CHAPTER VIII.

From the day that Arne tried with his whole heart to live closer to his mother his relations with other people were entirely changed. He looked on them more with the mother's mild eyes. But he often found it hard to keep true to his resolve; for what he thought most deeply about his mother did not always understand. Here is a song from those days:--

"It was such a pleasant, sunny day, In-doors I could not think of staying: I strolled to the wood, on my back I lay, And rocked what my mind was saying; But there crawled emmets, and gnats stung there, The wasps and the clegs brought dire despair.

"'My dear, will you not go out in this pleasant weather?' said mother. She sat singing on the porch.

"It was such a pleasant, sunny day, In-doors I could not think of staying: I strayed to a field, on my back I lay, And sang what my mind was saying; But snakes came out to enjoy the sun, Three ells were they long, and away I run.

"'In such pleasant weather we can go barefoot,' said mother, and she pulled off her stockings.

"It was such a pleasant, sunny day, In-doors I could no longer tarry: I stepped in a boat, on my back I lay, The tide did me onward carry; The sun, though, scorched till my nose was burned; There's limit to all, so to shore I turned.

"'What fine days these are for drying the hay!' said mother, as she shook it with a rake.

"It was such a pleasant, sunny day, In-doors I could not think of staying: I climbed up a tree, and thought there I'd stay, For there were cool breezes playing. A grub to fall on my neck then there chanced; I sprang down and screamed, and how madly I danced.

"'Well, if the cow does not thrive such a day as this, she never will,' said mother, as she gazed up the slope.

"It was such a pleasant, sunny day, In-doors I could no peace discover: I made for the force that did loudly play, For _there_ it must surely hover; But there I drowned while the sun still shone. If you made this song, it is surely not my own.[17]

"'It would take only about three such sunny days to get everything under cover,' said mother; and off she started to make my bed."

* * * * *

Nevertheless, this companionship with his mother brought every day more and more comfort to Arne. What she did not understand formed quite as much of a tie between them as what she did understand. For the fact of her not comprehending a thing made him think it over oftener, and she grew only the dearer to him because he found her limits on every side. Yes, she became infinitely dear to him.

As a child, Arne had not cared much for nursery stories. Now, as a grown person, he longed for them, and they led to traditions and ancient ballads. His mind was filled with a wonderful yearning; he walked much alone, and many of the places round about, which formerly he had not noticed, seemed strangely beautiful. In the days when he had gone with those of his own age to the priest's to prepare for confirmation, he had often played with them by a large lake below the parsonage, called Black Water, because it was deep and black. He began to think of this lake now, and one evening he wended his way thither.

He sat down behind a copse, just at the foot of the parsonage. This lay on the side of a very steep hill, which towered up beyond until it became a high mountain; the opposite bank was similar, and therefore huge shadows were cast over the lake from both sides, but in its centre was a stripe of beautiful silvery water. All was at rest; the sun was just setting; a faint sound of tinkling bells floated over from the opposite shore; otherwise profound silence reigned. Arne did not look right across the lake, but first turned his eyes toward its lower end, for there the sun was shedding a sprinkling of burning red, ere it departed. Down there the mountains had parted to make room between them for a long, low valley, and against this the waves dashed; and it seemed as though the mountains had gradually sloped together to form a swing in which to rock this valley, which was dotted with its many gards. The curling smoke rose upward, and passed from sight; the fields were green and reeking; boats laden with hay were approaching the landings. Arne saw many people passing to and fro, but could hear no noise. Thence the eye wandered beyond the shore, where God's dark forest alone loomed up. Through the forest and along the lake men had drawn a road, as it were, with a finger, for a winding streak of dust plainly marked its course. This Arne's eye followed until it came directly opposite to where he was sitting; there the forest ended; the mountains made a little more room, and straightways gard after gard lay spread about. The houses were still larger than those at the lower end, were painted red, and had higher windows, which now were in a blaze of light. The hills sparkled in dazzling sunshine; the smallest child playing about could be plainly seen; glittering white sand lay dry on the shore, and upon this little children bounded with their dogs. But suddenly the whole scene became desolate and gloomy; the houses dark red, the meadows dingy green, the sand grayish-white, and the children small clumps: a mass of mist had risen above the mountains, and had shut out the sun. Arne kept his eye fixed on the lake; there he found everything again. The fields were rocking there, and the forest silently joined them; the houses stood looking down, doors open, and children going out and in. Nursery tales and childish things came thronging into his mind, as little fish come after a bait, swim away, come back again, but do not nibble.

"Let us sit down here until your mother comes; the priest's lady will surely get through some time."

Arne was startled; some one had sat down just behind him.

"But I might be allowed to stay just this one night," said a beseeching voice, choked with tears; it seemed to be that of a young girl, not quite grown up.

"Do not cry any more; it is shocking to cry because you must go home to your mother." This last came in a mild voice that spoke slowly and belonged to a man.

"That is not the reason I am crying."

"Why are you crying, then?"

"Because I shall no longer be with Mathilde."

This was the name of the priest's only daughter, and reminded Arne that a peasant girl had been brought up with her.

"That could not last forever, any way."

"Yes, but just one day longer, dear!" and she sobbed violently.

"It is best you should go home at once; perhaps it is already too late."

"Too late? Why so? Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"You are peasant-born, and a peasant you shall remain: we cannot afford to keep a fine lady."

"I should still be a peasant, even if I remained here."

"You are no judge of that."

"I have always worn peasant's clothes."

"It is not that which makes the difference."

"I have been spinning and weaving and cooking."

"It is not _that_, either."

"I can talk just as you and mother do."

"Not that, either."

"Then I do not know what it can be," said the girl, and laughed.

"Time will show. Besides, I am afraid you already have too many ideas."

"Ideas, ideas! You are always saying that. I have no ideas." She wept again.

"Oh, you are a weathercock,--that you are!"

"The priest never said so."

"No, but now _I_ say so."

"A weathercock? Who ever heard of such a thing? I will not be a weathercock."

"Come, then, what will you be?"

"What will I be? Did you ever hear the like? I will be nothing."

"Very good, then; be nothing."

Now the girl laughed. Presently she said, gravely, "It is unkind of you to say I am nothing."

"Dear me, when that was what you wanted to be yourself!"

"No, I do not want to be nothing."

"Very good, then; be everything."

The girl laughed. Presently, with a sorrowful voice, "The priest never fooled with me in this way."

"No, he only made a fool of you."

"The priest? You have never been so kind to me as the priest has."

"No, for that would have spoiled you."

"Sour milk can never become sweet."

"Oh, yes, when it is boiled to whey."

Here the girl burst out laughing.

"There comes your mother."

Then she grew sober again.

"Such a long-winded woman as the priest's lady I have never met in all the days of my life," here interposed a shrill, rattling voice. "Make haste, now, Baard. Get up and push the boat out. We will not get home to-night. The lady wished me to see that Eli kept her feet dry. Dear me, you will have to see to that yourself. Every morning she must take a walk, for the sake of her health. It is health, health, from morning till night. Get up, now, Baard, and push out the boat. Just think, I have to set sponge this evening!"

"The chest has not come yet," said he, and lay still.

"But the chest is not to come, either; it is to remain until the first Sunday there is service. Do you hear, Eli? Pick yourself up; take your bundle, and come. Get up, now, Baard!"

She led the way, and the girl followed.

"Come, now, I say,--come now!" resounded from below.

"Have you looked after the plug in the boat?" asked Baard, still without rising.

"Yes, it is there;" and Arne heard her just then hammering it in with the scoop. "But get up, I say, Baard! Surely we are not to stay here all night?"

"I am waiting for the chest."

"But, my dear, bless you, I have told you it is to wait until the first Sunday there is service."

"There it comes," said Baard, and they heard the rattling of a cart.

"Why, I said it was to wait until the first Sunday there is service."

"I said we were to take it along."

Without anything further, the wife hastened up to the cart, and carried the bundle, the lunch-box, and other small things down to the boat. Then Baard arose, went up, and took the chest himself.

But behind the cart there came rushing along a girl in a straw hat, with floating hair; it was the priest's daughter.

"Eli! Eli!" she called, as she ran.

"Mathilde! Mathilde!" Eli answered, and ran toward her.

They met on the hill, put their arms about each other, and wept. Then Mathilde took up something she had set down on the grass: it was a bird-cage.

"You shall have Narrifas; yes, you shall. Mother wishes it, too. You shall, after all, have Narrifas,--indeed, you shall; and then you will think of me. And very often row--row--row over to me," and the tears of both flowed freely.

"Eli! Come, now, Eli! Do not stand there!" was heard from below.

"But I want to go along," said Mathilde. "I want to go and sleep with you to-night!"

"Yes, yes, yes!" and with arms twined about each other's necks they moved down toward the landing.

Presently Arne saw the boat out on the water. Eli stood high on the stern, with the bird-cage, and waved her hand; Mathilde was left behind, and sat on the stone landing weeping.

She remained sitting there as long as the boat was on the water; it was but a short distance across to the red house, as said before; and Arne kept his seat, too. He watched the boat, as she did. It soon passed into the darkness, and he waited until it drew up to the shore: then he saw Eli and her parents in the water; in it he followed them up toward the houses, until they came to the prettiest one of them all. He saw the mother go in first, then the father with the chest, and last of all the daughter, so far as he could judge from their size. Soon after the daughter came out again, and sat down in front of the store-house door, probably that she might gaze over at the other side, where at that moment the sun was shedding its parting rays. But the young lady from the parsonage had already gone, and Arne alone sat watching Eli in the water.

"I wonder if she sees me!"

He got up and moved away. The sun had set, but the sky was bright and clear blue, as it often is of a summer night. Mist from land and water rose and floated over the mountains on both sides; but the peaks held themselves above it, and stood peering at one another. He went higher up. The lake grew blacker and deeper, and seemed, as it were, to contract. The upper valley shortened, and drew closer to the lake. The mountains were nearer to the eye, but looked more like a shapeless mass, for the light of the sun defines. The sky itself appeared nearer, and all surrounding objects became friendly and familiar.