CHAPTER VIII.

Gerda had pretended to hope that when Tante's English friends arrived on the scene, she would mend her strange ways, and no longer haunt the cowhouse and seek the companionship of old Kari and of Thea, who was so clever at making Fladbröd, and Mette, who had three fatherless babies and a dauntless demeanour which seemed to be particularly attractive to wicked old Knutty. But Tante was incorrigible, and would not for any one's sake have missed her evening visit to that august building. So after her sad talk with Alan, she stood and waited as usual, whilst Mette, that bright gay soul, called the cows down to the Gaard.

"Kom da, stakkar, kom da, stakkar!" ("Come then, my poor little dears!"), she cried merrily.

And Gulkind (yellow cheek), Brungaas (brown goose), Blomros (red rose), and Fjeldros (mountain rose) responded with varying degrees of bellowing and dilatoriness.

When they were safely in their stalls, the singing began. Thea had the softest voice, but Mette had a dramatic delivery. Old Kari acted as prompter when they forgot the words of the old folk-songs, and the cows went on munching steadily and switching their tails in the singers' faces, so that the music was mingled with strange discords of scolding and Knutty's laughter. And then Mette got up, and began to dance some old peasant-dance; and very pretty and graceful she looked, too, in her old cow-dress and torn bodice.

"Come, Thea!" she cried. "Let us dance the Spring-dance for the good Danish lady to see. Fjeldros and Brungaas can wait a few minutes."

"Nei, nei, nei!" cried old Kari. "It is not safe to dance in the cowhouse, Mette. Thou know'st the Huldre will come and throw stones in at the cows. Thou know'st she will come. Ja, ja, I have seen her do it, and the cows were killed. Ak, I am afraid. The Huldre will come."

"Perhaps," said Mette, winking mischievously at Tante--"perhaps it _is_ better to be on the safe side. All the same, I'm not afraid of the long-tailed Huldre."

"Have you seen her often, Kari?" asked Tante.

"Three times," said Kari, shuddering, "and each time she worked me harm. She is mischievous and ugly, not like the beautiful green-dressed Huldre. I saw her once up at the Saeter, when I was alone and had made a big fire. She came and danced and danced before the fire. But I must not waste my time with thee. I must milk Blomros."

"Kari has been taken away by the mountain people," Mette said, winking again at Tante. "Thou shouldst tell the Danish lady."

But Kari buried herself under Blomros; and so Mette, still anxious to entertain her visitor, struck up with the pretty little folk-song, "Home from the Saeter."

HOME FROM THE SAETER.

We have done our man-y du-ties, Cheese have made, have but-ter churn'd; Now we'll lead our will-ing cat-tle, Now we'll lock the sae-ter door; Here no long-er food can be found, By the Hul-drefolk or ourselves, Glad are we that home we're go-ing, Glad-der still the cows, I'm sure.

When they had finished, Knutty looked round and saw Gerda standing listening.

"Now," said Knutty, "you will understand why I come to the cowhouse. It is my concert-room. Well then, my good friends, good-bye for the present."

"Come back to-morrow," cried Mette. "The milking goes so merrily when thou art here."

"And mind, no dancing!" said Knutty, smiling and putting up her hand in warning. "Remember the long-tailed one!"

Mette's merry laughter sounded after them, and was followed by her finale, the mountain-call to the goats:

"Kille bukken, kille bukken, kille bukken! lammet mit!" with a final flourish which would have made a real prima donna ill for a week from jealousy.

"Mette has got a temperament," said Knutty, still smiling. "Thank Heaven for that! Anything is better than your dead-alivers, your decaying vegetable world. No disrespect to you, kjaere, for you look particularly alive this evening; a nice flush on your face--whether anger or joy, no matter--the effect is the same--life."

"Ejnar and I have found some dwarf-birch," said Gerda, pointing to her green wallet.

"Ah, that is certainly a life-giving discovery," remarked Knutty.

"We've had a lovely afternoon together," continued Gerda, "and we've discussed 'Salix' to our hearts' content."

"Ah," said Knutty, "no wonder you look so animated."

"But just by the group of mountain-ashes we met Fröken Frensham," said Gerda, "and Ejnar left me. And I was angry. But as she had the Sorenskriver and your Englishman with her, I didn't mind so much. Oh, it isn't her fault. She doesn't encourage him; and she cannot help being attractive. But Ejnar----"

"Why, my child," said Knutty, "who ever heard of a live woman being jealous, generous, and just? You can't possibly be an animal--nor even a vegetable--you must be a mineral. I have it--gold!"

"Tante," said Gerda, "wait until you have a husband, and then you won't laugh."

"No, I don't suppose I should!" replied Knutty. "Other people would do the laughing for me."

"No," said Gerda. "They should not laugh at you in my presence, I can tell you."

"Ah," said Knutty, "you're pure gold, kjaere. There, don't fret about that wretch Ejnar. If he ran away from you, we could easily overtake him. He'd be stopping to look at all the plants on the wayside; and the lady, no matter who she was, would leave him in disgust. No self-respecting eloping female could stand that, you know. Come. There's the bell ringing for smoked salmon and cheese."

But although Knutty kept up her spirits that evening, she was greatly disturbed by her talk with Alan, and distressed to know how to help him. When she went to her room, she sat for a long time at the window, thinking and puzzling. Not a single helpful idea suggested itself to her. Her heart was full of pity for the boy and concern for the father. She reflected that it was in keeping with Marianne's character to leave this unnecessary trouble behind her: that all the troubles Marianne ever made had always been perfectly unnecessary. And she worked herself into a rage at the mere thought of Mrs Stanhope, Marianne's friend.

"The beast," she said, "the metallic beast! I'd like to see her whole machinery lynched."

After that she could not keep still, but walked up and down her big room, turning everything over in her mind until her brain was nearly distraught. Once she stood rigid for a moment.

"Had Clifford anything to hide about his wife's death?" she asked herself.

"No, no," she replied angrily. "That is ridiculous--I'm a fool to think of it even for a moment."

Her mind wandered back to the time of Marianne's death. She remembered the doctor had said that Marianne had died from some shock.

"Had Clifford lost his self-control that last night when, by his own telling, he and Marianne had some unhappy words together, and had he perhaps terrified her?" she asked herself.

"No, no," she said. "Why do I think of these absurd things?"

But if she thought of them--she, an old woman with years of judgment and experience to balance her--was it surprising that the young boy, worked upon by Mrs Stanhope's words, was thinking of them?

Knutty broke down.

"My poor icebergs," she cried. "I'm a silly, unhelpful old fool, and no good to either of you. I never could tackle Marianne--never could. She was always too much for me; and although she's dead, she is just the same now--too much for me."

She shook her head in despair, and the tears streamed down her cheeks; but after a few minutes of profound misery she brightened up.

"Nã," she said, brushing her tears away, "of course, of course! Why was I forgetting that dear Katharine Frensham? I was forgetting that I saw daylight. What an old duffer I am! If I cannot help my icebergs, she can--and will. If I cannot tackle Marianne, she can."

Her thoughts turned to Katharine with hope, affection, admiration, and never a faintest touch of jealousy. She had been drawn to her from the beginning; and each new day's companionship had only served to show her more of the Englishwoman's lovable temperament. They all loved her at the Gaard. Her presence was a joy to them; and she passed amongst them as one of those privileged beings for whom barriers are broken down and bridges are built, so that she might go her way at her own pleasure into people's hearts and minds. Yes, Knutty turned to her with hope and belief. And as she was saying to herself that Katharine was the one person in the world to help that lonely man and desolate boy, to build her bridge to reach the man, and her bridge to reach the boy, and a third bridge for the man and the boy to reach each other--as she was saying all this, with never one single jealous thought, there came a soft knock at her door. She did not notice it at first; but she heard it a few seconds later, and when she opened her door, Katharine was standing there.

"My dear," Knutty exclaimed, and she led her visitor into the room.

"I have been uneasy about you," Katharine said, "and could not get to sleep. I felt I must come and see if anything were wrong with you. Why, you haven't been to bed yet. Do you know it is two o'clock?"

"It might be any time in a Norwegian summer night, and I've been busy thinking," said Knutty--"thinking of you, and longing for the morrow to come when I might tell you of some trouble which lies heavy on my heart."

"Most curious," said Katharine. "I had a strong feeling that you wanted me. I thought I heard you calling me."

"I did call you," Knutty said, "none the less loudly because voicelessly. I wanted to tell you that Mrs Stanhope did see Alan before he left England. Your warning to my poor Clifford came too late. She took the boy and made him drink of the poison of disbelief."

Then she gave Katharine an account of her painful interview with Alan. Katharine had previously told Knutty a few particulars of her own encounter with Mrs Stanhope at the Tonedales, and she now, at Knutty's request, repeated the story, adding more details in answer to the old Dane's questionings. Long and anxiously these two new friends, who were learning to regard each other as old friends, discussed the situation.

"I cannot bear that the boy should be suffering in this way," Knutty said. "And I cannot bear that my poor Clifford should know. For he has come back happier--ah, you know something about that, my dear. And I am glad enough to see even the beginning of a change in him. Only it is pathetic that he, without knowing it, should be steering for some happiness in a distant harbour, whilst the boy should be drifting out to sea--alone."

"He shall not drift out to sea," Katharine said. "He must and shall believe in his father again."

"But, my dear, how are you going to manage that?" Knutty asked sadly.

"By my own belief," Katharine answered simply.

"You believe in him?" Knutty said, half to herself.

"Absolutely," Katharine answered, with a proud smile on her face.

"How you comfort me!" said Knutty. "Here have I been wrestling with plans and problems until all my intelligence had gone--all of it except the very best bit of it which called out to you for help. And you come and give me courage at once, not because you have any plans, but because you are yourself."

They were standing together by the window, and Katharine put her arm through Knutty's. They looked a strange pair: Knutty with her unwieldy presence of uncompromising bulk, and Katharine with her own special grace of build and bearing. She was clothed in a blue dressing-gown. Her luxuriant hair fell down far below her waist. The weird Norwegian moon streamed into the room, and shone caressingly around her. It was a wonderful night: without the darkness of the south and without the brightness of the extreme north; a night full of strange half-lights and curious changes. At one moment dark-blue clouds hung over the great valley, mingling with the mists in fantastic fashion. Then the blue clouds would give place to others, rosy-toned or sombre grey, and these two would mingle with the mists. Then the next moment the moon would reassert herself, and her rays would light up the rivers and fill the mists with diamonds. Then there would come a moment when mists and clouds were entirely separated; and between this gap would be seen, as in a dream, a vision of the valley beyond, mysterious and haunting. Verily a land of sombre wonder and mystic charm, this great Gudbrandsdal of Norway, with its legends of mortal and spirit, fit scene for weird happenings and strange beliefs, being a part of that whole wonderful North, the voice of which calls aloud to some of us, and which, once heard, can never be lulled into silence.

The two women stood silently watching the beauty of this Norwegian summer night, arrested in their own personal feelings by Nature's magnetism.

"Behold!" cries Nature, and for the moment we are hers and hers only. Then she releases us, and we turn back to our ordinary life conscious of added strength and richness.

Katharine turned impetuously to Knutty.

"He must and shall believe in his father again," she said. "I know how helpless boys are in their troubles, and how unreachable. But we will reach him--you and I."

"With you as ally," said Knutty, "I believe we could do anything."

"Poor little fellow, poor little fellow!" said Katharine tenderly.

As she spoke she glanced out of the window and saw some one coming down from the birch-woods. She watched the figure approaching nearer and nearer to the Gaard.

"There is some one coming down from the woods," she said. "How distinctly one can see in this strange half-light!"

"One of the cotters, perhaps," suggested Knutty.

"No," said Katharine, "it is the boy--it's Alan."

They watched him, with tears of sympathy in their eyes. They knew by instinct that he had been wandering over the hills, fretting his young heart out. They drew back, so that he might not see them as he passed up the garden.

They heard him go into the back verandah and up the outer stairs leading to his room.

They caught sight of his troubled face.