Chapter Nine.
Hund’s report.
Hund performed his journey by night,—a journey perfectly unlike any that was ever performed by night in England. He did not for a moment think of going by the fiord, short and easy as it would have been in comparison with the land road. He would rather have mounted all the steeps, and crossed the snows of Sulitelma itself, many times over, than have put himself in the way a second time of such a vision as he had seen. Laboriously and diligently, therefore, he overcame the difficulties of the path, crossing ravines, wading through swamps, scaling rocks, leaping across water-courses, and only now and then throwing himself down on some tempting slope of grass, to wipe his brows, and, where opportunity offered, to moisten his parched throat with the wild strawberries which were fast ripening in the sheltered nooks of the hills. It was now so near midsummer, and the nights were so fast melting into the days, that Hund could at the latest scarcely see a star, though there was not a fleece of cloud in the whole circle of the heavens. While yet the sun was sparkling on the fiord, and glittering on every farm-house window that fronted the west, all around was as still as if the deepest darkness had settled down. The eagles were at rest on their rocky ledge, a thousand feet above the waters. The herons had left their stand on the several promontories of the fiord, and the flapping of their wings overhead was no more heard. The raven was gone home; the cattle were all far away on the mountain pastures; the goats were hidden in the woods which yielded the tender shoots on which they subsisted. The round eyes of a white owl stared out upon him here and there, from under the eaves of a farm-house; and these seemed to be the only eyes besides his own that were open. Hund knew as he passed one dwelling after another,—knew as well as if he had looked in at the windows,—that the inhabitants were all asleep, even with the sunshine lying across their very faces.
Every few minutes he observed how his shadow lengthened, and he longed for the brief twilight which would now soon be coming on. Now, his shadow stretched quite across a narrow valley, as he took breath on a ridge crossed by the soft breeze. Then, the shadow stood up against a precipice, taller than the tallest pine upon the steep. Then the yellow gleam grew fainter, the sparkles on the water went out, and he saw the large pale circle of the sun sink and sink into the waves, where the fiord spread out wide to the south-west. Even the weary spirit of this unhappy man seemed now to be pervaded with some of the repose which appeared to be shed down for the benefit of all that lived. He walked on and on; but he felt the grass softer under his feet,—the air cooler upon his brow; and he began to comfort himself with thinking that he had not murdered Rolf. He said to himself that he had not laid a finger on him, and that the skiff might have sunk exactly as it did, if he had been sitting at home, carving a bell-collar. There could be no doubt that the skiff had been pulled down fathoms deep by a strong hand from below; and if the spirits were angry with Rolf, that was no concern of Rolf’s human enemies.—Thus Hund strove to comfort himself; but it would not do. The more he tried to put away the thought, the more obstinately it returned, that he had been speeding on his way to injure Rolf when the strange disappearance took place; and that he had long hated and envied his fellow-servant, however marvellously he had been prevented from capturing or slaying him. These thoughts had no comfort in them; but better came after a time.
He had to pass very near M. Kollsen’s abode; and it crossed his mind that it would be a great relief to open his heart to a clergyman. He halted for a minute, in sight of the house, but presently went on, saying to himself that he could not say all to M. Kollsen, and would therefore say nothing. He should get a lecture against superstition, and hear hard words of the powers he dreaded; and there would be no consolation in this. It was said that the Bishop of Tronyem was coming round this way soon, in his regular progress through his diocese, and everybody bore testimony to his gentleness and mercy. It would be best to wait for his coming. Then Hund began to calculate how soon he would come; for aching hearts are impatient for relief; and the thought how near midsummer was, made him look up into the sky,—that beautiful index of the seasons in a northern climate. There were a few extremely faint stars—a very few,—for only the brightest could now show themselves in the sky where daylight lingered so as never quite to depart. A pale-green hue remained where the sun had disappeared, and a deep-red glow was even now beginning to kindle where he was soon to rise. Just here, Hund’s ear caught some tones of the soft harp music which the winds make in their passage through a wood of pines; and there was a fragrance in the air from a new thatch of birch-bark just laid upon a neighbouring roof. This fragrance, that faint vibrating music, and the soft veiled light were soothing; and when, besides, Hund pictured to himself his mind relieved by a confession to the good bishop—perhaps cheered by words of pardon and of promise, the tears burst from his eyes, and the fever of his spirit was allayed.
Then up came the sun again, and the new thatch reeked in his beams, and the birds shook off sleep, and plumed themselves, and the peak of Sulitelma blushed with the softest rose-colour, and the silvery fish leaped out of the water, and the blossoms in the gardens opened, though it was only an hour after midnight. Every creature except man seemed eager to make the most of the short summer season,—to waste none of its bright hours, which would be gone too soon;—every creature except man; but man must have rest, be the sun high or sunk beneath the horizon: so that Hund saw no face, and heard no human voice, before he found himself standing at the top of the steep rocky pathway, which led down to Erlingsen’s abode.
Hund might have known that he should find everything in a different state from that in which he had left the place; but yet he was rather surprised at the aspect of the farm. The stable-doors stood wide; and there was no trace of milk-pails. The hurdles of the fold were piled upon one another in a corner of the yard. It was plain that herd, flock, and dairy-women were gone to the mountain: and, though Hund dreaded meeting Erica, it struck upon his heart, to think that she was not here. He felt now how much it was for her sake that he had come back.
He half resolved to go away again: but from the gallery of the house some snow-white sheets were hanging to dry; and this showed that some neat and busy female hands were still here. Next, his eye fell upon the boat which lay gently rocking with the receding tide in its tiny cove; and he resolved to lie down in it and rest, while considering what to do next. He went down, stepping gently over the pebbles of the beach, lest his tread should reach and waken any ear through the open windows, lay down at the bottom of the boat, and, as might have been expected, fell asleep as readily as an infant in a cradle.
Of course he was discovered; and, of course, Oddo was the discoverer. Oddo was the first to come forth, to water the one horse that remained at the farm, and to give a turn and a shake to the two or three little cocks of hay which had been mown behind the house. His quick eye noted the deep marks of a man’s feet in the sand and pebbles, below high-water mark, proving that some one had been on the premises during the night. He followed these marks to the boat, where he was amazed to find the enemy (as he called Hund) fast asleep. Oddo was in a great hurry to tell his grandfather (Erlingsen being on the mountain); but he thought it only proper caution to secure his prize from escaping in his absence.
He summoned his companion, the dog which had warned him of many dangers abroad, and helped him faithfully with his work at home; and nothing could be clearer to Skorro than that he was to crouch on the thwarts of the boat, with his nose close to Hund’s face, and not to let Hund stir till Oddo came back. Then Oddo ran, and wakened his grandfather, who made all haste to rise and dress. Erica now lived in Peder’s house. She had taken her lover’s place there, since his disappearance; as the old man must be taken care of, and the house kept; and her mistress thought the interest and occupation good for her. Hearing Oddo’s story, she rushed out, and her voice was soon heard in passionate entreaty, above the bark of the dog, which was trying to prevent the prisoner from rising.
“Only tell me,” Erica was heard to say, “only tell me where and how he died. I know he is dead,—I knew he would die; from that terrible night when we were betrothed. Tell me who did it,—for I am sure you know. Was it Nipen?—Yes, it was Nipen, whether it was done by wind or water, or human hands. But speak, and tell me where he is. O, Hund, speak! Say only where his body is, and I will try— I will try never to speak to you again—never to—”
Hund looked miserable; he moved his lips; but no sound was heard mingling with Erica’s rapid speech.
Madame Erlingsen, who, with Orga, had by this time reached the spot, laid her hand on Erica’s arm, to beg for a moment’s silence, made Oddo call his dog out of the boat, and then spoke, in a severe tone, to Hund.
“Why do you shake your head, Hund, and speak no word? Say what you know, for the sake of those whom, we grievously suspect, you have deeply injured. Say what you know, Hund.”
“What I say is, that I do not know,” replied Hund, in a hoarse and agitated voice. “I only know that we live in an enchanted place, here by this fiord, and that the spirits try to make us answer for their doings. The very first night after I went forth, this very boat was spirited away from me, so that I could not come home. Nipen had a spite against me there, to make you all suspect me. I declare to you that the boat was gone, in a twinkling, by magic, and I heard the cry of the spirit that took it.”
“What was the cry like?” asked Oddo, gravely.
“Where were you that you were not spirited away with the boat?” asked his mistress.
“I was tumbled out upon the shore, I don’t know how,” declared Hund:—“found myself sprawling on a rock, while the creature’s cries brought my heart into my mouth as I lay.”
“Alone?—were you alone?” asked his mistress.
“I had landed the pastor some hours before, madame; and I took nobody else with me, as Stiorna can tell; for she saw me go.”
“Stiorna is at the mountain,” observed madame, coolly.
“But, Hund,” said Oddo, “how did Nipen take hold of you when it laid you sprawling on the rock? Neck and heels? Or, did it bid you go and harken whether the pirates were coming, and whip away the boat before you came back? Are you quite sure that you sprawled on the rock at all before you ran away from the horrible cry you speak of? Our rocks are very slippery, when Nipen is at one’s heels.”
Hund stared at Oddo, and his voice was yet hoarser when he said that he had long thought that boy was a favourite with Nipen; and he was sure of it now.
Erica had thrown herself down on the sand, hiding her face on her hands, on the edge of the boat, as if in despair of her misery being attended to,—her questions answered. Old Peder stood beside her, stroking her hair tenderly; and he now spoke the things she could not say.
“Attend to me, Hund,” said Peder, in the grave, quiet tone which every one regarded. “Hear my words, and, for your own sake, answer them. We suspect you of being in communication with the pirates yonder: we suspect that you went to meet them when you refused to go hunting the bears. We know that you have long felt ill-will towards Rolf,—envy of him,—jealousy of him;—and—”
Here Erica looked up, pale as ashes, and said, “Do not question him further. There is no truth in his answers. He spoke falsehood even now.”
Peder saw how Hund shrank under this, and thought the present the moment to get truth out of him, if he ever could speak it. He therefore went on to say—
“We suspect you of having done something to keep your rival out of the way, in order that you might obtain the house and situation,—and perhaps something else that you wish.”
“Have you killed him?” asked Erica, abruptly, looking full in his face.
“No,” returned Hund, firmly. From his manner everybody believed this much.
“Do you know that anybody else has killed him?”
“No.”
“Do you know whether he is alive or dead?”
To this Hund could, in the confusion of his ideas about Rolf’s fate and condition, fairly say “No:” as also to the question, “Do you know where he is?”
Then they all cried out, “Tell us what you do know about him.”
“Ay, there you come,” said Hund, resuming some courage, and putting on the appearance of more than he had. “You load me with foul accusations; and when you find yourselves all in the wrong, you alter your tone, and put yourselves under obligation to me for what I will tell. I will treat you better than you treat me; and I will tell you plainly why. I repent of my feelings towards my fellow-servant, now that evil has befallen him—”
“What? O what?” cried Erica.
“He was seen fishing on the fiord, in that poor little worn-out skiff. I myself saw him. And when I looked next for the skiff, it was gone,—it had disappeared.”
“And where were you?”
“Never mind where I was. I was not with him, but about my own business. And I tell you, I no more laid a finger on him or his skiff than any one of you.”
“Where was it?”
“Close by Vogel islet!”
Erica started, and, in one moment’s flush of hope, told that Rolf had said, he should be safe at any time near Vogel islet. Hund caught at her words so eagerly as to make a favourable impression on all, who saw, what was indeed the truth, that he would have been glad to know that Rolf was alive. Their manner so changed towards Hund, that if Stiorna had been there, she would have triumphed. But the more they considered the case, the more improbable it seemed that Rolf should have escaped drowning.
“Mother, what do you think?” whispered the gentle Orga.
“I think, my dear, that we shall never forgive ourselves for letting Rolf go out in that old skiff.”
“Then you think,—you feel quite sure,—mother, that Nipen had nothing to do with it.”
“I feel confident, my dear, that there is no such being as Nipen.”
“Even after all that has happened?—after this, following upon Oddo’s prank that night?”
“Even so, Orga. We suffer by our own carelessness and folly, my love: and it makes us neither wiser nor better to charge the consequence upon evil spirits;—to charge our good God with permitting revengeful beings to torment us, instead of learning from his chastisements to sin in the same way no more.”
“But, mother, if you are right, how very far wrong all these others are!”
“It is but little, my child, that the wisest of us knows: but there is a whole eternity before us, every one, to grow wise in. Some,” and she looked towards Oddo, “may outgrow their mistakes here; and others,” looking at old Peder, “are travelling fast towards a place where everybody is wiser than years or education can make us here. Your father and I do wish, for Frolich and you, that you should rest your reverence, your hopes and fears, on none but the good God. Do we not know that not even a sparrow falleth to the ground without his will?”
“Poor Erica would be less miserable if she could think so,” sighed Orga. “She will die soon, if she goes on to suffer as she does. I wish the good bishop would come: for I do not think M. Kollsen gives her any comfort. Look now! what can she have to say to Hund?”
What Erica had to say to Hund was, “I believe some of the things you have told. I believe that you did not lay hands on Rolf.”
“Bless you! Bless you for that!” interrupted Hund, almost forgetting how far he really was guilty in the satisfaction of hearing these words from the lips that spoke them.
“Tell me, then,” proceeded Erica, “how you believe he really perished.—Do you fully believe he perished?”
“I believe,” whispered Hund, “that the strong hand pulled him down—down to the bottom.”
“I knew it,” said Erica, turning away.
“Erica,—one word,” exclaimed Hund. “I must stay here—I am very miserable, and I must stay here, and work and work till I get some comfort. But you must tell me how you think of me—you must say that you do not hate me.”
“I do hate you,” said Erica, with disgust, as her suspicions of his wanting to fill Rolf’s place were renewed. “I mistrust you, Hund, more deeply than I can tell.”
“Will no penitence change your feelings, Erica? I tell you I am as miserable as you.”
“That is false, like everything else that you say,” cried Erica. “I wish you would go,—go and seek Rolf under the waters—”
Hund shuddered at the thought, as it recalled what he had seen and heard at the islet. Erica saw this, and sternly repeated, “Go and bring back Rolf from the deeps; and then I will cease to hate you. Ah! I see the despair in your face. Such despair never came from any woman’s words where there was not a bad conscience to back them.”
Hund felt that this was true, and made no reply.
As Erica slowly returned into Peder’s house, Oddo ran past, and was there before her. He closed the door when she had entered, put his hand within hers, and said, “Did Rolf really tell you that he should be safe anywhere near Vogel islet?”
“Yes,” sighed Erica,—“safe from the pirates. That was his answer when I begged him not to go so far down the fiord: but Rolf always had an answer when one asked him not to go into danger. You see how it ended;—and he never would believe in that danger.”
“I shall never be happy again, if this is Nipen’s doing,” said Oddo. “But, Erica, you went one trip with me, and I know you are brave. Will you go another? Will you go to the islet, and see what Rolf could have meant about being safe there?”
Erica brightened for a moment; and perhaps would have agreed to go: but Peder came in; and Peder said he knew the islet well, and that it was universally considered that it was now inaccessible to human foot, and that that was the reason why the fowl flourished there as they did in no other place. Erica must not be permitted to go so far down among the haunts of the pirates. Instead of this, her mistress had just decided that, as there were no present means of getting rid of Hund,—as indeed his depressed state of spirits seemed to give him some title to be received again,—and as Erica could not be expected to remain just now in his presence, she should set off immediately for the mountain, and request Erlingsen to come home. This was only hastening her departure by two or three days. At the seater she would find less to try her spirits than here: and when Erlingsen came he would, if he thought proper, have Hund carried before a magistrate; and would, at least, set such inquiries afloat through the whole region as would bring to light anything that might chance to be known of Rolf’s fate.
Erica could not deny that this was the best plan that could be pursued, though she had no heart for going to the seater, any more than for doing anything else. Under Peder’s urgency, however, she made up her bundle of clothes, took in her hand her lure (Note 1), with which to call home the cattle in the evenings, bade her mistress farewell privately, and stole away without Hund’s knowledge, while Oddo was giving him meat and drink within the house. Old Peder listened to her parting footsteps; and her mistress watched her up the first hill, thinking to herself how unlike this was to the usual cheerful departure to the mountain dairies. Never, indeed, had a heavier heart burdened the footsteps of the wayfarer, about to climb the slopes of Sulitelma.
Note 1. The Lure is a wooden trumpet, nearly five feet long, made of two hollow pieces of birch-wood, bound together, throughout the whole length, with slips of willow. It is used to call the cattle together on a wide pasture; and is also carried by travelling parties, to save the risk of any one being lost in the wilds. Its notes, which may be heard to a great distance, are extremely harsh and discordant; having none of the musical tone of the Alp-horn,—(the cow-horn used by the Swiss for the same purpose,)—which sounds well at a distance.