Katharine Frensham: A Novel

"Probably because there were no evil consequences," Clifford said. "But supposing there had been evil consequences, what then?"

"But you do not seriously believe that there is any such close relationship between dream-life and actual life, between dream-cause and actual effect?" asked Gerda.

"I do not know what I believe about it, Frue," he answered. "Some day science will be able to explain to us the mysterious working of the brain in normal life, in dream-life, in so-called death: and the connecting links."

He had risen as he spoke, as though he, even as the old saeter-woman, had let himself go too much, and now wished to slip away quietly. But they all rose too, and the Sorenskriver said:

"We have spent a true saeter-evening, communing with mysteries. The spirit of place has seized us, the mountain-spirit. But if we do not soon get to rest and sleep dreamlessly, we shall have no brains left us in the morning for yet another mountain mystery – the making of the Mysost!"

"Tak for maden" (thanks for the meal), he added, turning to the old saeter-woman.

"Tak for maden!" cried every one in a pleasant chorus.

"And tak for behageligt selskab!" (thanks for your delightful company), he said, turning to all his comrades.

"Tak for behageligt selskab!" cried every one.

Then the men went off to the Saeter down by the lake; and Katharine, Gerda, and the little Swedish artist arranged themselves for rest as well as they could in a rough saeter-stue. The two of them were soon asleep; but Katharine lay on her bench in the corner watching the fire, listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking of Clifford Thornton.

"Dreams, dreams," she thought. "Why should he dread to dream? And his face was full of pain when he said that he tried never to dream. Ah, if I could only reach him – sometimes we seem so near – and then – "

Katharine slept.

But in the morning she was up betimes, and out in the early freshness and crispness. She was alone on that wild expanse. There was deep stillness all around her. Silently, softly the magic mists were caressing the mountains. The stars were losing their own brightness in the brightening skies. The sun was breaking over the distant snow-peaks of the Giant range. She was alone with Nature. And Nature set her free.

"My belovèd!" she cried. "My life was as grey as this great dreary wild until your presence glorified it. You broke in upon my loneliness – the bitterest loneliness on earth – a woman's heart-loneliness, – you broke in upon it so that now nothing of it remains – scarcely the memory. Have no fear, my belovèd. I will gather up your past life and your past love with reverential tenderness. I have no fear. My love for you and my belief in you shall conquer everything."

Clifford Thornton was mounting from the Saeter down by the lake-side. He came out joyously into the freshness and crispness of the early morning. He was alone on that wild expanse. There was deep stillness all around him. Silently, softly the magic mists were caressing the mountains. The stars were losing their own brightness in the brightening skies. The sun was breaking over the distant snow-peaks of the Giant range. He was alone with Nature. And Nature set him free.

"My love!" he cried. "I fling the past behind me at last. There are no barriers – none – none. Fool that I was to think I was not free. Free! I am as free as these vast stretches of wild country, free as this mountain air. Do you know, will you ever know, oh, you must know, my own belovèd, that I am yours – yours, unutterably yours. Shall I ever clasp you in my arms and know that you are mine?"

Then suddenly he saw Katharine in the distance, and she saw him. She was moving towards him as he was moving towards her. He hastened to meet her with a tornado of wild gladness in his heart.

But when they came face to face they stood in silence, as when they had first met on the evening of the quartette.

He was the first to find words.

"Don't let us go back," he said; "let us go on – let us go on – the morning is still young – and there is no gladness like the gladness of the early morning. What do you think?"

"No gladness like the gladness of the early morning," she repeated joyously.

So they passed on together, over the wild and stony heathland, in the direction of the Rondane mountains: he with a song in his heart, she with the same song in hers.

"Isn't it glorious to be up here?" he cried. "I feel like the Sorenskriver himself – a silent, surly fellow suddenly turned light-hearted and eloquent. Knutty always said I ought to have been a Norwegian."

"And I feel like Jens," said Katharine, "an inspired person, with grand, big thoughts in my mind, which I shall lose on my way down to the valley again. Ak, ak!"

"What was your vision?" he asked. "Will you not tell me?"

"If you wish," she answered; "but it is not worth telling, really. I have never told any one. I don't know how I came to let those words slip out last night."

"Tell me," he said, turning to her.

"Well," she said, "I was going to have a slight operation to my mouth, and some anæsthetic had been given to me. I was trying my very hardest to keep my consciousness to the last millionth of a minute, when I saw a look of great mental suffering and tension on the surgeon's face. And I said to myself, 'I will be merciful to the man, and I will make a sacrifice to him of what I value most on earth at this moment: the tiny remaining fragment of my consciousness. He will never know, and no one will ever know; all the same, from my point of view, it is a deed of infinite mercy.' So I let myself pass into unconsciousness an infinitesimal instant of time sooner than I need have done. I heard him say, 'Now!' Suddenly I found myself in a vast region, which seemed limitless, which seemed to consist of infinite infinities which one nevertheless could see were finities blending with each other imperceptibly."

Katharine stood still a moment.

"And I realised," she continued, "how little I had ever known about the proportion of things, how little my mind had ever grasped the true significance of finities, which here were certainly infinities. I felt entirely bewildered, and yet wildly excited. Ever since I can remember, great space has always excited me. And suddenly, whilst I was wondering where to go, what to do, whom to reach, I saw a woman near me – a beautiful woman of so-called ill-fame. And she cried out to me:

"'This is heaven, and I am straining upwards, upwards, upwards through all the infinities until I reach God. For it takes the highest to understand the lowest.'

"And I went with her, and a dim vision of God broke upon me, and I knew no more. But I came back to consciousness, saying, 'For it takes the highest to understand the lowest.'"

She paused a moment, and then said:

"If I had been thinking of God, I could better understand why I had that vision."

"You had been thinking of God," he answered. "You had thought of mercy and sacrifice, of an inappreciable quantity and quality from a finite point of view; and that led you to think unconsciously of the different aspect and value of things when seen and understood by an infinite mind unbounded by horizons. If there is a God, that must be God – the greatest and highest mind which understands the lowest grade of everything: religion, morals, morals, religion."

"But it is not you who should have a vision of that kind," he added. "You do not need it. It should come to those who cannot see beyond their prison wall. It might make them wish to break through it and see the open space, and still more open space, and still more open space. But you, who have the free spirit, you were surely born in the open space; no petty narrow horizon for you, but a wide and generous expanse."

"Alas!" she said, "you are imputing to me virtues which I have not!"

"They are not virtues," he answered. "They are part of your temperament; born with you, not acquired."

She smiled at his praise. It was very sweet to her. He smiled too. He was proud that he, a prisoner of silence, had had the courage to say those words to her. And on they went together, he with a song in his heart, and she with the same song in hers. Once she thought to ask him why he tried never to dream; but she glanced at his grave face lit up with happiness, and she grudged that even a passing shadow of pain should mar the brightness of the morning. And once, perhaps at that same moment, he himself thought of his dreams, and felt, by sudden inspiration, that one day, one day he would be able to open his heart to her – the woman born in the open space – and tell her the history of his burdened mind. The thought flashed through him, and brought, not memories of the past, but hopes for the future.

At last they turned back to the Saeter, and realised they had come a long way: far away from the beat of the cows and goats. But after a spell of solitude, they met a few of the wandering creatures, who stopped to look at them and inquire in loud chorus what right they had to venture on these private pastures. And after a time they came upon more stragglers; and then they made out a black cow in the distance, immovable and contemplative; but, on closer inspection, it proved to be Ejnar examining some new-found treasure! As they approached he called out to them:

"What have you brought back from your long walk?"

"Nothing, nothing," they cried together.

"Well," he answered, looking at them pityingly, "how foolish to go for a long walk, then!"

They laughed, passed on, and found Gerda standing scanning the distance.

"Did you see my Ejnar?" she inquired. "It is time for breakfast, and the Sorenskriver has been singing in the Lur to call every one in. Listen, there it is again! The Sorenskriver is in great good spirits again this morning. He is like a big boy."

He was like a big, good-natured boy at breakfast too. Alan confided to Katharine that he thought the old chap was behaving awfully disappointingly well.

"He hasn't been disagreeable one single moment," Alan whispered. "And look here, he has given me this Lap knife. Isn't it jolly of him?"

"I think that we shall all have to give him a vote of thanks instead of wolloping him and tying him to a tree," whispered Katharine.

"Oh, but there's all the way back yet," said Alan quaintly. And then he added, "I say, you'll let me come along with you again, won't you?"

"Of course," she answered, her heart going out to the boy. "Of course; we are the leaders of this expedition, and must take our followers safely home."

He blushed in his boyish way, and slipped away with a happy smile on his young face. He did not know it, but he admired and liked Katharine tremendously. He did not realise it, but he always felt, after he had been with Katharine, that his old love and longing for his father began to tug at his heart. He went and stood by him now in front of the Saeter, and slipped his arm through his father's.

"It's splendid up here, isn't it, father?" he said.

"Yes, Alan," answered the man joyfully, as he felt the touch of his boy's arm.

It was the first time for many months that the boy had crept up to his father in his old chum-like fashion. Katharine watched him, and knew that for the moment they were happy together, and that she had begun and was carrying on successfully her work of love and healing for the boy as well as for the man.

"It is a morning of happiness," she said to herself; and when the merry little Swedish artist came into the saeter-hut and showed her the sketch which she had been making of the interior, she found the Englishwoman as gay as herself.

"Why," she said to Katharine, "you look as if you was having the flirts as well as me! What do you think of my sketch? Not bad? I give it perhaps to my lover." Then she danced round the room singing a gay Swedish melody.

The old saeter-woman laughed, clapped her hands, and cried:

"Ja vel, it is good to dance when one is young and happy!"

And then the Sorenskriver blew the Lur again to summon every one to the cheese-making.

"Mor," he said, "thou must show us everything, so that all these foreign people may remember the only right way to make the best cheese in the world."

So they went into the dairy, and saw all the different kinds of bowls and pans, and rows of square blocks of Mysost kept there to settle into solidarity. Each block weighed about ten pounds, and Katharine was amazed to hear that it took the milk of forty goats to make one of these cheeses a-day. Then they saw the infernal machine which separates the milk from the cream, and the Sorenskriver, still acting as general showman, poured a vessel of fresh rich milk into the iron ogre, whilst Katharine, under directions, turned the handle, and made the mighty beast to roar and screech. Every one's nerves were set on edge. Ejnar dashed wildly from the hut; but was collared by Alan and Jens, for the Sorenskriver cried out:

"Don't let the Botaniker go off by himself. We shall never find him, and our time is getting short."

And then they went to the other little hut where the cheese was being made. There were two large open caldrons over the great stone-oven, and two pretty young saeter-girls (saeter-jenter) were busily stirring the contents of the caldrons. They told Gerda that one caldron contained cream and the other milk, from which the cheese had first been taken by mixing it with yeast. And the pigs got the rejected cheese. Then the two liquids were heated slowly for about four hours, being stirred unceasingly, and when they were on the verge of boiling, they were mixed together. Meantime they both looked and tasted like toffee, and smelt like toffee too.

"And now you have seen the true and only Mysost, mine Damer og Herrer," said the Sorenskriver dramatically. "Now you know the two secrets of Norwegian greatness – the Mountains and the Mysost!"

And he half meant it, too, although he laughed. And the old saeter-woman quite meant it.

"Ja, ja," she said proudly, and inclined her head with true Norwegian dignity.

Then they packed up and paid. The paying was not quite an easy matter. The old saeter-woman made no fixed charge, and appeared not to want to take any money. The Sorenskriver had a twinkle in his eye when he settled up. He knew that, in accordance with Norwegian peasant etiquette, she would appear to be indifferent to the money, accept it reluctantly, and then probably not consider it enough! However, he managed this delicate task with great skill, and began to arrange for returning to the Solli Gaard. But none of the company were anxious to be off. They lingered about, strolling, talking, laughing. The French artist was making a small water-colour of the picturesque interior of the stue. And he wanted to come with them too, if they could wait a little. The old saeter-woman gave Katharine a large cow-bell.

"It has rung on these mountains a hundred years and more," she said. "Thou shalt have it. It is for thee, stakkar. I like thee. Thou art beautiful and kind. It is a pity thou art not that Englishman's wife."

She beckoned to Gerda to come and translate her words, and the three women laughed together. Gerda said in a whisper:

"It is a good thing that the Kemiker is out of the way. He would be astonished, wouldn't he? I don't think love is much in his line, is it? Why, he is less human even than my poor Ejnar – if indeed such a thing is possible!"

But Katharine stooped down and kissed the old saeter-woman.

"Tusend, tusend tak!" she said. She rang the bell, and then pointed to the old woman and then to her own heart. She attempted some Norwegian words of explanation, too, most of them wrong – which added to the merriment. The Sorenskriver translated them.

"When I ring the bell, I shall think of you."

A few minutes later Katharine, Alan, and Clifford were sitting on the great blocks of stone outside the saeter-enclosure, when Alan said:

"Hullo! Here are two people coming up the road – two ladies. They have alpenstocks. What bosh! Any baby could get up here."

"Probably they are on their way to some real climbing," Clifford said. "You know the Norwegian women walk and climb a great deal in the summer. I always think of little Hilda Wangel in Ibsen's 'Master-builder' when I see them with their stocks and knapsacks. You remember she came straight from the mountains to the Master-builder's office – 'the young generation knocking, knocking at the door.' Ah, and that reminds me about Ibsen's 'Peer Gynt.' We must not leave the Gudbrandsdal without making a pilgrimage to Peer Gynt's home. Jens has been telling me about it. That ought to be our next outing. Will you come?"

"I am ready for anything," Katharine answered.

"Hullo!" said Alan; "English voices. We ought to get up and wave a Union-Jack."

The voices came nearer and nearer. Katharine heard that same hard, metallic tone which had distressed her on the previous evening. She was distressed now. She looked from father to son and son to father. They had not yet recognised that voice. But they understood instinctively that some disturbing element had come into their atmosphere. They stood up. Katharine rose. They were on either side of her. The next moment Mrs Stanhope and her companion appeared on the top of the ridge, and stood face to face with them. For one brief moment they were all too much astonished to utter even an exclamation of surprise. They merely looked at each other.

Then Mrs Stanhope stepped forward, and held out her hand to Alan. She ignored the presence of Clifford and Katharine, and made straight for the boy.

"Alan," she said in her kindest way, "who would have thought to find you up here?"

"This is my dear friend's son," she said, turning to her companion. "You know how often I have spoken of Marianne to you."

Slowly, reluctantly the boy left Katharine's side, and took the hand held out to him.

"I thought you were far away in America," Mrs Stanhope said.

"We have come back," the boy answered simply.

"Ah me," she said, with a glance at Clifford and Katharine. "The dead are soon forgotten."

And she added:

"Well, dear boy, some other time we must have another long talk together. And remember I am always waiting for you – for your dear mother's sake."

And she passed on, but they heard her saying aloud to her friend:

"And that is the woman I told you about. She amuses herself with men and throws them over, just as she threw over Willy Tonedale, my poor infatuated cousin. And now she is amusing herself with this widower. She might have had the decency to wait a little longer until poor Marianne – "

Katharine hurried after the two women.

"How dare you, how dare you speak of me in that way?" she said in a voice which trembled with passion. "Some day you shall answer to me for it. If we were not in a foreign country, you should answer to me for it now."

"It is good of you to put it off until we are in our own country," said Mrs Stanhope, with a forced laugh. But she looked uneasy, for Katharine's flushed and angry face was not reassuring.

At that moment the Sorenskriver, the Swedish mathematical Professor, the little Swedish artist, and the Frenchman came out of the stue.

"Well," asked the Sorenskriver, "are we all ready? Thou art not glad to leave the Saeter, Jens. Nor am I. But all good times must come to an end. Nei, da, Fröken Frensham! Are we leaving just when you have found compatriots? That is too bad."

"Oh, I think I can do without them for the present," Katharine said, with a laugh. She had composed herself outwardly, but inwardly she was consumed with anger and mortified pride. But her moral courage did not forsake her, although she knew that Mrs Stanhope had deliberately tried to put her at a disadvantage with that man and that boy. But she trusted them. She returned to them, and said, with a wistful smile on her face:

"I heard her voice down by the lake-side. That was why I felt distressed. I knew she would spoil our happiness – yours – the boy's – mine."

"She has always spoilt our happiness," the boy said.

"Always," said the man – "always."

Then Alan did an unexpected thing.

"Come along," he said impulsively, putting his arm through Katharine's. "Never mind what she says. Let's get away from her. Come along, father."

Clifford looked at his boy wistfully.

"You two go on ahead," he said. "I don't want you ever to see her, Alan. She has never been a friend to us. But I must see her – for our own pride's sake."

"Father," cried the boy, "I have seen her once since – since mother died; you didn't know it, but I have seen her – just before we left for America."

"I might have known it," said Clifford.

They watched him walk back to the stue. He turned and waved to them to move on. Gerda and Ejnar joined them, and the Sorenskriver called out:

"Do not wait for the Kemiker. He has gone back to help his compatriots, who cannot speak any Norwegian. Farvel, mor, and tak for alt!" (Thanks for everything).

"Farvel, farvel!" the old saeter-woman cried, waving to them all; and then she followed Clifford into her stue, where Mrs Stanhope and her friend were seated on the bench. She sank down in her chair, tired.

Clifford took off his hat, and stood, a tall proud figure.

"I have come back to tell you, Mrs Stanhope," he said very slowly, "that I have never even thought it worth my while to attempt to shield myself against your malignant tongue. But I shall shield my friend whom you have just insulted. And I shall shield my boy. You shall not get hold of him and attempt to influence him against me. If you attempt to see him again, I warn you that I will make direct inquiry concerning all the damaging words you have said against me, and I will prosecute you to the bitter end for defamation of character; to the bitter end, Mrs Stanhope; at the cost of all the suffering to my pride."

She had never before confronted him, and a feeling of vague uneasiness about some of her indiscreet words seized her. For once in her life her ready tongue failed her.

"You have always been our evil genius," he went on. "Time after time my poor Marianne and I could have got nearer to each other but for you. But you shall not be my boy's evil genius. You shall not come between him and me."

Mrs Stanhope still did not speak. She was tired, bewildered.

"And," he said, "I would warn you, too, that it is unwise of you to try to belittle Miss Frensham in the presence of her friends."

Mrs Stanhope still gave no sign. His quiet, deliberate manner intimidated her. For one moment there was a painful silence, to which the saeter-woman put an end.

"Be so good as to tell them to go," she said to Clifford. "I do not want any more guests now. I am tired. Tell them to go to the third Saeter away from here."

He told them, with a ghost of a grim smile on his drawn face; and they could see for themselves that the old saeter-woman wished to be rid of them. She was pointing dramatically in the direction of the third Saeter. They rose to go.

"You do not appear to have much belief in your son's belief in you," Mrs Stanhope was able to say as they passed out of the stue.

"My dear Julia," her friend said, "I really advise you to remain speechless for the rest of our visit to a Norwegian Saeter! Surely you don't want two libel-suits! You know, my dear, I've always said your indiscretion – "

They passed out of hearing. Clifford took leave of the old saeter-woman, and went to join his companions.

"Alas!" he thought, "she was able to find the right weapon with which to wound me."

Meantime Katharine and Alan were waiting for him. The boy had thrown himself down on the ground, and seemed lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly he said to her:

"How did you know it was her voice? You have never seen her – have you?"

"Yes," Katharine answered. "I have seen her once before, Alan, when she said cruel and slanderous things against your father. Every one was shocked. No one believed."

"No one believed," Alan repeated to himself.

"No one could believe such things of a man like your father," Katharine answered without looking at him. "Even I, a stranger to him, knew they must be untrue. I thought to myself at the time what a curse it must be to be born with a tongue and a mind like Mrs Stanhope's. Much better to be a sweet old saeter-woman like the old woman up there."