CHAPTER VI.

Katharine spoke a fair amount of German, and some of the guests at the Gaard spoke a little English. The fur-merchant from Tromsö spoke English well; but he scorned at first to show any sign of friendliness to any one from such an abominable country; and the Sorenskriver was consistently careful not to be betrayed into the most primitive form of politeness to this Englishwoman. He knew, of course, that she spoke and understood German; and he went out of his way on several occasions to make in his aggressive voice disparaging remarks about England, using for this purpose the language of Germany. At first Katharine took no notice; but after a day or two of quiet forbearance she said to him at dinner, fearlessly but politely:

"Herr Sorenskriver, you insult my country every time we sit down to dinner. I am sure you do not intend to insult me personally. But you see, Englishwomen love their country passionately, although they may know and share its faults. May I ask you to use the Norwegian language, which I do not understand, when you feel particularly insulting? If, however, you want to _discuss_ England with me, then let us speak German together; and I will tell you all I know, and listen to all you have to say. That is quite another matter. Then you shall say all you have to say against us; and I will answer you if I can, and bear with your criticisms if I cannot."

Her words were so simple, her manner was so direct, and her own temperamental charm was so irresistible, that England, personified in her, went up twenty-five per cent. in every one's estimation. There was quite a stir amongst the guests; they all left off eating their beloved cloudberries (multebaer), of which the Norwegians think so much, and turned expectantly to the Sorenskriver. The gruff old Norwegian did something unexpected, both to himself and the whole company.

"Ah," he said, "you carry your flag better than I carry mine, Fröken. You are right and I am wrong."

Then he lifted his half-filled glass and turned to her with an almost shy smile on his face.

"Skaal!"[I] he said.

"Skaal!" she answered, raising her glass too, and smiling at him.

"Bravo--skaal to them both!" said every one with one accord; and no one was surprised afterwards to see the Englishwoman and the Sorenskriver strolling off together in the direction of the foss in the birch-woods above the Gaard.

Katharine had conquered him, and the fur-merchant was the next person to capitulate. He was heard saying to the Swedish professor that, when all was said and done, the English were people of spirit, and whatever their politics might be, they were honourable people to trade with. Ejnar, too, forgot for the moment about the barbarian authorities at Kew Gardens, and gave such remarkable signs of wanting Katharine's companionship, not at all from botanical reasons, that Gerda began to complain to Tante that he was neglecting his work and not taking the least interest in the Romney poppy. And once he came back from a short expedition which he himself had planned, leaving poor Gerda to look for the little rare plant which was the object of the expedition. He said he was tired and wanted to go home; and he fetched his long pipe and established himself in a corner of the verandah where Tante and Katharine were sitting. Gerda came back angry and wanted a divorce; but Tante laughed and said to her:

"Don't be angry with him. It is only an aberration. It won't do you or him any harm. He will soon be ready to quarrel with you over the Romney poppy. And you cannot possibly be angry with _her_. She knows nothing about it. Every one likes her; she wins every one. It is her nature; her temperament; her aura. If she has won the Sorenskriver, she could win the most ferocious Trold ever heard of in Norwegian lore. Don't be angry with anybody. I think I ought to be the one to be angry. He always interrupts our conversations. And you always want her when you can get her. Everybody wants her. Even Bedstemor likes to talk with her. I can scarcely get a word in. Poor old Tante."

"You wicked old woman, you were talking to her for hours yesterday," said Gerda, laughing.

"Nã," said Tante, "yesterday is not to-day."

"I cannot think what you want to talk to her about," said Gerda.

"There are other subjects besides the 'botanik,'" remarked Tante sternly.

"And, after all, you are both strangers," said Gerda.

"Strangers very often have a great deal to say to each other," answered Tante. "Ah, and here she comes. Now I insist on you dragging your wretched Ejnar off to your study and keeping him there. Have a quarrel. I mean a real botanical quarrel. Do, kjaere. You have not had one for quite two days. Talk about Salix. That is always a safe subject for a quarrel. And you need not be afraid that I will bore the barbarian woman. I will speak only of subjects which interest her."

No, Katharine was not bored. She drifted to Tante on every possible occasion; and they spoke on many different subjects, but always ended with Clifford Thornton. It was curious how he came into everything. If they began about the customs of the peasants, they finished up with Clifford and his boy. If they started off with Bedstefar's illness, which was becoming more and more serious, they ended with Clifford Thornton. If they spoke of England, it was natural enough that they should speak of Tante's Englishman. If they spoke of America, it was natural enough that Clifford and his boy should slip into the conversation. And if they spoke of Scandinavia, and especially of little Denmark, where he and his boy would soon be arriving, it was natural enough to refer to the two travellers now on their way home to Europe.

"Ja, ja," said Tante, "he always loved the North. I, who taught him, took care about that. And his father before him had loved the North. That was why I was chosen to be the little lad's governess; because I was a Dane--and not a bad-looking one either in those days, let me tell you! Yes, I was chosen out of about ten Englishwomen. I shall never forget that day."

"Tell me about it," Katharine said eagerly; and the old Danish woman, nothing loth, put down her knitting and gazed dreamily out on the great valley below. It was about six in the afternoon. All the other guests had finished their coffee and left the balcony, and Katharine and Tante were in sole possession. There were no sounds except the never-ceasing roar of the foss in the Vinstra Valley.

"It was many years ago," Tante said,--"about thirty eight, I think. He was seven years old when I was called to look after him. I journeyed to a desolate house in the country, in Surrey, and waited in a dismal drawing-room with several other ladies, who were all on the same errand. A tall, stern-looking man came into the room, greeted us courteously, but scanned us closely. And then he said, 'And which is the Danish lady?' And I said, 'I am the Dane.' And he said, 'Do you speak English very badly?' And I said, 'No, I speak it remarkably well.' And he smiled and said, 'Ah, you're a true Dane, I see. You have a good opinion of your powers.' And I said, 'Yes, of course I have.' Then I went with him alone into his study, another depressing room, and we had an interview of about an hour. I saw he loved the North. It was a passion with him. He was a lonely impersonal sort of creature; but his face lit up when he spoke of the North. He asked me to wait whilst he spoke with the other ladies. Lunch was served in the dining-room; and those of us who were not being interviewed, tried to enjoy an excellent meal. But every one was anxious, for the salary was exceptionally high, indeed princely. When all the interviewing was over, he did a curious thing; but I thought it considerate and kind to the little person for whose care he was providing. He went upstairs and brought down to us a desolate-looking little boy, and said:

"'Clifford, my little son, one of these ladies is going to be good enough to come and take care of you. I wonder which is the one you would like best of all.'

"The little fellow shrank back, for he was evidently shy; but he looked up into his father's stern face, and knew that he had to make an answer. Then very shyly he glanced round, and his eye rested on me.

"'That one, father,' he said, almost in a whisper.

"So that was how I came to be his governess. He knew what he wanted when he chose me. I have always wished that he could have known just as cleverly what he wanted when he chose his wife--that poor Marianne."

And here Tante paused, and gave that sort of pious regulation-sigh which we are always supposed to offer to the memory of all dead people, good, bad, or indifferent.

Katharine waited impatiently. She longed to know something about that dead wife. She longed to know something of Clifford's childhood, of his youth, his early career--but chiefly of that dead wife: whether he had loved her, whether she had loved him. She did not try to conceal her eagerness. She bent forward and touched Tante's hands.

"Tell me about her," she said. "I have only heard what Mrs Stanhope said of her."

"Ah," said Knutty, "she was her friend. If you have only heard what Mrs Stanhope said, you have heard only unjust things about my Clifford."

"Yes," replied Katharine, "and believed them to be impossible, and told her so."

"My dear," said Knutty warmly, "you have a mind that understands. Well, about this Marianne. She has gone her way, and I suppose custom demands that one should speak of her respectfully. But I cannot help saying that she had a Billingsgate temperament. That was the whole trouble. She had a great deal of beauty, and something of a heart. Indeed, she was not bad-hearted. I always wished she had been a downright devil; for then my poor Clifford would have known how to decide on a definite course of action. I own that I often wished she would run away with another man. But of course he would have forgiven her. Bah! It was so like her not to run away. Excuse me, my dear. But I have never learnt not to be impatient, even with her memory; for she preyed on his kindness and his great sense of chivalry. I don't know where she originally came from, and whether it was her original _entourage_ which gave her the Billingsgate temperament, or whether it was just her natural possession independent of surroundings. I did not see her until he had married her. When I saw her, I knew of course that it was her physical charm with which he had fallen in love. It could not have been her mind. She had none."

Knutty paused a moment, took off her spectacles to clean them, and then continued:

"He married her in Berlin, and took her to Aberystwith College, where he was Professor of Chemistry for two years. Alan was born there. Then his father died and he gave up teaching. He settled down at 'Falun,' his country-house, and devoted himself to research-work: as far as she would let him. But she was jealous of his work, and I believe did her best to thwart it. I saw that as the time went on. He used to come over to Denmark partly to see me, and partly on his way to Sweden, which is a grand hunting-ground for mineralogists. He had always been interested in mineralogy; indeed, as a child he played with minerals as most children play with soldiers. Well, one morning he walked into my room unexpectedly and said, 'Knutty, I came to tell you I've discovered a new mineral. You know I've had a lot of disappointments over them; but this one has not cheated me. He is a new fellow beyond all doubt. _And I felt I must have some one to be glad with me._' That was all he said; but there was something so pathetic about his obvious need of sympathy that I felt sure things were not going well with him at home. When I went over to stay with them, I understood. I had not been three days at 'Falun' before I discovered that Marianne had this unfortunate temperament, the very worst in the world for his peculiar sensitiveness and his curiously delicate brain. I knew his brain well. As a child, if not harassed, he could do wonders at his studies. But he needed an atmosphere of peace, in which to use his mental machinery successfully. I learnt to know this, and I gave him peace, dear little chap, and spared him most of the petty tyrannies which the grown-up impose on youngsters. But Marianne could give him no peace. Peace was not in her; nor did she wish for it; nor could she understand that any one wished for it. Life to her meant scenes: scenes over anything and everything. Day after day I saw the delicate balance of his brain, so necessary for the success of his investigations, cruelly disturbed. But to be just to Marianne, she did not know. And if she had been told, she would not have understood. I tried to hint at it once or twice; and I might as well have spoken in the Timbuctoo original dialect. I did not even offend her. She did not even understand that much of this foreign language. It was all hopeless. Her aura was impossible. So I said 'Farvel,' and I never went to stay with them again for any length of time. But occasionally I went for a day or two to please him. I saw as time went on, that he was getting some comfort out of the boy. That was a comfort to me. But I also saw that the brilliant promises of his early manhood were being unfulfilled. I heard that his scientific friends wondered and mourned. They did not know the disadvantages with which he had to cope. Probably they would not have allowed themselves to be thus harassed. But he was not they, and they were not he. And, after all, a man can only be himself. And if he is born with a heart as well as a brain, and with an almost excessive chivalry for the feelings of other people, then he is terribly at the mercy of his surroundings.

"Yes," she repeated, "at the mercy of his surroundings. And poor Marianne had no mercy on him: none."

"But if she had no understanding, then it was not that she was unmerciful, but only ignorant," Katharine said gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Allt un-der himmelens fäst-e Der sitt-a stjer-nor små Allt un-der himmelens fäst-e Der sitt-a stjer-nor smaå Den vän-nen som jag äl-skat Den kan jag ald-rig få Ah ...

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

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

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

She turned impulsively to Katharine.

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

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

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

"Men du milde Himmel!"[J] cried Tante. "My icebergs, of course!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote I: _Skaal!_--Your health!]

[Footnote J: Danish expression--"But Thou, mild Heaven."]