Arne; A Sketch of Norwegian Country Life Part 6

"You, mother?"

"Indeed, I have; but I couldn't help doing it. Arne, you must forgive me."

"But I'm sure you've never done anything wrong to me."

"Indeed, I have: and my very love to you made me do it. But you must forgive me; will you?"

"Yes, I will."

"And then another time I'll tell you all about it ... but you must forgive me!"

"Yes, mother, yes."

"And don't you see the reason why I couldn't talk much to you was, that I had this on my mind? I've sinned against you."

"Pray don't talk so, mother!"

"Well, I'm glad I've said what I have."

"And, mother, we'll talk more together, we two."

"Yes, that we will; and then you'll read the sermon to me?"

"I will."

"Poor Arne; G.o.d bless you!"

"I think we both had better go home now."

"Yes, we'll both go home."

"You're looking all round, mother?"

"Yes; your father once lay weeping in this barn."

"Father?" asked Arne, growing deadly pale.

"Poor Nils! It was the day you were christened."

"You're looking all round, Arne?"

VIII.

THE SHADOWS ON THE WATER.

"It was such a cheerful, sunny day, No rest indoors could I find; So I strolled to the wood, and down I lay, And rocked what came in my mind: But there the emmets crawled on the ground, And wasps and gnats were stinging around.

'Won't you go out-doors this fine day, dear?' said mother, as she sat in the porch, spinning.

It was such a cheerful, sunny day, No rest indoors could I find; So I went in the birk, and down I lay, And sang what came in my mind: But snakes crept out to bask in the sun-- Snakes five feet long, so, away I run.

'In such beautiful weather one may go barefoot,' said mother, taking off her stockings.

It was such a cheerful, sunny day, Indoors I could not abide; So I went in a boat, and down I lay, And floated away with the tide: But the sun-beams burned till my nose was sore; So I turned my boat again to the sh.o.r.e.

'This is, indeed, good weather to dry the hay,' said mother, putting her rake into a swath.

It was such a cheerful, sunny day, In the house I could not be; And so from the heat I climbed away In the boughs of a shady tree: But caterpillars dropped on my face, So down I jumped and ran from the place.

'Well, if the cow doesn't get on to-day, she never will get on,' said mother, glancing up towards the slope.

It was such a cheerful, sunny day, Indoors I could not remain: And so for quiet I rowed away To the waterfall amain: But there I drowned while bright was the sky: If you made this, it cannot be I.

'Only three more such sunny days, and we shall get in all the hay,'

said mother, as she went to make my bed."

Arne when a child had not cared much for fairy-tales; but now he began to love them, and they led him to the sagas and old ballads. He also read sermons and other religious books; and he was gentle and kind to all around him. But in his mind arose a strange deep longing: he made no more songs; but walked often alone, not knowing what was within him.

Many of the places around, which formerly he had not even noticed, now appeared to him wondrously beautiful. At the time he and his schoolfellows had to go to the Clergyman to be prepared for confirmation, they used to play near a lake lying just below the parsonage, and called the Swart-water because it lay deep and dark between the mountains. He now often thought of this place; and one evening he went thither.

He sat down behind a grove close to the parsonage, which was built on a steep hill-side, rising high above till it became a mountain. High mountains rose likewise on the opposite sh.o.r.e, so that broad deep shadows fell upon both sides of the lake, but in the middle ran a stripe of bright silvery water. It was a calm evening near sunset, and not a sound was heard save the tinkling of the cattle-bells from the opposite sh.o.r.e. Arne at first did not look straight before him, but downwards along the lake, where the sun was sprinkling burning red ere it sank to rest. There, at the end, the mountains gave way, and between them lay a long low valley, against which the lake beat; but they seemed to run gradually towards each other, and to hold the valley in a great swing. Houses lay thickly scattered all along, the smoke rose and curled away, the fields lay green and reeking, and boats laden with hay were anch.o.r.ed by the sh.o.r.e. Arne saw many people going to and fro, but he heard no noise. Thence his eye went along the sh.o.r.e towards G.o.d's dark wood upon the mountain-sides. Through it, man had made his way, and its course was indicated by a winding stripe of dust. This, Arne's eye followed to opposite where he was sitting: there, the wood ended, the mountains opened, and houses lay scattered all over the valley. They were nearer and looked larger than those in the other valley; and they were red-painted, and their large windows glowed in the sunbeams. The fields and meadows stood in strong light, and the smallest child playing in them was clearly seen; glittering white sands lay dry upon the sh.o.r.e, and some dogs and puppies were running there. But suddenly all became sunless and gloomy: the houses looked dark red, the meadows dull green, the sand greyish white, and the children little clumps: a cloud of mist had risen over the mountains, taking away the sunlight. Arne looked down into the water, and there he found all once more: the fields lay rocking, the wood silently drew near, the houses stood looking down, the doors were open, and children went out and in. Fairy-tales and childish things came rus.h.i.+ng into his mind, as little fishes come to a bait, swim away, come once more and play round, and again swim away.

"Let's sit down here till your mother comes; I suppose the Clergyman's lady will have finished sometime or other." Arne was startled: some one had been sitting a little way behind him.

"If I might but stay this one night more," said an imploring voice, half smothered by tears: it seemed to be that of a girl not quite grown up.

"Now don't cry any more; it's wrong to cry because you're going home to your mother," was slowly said by a gentle voice, which was evidently that of a man.

"It's not that, I am crying for."

"Why, then, are you crying?"

"Because I shall not live any longer with Mathilde."

This was the name of the Clergyman's only daughter; and Arne remembered that a peasant-girl had been brought up with her.

"Still, that couldn't go on for ever."

"Well, but only one day more father, dear!" and the girl began sobbing.

"No, it's better we take you home now; perhaps, indeed, it's already too late."

"Too late! Why too late? did ever anybody hear such a thing?"

"You were born a peasant, and a peasant you shall be; we can't afford to keep a lady."