Arne; A Sketch of Norwegian Country Life Part 18

'Yes; all thou canst see; Take them; all are for thee.'

Said the Tree--trala--lala, trala, lala--said."

Then she suddenly sprang up, scattering all the flowers around her, and sang till the tune trembled through the air, and might have been heard at Boen. Arne had thought of coming forwards when she began singing; he was just about to do so when she jumped up; then he felt he _must_ come, but she went away. Should he call? No,--yes!

No!--There she skipped over the hillocks singing; here her hat fell off, there she took it up again; here she picked a flower, there she stood deep in the highest gra.s.s.

"Shall I call? She's looking up here!"

He stooped down. It was a long while ere he ventured to peep out again; at first he only raised his head; he could not see her: he rose to his knees; still he could not see her: he stood upright; no she was gone. He thought himself a miserable fellow; and some of the tales he had heard at the nutting-party came into his mind.

Now he would not go to the parsonage. He would not have the newspapers; would not know anything about Christian. He would not go home; he would go nowhere; he would do nothing.

"Oh, G.o.d, I am so unhappy!" he said.

He sprang up again and sang "The Tree's early leaf-buds" till the mountains resounded.

Then he sat down where she had been sitting, and took up the flowers she had picked, but he flung them away again down the hill on every side. Then he wept. It was long since he had done so; this struck him, and made him weep still more. He would go far away, that he would; no, he would not go away! He thought he was very unhappy; but when he asked himself why, he could hardly tell. He looked round. It was a lovely day; and the Sabbath rest lay over all. The lake was without a ripple; from the houses the curling smoke had begun to rise; the partridges one after another had ceased calling, and though the little birds continued their twittering, they went towards the shade of the wood; the dewdrops were gone, and the gra.s.s looked grave; not a breath of wind stirred the drooping leaves; and the sun was near the meridian. Almost before he knew, he found himself seated putting together a little song; a sweet tune offered itself for it; and while his heart was strangely full of gentle feelings, the tune went and came till words linked themselves to it and begged to be sung, if only for once.

He sang them gently, sitting where Eli had sat:

"He went in the forest the whole day long, The whole day long; For there he had heard such a wondrous song, A wondrous song.

"He fashioned a flute from a willow spray, A willow spray, To see if within it the sweet tune lay, The sweet tune lay.

"It whispered and told him its name at last, Its name at last; But then, while he listened, away it pa.s.sed, Away it pa.s.sed.

"But oft when he slumbered, again it stole, Again it stole, With touches of love upon his soul, Upon his soul.

"Then he tried to catch it, and keep it fast, And keep it fast; But he woke, and away i' the night it pa.s.sed, I' the night it pa.s.sed.

"'My Lord, let me pa.s.s in the night, I pray, In the night, I pray; For the tune has taken my heart away, My heart away.'

"Then answered the Lord, 'It is thy friend, It is thy friend, Though not for an hour shall thy longing end, Thy longing end;

"'And all the others are nothing to thee, Nothing to thee, To this that thou seekest and never shalt see, Never shalt see.'"

XV.

SOMEBODY'S FUTURE HOME.

"Good bye," said Margit at the Clergyman's door. It was a Sunday evening in advancing summer-time; the Clergyman had returned from church, and Margit had been sitting with him till now, when it was seven o'clock. "Good bye, Margit," said the Clergyman. She hurried down the door-steps and into the yard; for she had seen Eli Boen playing there with her brother and the Clergyman's son.

"Good evening," said Margit, stopping; "and G.o.d bless you all."

"Good evening," answered Eli. She blushed crimson and wanted to leave off the game; the boys begged her to keep on, but she persuaded them to let her go for that evening.

"I almost think I know you," said Margit.

"Very likely."

"Isn't it Eli Boen?"

Yes, it was.

"Dear me! you're Eli Boen; yes, now I see you're like your mother."

Eli's auburn hair had come unfastened, and hung down over her neck and shoulders; she was hot and as red as a cherry, her bosom fluttered up and down, and she could scarcely speak, but laughed because she was so out of breath.

"Well, young folks should be merry," said Margit, feeling happy as she looked at her. "P'r'aps you don't know me?"

If Margit had not been her senior, Eli would probably have asked her name, but now she only said she did not remember having seen her before.

"No; I dare say not: old folks don't go out much. But my son, p'r'aps you know a little--Arne Kampen; I'm his mother," said Margit, with a stolen glance at Eli, who suddenly looked grave and breathed slowly.

"I'm pretty sure he worked at Boen once."

Yes, Eli thought he did.

"It's a fine evening; we turned our hay this morning, and got it in before I came away; it's good weather indeed for everything."

"There will be a good hay-harvest this year," Eli suggested.

"Yes, you may well say that; everything's getting on well at Boen, I suppose?"

"We have got in all our hay."

"Oh, yes, I dare say you have; your folks work well, and they have plenty of help. Are you going home to-night?"

No, she was not.

"Couldn't you go a little way with me? I so seldom have anybody to talk to; and it will be all the same to you, I suppose?"

Eli excused herself, saying she had not her jacket on.

"Well, it's a shame to ask such a thing the first time of seeing anybody; but one must put up with old folks' ways."

Eli said she would go; she would only fetch her jacket first.

It was a close-fitting jacket, which when fastened looked like a dress with a bodice; but now she fastened only two of the lower hooks, because she was so hot. Her fine linen bodice had a little turned-down collar, and was fastened with a silver stud in the shape of a bird with spread wings. Just such a one, Nils, the tailor, wore the first time Margit danced with him.

"A pretty stud," she said, looking at it.

"Mother gave it me."

"Ah, I thought so," Margit said, helping her with the jacket.

They walked onwards over the fields. The hay was lying in heaps; and Margit took up a handful, smelled it, and thought it was very good.