clasp--felt itstill, through her whole body. She saw him go away over theheather--away, away!
Would he ever come back? Impossible, after the way she had behaved.How strong, and brave, and self-reliant was everything she had seen ofhim, and how stupid and miserable all that he had seen of her, fromher first scream of fright when the dog touched her, to her blush ofshame and her tears; from the clumsy help she gave him, to herslowness in preparing the food. And to think that when he looked ather she was not able to speak; not even to say No, when he asked herif she sat under the hill every day--for she didn't sit there everyday! Might not her silence then have seemed like an invitation to himto come and see? Might not her whole miserable helplessness have beenmisunderstood in the same way? What shame she felt now! She was hotall over with it, and she buried her burning face deeper and deeper inthe grass. Then she called up the whole picture once more; all hisexcellences and her shortcomings; and again the shame of it alloverwhelmed her.
She was still lying there when the sound of the bells told her thatthe cattle were coming home; then she jumped up and began to work.Beret saw as soon as she came that something had happened. Mildridasked such stupid questions and gave such absurd answers, andaltogether behaved in such an extraordinary way, that she severaltimes just stopped and stared at her. When it came to supper-time, andMildrid, instead of taking her place at the table, went and sat downoutside, saying that she had just had dinner, Beret was as intenselyon the alert as a dog who scents game at hand. She took her supper andwent to bed. The sisters slept in the same bed, and, as Mildrid didnot come, Beret got up softly once or twice to look if her sister werestill sitting out there, and if she were alone. Yes, she was there,and alone.
Eleven o'clock, and then twelve, and then one, and still Mildrid satand Beret waked. She pretended to be asleep when Mildrid came at last,and Mildrid moved softly, so softly; but her sister heard her sobbing,and when she had got into bed she heard her say her usual eveningprayer so sadly, heard her whisper: "O God, help me, help me!" It madeBeret so unhappy that she could not get to sleep even now. She felther sister restlessly changing from one position to another; she sawher at last giving it up, throwing aside the covering, and lyingopen-eyed, with her hands below her head, staring into vacancy. Shesaw and heard no more, for at last she fell asleep.
When she awoke next morning Mildrid's place was empty. Beret jumpedup; the sun was high in the sky; the cattle were away long ago. Shefound her breakfast set ready, took it hurriedly, and went out and sawMildrid at work, but looking ill. Beret said that she was going tohurry after the cattle. Mildrid said nothing in answer, but gave her aglance as though of thanks. The younger girl stood a minute thinking,and then went off.
Mildrid looked round; yes, she was alone. She hastily put away thedishes, leaving everything else as it was. Then she washed herself andchanged her dress, took her knitting, and set off up the hill.
She had not the new strength of the new day, for she had hardly sleptor eaten anything for twenty-four hours. She walked in a dream, andknew nothing clearly till she was at the place where she had satyesterday.
Hardly had she seated herself when she thought: "If he were to comeand find me here, he would believe--" She started up mechanically.There was his dog on the hillside. It stood still and looked at her,then rushed down to her, wagging its tail. Her heart stopped beating.There--there he stood, with his gun gleaming in the sun, just as hehad stood yesterday. To-day he had come another way. He smiled to her,ran down, and stood before her. She had given a little scream and sunkdown on the grass again. It was more than she could do to stand up;she let her knitting drop, and put her hands up to her face. He didnot say a word. He lay down on the grass in front of her, and lookedup at her, the dog at his side with its eyes fixed on him. She feltthat though she was turning her head away, he could see her hot blush,her eyes, her whole face. She heard him breathing quickly; she thoughtshe felt his breath on her hand. She did not want him to speak, andyet his silence was dreadful. She knew that he must understand why shewas sitting there; and greater shame than this no one had ever felt.But it was not right of him, either, to have come, and still worse ofhim to be lying there.
Then she felt him take one of her hands and hold it tight, then theother, so that she had to turn a little that way; he drew her gently,but strongly and firmly towards him with eye and hand, till she was athis side, her head fallen on his shoulder. She felt him stroke herhair with one hand, but she dared not look up. Presently she brokeinto passionate weeping at the thought of her shameful behaviour.
"Yes, you may cry," said he, "but I will laugh; what has happened tous two is matter both for laughter and for tears."
His voice shook. And now he bent over her and whispered that thefarther away he went from her yesterday the nearer he seemed to be toher. The feeling overmastered him so, that when he reached his littleshooting cabin, where he had a German officer with him this summer,recruiting after the war, he left the guest to take care of himself,and wandered farther up the mountain. He spent the night on theheights, sometimes sitting, sometimes wandering about. He went home tobreakfast, but away again immediately. He was twenty-eight now, nolonger a boy, and he felt that either this girl must be his or itwould go badly with him. He wandered to the place where they had metyesterday; he did not expect that she would be there again; but whenhe saw her, he felt that he must make the venture; and when he came tosee that she was feeling just as he was--"Why, then"--and he raisedher head gently. And she had stopped crying, and his eyes shone sothat she had to look into them, and then she turned red and put herhead down again.
He went on talking in his low, half-whispering voice. The sun shonethrough the tree-tops, the birches trembled in the breeze, the birdsmingled their song with the sound of a little stream rippling over itsstony bed.
How long the two sat there together, neither of them knew. At lastthe dog startled them. He had made several excursions, and each timehad come back and lain down beside them again; but now he ran barkingdown the hill. They both jumped up and stood for a minute listening.But nothing appeared. Then they looked at each other again, and Hanslifted her up in his arms. She had not been lifted like this since shewas a child, and there was something about it that made her feelhelpless. When he looked up beaming into her face, she bent and puther arms round his neck--he was now her strength, her future, herhappiness, her life itself--she resisted no longer.
Nothing was said. He held her tight; she clung to him. He carried herto the place where she had sat at first, and sat down there with heron his knee. She did not unloose her arms, she only bent her headclose down to his so as to hide her face from him. He was just goingto force her to let him look into it, when some one right in front ofthem called in a voice of astonishment: "Mildrid!"
It was Inga, who had come up after the dog. Mildrid sprang to herfeet, looked at her friend for an instant, then went up to her, putone arm round her neck, and laid her head on her shoulder. Inga puther arm round Mildrid's waist. "Who is he?" she whispered, and Mildridfelt her tremble, but said nothing. Inga knew who he was--knew himquite well--but could not believe her own eyes. Then Hans came slowlyforward, "I thought you knew me," he said quietly; "I am Hans Haugen."When she heard his voice, Mildrid lifted her head. How good and truehe looked as he stood there! He held out his hand; she went forwardand took it, and looked at her friend with a flush of mingled shameand joy.
Then Hans took his gun and said good-bye, whispering to Mildrid: "Youmay be sure I'll come soon again!"
The girls walked with him as far as the soeter, and watched him, asMildrid had done yesterday, striding away over the heather in thesunlight. They stood as long as they could see him; Mildrid, who wasleaning on Inga, would not let her go; Inga felt that she did not wanther to move or speak. From time to time one or the other whispered:"He's looking back!" When he was out of sight Mildrid turned round toInga and said: "Don't ask me anything. I can't tell you about it!" Sheheld her tight for a second, and then they walked towards thesoeter-house. Mildrid remembered now how she had left all her workundone. Inga helped her with it. They spoke very little, and onlyabout the work. Just once Mildrid stopped, and whispered: "Isn't hehandsome?"
She set out some dinner, but could eat little herself, though she feltthe need both of food and sleep. Inga left as soon as she could, forshe saw that Mildrid would rather be alone. Then Mildrid lay down onher bed. She was lying, half asleep already, thinking over the eventsof the morning, and trying to remember the nicest things that Hanshad said, when it suddenly occurred to her to ask herself what she hadanswered. Then it flashed upon her that during their whole meeting shehad not spoken, not said a single word!
She sat up in bed and said to herself: "He could not have gone fartill this must have struck him too--and what can he have thought? Hemust take me for a creature without a will, going about in a dream.How can he go on caring for me? Yesterday it was not till he had goneaway from me that he found out he cared for me at all--what will hefind out to-day?" she asked herself with a shiver of dread. She gotup, went out, and sat down where she had sat so long yesterday.
All her life Mildrid had been accustomed to take herself to accountfor her behaviour; circumstances had obliged her to walk carefully.Now, thinking over what had happened these last two days, it struckher forcibly that she had behaved without tact, without thought,almost without modesty. She had never read or heard about anythinghappening like this; she looked at it from the peasant's point ofview, and none take these matters more strictly than they. It isseemly to control one's feelings--it is honourable to be slow to showthem. She, who had done this all her life, and consequently beenrespected by every one, had in one day given herself to a man she hadnever seen before! Why, he himself must be the first to despise her!It showed how bad things were, that she dared not tell what hadhappened, not even to Inga!
With the first sound of the cow-bells in the distance came Beret, tofind her sister sitting on the bench in front of the soeter-house,looking half dead. Beret stood in front of her till she was forced toraise her head and look at her. Mildrid's eyes were red with crying,and her whole expression was one of suffering. But it changed tosurprise when she saw Beret's face, which was scarlet with excitement.
"Whatever is the matter with you?" she exclaimed.
"Nothing!" answered Beret, standing staring fixedly at Mildrid, whoat last looked away, and got up to go and attend to the cows.
The sisters did not meet again till supper, when they sat opposite toeach other. Mildrid was not able to eat more then a few mouthfuls. Shesat and looked absently at the others, oftenest at Beret, who ate onsteadily, gulping down her food like a hungry dog.
"Have you had nothing to eat to-day?" asked Mildrid.
"No!" answered Beret, and ate on. Presently Mildrid spoke again: "Haveyou not been with the herds then?"
"No!" answered her sister and both of the boys. Before them Mildridwould not ask more, and afterwards her own morbid reflections tookpossession of her again, and along with them the feeling that she wasno fit person to be in charge of Beret. This was one more added to thereproaches she made to herself all that long summer evening and farinto the night.
There she sat, on the bench by the door, till the blood-red cloudschanged gradually to cold grey, no peace and no desire for sleepcoming to her. The poor child had never before been in real distress.Oh, how she prayed! She stopped and she began again; she repeatedprayers that she had learned, and she made up petitions of her own. Atlast, utterly exhausted, she went to bed.
There she tried once more to collect her thoughts for a final strugglewith the terrible question, Should she give him up or not? But she hadno strength left; she could only say over and over again: "Help me, OGod! help me!" She went on like this for a long time, sometimes sayingit in to herself, sometimes out loud. All at once she got such afright that she gave a loud scream. Beret was kneeling up in bedlooking at her; her sparkling eyes, hot face, and short breathingshowing a terrible state of excitement.
"Who is he?" she whispered, almost threateningly. Mildrid, crushed byher self-torture, and worn out in soul and body, could not answer;she began to cry.
"Who is he?" repeated the other, closer to her face; "you needn't tryto hide it any longer; I was watching you to-day the whole time!"
Mildrid held up her arms as if to defend herself, but Beret beat themback, looked straight into her eyes, and again repeated, "Who is he, Isay?"
"Beret, Beret!" moaned Mildrid; "have I ever been anything but kind toyou since you were a little child. Why are you so cruel to me now thatI am in trouble?"
Then Beret, moved by her tears, let go her arms; but her short hardbreathing still betrayed her excitement. "Is it Hans Haugen?" shewhispered.
There was a moment of breathless suspense, and then Mildrid whisperedback: "Yes"--and began to cry again.
Beret drew down her arms once more; she wanted to see her face. "Whydid you not tell me about it, Mildrid?" she asked, with the samefierce eagerness.
"Beret, I didn't know it myself. I never saw him till yesterday. Andas soon as I saw him I loved him, and let him see it, and that is whatis making me so unhappy, so unhappy that I feel as if I must die ofit!"
"You never saw him before yesterday?" screamed Beret, so astonishedthat she could hardly believe it.
"Never in my life!" replied Mildrid. "Isn't it shameful, Beret?"
But Beret threw her arms round her sister's neck, and kissed her overand over again.
"Dear, sweet Mildrid, I'm so glad!" she whispered, now radiant withjoy. "I'm so glad, so glad!" and she kissed her once more. "And you'llsee how I can keep a secret, Mildrid!" She hugged her to her breast,but sat up again, and said sorrowfully: "And you thought I couldn't doit; O Mildrid! not even when it was about you!"
And now it was Beret's turn to cry. "Why have you put me away? Whyhave you taken Inga instead of me? You've made me so dreadfullyunhappy, Mildrid! O Mildrid, you don't know how I love you!" and sheclung to her. Then Mildrid kissed her, and told her that she had doneit without thinking what she was doing, but that now she would neveragain put her aside, and would tell her everything, because she was sogood and true and faithful.
The sisters lay for a little with their arms round each other; thenBeret sat up again; she wanted to look into her sister's face in thelight of the summer night, that was gradually taking a tinge of redfrom the coming dawn. Then she burst out with: "Mildrid, how handsomehe is! How did he come? How did you see him first? What did he say? Dotell me about it!"
And Mildrid now poured out to her sister all that a few hours ago ithad seemed to her she could never tell to anybody. She was sometimesinterrupted by Beret's throwing her arms round her and hugging her,but she went on again with all the more pleasure. It seemed to herlike a strange legend of the woods. They laughed and they cried. Sleephad gone from them both. The sun found them still entranced by thiswonderful tale--Mildrid lying down or resting on one elbow andtalking, Beret kneeling beside her, her mouth half open, her eyessparkling, from time to time giving a little cry of delight.
They got up together and did their work together, and when they hadfinished, and for the sake of appearances taken a little breakfast,they prepared for the meeting with Hans. He was sure to come soon!They dressed themselves out in their best, and went up to Mildrid'splace on the hill. Beret showed where she had lain hidden yesterday.The dog had found her out, she said, and paid her several visits. Theweather was fine to-day too, though there were some clouds in the sky.The girls found plenty to say to each other, till it was about thetime when Hans might be expected. Beret ran once or twice up to thetop of the hill, to see if he were in sight, but there was no sign ofhim. Then they began to grow impatient, and at last Mildrid got soexcited that Beret was frightened. She tried to soothe her byreminding her that Hans was not his own master; that he had left theGerman gentleman two whole days to fish and shoot alone, and preparefood for himself; and that he would hardly dare to leave him a third.And Mildrid acknowledged that this might be so.
"What do you think father and mother will say to all this?" askedBeret, just to divert Mildrid's thoughts. She repented the moment thewords were uttered. Mildrid turned pale and stared at Beret, whostared back at her. Beret wondered if her sister had never thought ofthis till now, and said so. Yes; she had thought of it, but as ofsomething very far off. The fear of what Hans Haugen might think ofher, the shame of her own weakness and stupidity, had so occupied hermind that they had left no room for anything else. But now thingssuddenly changed round, and she could think of nothing but herparents.
Beret again tried to comfort her. Whenever father and mother sawHans, they would feel that Mildrid was right--they would never makeher unhappy who had given them their greatest happiness. Grandmotherwould help her. No one could say a word against Hans Haugen, and _he_would never give her up! Mildrid heard all this, but did not take itin, for she was thinking of something else, and to get time to thinkit out rightly, she asked Beret to go and prepare the dinner. AndBeret walked slowly away, looking back several times.
Mildrid wanted to be left alone a little to make up her mind whethershe should go at once and tell her parents. It seemed a terriblematter to her in her excited, exhausted state. She felt now that itwould be a sin if she saw Hans again without their knowledge. She haddone very wrong in engaging herself to him without having theirconsent; but she had been in a manner surprised into that; it had comeabout almost without her will. Her duty now, though, was clearly to goand tell them.
She rose to her feet, with a new light in her eyes. She would do whatwas right. Before Hans stood there again, her parents should know all."That's it!" she said, aloud, as if some one were there, and thenhurried down to the soeter to tell Beret. But Beret was nowhere tobe seen. "Beret! Beret!" shouted Mildrid, but only the echoes gaveanswer. Excited Mildrid was already, but now she got frightened too.Beret's great eyes, as she asked: "What do you think father and motherwill say to this?" seemed to grow ever greater and more threatening.Surely _she_ could never have gone off to tell them? Yet it would bejust like her hasty way to think she would settle the thing at once,and bring comfort to her sister. To be sure that was it! And if Beretreached home before her, father and mother would get a wrong idea ofeverything!
Off Mildrid went, down the road that led to the valley. She walkedunconsciously faster and faster, carried away by ever-increasingexcitement; till her head began to turn and her breathing to getoppressed. She had to sit down for a rest. Sitting did not seem tohelp her, so she stretched herself out, resting her head on her arm,and lay there, feeling forsaken, helpless, almost betrayed--byaffection it was true--but still betrayed.
In a few moments she was asleep! For two days and nights she hadhardly slept or eaten; and she had no idea of the effect this had hadon her mind and body--the child who till now had eaten and slept soregularly and peacefully in her quiet home. How was it possible thatshe could understand anything at all of what had happened to her? Allthat she had been able to give to her affectionate but melancholyparents out of her heart's rich store of love, was a kind of watchfulcare; in her grandmother's brighter home longings for something morehad often come over her, but there was nothing even there to satisfythem. So now when love's full spring burst upon her, she stood amidstits rain of blossoms frightened and ashamed.
Tormented by her innocent conscience, the poor tired child had run arace with herself till she fell--now she slept, caressed by the puremountain breeze.
Beret had not gone home, but away to fetch Hans Haugen. She had far togo, and most of the way was unknown to her. It went first by the edgeof a wood, and then higher over bare flats, not quite safe from wildanimals, which she knew had been seen there lately. But she went on,for Hans really must come. If he did not, she was sure things would gobadly with Mildrid; she seemed so changed to-day.
In spite of her anxiety about Mildrid, Beret's heart was light, andshe stepped merrily on, her thoughts running all the time on thiswonderful adventure. She could think of no one better or grander thanHans Haugen, and none but the very best was good enough for Mildrid.There was nothing whatever to be surprised at in Mildrid's givingherself up to him at once; just as little as in his at once falling inlove with her. If father and mother could not be brought tounderstand this, they must just be left to do as they chose, and thetwo must fight their own battle as her great-grandparents had done,and her grandparents too--and she began to sing the old Bridal March.Its joyful tones sounded far over the bare heights and seemed to dieaway among the clouds.
When she got right on the top of the hill she was crossing, she stoodand shouted "Hurrah!" From here she could see only the last strip ofcultivated land on the farther side of their valley; and on this sidethe upper margin of the forest, above it stretches of heather, andwhere she stood, nothing but boulders and flat rocks. She flew fromstone to stone in the light air. She knew that Hans's hut lay in thedirection of the snow mountain whose top stood out above all theothers, and presently she thought that she must be getting near it. Toget a better look around she climbed up on to an enormous stone, andfrom the top of it she saw a mountain lake just below. Whether it wasa rock or a hut she saw by the water's edge she could not be sure; oneminute it looked like a hut, the next like a big stone. But she knewthat his cabin lay by a mountain lake. Yes, that must be it, for therecame a boat rowing round the point. Two men were in the boat--theymust be Hans and the German officer. Down she jumped and off again.But what had looked so near was really far off, and she ran and ran,excited by the thought of meeting Hans Haugen.
Hans sat quietly in his boat with the German, ignorant of all thedisturbance he had caused. _He_ had never known what it was to befrightened; nor had he ever till now known the feeling of being inlove. As soon as he did feel it, it was intolerable to him until hehad settled the matter. Now it was settled, and he was sitting theresetting words to the Bridal March!
He was not much of a poet, but he made out something about their rideto church, and the refrain of every verse told of their meeting in thewood. He whistled and fished and felt very happy; and the Germanfished away quietly and left him in peace.
A halloo sounded from the shore, and both he and the bearded Germanlooked up and saw a girl waving. They exchanged a few words and rowedashore. Hans jumped out and tied up the boat, and they lifted out theguns, coats, fish, and fishing tackle; the German went away towardsthe cabin, but Hans with his load came up to Beret, who was standingon a stone a little way off.
"Who are you?" he asked gently.
"Beret, Mildrid's sister," she answered, blushing, and he blushed too.But the next moment he turned pale.
"Is there anything the matter?"
"No! just that you must come. She can't bear to be left alone justnow."
He stood a minute and looked at her, then turned and went towards thehut. The German was standing outside, hanging up his fishing tackle;Hans hung up his, and they spoke together, and then went in. Eversince Beret's halloo, two dogs, shut up in the cabin, had beenbarking with all their might. When the men opened the door they burstout, but were at once sternly called back. It was some time beforeHans came out again. He had changed his clothes, and had his gun anddog with him. The German gentleman came to the door, and they shookhands as if saying good-bye for a considerable time. Hans came upquickly to Beret.
"Can you walk fast?" he asked.
"Of course I can."
And off they went, she running, the dog far ahead.
Beret's message had entirely changed the current of Hans's thoughts.It had never occurred to him before that Mildrid might not have thesame happy, sure feeling about their engagement that he had. But nowhe saw how natural it was that she should be uneasy about her parents;and how natural, too, that she should feel alarmed by the hurried rushin which everything had come about. He understood it so well now thathe was perfectly astonished at himself for not having thought of itbefore--and on he strode.
Even on him the suddenness of the meeting with Mildrid, and theviolence of their feelings, had at first made a strange impression;what must she, a child, knowing nothing but the quiet reserve of herparents' house, have felt, thus launched suddenly on the stormy sea ofpassion!--and on he strode.
While he was marching along, lost in these reflections, Beret wastrotting at his side, always, when she could, with her face turnedtowards his. Now and then he had caught a glimpse of her big eyes andflaming cheeks; but his thoughts were like a veil over his sight; hesaw her indistinctly, and then suddenly not at all. He turned round;she was a good way behind, toiling after him as hard as she could. Shehad been too proud to say that she could not keep up with him anylonger. He stood and waited till she made up to him, breathless, withtears in her eyes. "Ah! I'm walking too fast," and he held out hishand. She was panting so that she could not answer. "Let us sit down alittle," he said, drawing her to him; "come!" and he made her sitclose to him. If possible she got redder than before, and did not lookat him; and she drew breath so painfully that it seemed as if she werealmost choking. "I'm so thirsty!" was the first thing she managed tosay. They rose and he looked round, but there was no stream near. "Wemust wait till we get a little farther on," he said; "and anyhow itwouldn't be good for you to drink just now."
So they sat down again, she on a stone in front of him.
"I ran the whole way," she said, as if to excuse herself--andpresently added, "and I have had no dinner," and after anotherpause--"and I didn't sleep last night."
Instead of expressing any sympathy with her, he asked sharply: "Then Isuppose Mildrid did not sleep last night either? And she has noteaten, I saw that myself, not for"--he thought a little--"not for everso long."
He rose. "Can you go on now?"
"I think so."
He took her hand, and they set off again at a tremendous pace. Soon hesaw that she could not keep it up, so he took off his coat, gave it toher to hold, and lifted her up and carried her. She did not want himto do it, but he just went easily off with her, and Beret held on byhis neckerchief, for she dared not touch him. Soon she said that shehad got her breath and could run quite well again, so he put her down,took his coat and hung it over his gun--and off they went! When theycame to a stream they stopped and rested a little before she took adrink. As she got up he gave her a friendly smile, and said: "You're agood little one."
Evening was coming on when they reached the soeter. They looked invain for Mildrid, both there and at her place on the hillside. Theircalls died away in the distance, and when Hans noticed the dogstanding snuffing at something they felt quite alarmed. They ran tolook--it was her little shawl. At once Hans set the dog to seek theowner of the shawl. He sprang off, and they after him, across the hilland down on the other side, towards Tingvold. Could she have gonehome? Beret told of her own thoughtless question and its consequences,and Hans said he saw it all. Beret began to cry.
"Shall we go after her or not?" said Hans.
"Yes, yes!" urged Beret, half distracted. But first they would have togo to the next soeter, and ask their neighbours to send some one toattend to the cows for them. While they were still talking about this,and at the same time following the dog, they saw him stop and lookback, wagging his tail. They ran to him, and there lay Mildrid!
She was lying with her head on her arm, her face half buried in theheather. They stepped up gently; the dog licked her hands and cheek,and she stretched herself and changed her position, but slept on. "Lether sleep!" whispered Hans; "and you go and put in the cows. I hearthe bells." As Beret was running off he went after her. "Bring somefood with you when you come back," he whispered. Then he sat down alittle way from Mildrid, made the dog lie down beside him, and sat andheld him to keep him from barking.
It was a cloudy evening. The near heights and the mountain-tops weregrey; it was very quiet; there was not even a bird to be seen. He sator lay, with his hand on the dog. He had soon settled what to arrangewith Mildrid when she awoke. There was no cloud in their future; helay quietly looking up into the sky. He knew that their meeting was amiracle. God Himself had told him that they were to go through lifetogether.
He fell to working away at the Bridal March again, and the words thatcame to him now expressed the quiet happiness of the hour.
It was about eight o'clock when Beret came back, bringing food withher. Mildrid was still sleeping. Beret set down what she was carrying,looked at them both for a minute, and then went and sat down a littleway from them. Nearly an hour passed, Beret getting up from time totime to keep herself from falling asleep. Soon after nine Mildridawoke. She turned several times, at last opened her eyes, saw whereshe was lying, sat up, and noticed the others. She was stillbewildered with sleep, so that she did not take in rightly where shewas or what she saw, till Hans rose and came smiling towards her. Thenshe held out her hands to him.
He sat down beside her:
"You've had a sleep now, Mildrid?"
"Yes, I've slept now."
"And you're hungry?"
"Yes, I'm hungry----" and Beret came forward with the food. She lookedat it and then at them. "Have I slept long?" she asked.
"Well, it's almost nine o'clock; look at the sun!"
Not till now did she begin to remember everything.
"Have you sat here long?"
"No, not very long--but you must eat!" She began to do so. "You wereon your way down to the valley?" asked Hans gently, with his headnearer hers. She blushed and whispered, "Yes."
"To-morrow, when you've really had a good sleep and rest, we'll godown together."
Her eyes looked into his, first in surprise, then as if she werethanking him, but she said nothing.
After this she seemed to revive; she asked Beret where _she_ had been,and Beret told that she had gone to fetch Hans, and he told all therest. Mildrid ate and listened, and yielded gradually once again tothe old fascination. She laughed when Hans told her how the dog hadfound her, and had licked her face without wakening her. He was atthis moment greedily watching every bite she took, and she began toshare with him.
As soon as she had finished, they went slowly towards the soeter--andBeret was soon in bed. The two sat on the bench outside the door.Small rain was beginning to fall, but the broad eaves kept them fromfeeling it. The mist closed round the soeter, and shut them in ina sort of magic circle. It was neither day nor night, but dark ratherthan light. Each softly spoken word brought more confidence into theirtalk. Now for the first time they were really speaking to each other.He asked her so humbly to forgive him for not having remembered thatshe must feel differently from him, and that she had parents who mustbe consulted. She confessed her fear, and then she told him that hewas the first real, strong, self-reliant man she had ever known, andthat this, and other things she had heard about him, had--she wouldnot go on.
But in their trembling happiness everything spoke, to the slightestbreath they drew. That wonderful intercourse began of soul with soul,which in most cases precedes and prepares for the first embrace, butwith these two came after it. The first timid questions came throughthe darkness, the first timid answers found their way back. The wordsfell softly, like spirit sounds on the night air. At last Mildrid tookcourage to ask hesitatingly if her behaviour had not sometimes struckhim as very strange. He assured her that he had never thought it so,never once. Had he not noticed that she had not said one word all thetime they were together yesterday? No, he had not noticed that. Had henot wondered at her going off down to her parents? No, he had thoughtit only right of her. Had he not thought (for a long time she wouldnot say this, but at last the words came, in a whisper, with her faceturned away), had he not thought that she had let things go tooquickly? No, he had only thought how beautifully everything hadhappened. But what had he thought of the way she had cried at theirfirst meeting? Well, at the time it had puzzled him, but now heunderstood it, quite well--and he was glad she was like that.
All these answers made her so happy that she felt she wanted to bealone. And as if he had guessed this, he got up quietly and said thatnow she must go to bed. She rose. He nodded and went off slowlytowards the shed where he was to sleep; she hurried in, undressed,and when she had got into bed she folded her hands and thanked God.Oh, how she thanked Him! Thanked Him for Hans's love, and patience,and kindness--she had not words enough! Thanked Him for all, all,everything--even for the suffering of the last two days--for had itnot made the joy all the greater? Thanked Him for their having beenalone up there at this time, and prayed Him to be with her to-morrowwhen she went down to her parents, then turned her thoughts again toHans, and gave thanks for him once more, oh, how gratefully!
When she came out of the soeter-house in the morning, Beret wasstill sleeping. Hans was standing in the yard. He had been punishingthe dog for rousing a ptarmigan, and it was now lying fawning on him.When he saw Mildrid he let the dog out of disgrace; it jumped up onhim and her, barked and caressed them, and was like a livingexpression of their own bright morning happiness. Hans helped Mildridand the boys with the morning work. By the time they had done it alland were ready to sit down to breakfast, Beret was up and ready too.Every time Hans looked at her she turned red, and when Mildrid afterbreakfast stood playing with his watch chain while she spoke to him,Beret hurried out, and was hardly to be found when it was time for thetwo to go.
"Mildrid," said Hans, coming close to her and walking slowly, whenthey had got on a little way, "I have been thinking about somethingthat I didn't say to you yesterday." His voice sounded so serious thatshe looked up into his face. He went on slowly, without looking ather; "I want to ask you if--God granting that we get each other--ifyou will go home with me after the wedding and live at Haugen."
She turned red, and presently answered evasively:
"What will father and mother say to that?"
He walked on without answering for a minute, and then said:
"I did not think that mattered so much, if we two were agreed aboutit."
This was the first time he had said a thing that hurt her. She madeno reply. He seemed to be waiting for one, and when none came, addedgently:
"I wanted us two to be alone together, to get accustomed to eachother."
Now she began to understand him better, but she could not answer. Hewalked on as before, not looking at her, and now quite silent. Shefelt uneasy, stole a glance at him, and saw that he had turned quitepale.
"Hans!" she cried, and stood still without being conscious of doingit. Hans stopped too, looked quickly at her, and then down at his gun,which he was resting on the ground and turning in his hand.
"Can you not go with me to my home?" His voice was very low, but allat once he looked her straight in the face.
"Yes, I can!" she answered quickly. Her eyes looked calmly into his,but a faint blush came over her cheeks. He changed his gun into hisleft hand, and held out the right to her.
"Thank you!" he whispered, holding hers in a firm clasp; Then theywent on.
She was brooding over one thought all the time, and at last could notkeep it in: "You don't know my father and mother."
He went on a little before he answered: "No, but when you come andlive at Haugen, I'll have time then to get to know them."
"They are so good!" added Mildrid.
"So I have heard from every one." He said this decidedly, but coldly.
Before she had time to think or say anything more, he began to tellabout _his_ home, his brothers and sisters, and their industry,affectionateness, and cheerfulness; about the poverty they had raisedthemselves from; about the tourists who came and all the work theygave; about the house, and especially about the new one he would nowbuild for her and himself. She was to be the mistress of the wholeplace--but they would help her in everything; they would all try tomake her life happy, he not least. As he talked they walked onfaster; he spoke warmly, came closer to her, and at last they walkedhand in hand.
It could not be denied that his love for his home and his family madea strong impression on her, and there was a great attraction in thenewness of it all; but behind this feeling lay one of wrong-doingtowards her parents, her dear, kind parents. So she began again:"Hans! mother is getting old now, and father is older; they have had agreat deal of trouble--they need help; they've worked so hard,and--" she either would not or could not say more.
He walked slower and looked at her, smiling. "Mildrid, you mean thatthey have settled to give you the farm?"
She blushed, but did not answer.
"Well, then--we'll let that alone till the time comes. When they wantus to take their places, it's for them to ask us to do it." He saidthis very gently and tenderly, but she felt what it meant. Thoughtfulof others, as she always was, and accustomed to consider theirfeelings before her own, she yielded in this too. But very soon theycame to where they could see Tingvold in the valley below them. Shelooked down at it, and then at him, as if it could speak for itself.
The big sunny fields on the hill slope, with the wood encircling andsheltering them, the house and farm buildings a little in the shadow,but big and fine--it all looked so beautiful. The valley, with itsrushing, winding river, stretched away down beyond, with farm afterfarm in the bottom and on its slopes on both sides--but none, notone to equal Tingvold--none so fertile or so pleasant to the eye, noneso snugly sheltered, and yet commanding the whole valley. When she sawthat Hans was struck by the sight, she reddened with joy.
"Yes," he said, in answer to her unspoken question--"yes, it is true;Tingvold is a fine place; it would be hard to find its equal."
He smiled and bent down to her. "But I care more for you, Mildrid,than for Tingvold; and perhaps--you care more for me than forTingvold?"
When he took it this way she could say no more. He looked so happytoo; he sat down, and she beside him.
"Now I'm going to sing something for you," he whispered.
She felt glad. "I've never heard you sing," she said.
"No, I know you have not; and though people talk about my singing, youmust not think it's anything very great. There's only this about it,that it comes upon me sometimes, and then I _must_ sing."
He sat thinking for a good while, and then he sang her the song thathe had made for their own wedding to the tune of her race's BridalMarch. Quite softly he sang it, but with such exultation as she hadnever heard in any voice before. She looked down on her home, thehouse she was to drive away from on that day; followed the road withher eyes down to the bridge across the river, and along on the otherside right up to the church, which lay on a height, among birch-trees,with a group of houses near it. It was not a very clear day, but thesubdued light over the landscape was in sympathy with the subduedpicture in her mind. How many hundred times had she not driven thatroad in fancy, only she never knew with whom! The words and the tuneentranced her; the peculiar warm, soft voice seemed to touch the verydepths of her being; her eyes were full, but she was not crying; norwas she laughing. She was sitting with her hand on his, now looking athim, now over the valley, when she saw smoke beginning to rise fromthe chimney of her home; the fire was being lit for making the dinner.This was an omen; she turned to Hans and pointed. He had finished hissong now, and they sat still and looked.
Very soon they were on their way down through the birch wood, and Hanswas having trouble with the dog, to make him keep quiet. Mildrid'sheart began to throb. Hans arranged with her that he would staybehind, but near the house; it was better that she should go in firstalone. He carried her over one or two marshy places, and he felt thather hands were cold. "Don't think of what you're to say," hewhispered; "just wait and see how things come." She gave no sound inanswer, nor did she look at him.
They came out of the wood--the last part had been big dark fir-trees,among which they had walked slowly, he quietly telling her about hergreat-grandfather's wooing of his father's sister, Aslaug; an old,strange story, which she only half heard, but which all the samehelped her--came out of the wood into the open fields and meadows; andhe became quiet too. Now she turned to him, and her look expressedsuch a great dread of what was before her that it made him feelwretched. He found no words of encouragement; the matter concerned himtoo nearly. They walked on a little farther, side by side, some bushesbetween them and the house concealing them from its inhabitants. Whenthey got so near that he thought she must now go on alone, hewhistled softly to the dog, and she took this as the sign that theymust part. She stopped and looked utterly unhappy and forlorn; hewhispered to her: "I'll be praying for you here, Mildrid--and I'llcome when you need me." She gave him a kind of distracted look ofthanks; she was really unable either to think or to see clearly. Thenshe walked on.
As soon as she came out from the bushes she saw right into the bigroom of the main building--right through it--for it had windows atboth ends, one looking up towards the wood and one down the valley.Hans had seated himself behind the nearest bush, with the dog at hisside, and he too could see everything in the room; at this momentthere was no one in it. Mildrid looked back once when she came to thebarn, and he nodded to her. Then she went round the end of the barn,into the yard.
Everything stood in its old, accustomed order, and it was very quiet.Some hens were walking on the barn-steps. The wooden framework forthe stacks had been brought out and set up against the storehouse wallsince she was there last; that was the only change she saw. She turnedto the right to go first into grandmother's house, her fear temptingher to take this little respite before meeting her parents; when, justbetween the two houses, at the wood-block, she came on her father,fitting a handle to an axe. He was in his knitted jersey with thebraces over it, bareheaded, his thin long hair blowing in the breezethat was beginning to come up from the valley. He looked well, andalmost cheerful at his work, and she took courage at the sight. He didnot notice her, she had come so quietly and cautiously over theflagstones.
"Good morning!" she said in a low voice.
He looked at her in surprise for a moment.
"Is that you, Mildrid? Is there anything the matter?" he addedhastily, examining her face.
"No," she said, and blushed a little. But he kept his eyes on hers,and she did not dare to look up.
Then he put down the axe, saying:
"Let us go in to mother!"
On the way he asked one or two questions about things up at thesoeter, and got satisfactory answers.
"Now Hans sees us going in," thought Mildrid, as they passed a gapbetween the barn and some of the smaller outhouses.
When they got into the living-room, her father went to the doorleading into the kitchen, opened it, and called:
"Come here, mother! Mildrid has come down."
"Why, Mildrid, has anything gone wrong?" was answered from thekitchen.
"No," replied Mildrid from behind her father, and then coming to thedoor herself, she went into the kitchen and stood beside her mother,who was sitting by the hearth paring potatoes and putting them in thepot.
Her mother now looked as inquiringly at her as her father had done,with the same effect. Then Randi set away the potato dish, went tothe outer door and spoke to some one there, came back again, took offher kitchen apron and washed her hands, and they went together intothe room.
Mildrid knew her parents, and knew that these preparations meant thatthey expected something unusual. She had had little courage before,but now it grew less. Her father took his raised seat close to thefarthest away window, the one that looked down the valley. Her mothersat on the same bench, but nearer the kitchen. Mildrid seated herselfon the opposite one, in front of the table. Hans could see her there;and he could see her father, right in the face, but her mother hecould hardly see.
Her mother asked, as her father had done before, about things at thesoeter; got the same information and a little more; for she askedmore particularly. It was evident that both sides were making thissubject last as long as possible, but it was soon exhausted. In thepause that came, both parents looked at Mildrid. She avoided the look,and asked what news there was of the neighbours. This subject wasalso drawn out as long as possible, but it came to an end too. Thesame silence, the same expectant eyes turned on the daughter. Therewas nothing left for her to ask about, and she began to rub her handback and forwards on the bench.
"Have you been in at grandmother's?" asked her mother, who wasbeginning to get frightened.
No, she had not been there. This meant then that their daughter hadsomething particular to say to _them_, and it could not with anyseemliness be put off longer.
"There is something that I must tell you," she got out at last, withchanging colour and downcast eyes.
Her father and mother exchanged troubled looks. Mildrid raised herhead and looked at them with great imploring eyes.
"What is it, my child?" asked her mother anxiously.
"I am betrothed," said Mildrid; hung her head again, and burst intotears.
No more stunning blow could have fallen on the quiet circle. Theparents sat looking at each other, pale and silent. The steady, gentleMildrid, for whose careful ways and whose obedience they had so oftenthanked God, had, without asking their advice, without theirknowledge, taken life's most important step, a step that was alsodecisive for _their_ past and future. Mildrid felt each thought alongwith them, and fear stopped her crying.
Her father asked gently and slowly: "To whom, my child?"
After a silence came the whispered answer: "To Hans Haugen."
No name or event connected with Haugen had been mentioned in that roomfor more than twenty years. In her parents' opinion nothing but evilhad come to Tingvold from there. Mildrid again knew their thoughts:she sat motionless, awaiting her sentence.
Her father spoke again mildly and slowly: "We don't know the man,neither I nor your mother--and we didn't know that you knew him."
"And I didn't know him either," said Mildrid.
The astonished parents looked at each other. "How did it happen then?"It was her mother who asked this.
"That is what I don't know myself," said Mildrid.
"But, my child, surely you're mistress of your own actions?"
Mildrid did not answer.
"We thought," added her father gently, "that we could be quite sure of_you_."
Mildrid did not answer.
"But how did it happen?" repeated her mother more impatiently; "youmust know that!"
"No, I don't know it--I only know that I could not help it--no, Icouldn't!" She was sitting holding on to the bench with both hands.
"God forgive and help you! Whatever came over you?"
Mildrid gave no answer.
Her father calmed their rising excitement by saying in a gentle,friendly voice: "Why did you not speak to one of us, my child?"
And her mother controlled herself, and said quietly: "You know howmuch we think of our children, we who have lived such a lonely life;and--yes, we may say it, especially of you, Mildrid; for you have beenso much to us."
Mildrid felt as if she did not know where she was.
"Yes, we did not think you would desert us like this."
It was her father who spoke last. Though the words came gently, theydid not hurt the less.
"I will not desert you!" she stammered.
"You must not say that," he answered, more gravely than before, "foryou have done it already."
Mildrid felt that this was true, and at the same time that it was nottrue, but she could not put her feeling into words.
Her mother went on: "Of what good has it all been, the love that wehave shown our children, and the fear of God that we have taught them?In the first temptation--" for her daughter's sake she could say nomore.
But Mildrid could bear it no longer. She threw her arms over thetable, laid her head on them, her face towards her father, and sobbed.
Neither father nor mother was capable of adding by another reproachfulword to the remorse she seemed to feel. So there was silence.
It might have lasted long--but Hans Haugen saw from where he sat thatshe was in need of help. His hunter's eye had caught every look, seenthe movement of their lips, seen her silent struggle; now he saw herthrow herself on the table, and he jumped up, and soon his light footwas heard in the passage. He knocked; they all looked up, but no onesaid, "Come in!" Mildrid half rose, blushing through her tears; thedoor opened, and Hans with his gun and dog stood there, pale but quitecomposed. He turned and shut the door, while the dog, wagging itstail, went up to Mildrid. Hans had been too preoccupied to notice thatit had followed him in.
"Good morning!" said he. Mildrid fell back on her seat, drew a longbreath, and looked at him with relief in her eyes; her fear, her badconscience--all gone! _She was right, yes; she was right_--let comenow whatever it pleased God to send!
No one had answered Hans's greeting, nor had he been asked to comeforward.
"I am Hans Haugen," he said quietly; lowered his gun and stood holdingit. After the parents had exchanged looks once or twice, he went on,but with a struggle: "I came down with Mildrid, for if she has donewrong, it was my fault."
Something had to be said. The mother looked at the father, and at lasthe said that all this had happened without their knowing anything ofit, and that Mildrid could give them no explanation of how it had comeabout. Hans answered that neither could he. "I am not a boy," he said,"for I am twenty-eight; but yet it came this way, that I, who nevercared for any one before, could think of nothing else in the worldfrom the time I saw her. If she had said No--well, I can't tell--but Ishouldn't have been good for much after that."
The quiet, straightforward way he said this made a good impression.Mildrid trembled; for she felt that this gave things a different look.Hans had his cap on, for in their district it was not the custom for apasser-by to take off his hat when he came in; but now he took it offunconsciously, hung it on the barrel of his gun, and crossed his handsover it. There was something about his whole appearance and behaviourthat claimed consideration.
"Mildrid is so young," said her mother; "none of us had thought ofanything like this beginning with her already."
"That is true enough, but to make up I am so much older," he answered;"and the housekeeping at home, in my house, is no great affair; itwill not task her too hard--and I have plenty of help."
The parents looked at each other, at Mildrid, at him. "Do you mean herto go home with you?" the father asked incredulously, almostironically.
"Yes," said Hans; "it is not the farm that I am coming after." Hereddened, and so did Mildrid.
If the farm had sunk into the ground the parents could not have beenmore astonished than they were at hearing it thus despised, andMildrid's silence showed that she agreed with Hans. There wassomething in this resolution of the young people, unintentional ontheir part, that, as it were, took away from the parents the right ofdecision; they felt themselves humbled.
"And it was you who said that you would not forsake us," said hermother in quiet reproach, that went to Mildrid's heart. But Hans cameto her assistance:
"Every child that marries has to leave its parents."
He smiled, and added in a friendly way: "But it's not a long journeyto Haugen from here--just a little over four miles."
Words are idle things at a time like this; thoughts take their own wayin spite of them. The parents felt themselves deserted, almostdeceived by the young ones. They knew that there was no fault to befound with the way of living at Haugen; the tourists had given theplace a good name; from time to time it had been noticed in thenewspapers; but Haugen was Haugen, and that their dearest child shouldwish to carry their race back to Haugen was more than they could bear!In such circumstances most people would likely have been angry, butwhat these two desired was to get quietly away from what pained them.They exchanged a look of understanding, and the father said mildly:
"This is too much for us all at once; we can't well give our answeryet."
"No," continued the mother; "we were not expecting such greatnews--nor to get it like this."
Hans stood quiet for a minute before he said:
"It is true enough that Mildrid should first have asked her parents'leave. But remember that neither of us knew what was happening till itwas too late. For that is really the truth. Then we could do no morethan come at once, both of us, and that we have done. You must not betoo hard on us."
This left really nothing more to be said about their behaviour, andHans's quiet manner made his words sound all the more trustworthy.Altogether Endrid felt that he was not holding his own against him,and the little confidence he had in himself made him the more desirousto get away.
"We do not know you," he said, and looked at his wife. "We must beallowed to think it over."
"Yes, that will certainly be best," went on Randi; "we ought to knowsomething about the man we are to give our child to."
Mildrid felt the offence there was in these words, but lookedimploringly at Hans.
"That is true," answered Hans, beginning to turn his gun under the onehand; "although I don't believe there are many men in the districtmuch better known than I am. But perhaps some one has spoken ill ofme?" He looked up to them.
Mildrid sat there feeling ashamed on her parents' account, and theythemselves felt that they had perhaps awakened a false suspicion, andthis they had no desire to do. So both said at once:
"No, we have heard nothing bad of you."
And the mother hastened to add that it was really the case that theyhardly knew anything about him, for they had so seldom asked about theHaugen people. She meant no harm at all by saying this, and not tillthe words had passed her lips, did she notice that she had expressedherself unfortunately, and she could see that both her husband andMildrid felt the same. It was a little time before the answer came:
"If the family of Tingvold have never asked after the Haugen people,the fault is not ours; we have been poor people till these lastyears."
In these few words lay a reproach that was felt by all three to bedeserved, and that thoroughly. But never till now had it occurred toeither husband or wife that they had been in this case neglecting aduty; never till now had they reflected that their poor relations atHaugen should not have been made to suffer for misfortunes of whichthey had been in no way the cause. They stole an awkward glance ateach other, and sat still, feeling real shame. Hans had spokenquietly, though Randi's words must have been very irritating to him.This made both the old people feel that he was a fine fellow, and thatthey had two wrongs to make good again. Thus it came about that Endridsaid:
"Let us take time and think things over; can't you stay here and havedinner with us? Then we can talk a little."
And Randi added: "Come away here and sit down."
Both of them rose.
Hans set away the gun with his cap on it, and went forward to thebench on which Mildrid was sitting, whereupon she at once got up, shedid not know why. Her mother said she had things to see to in thekitchen, and went out. Her father was preparing to go too; but Mildriddid not wish to be alone with Hans as long as her parents withheldtheir consent, so she went towards the other door, and they presentlysaw her crossing the yard to her grandmother's house. As Endrid couldnot leave Hans alone, he turned and sat down again.
The two men talked together about indifferent matters--first it wasabout the hunting, about the Haugen brothers' arrangements in thelittle summer huts they had high up on the mountains, about theprofits they made by this sort of thing, &c. &c. From this they cameto Haugen itself, and the tourists, and the farm management; and fromall he heard Endrid got the impression of there being prosperity therenow, and plenty of life. Randi came backwards and forwards, makingpreparations for the dinner, and often listened to what was beingsaid; and it was easy to see that the two old people, at first so shyof Hans, became by degrees a little surer of him; for the questionsbegan to be more personal.
They did not fail to observe his good manners at the dinner-table. Hesat with his back to the wall, opposite Mildrid and her mother; thefather sat at the end of the table on his high seat. The farm peoplehad dined earlier, in the kitchen, where indeed all in the housegenerally took their meals together. They were making the differenceto-day because they were unwilling that Hans should be seen. Mildridfelt at table that her mother looked at her whenever Hans smiled. Hehad one of those serious faces that grow very pleasant when theysmile. One or two such things Mildrid added together in her mind, andbrought them to the sum she wanted to arrive at. Only she did not feelherself so sure, but that the strain in the room was too great forher, and she was glad enough to escape from it by going after dinneragain to her grandmother's.
The men took a walk about the farm, but they neither went where thepeople were working, nor where grandmother could see them. Afterwardsthey came and sat in the room again, and now mother had finished herwork and could sit with them. By degrees the conversation naturallybecame more confidential, and in course of time (but this was not tilltowards evening) Randi ventured to ask Hans how it had all come aboutbetween him and Mildrid; Mildrid herself had been able to give noaccount of it. Possibly it was principally out of feminine curiositythat the mother asked, but the question was a very welcome one toHans.
He described everything minutely, and with such evident happiness,that the old people were almost at once carried away by his story. Andwhen he came to yesterday--to the forced march Beret had made insearch of him because Mildrid was plunged in anguish of mind on herparents' account--and then came to Mildrid herself, and told of herever-increasing remorse because her parents knew nothing; told of herflight down to them, and how, worn-out in soul and body, she had hadto sit down and rest and had fallen asleep, alone and unhappy--thenthe old people felt that they recognised their child again. And themother especially began to feel that she had perhaps been too hardwith her.
While the young man was telling about Mildrid, he was telling too,without being aware of it, about himself; for his love to Mildridshowed clearly in every word, and made her parents glad. He felt thishimself at last, and was glad too--and the old couple, unaccustomed tosuch quiet self-reliance and strength, felt real happiness. This wenton increasing, till the mother at last, without thinking, saidsmilingly:
"I suppose you've arranged everything right up to the wedding, youtwo--before asking either of us?"
The father laughed too, and Hans answered, just as it occurred to himat the moment, by softly singing a single line of the Wedding March,
"Play away! speed us on! we're in haste, I and you!"
and laughed; but was modest enough at once to turn to something else.He happened accidentally to look at Randi, and saw that she was quitepale. He felt in an instant that he had made a mistake in recallingthat tune to her. Endrid looked apprehensively at his wife, whoseemotion grew till it became so strong that she could not stay in theroom; she got up and went out.
"I know I have done something wrong," said Hans anxiously.
Endrid made no reply. Hans, feeling very unhappy, got up to go afterRandi and excuse himself, but sat down again, declaring that he hadmeant no harm at all.
"No, you could hardly be expected to understand rightly about that,"said Endrid.
"Can't _you_ go after her and put it right again!"
He had already such confidence in this man that he dared ask himanything.
But Endrid said: "No; rather leave her alone just now; I know her."
Hans, who a few minutes before had felt himself at the very goal ofhis desires, now felt himself cast into the depths of despair, andwould not be cheered up, though Endrid strove patiently to do it. Thedog helped by coming forward to them; for Endrid went on askingquestions about him, and afterwards told with real pleasure about adog he himself had had, and had taken much interest in, as isgenerally the way with people leading a lonely life.
Randi had gone out and sat down on the doorstep. The thought of herdaughter's marriage and the sound of the Bridal March together hadstirred up old memories too painfully. _She_ had not, like herdaughter, given herself willingly to a man she loved! The shame of herwedding-day had been deserved; and that shame, and the trouble, andthe loss of their children--all the suffering and struggle of yearscame over her again.
And so all her Bible-reading and all her praying had been of no avail!She sat there in the most violent agitation! Her grief that she couldthus be overcome caused her in despair to begin the bitterestself-accusation. Again she felt the scorn of the crowd at her foolishbridal procession; again she loathed herself for her ownweakness--that she could not stop her crying then, nor her thinkingof it now--that with her want of self-control she had cast undeservedsuspicion on her parents, destroyed her own health and through thiscaused the death of the children she bore, and lastly that with allthis she had embittered the life of a loving husband, and feigned apiety that was not real, as her present behaviour clearly showed!
How dreadful that she still felt it in this way--that she had got nofarther!
Then it burst upon her--both her crying in church and the consumingbitterness that had spoiled the early years of her married life hadbeen _wounded vanity_. It was wounded vanity that was weeping now; andthat might at any moment separate her from God, her happiness in thisworld and the world to come!
So worthless, so worthless did she feel herself that she dared notlook up to God; for oh! how great were her shortcomings towards Him!But why, she began to wonder, why had she succumbed just now--at themoment when her daughter, in all true-heartedness and overflowinghappiness, had given herself to the man she loved? Why at this momentarouse all the ugly memories and thoughts that lay dormant in hermind? Was she envious of Mildrid; envious of her own daughter? No,_that_ she knew she was not--and she began to recover herself.
What a grand thought it was that her daughter was perhaps going toatone for _her_ fault! Could children do that? Yes, as surely as theythemselves were a work of ours, they could--but we must help too, withrepentance, with gratitude! And before Randi knew what was happening,she could pray again, bowing in deep humility and contrition beforethe Lord, who had once more shown her what she was without Him. Sheprayed for grace as one that prays for life; for she felt that it waslife that was coming to her again! Now her account was blotted out; itwas just the last settling of it that had unnerved her.
She rose and looked up through streaming tears; she knew that thingshad come right now; there was One who had lifted the burden of painfrom her!
Had she not had the same feeling often before? No, never a feelinglike this--not till now was the victory won. And she went forwardknowing that she had gained the mastery over herself. Something wasbroken that till now had bound her--she felt with every movement thatshe was free both in soul and body. And if, after God, she had herdaughter to thank for this, that daughter should in return be helpedto enjoy her own happiness to the full.
By this time she was in the passage of grandmother's house; but no onein the house recognised her step. She took hold of the latch andopened the door like a different person. "Mildrid, come here!" shesaid; and Mildrid and her grandmother looked at each other, for thatwas not mother. Mildrid ran to her. What could be happening? Hermother took her by the arm, shut the door behind her, so that theywere alone, then threw her arms round her neck, and wept and wept,embracing her with a vehemence and happiness which Mildrid, upliftedby her love, could return right heartily.
"God for ever bless and recompense you!" whispered the mother.
The two sitting in the other house saw them coming across the yard,hand in hand, walking so fast that they felt sure something hadhappened. The door opened and both came forward. But instead of givingher to Hans, or saying anything to him or Endrid, the mother just puther arms once more round her daughter, and repeated with a fresh burstof emotion: "God for ever bless and reward you!"
Soon they were all sitting in grandmother's room. The old woman wasvery happy. She knew quite well who Hans Haugen was--the young peoplehad often spoken about him; and she at once understood that this unionwiped out, as it were, much that was painful in the life of her sonand his wife. Besides, Hans's good looks rejoiced the cheery oldwoman's heart. They all stayed with her, and the day ended withfather, after a psalm, reading from a prayer-book a portion beginning:"The Lord has been in our house!"
* * * * *
I shall only tell of two days in their life after this, and in each ofthese days only of a few minutes.
The first is the young people's wedding-day. Inga, Mildrid's cousin,herself a married woman now, had come to deck out the bride. This wasdone in the store-house. The old chest which held the family's bridalsilver ornaments--crown, girdle, stomacher, brooches, rings--was drawnfrom its place. Grandmother had the key of it, and came to open it,Beret acting as her assistant. Mildrid had put on her wedding-dressand all the ornaments that belonged to herself, before this grandeur(well polished by Beret and grandmother the week before) came tolight, glittering and heavy. One after another each ornament wastried. Beret held the mirror in front of the bride. Grandmother toldhow many of her family had worn these silver things on theirwedding-day, the happiest of them all her own mother, Aslaug Haugen.
Presently they heard the Bridal March played outside; they allstopped, listened, and then hurried to the door to see what it meant.The first person they saw was Endrid, the bride's father. He had seenHans Haugen with his brothers and sisters coming driving up the roadto the farm. It was not often that any idea out of the common came toEndrid, but on this occasion it did occur to him that these guestsought to be received with the March of their race. He called out thefiddlers and started them; he was standing beside them himself, andsome others had joined him, when Hans and his good brothers andsisters, in two carriages, drove into the yard. It was easily seenthat this reception touched them.
An hour later the March of course struck up again. This was when thebride and bridegroom, and after them the bride's parents, came out,with the players going before them, to get into the carriages. At somegreat moments in our lives all the omens are propitious; to-day thebridal party drove away from Tingvold in glorious spring weather. Thecrowd at the church was so great that no one remembered having seenthe like of it, on any occasion. And in this gathering each personknew the story of the family, and its connection with the Bridal Marchwhich was sounding exultantly in the sunshine over the heads of brideand bridegroom.
And because they were all thinking of the one thing, the pastor took atext for his address that allowed him to explain how our children areour life's crown, bearing clear witness to our honour, ourdevelopment, our work.
On the way back from the altar Hans stopped just outside thechurch-door; he said something; the bride, in her superhumanhappiness, did not hear it; but she felt what it was. He wished her tolook at Ole Haugen's grave, how richly clad in flowers it lay to-day.She looked, and they passed out almost touching his headstone; theparents following them.
The other incident in their life that must be recalled is the visit ofEndrid and Randi as grandparents. Hans had carried out hisdetermination that they were to live at Haugen, although he had topromise that he would take Tingvold when the old people either couldor would no longer manage it, and when the old grandmother was dead.But in their whole visit there is only one single thing that concernsus here, and that is that Randi, after a kind reception and goodentertainment, when she was sitting with her daughter's child on herknee, began rocking it and crooning something--and what she croonedwas the Bridal March. Her daughter clasped her hands in wonder anddelight, but controlled herself at once and kept silence; Hans offeredEndrid more to drink, which he declined; but this was on both sidesonly an excuse for exchanging a look.
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