They are all here."
And he imagines he knows who they all are, although he has never heard of them, nor can he recall their names.
"But--but," he stammers, "I--I--am a foreigner "
It appeared then that for some reason this was an insurmountable objection. And Edith"s happiness dies out of her beautiful face, and she turns away weeping.
"Edith, beloved!"
Then she is once more at his side.
"Thou art no more a foreigner to me, beloved. Whatever thou art, I am."
And she presses her lips to his--it was the sweetest kiss of his life--the kiss of death.
The next morning, as Edith, after having put the last touch to her toilet, threw the shutters open, a great glare of sun-smitten snow burst upon her and for a moment blinded her eyes. On the sidewalk opposite, half a dozen men with snow-shovels in their hands and a couple of policeman had congregated, and, judging by their manner, were discussing some object of interest. Presently they were joined by her father, who had just finished his breakfast and was on his way to the office. Now he stooped down and gazed at something half concealed in the snow, then suddenly started back, and as she caught a glimpse of his face, she saw that it was ghastly white. A terrible foreboding seized her. She threw a shawl about her shoulders and rushed down-stairs. In the hall she was met by her father, who was just entering, followed by four men, carrying something between them. She well knew what it was. She would fain have turned away, but she could not: grasping her father"s arm and pressing it hard, she gazed with blank, frightened eyes at the white face, the lines of which Death had so strangely emphasized. The snow-flakes which hung in his hair had touched him with their sudden age, as if to bridge the gulf between youth and death. And still he was beautiful--the clear brow, the peaceful, happy indolence, the frozen smile which death had perpetuated. Smiling, he had departed from the earth which had no place for him, and smiling entered the realm where, among the many mansions, there is, perhaps, also one for a gentle, simple-hearted enthusiast.
THE STORY OF AN OUTCAST.
THERE was an ancient feud between the families; and Bjarne Blakstad was not the man to make it up, neither was Hedin Ullern. So they looked askance at each other whenever they met on the highway, and the one took care not to cross the other"s path. But on Sundays, when the church-bells called the parishioners together, they could not very well avoid seeing each other on the church-yard; and then, one day, many years ago, when the sermon had happened to touch Bjarne"s heart, he had nodded to Hedin and said: "Fine weather to-day;" and Hedin had returned the nod and answered: "True is that." "Now I have done my duty before G.o.d and men," thought Bjarne, "and it is his turn to take the next step." "The fellow is proud," said Hedin to himself, "and he wants to show off his generosity. But I know the wolf by his skin, even if he has learned to bleat like a ewe-lamb."
What the feud really was about, they had both nearly forgotten. All they knew was that some thirty years ago there had been a quarrel between the pastor and the parish about the right of carrying arms to the church.
And then Bjarne"s father had been the spokesman of the parish, while Hedin"s grandsire had been a staunch defender of the pastor. There was a rumor, too, that they had had a fierce encounter somewhere in the woods, and that the one had stabbed the other with a knife; but whether that was really true, no one could tell.
Bjarne was tall and grave, like the weather-beaten fir-trees in his mast-forest. He had a large clean-shaven face, narrow lips, and small fierce eyes. He seldom laughed, and when he did, his laugh seemed even fiercer than his frown. He wore his hair long, as his fathers had done, and dressed in the styles of two centuries ago; his breeches were clasped with large silver buckles at the knees, and his red jerkin was gathered about his waist with a leathern girdle. He loved everything that was old, in dress as well as in manners, took no newspapers, and regarded railroads and steamboats as inventions of the devil. Bjarne had married late in life, and his marriage had brought him two daughters, Brita and Grimhild.
Hedin Ullern was looked upon as an upstart. He could only count three generations back, and he hardly knew himself how his grandfather had earned the money that had enabled him to buy a farm and settle down in the valley. He had read a great deal, and was well informed on the politics of the day; his name had even been mentioned for storthingsmand, or member of parliament from the district, and it was the common opinion, that if Bjarne Blakstad had not so vigorously opposed him, he would have been elected, being the only "cultivated"
peasant in the valley. Hedin was no unwelcome guest in the houses of gentlefolks, and he was often seen at the judge"s and the pastor"s...o...b..r parties. And for all this Bjarne Blakstad only hated him the more.
Hedin"s wife, Thorgerda, was fair-haired, tall and stout, and it was she who managed the farm, while her husband read his books, and studied politics in the newspapers; but she had a sharp tongue and her neighbors were afraid of her. They had one son, whose name was Halvard.
Brita Blakstad, Bjarne"s eldest daughter, was a maid whom it was a joy to look upon. They called her "Glitter-Brita," because she was fond of rings and brooches, and everything that was bright; while she was still a child, she once took the old family bridal-crown out from the storehouse and carried it about on her head. "Beware of that crown, child," her father had said to her, "and wear it not before the time.
There is not always blessing in the bridal silver." And she looked wonderingly up into his eyes and answered: "But it glitters, father;"
and from that time forth they had named her Glitter-Brita.
And Glitter-Brita grew up to be a fair and winsome maiden, and wherever she went the wooers flocked on her path. Bjarne shook his head at her, and often had harsh words upon his lips, when he saw her braiding field-flowers into her yellow tresses or clasping the shining brooches to her bodice; but a look of hers or a smile would completely disarm him. She had a merry way of doing things which made it all seem like play; but work went rapidly from her hands, while her ringing laughter echoed through the house, and her sunny presence made it bright in the dusky ancestral halls. In her kitchen the long rows of copper pots and polished kettles shone upon the walls, and the neatly scoured milk-pails stood like soldiers on parade about the shelves under the ceiling.
Bjarne would often sit for hours watching her, and a strange spring-feeling would steal into his heart. He felt a father"s pride in her stately growth and her rich womanly beauty. "Ah!" he would say to himself, "she has the pure blood in her veins and, as true as I live, the farm shall be hers." And then, quite contrary to his habits, he would indulge in a little reverie, imagining the time when he, as an aged man, should have given the estate over into her hands, and seeing her as a worthy matron preside at the table, and himself rocking his grandchildren on his knee. No wonder, then, that he eyed closely the young lads who were beginning to hover about the house, and that he looked with suspicion upon those who selected Sat.u.r.day nights for their visits. [5] When Brita was twenty years old, however, her father thought that it was time for her to make her choice. There were many fine, brave lads in the valley, and, as Bjarne thought, Brita would have the good sense to choose the finest and the bravest. So, when the winter came, he suddenly flung his doors open to the youth of the parish, and began to give parties with ale and mead in the grand old style. He even talked with the young men, at times, encouraged them to manly sports, and urged them to taste of his home-brewed drinks and to tread the spring-dance briskly. And Brita danced and laughed so that her hair flew around her and the silver brooches tinkled and rang on her bosom. But when the merriment was at an end, and any one of the lads remained behind to offer her his hand, she suddenly grew grave, told him she was too young, that she did not know herself, and that she had had no time as yet to decide so serious a question. Thus the winter pa.s.sed and the summer drew near.
In the middle of June, Brita went to the saeter [6] with the cattle; and her sister, Grimhild, remained at home to keep house on the farm. She loved the life in the mountains; the great solitude sometimes made her feel sad, but it was not an unpleasant sadness, it was rather a gentle toning down of all the shrill and noisy feelings of the soul. Up there, in the heart of the primeval forest, her whole being seemed to herself a symphony of melodious whispers with a vague delicious sense of remoteness and mystery in them, which she only felt and did not attempt to explain. There, those weird legends which, in former days, still held their sway in the fancy of every Norsewoman, breathed their secrets into her ear, and she felt her nearness and kinship to nature, as at no other time.
One night, as the sun was low, and a purple bluish smoke hung like a thin veil over the tops of the forest, Brita had taken out her knitting and seated herself on a large moss-grown stone, on the croft. Her eyes wandered over the broad valley which was stretched out below, and she could see the red roofs of the Blakstad mansion peeping forth between the fir-trees. And she wondered what they were doing down there, whether Grimhild had done milking, and whether her father had returned from the ford, where it was his habit at this hour to ride with the footmen to water the horses. As she sat thus wondering, she was startled by a creaking in the dry branches hard by, and lifting her eye, she saw a tall, rather clumsily built, young man emerging from the thicket. He had a broad but low forehead, flaxen hair which hung down over a pair of dull ox-like eyes; his mouth was rather large and, as it was half open, displayed two ma.s.sive rows of shining white teeth. His red peaked cap hung on the back of his head and, although it was summer, his thick wadmal vest was b.u.t.toned close up to his throat; over his right arm he had flung his jacket, and in his hand he held a bridle.
"Good evening," said Brita, "and thanks for last meeting;" although she was not sure that she had ever seen him before.
"It was that bay mare, you know," stammered the man in a half apologetic tone, and shook the bridle, as if in further explanation.
"Ah, you have lost your mare," said the girl, and she could not help smiling at his helplessness and his awkward manner.
"Yes, it was the bay mare," answered he, in the same diffident tone; then, encouraged by her smile, he straightened himself a little and continued rather more fluently: "She never was quite right since the time the wolves were after her. And then since they took the colt away from her the milk has been troubling her, and she hasn"t been quite like herself."
"I haven"t seen her anywhere hereabouts," said Brita; "you may have to wander far, before you get on the track of her."
"Yes, that is very likely. And I am tired already."
"Won"t you sit down and rest yourself?"
He deliberately seated himself in the gra.s.s, and gradually gained courage to look her straight in the face; and his dull eye remained steadfastly fixed on her in a way which bespoke unfeigned surprise and admiration. Slowly his mouth broadened into a smile; but his smile had more of sadness than of joy in it. She had, from the moment she saw him, been possessed of a strangely patronizing feeling toward him. She could not but treat him as if he had been a girl or some person inferior to her in station. In spite of his large body, the impression he made upon her was that of weakness; but she liked the sincerity and kindness which expressed themselves in his sad smile and large, honest blue eyes.
His gaze reminded her of that of an ox, but it had not only the ox"s dullness, but also its simplicity and good-nature.
They sat talking on for a while about the weather, the cattle, and the prospects of the crops.
"What is your name?" she asked, at last.
"Halvard Hedinson Ullern."
A sudden shock ran through her at the sound of that name; in the next moment a deep blush stole over her countenance.
"And my name," she said, slowly, "is Brita Bjarne"s daughter Blakstad."
She fixed her eyes upon him, as if to see what effect her words produced. But his features wore the same sad and placid expression; and no line in his face seemed to betray either surprise or ill-will. Then her sense of patronage grew into one of sympathy and pity. "He must either be weak-minded or very unhappy," thought she, "and what right have I then to treat him harshly." And she continued her simple, straightforward talk with the young man, until he, too, grew almost talkative, and the sadness of his smile began to give way to something which almost resembled happiness. She noticed the change and rejoiced.
At last, when the sun had sunk behind the western mountain tops, she rose and bade him good-night; in another moment the door of the saeter-cottage closed behind her, and he heard her bolting it on the inside. But for a long time he remained sitting on the gra.s.s, and strange thoughts pa.s.sed through his head. He had quite forgotten his bay mare.
The next evening when the milking was done, and the cattle were gathered within the saeter enclosure, Brita was again sitting on the large stone, looking out over the valley. She felt a kind of companionship with the people when she saw the smoke whirling up from their chimneys, and she could guess what they were going to have for supper. As she sat there, she again heard a creaking in the branches, and Halvard Ullern stood again before her, with his jacket on his arm, and the same bridle in his hand.
"You have not found your bay mare yet?" she exclaimed, laughingly. "And you think she is likely to be in this neighborhood?"
"I don"t know," he answered; "and I don"t care if she isn"t."
He spread his jacket on the gra.s.s, and sat down on the spot where he had sat the night before. Brita looked at him in surprise and remained silent; she didn"t know how to interpret this second visit.
"You are very handsome," he said, suddenly, with a gravity which left no doubt as to his sincerity.
"Do you think so?" she answered, with a merry laugh. He appeared to her almost a child, and it never entered her mind to feel offended. On the contrary, she was not sure but that she felt pleased.
"I have thought of you ever since yesterday," he continued, with the same imperturbable manner. "And if you were not angry with me, I thought I would like to look at you once more. You are so different from other folks."
"G.o.d bless your foolish talk," cried Brita, with a fresh burst of merriment. "No, indeed I am not angry with you; I should just as soon think of being angry with--with that calf," she added for want of another comparison.
"You think I don"t know much," he stammered. "And I don"t." The sad smile again settled on his countenance.
A feeling of guilt sent the blood throbbing through her veins. She saw that she had done him injustice. He evidently possessed more sense, or at least a finer instinct, than she had given him credit for.
"Halvard," she faltered, "if I have offended you, I a.s.sure you I didn"t mean to do it; and a thousand times I beg your pardon."
"You haven"t offended me, Brita," answered he, blushing like a girl.
"You are the first one who doesn"t make me feel that I am not so wise as other folks."