In God's Way: A Novel

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

II.

NEXT COUPLE FORWARD.

In March of the following year, just as Edward Kallem was preparing to pass the second part of his medical examination, he came across something else which completely occupied his thoughts.

We must now tell all about it.

At the time when his desultory studies in natural history concentrated themselves more and more on physiology, at that time the cleverest physiologist was a young realistic student, Thomas Rendalen, somewhat older than Edward Kallem. In itself, it was seldom that a non medical student distinguished himself in that branch, so that everybody was struck by it, and of course Edward Kallem too; but he did not on that account become any closer acquainted with Rendalen, who was not one of those who make themselves accessible to all.

It was later on, indeed not until after New Year (as they happened to be on the same steamer coming back after the Christmas holidays), that they got to know each other better. The first evening that Kallem went to see Thomas Rendalen in his own rooms, he stayed the night there. And a few evenings after, when Rendalen came to him, they kept going backward and forward between the two lodgings (which were close together) till between three and four o'clock in the morning. Edward Kallem had never before come across such a genial sort of fellow, and Rendalen went up to him early one morning, before Kallem had gone out to the hospital, just to tell him that of all his friends and acquaintances Kallem was the one he liked best.

In reality Rendalen's was a stronger nature than Kallem's, a mixture of savagery and tameness, of passion, melancholy, and music, with great powers of communicativeness, but with recesses in his character which were seldom, if ever, opened. Unbounded energy--and then again so utterly devoid of power that he could do nothing; the whole machinery was out of order, as though one of the wheels were broken. Not a single spot at right angles, nothing but irregularities on the whole landscape of his character; but the light of a great mind was over the whole. However incalculable were the surroundings, or unpleasant the disappointments--his individuality, with its strict sense of justice, was so winning that one could not do otherwise than be fond of him.

His chief concern was for all belonging to schools, and for education to its very centre; to carry each separate child safe through the "dangerous age" which comes at different times. Many suffered greatly at that time, wounds were made but not easily healed; those who lived comfortably and in better circumstances could pass the ordeal unhurt; but they were hardly in the majority. All education and teaching was to be concentrated in forming a good and moral man, that was his first and last thought.

He was indefatigable in lecturing on ways and means of education; in discussing all school arrangements and the work to be done in the homes. His mother owned a widely-known girls' school in one of the towns on the coast, and he was anxious to take possession of it so as to be able to carry out his plans! His great aim was a system of mixed schools; but first the teaching of all the principal branches must undergo a change--be made easier, not suitable only for the most talented pupils. And he intended practising all this at the girls' school.

He possessed a tolerably large collection of school material from America and from several European countries, and he kept on adding to it; besides that, he owned a whole library of school literature. He lived together with one Vangen, a student of theology who had finished his studies at Christmas, but was just going up for his practical examination; but although between them they had three rooms, they were all three full of Rendalen's library and collections.

His appearance was remarkable. Red-haired (but rather a light color) and the ends sticking up straight in the air, freckled, and with blinking gray eyes under white short-haired eyebrows which were hardly visible; the nose was broad and rather turned up, the mouth pinched; short, freckled hands, every finger denoting energy; not tall, but splendidly made; his walk, on well turned out feet, was very light. Wherever he went he was the best of all gymnasts, and could climb the ropes like none other; Edward, too, who had always been fond of gymnastics, became doubly eager through his example; for nothing could equal Rendalen's power to win others for whatever he was fond of. At this time his great passion was walking on his hands; Kallem could do this to his great admiration; probably that put the climax to the respect that Rendalen had for him.

They had many subjects in common; they were both specialists, and both powerful in whatever they undertook; modern in their way of thinking, and with the courage of reformers; both were particular to the last degree about their persons; they dressed with taste; Rendalen, however, thought rather too much about it. Both had the same quick way of thinking, guessing in advance the half of what was said; both in that way perfecting each other's knowledge! Rendalen was musical, played the piano in a most masterly way, and sang well. Kallem sang still better, and was encouraged in it by Rendalen.

Although Rendalen could with heart and soul give himself up to one single object or individual, still there was a reserve about him which no one could penetrate. He was very fond of Vangen, his adopted brother; but one could always see that there was a decided something that kept them apart. In this respect Kallem was entirely to Rendalen's satisfaction; he too, in the midst of all his devotion to anyone, had the same kind of stand-offishness about him.

But there was difference enough between them both to keep up the novelty of their intercourse, at the same time rendering it rather difficult. Nearly all the difficulties proceeded from Rendalen, for Kallem was more pliable and accommodating. When Rendalen was in the humor, he would play by the hour together, just as though no one were in the room; one might make up one's mind to go away at once. He it was who always gave the keynote to all their moods. He was capricious and could have long spells of melancholy; when one of these fits was on him few could get a word out of him. There was a marvellous power of work in him whenever he was taken up about anything that occupied his mind--and then suddenly, good-by to the whole thing! Were he in a communicative mood and really in good spirits, the very air around him seemed sparkling with electricity.

For Kallem the study of medicine meant fresh discoveries daily, and on account of their mutual physiological studies they both faithfully interchanged ideas, each from his side. During the months of January and February they met nearly every evening; at any rate, at the gymnasium from six to seven o'clock; after that they would often sup together--oftenest at Rendalen's rooms, as he had a piano.

In the early part of March Rendalen's mother came to pay him a visit; she lodged with her son's landlord, a new-comer to the town. He was a native of Norland, blind and paralysed down one side, and had an excessively musical wife; she was very young, in fact almost a child--the strangest couple imaginable. Rendalen often spoke of them. As long as his friend's mother was in town, Kallem kept away; each time they left the gymnasium, Kallem could see that Rendalen did not wish to have him with him. But when, after a stay of eight days or so, the mother went home again, still things did not change; either Rendalen went on with his gymnastics longer than Kallem, or else he left after a very few exercises; it was clear that he did not wish for Kallem's company. The latter thought that he was in one of his melancholy moods.

But one morning, Kallem having come home earlier than usual (as a rule he was out the whole forenoon), he heard the bell ring, the servant open the door, and then Rendalen's footstep in the passage. He came in hurriedly, was gloomy and taciturn; his business was--should they change lodgings?

Kallem knew him so well now, and was so good-natured, that he did not show the least surprise, and never even asked his reasons for wishing to change; he only said that his two small rooms would surely not be large enough for Rendalen's collections and his piano--and for Vangen? Or, were he and Vangen no longer going to live together? Yes, they were! But there was a large room adjoining Kallem's two rooms, and for long Rendalen had had his eye on that. He knew the landlady would be glad to let it. It would suit him perfectly. Only fancy what it would be to play in that large room!

"Have you spoken now to the landlady about it?"

"No, but I am just going to her," and off he rushed. They both came back together, the landlady and he; a few minutes after, all was settled! In the afternoon they moved! When the good-natured Vangen came hurrying home from his dinner, there sat Kallem in dressing-gown and slippers in the first room to the right, and announced to him that Rendalen had gone to live in Sehested Street, where he, Kallem, used to live; they had changed lodgings. They both laughed.

"And yet he was very comfortable here," said Vangen; but that was the only remark he made.

Of course Edward Kallem speculated much on the reason of this hurried move, and thought he would have a good talk with the servant each time she came to see to the stove or to bring in his lunch or supper, both which meals he took at home; she looked as if she knew something. Marie had a peculiar smile that seemed to say: "Oh, I know the lot of you--you too, you rogue." He got that, the very first time she opened the door for him. She had eyes that were more than half covered by the lids which hung over them in folds. The nose was a turn-up and seemed to drag the mouth upward into a stiff smile, the upper lip projected, showing a row of teeth for which there was hardly room, they glistened through each smile. Everything she said seemed to have a hidden meaning of fun and nonsense, it shot forth from under her eyelids and played about the corners of the mouth. The voice was a soft one. Otherwise a steady girl, well made, clever as old Nick himself, but prudent and cautious both in speech and ways, for all her laughing criticisms. But her laugh seemed always on the lookout for one. When he said: "I am Edward Kallem, I am to live in Rendalen's room," she answered, smilingly: "Oh!" just as if she had known all his secrets from the time he was a boy. If he mentioned Rendalen, she looked as if she had a whole room full of jokes about him; and yet--he never got anything out of her.

The house where he lived now was a corner house, almost opposite the university. The door of the house was in the same street into which Kallem's rooms looked too. They were on the second floor and had the same entrance as his landlord had; that is to say, one of the rooms--the other one, his bed-room, had its own private entrance. Rendalen had had a third room, the corner room further in. Kallem put his card on the door leading into the little hall, below a large door-plate bearing the name of Sören Kule; that was the landlord's name! Next day being Sunday, he went to call on him.

There sat the paralysed, blind man in a large roller-chair. The unfortunate man was still young, barely over thirty, very heavily built, and heavy both in face and in speech. His very "Come in!" when Kallem knocked, was heavy. Kallem introduced himself, the other sat immovable and answered slowly: "Indeed, I am blind. And I can't move about much either." This was said with a Norland accent; each syllable jerked out and jogging heavily along like a London brewer's dray-horse. It was a clever, but full, large-featured face; he came probably of a healthy race. Kallem was sufficiently a doctor to be able to see at once why he was paralysed and blind. A quantity of engravings and photographs from Spain, hanging on the walls, gave him the idea that it was probably there he had received as a gift what that most gallant people distribute with such hospitality.

"Won't you sit down?" he said, at last. His healthy side brisked up as he turned and looked toward a door to the left: "Ragni!" he called. Nobody answered and nobody came. His voice, as well as his seeming indifference and stolid quiet, seemed to make the silence duller. Kallem sat there and looked about him. Were those children's toys? It seemed to him surely he heard children's voices? Were there children here?

"Ragni!" repeated he once more, slowly. Then, more gently: "Perhaps they are in the kitchen busy with the dinner."

Again the same dull, heavy silence; the sound of bells from the street broke through it for a moment, but only to make it all the more evident afterward. The furniture was too heavy and dark for a small Norwegian room in winter; and it was faded and worn. The engravings and photographs were in large frames, which, however, did not fit very well, so that both dust and damp had got in and spoilt the paper. The children's toys and a piano were the most noticeable things; the piano seemed to be perfectly new and by one of the best Parisian makers, it was certainly a concert-grand. "Your wife plays so beautifully?"

"Yes."

Kallem knew that she had devoted herself to the study of music since she was a child, and just to find something to talk about he took up the subject. "She has studied at the conservatoire in Berlin?"

"Yes."

There was a noise of chairs being pushed about in the room to the right, the one adjoining the corner room. Kallem then took that up as a subject for conversation. "I hear I am to have a neighbor in the corner room?"

"Yes."

"A relation of yours, I believe?"

"Yes, an aunt."

Again Sören Kule looked to the left, and called out in an indifferent sort of way: "Ragni!" Nobody answered and nobody came. "I fancied I heard a door open outside," he said, as though apologizing for having called. Kallem got up then and said good-by.

A few days afterward he gave Rendalen an amusing description of his visit. Rendalen laughed; he had not often been there himself; but had heard much about Sören Kule. He declared the fellow might go to the devil for him, he would rather not talk about him at all; he sat down to the piano and began to play.

A few days later, who should Kallem meet in the entrance but his brother-in-law in spe, Mr. Ole Tuft, now candidate in theology, come to town to pass his so-called practical examination.

Grand meeting and recognition! The one had no idea of the change of lodgings that had taken place, nor the other that Ole Tuft had come to town. Kallem begged him to go in with him, and heard then that Tuft was there for the first time; the landlord's aunt had moved in yesterday, and it was her Ole had been visiting. Edward Kallem understood at once what community she belonged to, and he changed the subject. He asked further whether he knew Sören Kule? No, only through hearing of him from his aunt; all the family were from the Norland. Then who was Sören Kule? He was a well-to-do fish-dealer who became blind and partially paralysed; was obliged to sell his business and had bought this house in Christiania to make a living by it and by other things as well. They had several relations in town, and had only been there since October. Did Ole Tuft know what had caused his paralysis and blindness? No. Kallem told him there could hardly be a doubt on the matter. Ole Tuft was quite shocked.

"How could he dare marry then? And twice."

"Has he been married twice?"

"Yes, he married a second time about six months or a year ago--his late wife's sister."

"Then the children are by the first wife?"

"Yes. But the present wife is hardly more than a child herself; just fancy, she is eighteen and has been married nearly a year!"

"Was he like this when he married again?"

"No, I think not. He was in ill-health but not so bad as now. There are not many who can understand how it came about?"

"Have you seen her?"

"No, but my aunt says she is a delicate little creature, and very musical. She has played in public."

"Indeed, up in the north?"

"They are said to be so very critical up there." Then he began again on the subject of the marriage. "The parents probably arranged it for the children's sake."

Kallem very nearly answered, "Then, of course, they are clergy folk;" but he recollected in time. He only said: "One can't accuse her of being too particular."

They conversed a little on indifferent subjects; no mention was made of Josephine. Shortly after Ole went in to find his aunt, whom he had come to call upon. As it happened Kallem was at home that forenoon and he heard the landlord's wife play. She began with scales and scales and still more scales; but then came a piece so wonderfully well executed that he set his door ajar so as to hear better. Her playing was more like singing. How in all the world could a woman young like she, and full of artistic and lyric feeling, marry such a mass of corruption? Here was a problem which he would have had Rendalen solve, but Rendalen knew nothing. However, he was in good spirits that day, spoke in raptures about her playing; there was not so much power in it but it was full of song, and a poetical charm of coloring which was unequalled. He could play a Russian piece of her's, "after a fashion" he added; he played it perfectly. Kallem wanted to know something about her appearance.

"She looks--stupid!" cried he. "God forgive me for saying it--stupid! Her forehead might possibly save her, but she hides it entirely with her hair. I said so to her; 'Up with your hair,' said I. Her eyes, too, might save her. But never in my life have I seen anyone so shy about her eyes."

"Has she good eyes?"

"Good heavens, her eyes are of the many-voiced kind! Some eyes sing as it were in unison or at the most for two voices; but some there are that send forth chords of bright harmony. If she looks up when she is playing you will feel it! But generally her eyes are on a level with the feet of the table, or piercing holes in the corners, or setting the stove alight. Sometimes, though, they dash up high along the walls like a rat that cannot escape!" He was amused at his own description and began to play a Halling.[^[2]] "Wonderful that such a musical nature can--come, we must not be sentimental, old fellow!" He intended going to the theatre and took Kallem with him.

A week passed and still Kallem had not seen her, although he had tried what he could to bring it about. But he was out at a dance one night--the son of the house was a fellow-student of his--the latter came up to him whilst a "tour d'inclination" was going on, bringing two ladies with him, and asked Kallem whether he would choose the "kernel of a nut" or a "dog-rose?" This was not particularly clever, but he chose the "dog-rose." This "dog-rose" had a musical forehead and prettily arched eyebrows; otherwise she was silent and insignificant. Rather tall, with sloping shoulders, pretty arms, not actually fat but well-shaped; the same might be said of her whole person. She danced well, but seemed as if she wished to get away from him as quickly as possible; he brought her back to her place without her having so much as looked at him. He was much surprised therefore when she came and fetched him out in the next "tour." Probably she only knew very few people and those few were very likely engaged. She looked about her shyly and then came forward with timid steps and curtsied; still she did not look up, she seemed positively afraid, and so it struck him he would be kind and sit down beside her. But whatever he said to her she never answered anything but "yes," "no," "indeed," "perhaps," which soon proved too much of a good thing for so-much-sought-after a cavalier as he; so he left her. Again he was offered his choice between the "nut-kernel" which he had despised and a "bon-bon," and this time he chose the "nut-kernel." He liked her much better; she was a lively, round, little thing, and spoke with a mixture of Norland and Bergen accent. He soon learned that her father was a native of Bergen, but was now a clergyman in the Norland district. She was staying here in town with her sister, and very often went to balls; for they had so many relations--her voice rose and fell in true Norland fashion; but unfortunately she would soon have to be going home again; they were nervous about her up there in the north; nor did the old parents like to be left alone. Of course Kallem did the polite and pretended to be highly amused; they became such good friends that-- She told him with a great flow of words how she had come to town so as to help her sister to get settled; her sister was not at all practical, which she was; she could do nothing but play the piano, that sister of hers; she had been accustomed to it since her childhood, and had studied two years in Berlin. Then Kallem became all attention, and it turned out that her sister was the partner he had danced with first and had thought so tiresome; his landlady, Fru Ragni Kule! The "nut-kernel," it must be observed, was not her real sister; they were children of different marriages. And the "nut-kernel" was not the eldest, as he had imagined; on the contrary, her sister was nearly nineteen, and she was a little more than seventeen.

Immediately he went and danced with Fru Kule, and remarked with much surprise that she was his landlady. Was she aware of that? Was that why she had chosen him to dance with before? She felt as if she were taken in the act of committing a crime, but could think of no excuse to make. "But why did you not tell me who you were?" continued he, insisting.

She felt still more overwhelmed by this fresh sin of having kept silence, and could not possibly get out a word. Then he said, rather rudely and impatiently:

"Perhaps you have some difficulty in speaking?"

She turned very pale; there was something unspeakably unhappy in her startled look. His rudeness was the natural consequence of his contempt for anyone who could lower themselves by such a marriage as hers was. But his sympathy was so thoroughly aroused by her pallor and helplessness that he hastened to say: "To be sure, I know that you possess the gift of a language which is easier for you than for most people--" and so he talked on in an easy, natural way about her music, made her sit down, told her that he had heard her play, and that Rendalen was such a competent judge; he turned the conversation upon all the world-renowned artists he had ever heard, and succeeded in making her join in; of course she had heard so many of them. By degrees she gained so much confidence that she even ventured to ask after Rendalen; she had not seen him at all since he had moved. He was all right, and then he described all Rendalen's peculiarities till she was obliged to laugh. She did not look "stupid" when she laughed, far from it. For a moment, too, there was a gleam in the eyes as of "many rays."

"Why did Rendalen move?" asked she, and there was something of the singing Norland accent in her voice too, but less that in her sister's. It was rather a weak voice, but at the same time so very sweet. He answered her with a question. But no, she knew nothing; and then she looked full at him; those were eyes! "Was it about the room?"

"About the room?" repeated he.

"Yes, I mean when he heard that my aunt wanted to live here--my husband's aunt," she added, correcting herself, and suddenly she became shy again.

"Had they given him notice to leave?"

"No, certainly not."

"Then he could not possibly be offended."

She quite agreed to that too. But Rendalen had never even been to say good-by. She never quite got rid of her shyness; it suited her though, as sometimes a veil can suit a face.

"Did you see much of his mother?"

"Yes," said she, and smiled.

"Why do you smile?"

"Well, perhaps it is hardly right of me, but she was so like a man." She was ashamed after she had said this, and would gladly have taken back her words; she had only meant that she was such a clever woman. But Kallem began joking her about it; she was forced to laugh again, and, as before said it was sweet to see and hear her laugh. "You see you can talk!" She glanced up at him; was he making fun of her? Suddenly he remembered that Rendalen had told her she ought to wear her hair off her forehead, and it was off this evening! Oh-ho!

She was really very pretty! To think of his not having found it out at once! And to think that others had not seen it and spoken about it. It was true that her face was undeveloped and child-like, and the slender figure rather too thin. Her forehead was lovely; the eyebrows were delicately arched, but they were fair and not strongly marked. There was a difficulty in getting a look at the eyes; but now he knew that they were so confiding in all their gray-blue shyness, and they spoke volumes. Cheeks, chin, and mouth were soft and undecided; the latter always slightly open; it was short, too, which made it so "sweet." The nose was nothing much, but it was slightly crooked. Her hair was not very thick, but it had a pretty reddish shade in it. But her complexion! It was so dazzingly white one could not take one's eyes from it once one had found it out; but the thing was, one did not notice it unless the colour of the dress helped one or the light was dim; she wore no ornaments, not even a bracelet. The wrists were such as would belong to long, narrow hands, which he would have liked to see. "So you love music more than anything else?"

"Yes," answered she, "it is all that I can do." She looked down. He wondered what there was he might question her on that would not make her feel ashamed. But he had better have a care--there he sat falling in love as fast as he could. Unfortunately he was obliged to leave her to go and dance with, and talk to, others. As soon as he left her it was as though he would never find her again; she seemed to become invisible. He came back to her as soon as he could for propriety's sake. She evidently did not object; she was a little more confiding, even looked at him once or twice and smiled right up into his eyes. Fancy that! It was more than Rendalen could have aspired to. His falling in love began through her being so shy, and increased as she became more confiding. He asked if he might be allowed to see the ladies home. Surely he had a better right to it than anyone else as she was his landlady. She accepted his offer at once; she never hesitated. It was true, she said, that her nephew, the young man who had first offered Kallem the choice between a "nut-kernel" and a "dog-rose" was going with them too, but that they could both come.

"Yes, of course we can!" said he gaily, thinking secretly that the nephew should take charge of the "nut-kernel."

It was a thick, dark evening, the snow falling slightly. The star-like snow-flakes floated slowly and singly down as though each one had its own place and was bent on a special errand; not a breath of wind came to disturb them. Both ladies were well wrapped up and had Laplander shoes on. The music and dancing were still in full swing when they met, and there was much merry laughter among all the young people on the stairs and in the corridors; outside was the noise of bells from the sledges come to fetch the guests. The "nephew," being the host of the evening, could not leave so early; but he found someone to take his place; this other young man gave his arm to his lady, and they set off down hill at a run; but when Kallem would have done the same his young landlady was frightened and clung to him, as she was forced along running, and begged and implored him not to do it. It was just as though she did not see properly. He stopped and asked if that were the case. No; but she was so terribly afraid of falling.

"You seem to be nervous and timid altogether."

"Yes, I know I am," said she, truthfully. She was sweet enough, but in reality a bit of a prude. Then they walked on for a while in silence; they could see nothing of the other two. Bah! thought he, there is no use being offended, I suppose she can't help it. "It is not one o'clock yet," said he.

"No, but the youngest child is not very well; the servant is sitting up with her, but she has to get up early to-morrow morning." The North-country sing-song in her voice seemed to carry him far away out to sea.

"I miss the open sea so much now in the winter," said he; "here everything is ice-bound. I suppose it is always so in the West."

She told him that when she was at Berlin, and particularly after she had been playing, she could almost hear the sea at times. "But is it not a delightful thing that the sea always freshens one up when one is near it, and makes one melancholy when one thinks of it?" Just then something came driving past them at great speed; they had to get out of the way and she pulled him with her to the extreme edge of the road, as three sledges, one after the other, dashed past them at a terrific rate.

They continued their walk, listening to the sleigh bells as they died away in the distance; again there was that complete silence necessary to attract attention to the falling snow-flakes.

"One ought really never to talk whilst snow is falling," said she.

Then the other two waited for them and the conversation was kept up for a time by the "nut-kernel" and the two gentlemen, till they came to a hill which the first couple took at full speed. By and by they saw them again through the veil of snow, but could hear nothing of them. But as the street became more inhabited, and the traffic greater, the couples kept closer together, and there was an end to all that had been amusing in their walk.

After that evening his impression of her seemed like a part of nature's scenery; she was blended with the starry snow-flakes; never had he met or seen anything so white and so pure. All that she had said about the sea and the falling snow was full of musical imagination; at last her whole person was enveloped in a sort of dim haze. As each of these pearls of first impressions rose up from the depths of his soul, his every sense seemed to be enamoured. He seemed to feel her presence in all the rooms; he started every time a door was opened; and if there came a soft footstep along the passage he thought it was hers; he felt it through his whole being. He was really rather afraid of meeting her again, in case the picture should lose its charm. And that was exactly what happened. Five or six days after, as he was coming out of the university, he met her with her sister and two little children; the street was crowded, so he neither saw nor recognized them till they were quite close. He bowed; the "nut-kernel" smiled and returned his bow, but her sister blushed very red and forgot to bow: at that moment she looked anything but clever. He stopped to thank them for the pleasant evening they had spent together, and began talking to the one sister; the other bent down to the children--two sweet little girls, dressed out like dolls, one about three, the other four years old. He invited them into a confectioner's for refreshments; the offer was accepted after a good deal of hesitation; but the married sister never raised her eyes, and he could hardly induce her to sit down. Out of pure shyness and uneasiness she worried the children so that they became impatient. He offered them cakes and wine; but she could not make up her mind what she would have, and at last allowed her sister to choose. Her face was framed in by a bonnet with silk flaps; the forehead quite disappeared, and her face became round and insignificant; her figure was concealed by clothes which were all much too large for her (he heard later that they had belonged to her late sister). It was only when he began to notice the children--he had a wonderful gift that way, for he was fond of children--that they really made friends again; it happened down on the floor, too, because the youngest child had made a terrible mess of itself with a cake full of whipped cream, which the mother had most injudiciously chosen for it. There they were now, both drying the child with their pocket-handkerchiefs, and the mother thanking him over and over again, with a guilty feeling that it had been her fault. The child, who so blissfully had made itself in such a mess, asked for more cake of the same kind and would not be content with any other; and Kallem (though he knew it was not good for the child to have so much) readily agreed to it; but he took the child on his lap, asked for a napkin, and watched carefully over it until the last bite had disappeared. She stood by humbly taking a lesson. Then the child asked for another cake, to which Kallem also agreed. Then the eldest of the two, who had patiently been watching her sister eat her cakes, now ventured to ask for one; so he took her up on his other knee and fed them both. Everybody enjoyed themselves thoroughly while this important business was going on; even Fru Kule joined in the laugh. And as before said, when she laughed she was very "sweet." The three grown-up ones drank each another glass of wine, and as they walked home Kallem carried the youngest child in his arms. He became fast friends with the little thing; her stepmother was more courageous after she had had her wine, and said: "Is she not a dear wee thing, my little Juanita?" She stretched her hand up to the child, who took it in her thick little glove, and kept tight hold of it as they walked along.

He carried the little one up-stairs, and was careful to show her where his room was, and invited them both to come and pay him a visit the next day, which was Sunday. Directly after his dinner he went out and bought some oranges, apples, figs, and other dried fruits, so as to have something for them when they came.

"Is she not a dear wee thing, my little Juanita?" This sentence, with a little of her north-country sing-song in it, he set to music and went about humming it every time he thought of her. Her voice, her eyes looking up at the child, and her hand stretched out to it, were all part of the melody! "Is she not a dear wee thing, my little Juanita?" became the refrain of his life; he taught it to Rendalen, too; they greeted each other with it when they met at the gymnasium in the evenings. But Edward Kallem kept to himself the notion he had that she had been so shy because she had met him again--perhaps because it was broad daylight. He mentioned, too, that she looked so funny in the clothes that were so much too large for her; they seemed to have been made for a young, growing girl; but he never said a word about how uneasy she had grown when he looked at her in the confectioner's shop.

The children often came to see him; he gave them oranges and candied fruit, and walked on his hands and jumped over the chairs, and they were all tremendously happy. But the servant spoilt everything; he could distinctly read the following in her smile: "You are a rogue! You are doing all this for their mother's sake."

He was coward enough to tell her that the children were not to come to him for a while. It cut him to the heart as he sat there the following evening and heard how the eldest one opened the door to the passage to run in to him, but was caught and carried back crying. He rang for the servant and told her to give the children the remains of what he had bought for them. She took the things from him but said: "Is it not too much?" and looked at him with a cunning smile; he could have beaten her. But then he thought to himself, "If she suspects me no matter what I do, then the children may just as well come!" And the next evening he fetched them in himself from the kitchen.

One day he met her sister, who was going out. She nodded brightly to him and said: "Thanks for our last treat! Fancy," she added, "in a few days I am going away."

Then he suggested that it would be quite the correct thing for them to go and have a little farewell feast at the confectioner's. She agreed with him, and they settled that they would all meet the next day, the children too, and have it all over again just like the last time. And so they did. Fru Kule was not quite so shy as the other day, Kallem himself was in the best of spirits, and the children were uproarious. He was full of the wildest, maddest love fancies as they went merrily home he dancing along with Juanita on his head, and teaching the sisters to sing, "Is she not a dear wee thing, my little Juanita?"

He was at the railway station the day the sister was to leave. Several of their relations and friends were there to say good-bye. Both the sisters were very unhappy; the one to be left behind perhaps the most so; she wept unceasingly, even after the train had gone. For a moment he thought of going away and leaving the relations alone together, but she said: "Oh, no, don't go!" And yet there was no reason for her wishing him to stay; she walked home beside him and the others, crying all the way; and when the others left them and went their own way, and he and she stood before their door, she could find nothing to say, but just went on up-stairs. On the stairs he asked her if she and the children would like to go for a drive; it might cheer her up a little. She only shook her head. "Tomorrow perhaps?" asked he, respectfully, as he opened the door for her. She went in, but came back to say, "Thank you, to-morrow!" gave him her hand and a look from her dear eyes full of tears.

He fancied he could tell from her deep distress that she must feel lonely. Not perhaps in everyday life, because her imagination kept her time occupied; but when anything out of the common happened, rousing her and awakening her from her dreams, then she would look around and see that she was forsaken.

The next day he took her and the children out in a sledge and drove them himself. After the drive he went in to see Kule, who thanked him in his heavy sort of way for being so kind to the children. They showed Kallem all their toys, and Kule asked his wife to play a piece when the children were sent away; he sat himself, smoking a long pipe, which his wife usually had to fill for him; Kallem had done it now in her stead. Kallem saw then, for the first time, a stout kitchen-maid, an elderly, masculine-looking woman, who sang in a northern dialect, like birds shrieking over the sea. She was both cook and Kule's attendant. Apparently the wife was allowed entire liberty in whatever concerned herself, that is to say, the children and her music. At this moment she was playing that same piece by the Russian composer which he had heard from his own room, and perhaps better. Not because he was particularly attentive; he was looking at her. The upper part of the face now flashing down over the keys and music was very different to how he knew it; probably it was like this Rendalen had seen her. How much she would have to go through before the lower part of the face was equally developed? A few days ago he had had a letter from a cousin who lived at Madison, in Wisconsin; he had been made professor at the university there, and his wife, a Norwegian lady, studied under him. Something of the kind would be necessary to bring life and shape into these dull cheeks and weak chin, that vacillating mouth with the cracked lips. But how touching it was to see all this child-like dependence. Close by he saw the husband's huge hands resting on the arm of his chair--he lay back in the chair like a dead river-god in breeches. Whilst she was playing, the door to the right was opened, and in came the third supernatural, north-country being, an old lady with white hair, a large round face, and horn spectacles; this was the aunt, she was taller than Kallem, and stout in proportion to her height. The young wife moved about amongst them like a pleasure-yacht among Atlantic steamers laden to sinking-point. She looked upon Kallem now as an intimate friend, although she had probably not confided in him at all; but their mutual youth sought to conspire against all that was a hindrance and hard to bear. In his love for her he grew impatient, longing to set her free; the thought that he could not do it made the air of the room seem quite oppressive. It distressed him greatly, this incomprehensible connection.

The impressions he received from this visit disturbed him in his studies for his examination, which, until that day, had been very regular.

He formed the wildest of plans, even wrote over to his cousins in America, and asked if they could receive a young lady to live with them. He confided in Rendalen, who at first protested angrily; but at last Kallem convinced him. Her feeling of individual responsibility ought to be aroused, she ought to be shown the dangers of continuing her present life; above all, she ought to be sent away, far away, where she would have freedom of thought and liberty to develop.... Kallem gained more and more assurance, and his love grew stronger from all this self-imposed solicitude. Each time he met her, however short were the meetings, even though he only bowed to her on the street or in the corridor, strengthened him in the conviction that she was his, and his only, and must be set free!

This was before he had said a word to her about it.

Often before had he been in love, and often had pretended without its being the real thing; but now he had a longing to save, and then re-form, all that was so pure yet so undeveloped, so talented and yet so forlorn, it lay in his disposition, this desire, and he gave himself up to it with all his soul. She, for her part, lost somewhat of her shyness each time they met; it seemed as though he really were a comfort to her after her sister left; indeed, unless he were much mistaken, he was even more than that. At all events, there was one unmistakable sign; he had told her that he stayed at home in the evenings on purpose to hear her play, and that he left his door ajar the better to hear; now she played every evening and often for a long time.

When he met her out with the children, and took them to the confectioner's, he had the greatest desire to speak out; but her manner prevented it. It was her trustful innocence that was the principal hindrance, and he dared not startle her. All the energy in him drove him to action; but his love for her lent itself to her wish for a poetical pastime where love might not be mentioned, although everything was symbolical of it. There was a charm about their intercourse the like of which he had never experienced.

On a certain evening, once every week, she took part in a private concert, or something of the kind, at the house of some of her husband's relations, the same house, in fact, where she had gone to that dance. Kallem made his way in to these evenings, through his fellow-student, her nephew. Of course he went there solely and entirely so as to be able to walk home with her at night. At this time the snow was gone and the streets were full of ice. When he told her that he was going to be there, too, and would be allowed to see her home (at which she was very pleased), it was an understood thing that he always had either a sledge or carriage for her.

They were about to start for home after a long evening when there had been a great deal too much music for those small rooms; she hastened to get on her wraps and get away. Here he took her arm. "It is fortunate," said he, "that the moon is just up." She thought they would have got into one of the sledges that stood waiting there, or into a carriage that just then drove up; she gave a little scream, as it was quite smooth ice just by the door, yet she went on bravely. Meanwhile they passed by one sledge after the other, and the carriage, too. None seemed to be theirs. "Are we not going to drive?" asked she. The rogue laughed; it was he who had planned this walk. She tried to hide her disappointment; but, after a few vain efforts, begged to be allowed to drive. Then he recollected how frightened she had been that first time; his conscience pricked him, and he declared they would go to the very first stand, which was not far off. The road was not so very slippery, but it was steep; she clung to his arm, staring nervously before her, with an occasional little scream. Matters did not mend as they advanced, for at times the whole road was covered with ice, though there were always one or two safe spots. He rather lost courage; especially as he no longer heard her little screams. He had never seen anyone so frightened before. As a matter of course, they made their way slowly, step by step, with many and long pauses.

Some of the gardens and fields round about them were bare, and some were covered with snow and ice; it was to these she tried to make her way; but he showed her that the way was stopped either by a house or a garden; it was not like in the country. The fields looked broken up, the sky, too, for long, narrow, cloudlets were floating through the dark-blue atmosphere above, exactly like ice down below here with gaps between. The moon seemed to be racing after the cloudlets at full speed, trying to overtake them, pass through and hurry still farther on; there must be a perfect hurricane up above; down below all was quiet. Kallem's mistake made him feel both uneasy and unhappy. The unsteady light there was over the whole of nature, with its scattered colouring only increased this feeling; surely something would go wrong. And never did that feeling come over him without its bringing back to his remembrance that night of terror from his childhood, with all its consequences. Was this to follow him all through life, this terrifying forewarning of his own wrong-doings? He was greatly excited; for she must not be allowed to fall. If it had not been for her timidity he would have gone down the hills in a merry, sliding dance; now her being frightened made him frightened too. Each slippery place became a real danger, from which he was only saved by passing on to a fresh one; they neither looked at each other nor did they utter a word, they were impatient and afraid. They were several minutes in doing what otherwise would have taken a few seconds; the one secretly blamed the other, struggling on as though for dear life. There was just an occasional gasping, "Good heavens!" or "Take care here!" or a despairing "No, no, it's no use!" and then a "Try again! Come along!"--at last not even that. She might groan and lament, almost cry, he no longer answered her. She was so taken up by her own fright that she never noticed the change.

But at last they saw salvation in front of them, namely, high houses on each side which had kept off the sun and prevented the snow melting. The question was now to get thus far; the stand was close by. At last they succeeded. She stopped and drew breath and tried to laugh, but without success. "Let us wait a little," she said, and drew a long breath again. They turned and looked on either side; farther away they heard sleigh bells and listened. "I hope the last horse has not left the stand," said she; "it is late." She took his arm and they walked on. The road was not quite all; right here either; the snow was trodden down hard, but there had been sand strewn on the pavement; they walked quicker, and by degrees with greater assurance. "Thank God!" said she, as much relieved as though she had come out of a sea of ice. Hardly had she said the words before down she fell. They had come to a deceptive place where there had been water, which was now frozen and covered with hoar frost. She slipped, and up against one of his feet, so that he too slipped and fell--the one on top of the other. He swore a tremendous oath in the fulness of his heart, and sprang to his feet again in order to help her; but she lay there immovable with closed eyes.

He turned like ice. Was it concussion of the brain? He laid her on his knee, pulled off his right-hand glove with his teeth, and then untied the strings under' her chin. Her arms hung loosely down, her face was pale as death, he opened her cloak, he wanted to give her air. Then she moved. "Ragni!" whispered he; "Ragni!" and bent down still nearer to her. "Dear, darling Ragni! Forgive me!" She opened her eyes. "Do you hear? Can you forgive me?" The colour came back to her cheeks, her hand went up to her cloak, which was unfastened; then she must have felt it, she had only been dazed with fright. He could no longer control his joy, he pressed her head to him and kissed her one, two, three times. "Oh, how I love you!" whispered he, and kissed her again. He felt she wanted to move, so he got up at once and helped her up as well. But she was not able to stand alone, and nearly fell, so he supported her to the garden railing just in front of the house; she caught hold of it and leaned against it as if she could not bear her own weight. He let go his hold of her to see if she could stand without help, which she was able to do. "I'll run for a sledge," said he, and away he went. As he ran along he bethought himself that he might have done that at once and all would have been avoided. But would he be able to get a sledge? If not there, he would run on farther. If only she could stand and nobody go by.... He ran and he flew, and when he saw a horse and sledge standing there, he jumped in, and would have had the coachman drive off at the top of his speed without knowing where he was to go to. When that was rectified and the sledge had started, he realized what he had said and done as he held her in his arms! He had felt it all along, though it had only been as it were in soft and gentle tones, now it burst out into full, rich melody.

"Drive on, faster! She is standing over there to the right. We fell down, and she hurt herself. There she is!" He jumped out and hurried up to her, while the coachman turned and drove the sledge close up to them. She was still leaning against the railing, half sideways; she had fastened her cloak again and drawn down her veil. She gave him her hand when he came, that she might have support; he took it, put his other hand on her waist so as to guide her in front of him; he did not wish to risk being upset again. There was no further accident, he put her in the sledge, wrapped her up carefully, paid the coachman and told him where to go. She begged him not to drive with her; she never said good-bye; never looked up. They drove off.

At once he felt--now she was leaving him. Nothing annoys a sensible man more than his own stupidity and want of control. He wandered about the streets that night by the hour, and sneaked home like a beaten hound. He dared not inquire of the servant next morning, but in the evening she told him, unasked, that her mistress had not been well; she had been sick and was still in bed, but was rather better. Marie's conscious smile put him into a towering passion. And she had the impudence, too, to examine his face closely. All the same, he was obliged to go and inquire the next day; her mistress was up and quite well again. But neither that day nor the next did he get a glimpse of her, or hear a sound from any of the children. Neither did she play in the evening, he made an excuse to stay at home and listen. Neither she nor the children passed that way when they were going out; they went down the back-stairs. He never met her. She chose new ways and roads.

Until then his love had been a secret happiness full of many plans. But now he had used violence and broken into the sanctuary, and his bright days and healthy nights gave way to ceaseless dreaming and useless ponderings. He went through all that happened, and each time with self-torturing pangs. He despised himself, allowed himself to be led into all sorts of dissipation and then despised himself all the more. From the moment he had touched her lips and had offended her ears there was, as it were, a veil drawn across her image; he no longer saw the pure, dove-like whiteness, borne in all its charms and helplessness by music; he only saw one he longed for. But his was a healthy nature and he had a strong sense of the comic side of things; he would not let himself be eaten up by this self-torture and stupid longing; he would move away immediately and would do it under pretence that he was going to travel. In that way he thought to overcome all difficulties as he would leap over a fence of split sticks. He could not bear her having closed her door to him; he could not even bear the servant's impertinent smile.

He was struck now by so much in this moving of his which was like the time when Rendalen had moved. He had not borne it one single day, either! Surely it could never have been for the same reason? He laughed aloud; of course it must be exactly the same thing that had happened to him!

Rendalen's mother had been in town and had lived there; at that time Ragni had been with them a great deal; Rendalen and she had played duets together. They kept this up after his mother had left, and it was always on his piano; he knew that for certain.... This seemed to him a most humiliating coincidence.

Kallem knew no higher or nobler nature than Rendalen's; he would never have allowed himself any liberties. But that she could succeed in so completely disturbing his peace of mind that he had been obliged to move? There must be something strange in her thus to unsettle them. He excused himself in this way, but what was worse was that he felt an ever-increasing temptation. The same evening he said to Marie that he was going to leave either the next day or the day after, he was not sure which it would be; but she was to ask for his bill--as a matter of course, he would pay for the whole quarter. The girl looked at him, she guessed the hidden meaning at once; did she enjoy it or had she something to tell? In her usual modest way, she asked if he wanted his bill at once? No, he did not.

He did not leave the day following, but put it off till the next day. He meant to go away for a few days, but would first take lodgings somewhere and move all his possessions. He went out in the afternoon and found rooms, but quite in another part of the town. Then he speculated a little as to what reasons he should give for his moving--particularly to Rendalen; he came to the conclusion that he would tell him the whole truth; to others he would merely say that he had been disturbed in various ways at his old lodgings, which was the truth. He went home again about five o'clock, and in through the bedroom door, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, went into the next room and lay down on the sofa, where he fell fast asleep--he needed the rest. At seven o'clock the servant came in and lit the stove without his noticing it. He woke up a little later and heard the fire crackling and saw the light; he understood from that, that it must be past seven o'clock. His thoughts flew at once to her who was so near in those other rooms. He had a secret hope that, when she knew he was going away, he would be allowed to hear her play once more. So far he had been disappointed in this; but he could not give up his belief that his departure would trouble her. He lay on the sofa listening. Could he go and say good-bye to her just as if nothing had happened? Should he light his lamp? Should he go out again? He raised himself up and stared at the fire in the stove. Then he heard a door in the passage open, and voices--a couple of women's voices, with a strong north-country accent; from that he concluded that some newly arrived relations had been calling and were being escorted to the door; he heard the aunt's slow, drawling voice; he heard, too, a man's voice--was it Ole Tuft? But he could not hear her voice, the voice he was listening for. There were good-byes all round and the door was shut; then came the aunt's voice again, then Ole Tuft's, it really was his voice--he had evidently arrived just as the others were leaving; they went into the aunt's room and shut the door after them, at the same time a door was shut a little further away. Again there was a ring; again a door opened and out came--both the children, shouting with joy; they had seized the occasion to try and run into Kallem, but they were not allowed, so there was a chase after them down the corridor amid much laughter; they were captured and a door shut upon them; at the same moment, the entrance door was opened; one of those north-country ladies had forgotten her galoshes, and now he could hear Ragni's voice offering to fetch a light, as it was quite dark; but the offer was refused in the usual singsong style. Her galoshes were close by the door; but she could not get them on easily, they were so new! At last! Now they were on! Again was heard "Good-bye, good-bye!" and then the answer, "Very welcome on Friday?" This last was Ragni's voice. Did he deceive himself--or was it not just like the voice of one who feels danger is near? It did not sound like her voice. Did she speak of him perhaps against her will? Up he jumped, and was at the door before she had shut the outer one. Should he? He listened for some sign. He did not hear her go; perhaps she was still standing outside. His heart beat fast and loud, but his hand felt softly for the door-handle--he opened it noiselessly. To him who had been staring at the fire in his stove, the passage seemed pitch-dark. He put out his hands to feel for the door and got hold of the latch; he groped his way still further, but no one was there. Could she have gone out with the last visitor? But no, he heard her say good-bye and remind the others about Friday. How was it he had not heard her go? He never heard the inner door open again. She must be in the passage.

His heart beat so that he could almost hear it; but he was impelled onward. Then his hand touched some clothes; he turned to ice! but he came to his senses directly, for the garments were cold and empty. Some one was heard coughing and spitting in one of the rooms, it was Kate; then the children were heard talking in the kitchen or dining-room. He stood still, like any criminal, when he heard these accustomed every-day sounds. He ought never to have embarked on this proceeding. He heard the aunt's droning questions and Ole's clear answers; that is to say, he heard their voices, but not what they said. Was Ragni in the passage? She might have been looking for something and have stopped in her fright at seeing him. If he went on, he might startle her so that she might rush up to any door and open it. There he would be then visible to all!

Still, she was too timid for that. He advanced a few steps. He was in slippers, so his steps were hardly audible; but he hoped that she was not there. The children were talking in the room at the end of the passage; he could hear them so distinctly now the nearer he came; he seemed to see them kneeling each on her chair and building houses at the table. He was ashamed of himself; what business had he there? But though he asked himself that question, he went on all the same; he went from one side to the other, touching first a cloak, then a shawl, then the panel of a door, then one of the coloured passage windows, which he could just distinguish. A carriage rattled past; soon after there came a sound of sleigh-bells dying away in the distance; in this kind of half-thaw both carriages and sledges were used. Something fell down in the kitchen; Kate began to cough again; how long time must seem to him! probably he never used lights? Surely the door between the children's room and the kitchen was open, for they ran in there to find out what had fallen down; he heard the north-country servant answer with lazy good-nature; it was a wooden dish that fell, it tumbled out of the rack. Still he went on. If Ragni were there she must be in the extreme corner. How frightened she must be by this time! What must she think of him? Were he to turn back now, he would look like an unsuccessful thief. It was a little lighter by the window, but no further; no light came either from under or over the doors, not even through the keyholes, or from the children's room. Could she be standing there? He fancied he must see her were she there.

Perhaps she had gone from the passage in to see her aunt? Close by his own door? Or she might have left the door of Kate's or the children's room open when she went out, and have shut it again just as he opened his. Could she be sitting there dreaming? He felt sure of it; but that was because he wished it to be so. But still he went forward. At last close up to the door he could hear the children in their room and the servant bustling about in the kitchen to the left. He turned round and felt much relieved. He walked back much faster, keeping his hands in front of him; suddenly he took hold of a warm, firm arm. He shivered and trembled, sparks seemed to flash from his eyes; he stopped abruptly. But the arm scarcely moved, so he regained courage. He let his arm glide slowly down from the arm and round the waist, which he cautiously encircled. It felt soft and pliable; she stood quite still but trembled a little. He gave a faint pressure. With his other hand he took hold of her hand and gently pressed it; it trembled too. He pressed it again--and step by step they moved slowly forward--without resistance, but still not quite willingly. He could just hear his own footsteps, but hers not at all; the children were talking quietly now. There was not a sound to be heard either in Kule's, or in the aunt's room; but in front of them was an open chink at his door. They arrived there; he pushed it open gently and would have led her in; but here she stopped and tried to draw away her hand. He heard her breathing and felt her breath, could just make out the pale face as he gently pushed her to the threshold, then over it, and closed the door behind them. Here he let go his hold of her so as to shut the door as quietly as possible. She stood with her back to him just as he left her; but with her face buried in her hands; when he came up to her she began to cry. He put his arm round her to draw her closer to him; and her crying turned to sobbing. She sobbed so bitterly and grievously that his blood was sobered and a fresh train of thought set in. Unresistingly she let him lead her to the sofa; she sobbed so despairingly that he felt he must have a light, as one would if anyone were taken ill. So he made haste to trim the lamp, remembered though that the blinds must first be pulled down, so he did that and then lit the lamp.

No one could weep like that who had not been for days and nights shut in with their grief. The very table she leaned on shook with her sobs.

Hundreds of times he had made fun of those lovers who in novels and plays go down upon their knees; but now he pushed the end of the table a little to one side and let himself sink on his knees before her like the humblest sinner. He was trying to see her face, but with both hands she held her handkerchief up before it. Her head, shoulders, and bosom heaved with her violent weeping, he felt each movement, and begged and implored her to forgive him! He had not been master of himself when he spoke those words to her that night on the ice. He loved her, they belonged to each other. "Oh, do not weep so!" he entreated, "I cannot bear it!" He took her hands in his and sat down on the sofa beside her, he laid her head on his shoulder and put his arms round her; he kissed her hair, he pressed her tear-stained cheek against his own; but she cried just as much in this position as in the former one. He wanted to give her some wine. No, ho no!--but it was really terrible this crying. Could it be because he had brought her in to his room? He had been longing so to see her that he could not resist it when he heard her in the passage. Surely she would not have him leave without saying good-by? Was he never to see her again? She shook her head, and disengaging herself from his grasp, laid her head down on the table and sobbed into her handkerchief, more piteously than ever. "Do you wish me to leave?" he asked; but she did not hear him. He allowed her to cry on; after some little time he bent down to her and said: "I will do all you wish me to do." Then she raised herself in all her tears from the table and threw herself in his arms. He folded both arms round her, and felt, as he held her in that close embrace, that she took it in a higher and nobler way than he did.

But someone was at the door and it was opened; it was the servant with his supper. In a great fright he took away his arms and stood up; but Ragni merely laid herself down on the table again and sobbed. Carefully the servant put down the tray on the vacant edge of the table, with equal care she moved the lamp a little and pushed the tray further in. She was red in the face and did not look at either of them; but she had the usual smile which seemed to say: I have been expecting this for long! And now Kallem fancied there was a quiet roguish delight in that smile, so very differently can one look at one and the same thing. She came in very quietly and went out equally so, and shut the door as gently as though he himself had done it.

"Good God! Ragni!" he exclaimed. She answered not a word, it seemed to her a trifling matter, engrossed as she was in her own grief. Again he took her and drew her close to him, then she said: "Oh, how unhappy I am!"--and that was really the only thing she said all the time she sat there. He could answer nothing but what would have sounded very stupid. He tried to say something and took refuge in caresses; but she got up and drew herself away--she wished to leave him. He felt he was not able to keep her any longer, but took her to the door. Before she opened it, she turned to him with a look of sorrowing devotion, like one in death-agony. He put out the lamp and she slipped out.

But just as she shut the door behind her, a faint ray of light fell on her, it came from the little recess that led into the aunt's room; at that very moment the door opened and her aunt stood before her--looking to Ragni's fevered imagination like a huge whale on two legs. Of course, the aunt had heard Ragni crying in her lodger's room, and had seen at a glance how to account for Ragni's strange manner the last few days. So she had kept guard outside her own door, and just as Ragni was leaving Kallem's room, she gave a push to her door, thereby causing the light to fall full on her. Her aunt put out her hand; that was as much as to say: "This way, my lady!" And Ragni obeyed, and her aunt let her pass in before her. She was not alone. There stood a sofa against the wall nearest to the room she had just quitted; a tall, fair man with a mild and gentle face rose up from the sofa-corner; it was Ole Tuft. It was he who had first heard her cry and had been outside their door. Ragni sank down onto a chair between the sofa and the door.

The next day she was in bed. But before Kallem went out he got a note from her in which she told him that her aunt had heard her crying in his room, and so had Tuft; he had also been at their door. There was nothing more in the note; but low down at the bottom of the page the almost illegible words: "Never more."

In the midst of all the fright which now came over him, too, Kallem thought those poor little words "never more" so eloquent, that they caused his eyes to fill with tears, but his heart to take fresh courage. Something must be done now! Her aunt and Ole Tuft had evidently been cross-questioning her. He had heard nothing of it, so it must either have been done very quietly or else not in that room at all. Poor, poor Ragni!

He was full of the greatest compassion, of furious indignation, of fear, revenge, boundless love, disappointment, rage!

He dressed himself and hurried out into the street. Where to? He would go to Ole Tuft; the confounded croaker meddling in his affairs! He was both spy and detective! What the devil did he want? What was his object? Was that walking in "the ways of God," that too? Peeping through key-holes and listening at doors? It was all in "the ways of God" that this fellow had stolen his handsome sister from him; was he now to rob him of his love? Why had he not gone direct to him? Why first tell the aunt?

He felt the greatest desire to go and maltreat him, to nearly half kill him. By heavens, he deserved it! He turned round really intending to go there; but then he seemed to see his sister's great eyes gazing steadfastly at him. It was no fancy; turn about as he would, on every side he was met by those clear eyes. He seemed even to feel her cheek resting against his like that last evening they were together. The end of it was that he walked past. But that brought him in the neighbourhood of his old lodgings, and he thought of Rendalen. He would go to him! He would not keep one item of the truth from him; it would be such happiness to unburden one's self. At a little distance from the door he saw someone coming out. Was it----? Ole Tuft! The scoundrel himself! ... Kallem's blood boiled; but Tuft went the other way and never saw his brother-in-law.

Kallem did not know Tuft at all as he was now. Had he done so, he would have understood that for him it was a question of saving two souls from perdition. He lived in a state of feverish sleeplessness for the sake of these two precious souls, and sought help; and allowed himself no peace or rest till he had accomplished his aim. He might have gone himself to Kallem, but it might have been dangerous, and certainly was useless. Other steps must be taken in this matter. If Kallem had had any inkling of this, instead of going to Rendalen, he would have followed Tuft home and have beaten him till he could not stand.

Fortunately, however, he suspected nothing and rang at Rendalen's door, full of all he was going to tell him. Rendalen opened the door himself at once; he was almost ready dressed to go out; he stood there with his hat on and his overcoat in his hand, well brushed and carefully got up. As soon as he saw Kallem, he lifted his head like a war-horse confronting the enemy. "You here?" he exclaimed. Kallem walked in quickly, highly astonished. Rendalen shut the door, locked it as well, and flung his hat and coat from him. "I was just getting ready to go to you!" he hissed out the words; he was quite pale through all his freckles, his thin lips tightly pressed together, his small gray eyes flashing. And now he clenched his broad, short hands, the hands of a giant, till they got quite white. His red hair stood on end and seemed to rival the eyes in flashing fire; the enormous bodily strength of the man made Kallem uneasy and alarmed. "What the devil is the matter?" The other answered in the greatest rage, though subdued: "Tuft has been here and told me everything. Ah, I see you turn pale." He came still closer to him: "She was the most innocent creature on earth--you villain!" His voice trembled.

"Oh, come now!" said Kallem, but he turned cold as ice. But the other had no longer any control over himself and interrupted: "You think I know nothing about such things? Why, it is common to every single individual! And do you know why I moved away from there? Do you imagine that I have less power and influence over anyone than you? You damned, cowardly villain!" He poured forth these words like wild shrieks out of his troubled spirit, and yet he spoke more quietly than he had previously done. Anger and scorn in such a degree is always infectious.

"Oh, don't you be jealous, man!" shouted Kallem. If a bucket full of blood had been poured over Rendalen, he could not have turned redder, and as suddenly turned white again. In vain he strove to speak, but not being able, he went straight at Kallem, piercing him with his eyes, so that they almost burnt him. He just managed to say: "I have the--the--the greatest wish to fight you!"

"Come on!" said Kallem, and put himself into position. Hardly had he thus mockingly challenged him, before Rendalen's right hand swung round in the air. Kallem stooped down and then rose unhurt, but kept on provoking him. Rendalen rushed at him again. Kallem nimbly jumped on one side. "Are you out of your senses?" shouted he, loudly.

Rendalen stood there just as if someone had seized him from behind and were holding him, and by degrees he seemed to lose all power. He stared in front of him stiff and pale, until at last, summoning all his strength of will to his aid, he succeeded in turning away and walked slowly to the window, placed himself in front of it, and stared vacantly out in the air. His breathing was so rapid that Kallem thought he would have had a fit. Kallem himself stood quite motionless; he was too angry to go near him. To him Rendalen was a mystery; a moment ago a prey to the most violent passion, and now half paralysed. Nothing was heard but the sound of his breathing; his face was unhappy--so utterly, miserably unhappy! What in the world was the meaning of it all? He looked at his companion, till all his old kindly feeling for him woke up again; and without further ado he went up to the window too and stood beside him. "You must not take it so much to heart," he said; "it is not so bad as you perhaps think." The other did not answer; perhaps he never heard it, he kept on looking out of the window as before. Or, perhaps he did not believe him, and thought he was scoffing. Then Kallem smiled, and his smile was unmistakable, it was good and genuine. Life and color seemed to come into Rendalen's face again; he turned his head. In joyful haste Kallem said: "Upon my soul, I have done her no harm, old fellow." Rendalen did not at once take in what he said; he could not turn it about in his mind so quickly; but when Kallem put his head closer to him and said: "Upon my honor I have not!" then Rendalen's heart rejoiced and he put his arms round him.

Overcome as they both were, there followed an exchange of confidences which was boundless. Rendalen heard how it had all come about, and how it was they came to love each other. It made a great impression on Rendalen, which he neither could nor would try to conceal. So Kallem asked him openly whether he too loved her? Again Rendalen turned pale and ill at ease, and Kallem felt unhappy at his own thoughtlessness; but it could not be rectified. The conversation came to a dead stop, and Rendalen's eyes avoided his. When, at last, he succeeded in shaping his answer, he said: "I am not at liberty to love anyone. That is why I moved."

Kallem felt this to the very marrow of his bones. Rendalen sat with his arms on the table, and a book in his hands which he kept turning over and looking at both outside and in. "There is madness in our family--widely spread. My father was mad. I--well, you know how ungovernable I am--I am on the borders of it. My father was exactly the same. So that when you said that there--about being out of my senses, you hit the mark. The very words of my mother. I dare not give in. Not in love either. All the same I could not always resist. However, I have no wish to confess. Music helps me to forget; but here it betrayed me, and has done so before, too." He put the book from him, took another one, and laid it on the first one, spinning them round on the table. Then he heard Kallem say, half laughingly: "And so you chose me for your substitute?"

"What the deuce could I do? I thought you were an honorable man."

In the evening Kallem struggled to write a letter to the apothecary, he wanted him to help them. The more he wrote, the more impossible he found it to explain to the old bachelor and crusty naturalist, what love was, and in what sore distress was she for whom he now wrote to ask for help; he tore up his letter. Quickly he determined to try his father. The latter had done all he could to help Ole Tuft; perhaps he now would help someone else? His father was very peculiar, but he was a warm-hearted man and hated injustice. Edward Kallem had never heard of anything more unjust than Ragni's self-imposed lot; he was almost certain that his father would feel the same. So he told him about their love--quite without reserve; he promised that if his father would help her, this treaty should be like a consecration. He would apply himself more earnestly than ever to his studies; he would strive to obtain the highest of everything. And though it might be long before they could marry, both on account of his as well as her further education--he would wait for her as faithfully as she for him; that was his solemn promise. And he hoped his father had no reason to think he would break that promise; but rather take him at his word and help her.

He was not mistaken in this. Three days afterward he had an answer by telegram, that everything was arranged according to his wish; the necessary should be sent by the first post. With this victorious telegram in hand, he began to work his and Rendalen's mutual plan; to have her sent over to Kallem's cousin at Madison. He wrote to him at once and asked him to cable "yes" or "no."

He obtained a first meeting with her through the servant, who showed herself to be thoroughly faithful to Ragni; it was in a street outside the town and did not last long; the servant was with her. He told her at once what were his plans and how it could be arranged, and who was to have a hand in the matter. She was so frightened that he thought it would be impossible to proceed; on no consideration would she leave the children. He was in despair after this meeting, and went to Rendalen to complain. He at once suggested that the children could be sent to his mother; he would write to her about it. When Kallem, at their next "rendezvous," told her this, Ragni seemed to hesitate; she acknowledged humbly that she could never educate them so well herself. But what she partially agreed to the one day, she drew back from the next; every time she had been with the children it again all seemed so impossible to her. And as she each time worked herself up to such a pitch of excitement that all the passers-by stared at them, they could no longer keep their appointments in the street. There could be no question of their meeting anywhere but at his or Rendalen's rooms; but Ragni had again become so shy that he doubted whether she would consent. He prepared her for it by letters, and got Marie also to try and persuade her to it, and to accompany her. At last this succeeded too. After this they met a few times at his rooms, once too, at Rendalen's; but always there was the same undecided wavering and hesitation as to what she would do, and always there was great despair. She was afraid, too, of the actual journey; fancy going all the way to America, alone! And alone from New York to Madison; that was the worst of all! It was impossible, quite impossible! Marie would like to go with her; Kallem promised her a ticket; but on no account could they both forsake the children; no, it was most wrong even to think of such a thing. Then Marie would wait until the children were properly provided for.

If she really were to start, she would have to go on board without anyone knowing anything of it; therefore the necessary things for the voyage would have to be bought; but as a matter of course, all would have to be most carefully arranged. He expected to meet with opposition in this; but she was still such a child, that before it was really settled about the voyage, he had persuaded her to buy all her travelling outfit; it amused her immensely. If only he could manage to have a good long talk with her, or see her every day just for a little--but she was cautious to an extreme. Then he wrote letters yards long; she dare not answer, she fancied she was watched by her aunt and the north-country kitchen-maid; but as the letters told her of all the strength of his love, and as they, with all the cunning of love, were written to charm her imagination, they effected a great deal more than the meetings had done. It was thanks to the cunning Marie that these letters reached their destination; she was too clever both for the aunt and for the north-country girl. As long as these arrangements were going on and keeping his strength up to the mark, Kallem lived for nothing else. Perseverance increases our courage; and when at last the cable came with "yes," he ventured to form a bold plan. It consisted in getting everything ready by the time the next big English steamer was to start, and not to say a word to her about it, but to make sure that she that day should have an excuse for going out early and remaining out a long time, and also arrange for Marie to be at liberty. He made an appointment for Ragni to meet him at his rooms two hours before the steamer was to sail; both ticket and luggage were all ready.

On the appointed day and at the given hour, she and Marie appeared. Ragni's luggage had been sent on board early in the morning and the carriage ordered and paid for. Nothing was to be seen in the rooms that called to mind a departure; but the way he received her made her afraid that something was brewing. Formerly he had been so self-contained--partly, too, because Marie was always present--now he embraced Ragni with all the tenderness he was capable of, and seemed as though he could not let her go. His grief had no regard for others; neither did he seek to hide anything, but, with both her hands in his, and gazing into her eyes, he told her hurriedly that her luggage had been sent on board; the steamer would sail in two hours; and here was the ticket.

She understood directly that this was the choice between him and everything else--there was no time to reflect. And that was how he gained the day. At first she stood there in speechless helplessness; then she crept close up to him and stayed there. He kissed her "welcome;" they held each other in a close embrace and wept. The servant saw someone coming outside the windows and drew down the blinds, so there was only a dim light in the room; and they, too, heard Marie crying in the next room. Their embrace gradually became a whispered conversation, at first interrupted, but then accompanied by subdued sobbing, which was checked and began again, like music with sourdine. There were whispers of the day when he would journey after her, never again to part from her; and whispers of how true a friend he would be to her; that their future was worthy of sacrifice now; that both his and her letters should be like diaries--short, hurried words of endless love, all from him; hers was the weeping, sourdine-like.

Although this was the hour of departure, this hour they spent together now, it was the first time that they had so completely and undisturbedly shown their devotion for each other. The novelty of it shone in upon their grief till there seemed to be a sunny haze around them. Soon her hushed sobbing became a whisper; the first time she spoke he wanted to look at her, but she would not allow it. If he would sit quite still and not look at her, then she would tell him something. He was the white pasha! She would not tell him what she meant by it, it would take too long; but she had been waiting for the white pasha from the time she was a child; that is to say, since her father died; she was then twelve years old. She had suffered much, most of all when she came home from Berlin and had not sufficient courage to play in public; but neither would she tell him about that; it would take too long. Always she had dreamt of this white pasha; ah, if he would but come! She was quite confident that he would come. Even when she went down to the "whales," she knew he would follow her; he would find the way. Once she had thought that Rendalen was the white pasha; but, as it turned out, he was not; he had moved away to make room for the real one to come. The first evening they two had met in the silent falling snow. Why should they have met there? She had looked at him then and thought, wonderingly: Is he the white pasha? The next time they met he had carried little Juanita, and then she felt almost certain that none other would have thought of that. But then everything seemed to have come so rapidly, and it was all so different from what she had imagined. He asked in a whisper if she would tell him what had made her go down to the "whales" a year ago; she shuddered when he asked her. And even after her marriage, did she still expect the white pasha to come? More eagerly than ever. Had she not known then what marriage was? She pressed closer to him and was silent.

Although he was just on the verge of learning what he most wished to know, he stopped.

He told her that it was arranged so that Rendalen was to meet Ragni on board; the former was going home for a few days and would take care of her. Then they got up.

Would Kallem not take her to the steamer? He put his arms round her, hid his face on her shoulder and said, he dare not. This was the hardest blow of all. For a while she was quite overcome; then they sat down again and took leave of each other, a long, harrowing farewell. Marie was on thorns. He would have taken her down to the carriage; but Marie forbade it most decidedly; they must not be seen together by anyone.

He heard the carriage drive away, but did not see it, and in all the succeeding years he looked back upon that moment as the most terrible he had ever experienced.

He did not go out to see the steamer sail away in the distance; but in the afternoon he went down to the place where she had lain.

From there he went for a long walk--and timed it so that her aunt should see him. It was part of his plan.

For a time this kept all suspicion away from him. No one could suppose that the person who had arranged Ragni's flight and who was the cause of it, would come to the front so soon.

Everyone who remembers this event, will remember, too, how severely she was condemned. A stranger, shy, and without relations, she had left no remembrance of herself--unless it were of her poetical playing so full of song; and that could not plead for her now. A year ago she had undertaken to live for her dead sister's children; and now she had forsaken them. The blind man whom she had married was her own choice; she had had no difficulties with him.

If she regretted it, why not say so openly? Why behave in that sly, underhand way?

It was hard for Kallem to listen to all this; had he ruined her reputation? Already everyone took it for granted that she had had a "liaison" with someone; and the hour was not far distant when it would be asserted that he was the guilty one.

He met the children with Marie outside the university one day, and they both rushed straight at him. What would he not have given had it been Ragni who came smiling after them? Of course he took the children into a confectioner's and heard them tell how "mamma had gone away in a large ship," "mamma was coming back for Christmas with new dresses and new dolls."

There was an illustrated paper lying on the table; Juanita took it into her head that all the ladies in the pictures were "mamma;" when her sister said no, she just moved her little finger on to another, "that's mamma!"

That same day Kallem had been present at an unsuccessful operation; a mishap occurred and the patient nearly bled to death. His nerves were so upset at this time that it made a great impression on him. But when he left the children and went to his dinner, it seemed to him as though he were the unsuccessful operator. He had wished to set Ragni free, but he had done it badly, and now her good name was bleeding to death. Social life altogether was a network of muscles, sinews, and veins....

He was sitting in the university library a few days later, reading and studying some plates in front of him, when he looked up to see Ole Tuft, fresh and smiling, before him. He did not know where Kallem was living now, and so had gone to find him here. Kallem got up and went out with him.

None of Kallem's fierce courage remained to threaten his brother-in-law; he no longer desired to half kill him, not even to look reproachfully at him; and he would be more than satisfied if Ole did not cast reproachful glances at him. Probably Ole knew, as all must know who were in any way connected with the event, that Edward Kallem was the sinner. He must have heard it from Josephine, who would hear it from her father--or, was he mistaken? Was there not a mixture of doubt in Ole's friendliness? A suspicion as to his thorough honorableness? A warning that such a beginning could never lead to victory? Or, was all this hearty friendliness sincere, genuine "brotherly love"--fostered by a young theologian's obedience to the command: "Love one another?"

Ole came to announce that he had finished his studies and was going home; his joy was great. He asked if he should take any message; he said he hoped soon to begin his "work;" he hinted at what then would happen; the way was clear before him and the goal was not a small one. All who passed in and out of the library stopped to look at the good-looking young fellow.

Edward stood bare-headed up on the library steps, as Ole Tuft, in his heavy sort of way, went slouching across the square. This much was true: there went a man who was sure in himself; his beginning was thorough and complete, as was his nature.