She had grown tall, not as tall as the mother but above the average height, easy, elegant, and fearless, the mother and not the mother inconstant interchange. The young merchant, who walked along behind them, could no longer attract the attention of the passers-by; the two, mother and daughter, were a more striking sight. They walked quickly, without noticing any one, for they were seldom greeted except by seamen; they soon returned more quickly still, for they had heard that Odegaard had just left home for the steamer and would soon be gone. Petra was in great haste; she must, she must indeed see him and thank him before he went; it was wrong of him to leave her thus! She saw none of all those who were looking at her; it was the smoke from the steamer she saw over the roofs of the houses, and it seemed to be getting further away. When they came to the quay, the boat had just left, and, with sobs in her throat, she hastened further up the walk; indeed she more sprang than walked, and the mother strode after. As the steamer had taken some minutes to turn in the harbour, she was just in time to spring down on the wharf, get up on a stone, and wave her pocket handkerchief. The mother remained on the walk, and would not go down; Petra waved--waved higher and higher, but there was no one who waved again.
Then she could bear it no longer; she could not restrain her tears, and was obliged to return home by the higher path; the mother followed, but in silence. The attic which her mother had prepared for her, and where she had slept for the first time the night before, and had that morning put on her new dress with so much delight, now received her bathed in tears, and without so much as a glance around; she would not go down where the seamen and others were sitting;--she took off her confirmation dress and sat on the bed till night came; to be grown up seemed to her the most unhappy thing that could be.
IV.
[ONE AND ANOTHER.]
One day after the Confirmation Petra went over to Odegaard's sisters, but she soon saw that this must have been a mistake on his part, for the pastor went by as though he never saw her, and the daughters, both older than Odegaard, received her stiffly. They satisfied themselves with giving a bare account from their brother of what she was now to do. The whole of the forenoon she was to be engaged in household duties at a house in the suburbs of the town, and in the afternoon to go to the sewing school; she was to sleep at home, and take breakfast and supper there.
She acted according to this arrangement, and found it agreeable enough as long as it was new, but afterwards, and especially when summer came, she began to get tired of it, for she had been accustomed in summer to sit up in the forest the whole day long, and had read in her books, which from the depths of her heart she now missed, as she missed Odegaard, as she missed conversation. The consequence was that at last she took it where it was to be found. About this time a young girl entered the sewing school, called Lise Let, i.e. Lise, but not Let; for that was the name of a young cadet, who had been at home one Christmas, and betrothed himself to her on the ice, while she was only a child at school. Lise vowed it was not true, and cried if any one named it; nevertheless, she went by the name of Lise Let. The little, active Lise Let often laughed and often cried; but, whether she laughed or cried, she thought about love. A perfect swarm of new and curious thoughts soon filled the school; if a hand was reached out for the scissors, it was to go a courting, and the scissors said, yes, or gave a refusal. The needle was bethrothed to the thread, and the thread sacrificed herself stitch by stitch to the heartless tyrant; she who pricked her finger, shed her heart's blood, and to change needles was to be unfaithful. If two of the girls whispered together, it was about something remarkable that had happened to them; soon two more began to whisper, and then two again; each one had her confidant, and there were a thousand secrets: it was impossible to stand it.
One afternoon at dusk, in a fine drizzling rain, Petra, with a large handkerchief over her head, stood outside her mother's house, and peeped into the passage, where a young sailor was standing, whistling a waltz. She held the handkerchief together with both her hands tight under her chin, so that only her eyes and nose could be seen, but the sailor saw she was winking at him, and he went quickly out where she stood. "I say, Gunnar, will you go a walk?"--"But it rains!"--"Tut, is that anything!" and so they went to a small house higher up the mountain. "Buy me a few cakes,--those with the icing!"--"You are always wanting cakes."--"With the icing!" He came out again with them; she stuck one hand out from under the handkerchief, took them in, and went on again, eating as she went. When they had got just above the town, she said as she gave him the cake: "I say now, Gunnar! we have always thought so much of each other, we two; I have always liked you better than any other boys! You don't believe it? But I assure you, Gunnar! And now you are second mate and can soon take a ship; it seems to me you should get engaged Gunnar! Dear, why don't you eat the cake?"--"I have begun to chew tobacco."--"Well, what do you say?"--"Oh! there's no hurry for that!"--"No hurry? And you go away day after to-morrow?"--"Yes, but am I not coming back again?"--"But it isn't certain that I shall have time then, and you don't know where I shall be either,"--"It should be to you, then?"--"Yes, Gunnar, you might have understood that, but you were always slow, that was why you were only a sailor, too."--"Oh! I'm not sorry for that, it's quite nice to be a sailor."--"Yes, to be sure,--your mother has ships. But what do you say now? You are so dull!"--"Yes, what shall I say?"--"What shall you say? Ha-ha-ha, perhaps you won't have me!"--"Ah! Petra, you know quite well I will; but I don't think I can trust you."--"Yes, Gunnar, I shall be as true, as true!"--He stood a minute still; "Let me see your face, Petra!"--"What for that?"--"I want to see if you really mean it."--"Do you think I go and trifle with you, Gunnar?" She was vexed and lifted the handkerchief.--"Well, Petra, if it is to be right regular earnest, then give me a kiss upon it, for one knows what that means."--"Have you lost your wits?" She drew the handkerchief over, and went on.--"Stay Petra, stay! You don't understand.--If we are engaged--" "Oh! nonsense with you!"--"Yes, but I know what is customary, and as far as experience goes, I beat you hollow. Remember all that I have seen."--"Yes, you've seen all like a simpleton, and you talk as you've seen."--"What do you mean by being engaged, then, Petra? I may surely ask about that! There's no meaning in running up and down hill after each other!"--"No, that's true enough." She laughed, and stopped. "But listen now, Gunnar! While we stand here and puff--huf!--I'll tell you how lovers do. Every evening as long as you are here, you must wait outside the sewing school and go home with me to the door, and if I am out anywhere else, you must wait in the street till I come. And when you go away, you must write to me, and buy things to send me. To be sure: we must exchange rings, with your name in one and mine in the other, and then the year and the day; but I have no money, so you must buy them both."--"Yes, I'll do that; but--" "Now, what about 'but' again?"--"Good heavens! I only meant I must have the measure of your finger."--"Yes, that you shall have directly;" and she picked up a straw and bit off the measure: "Now don't lose it!" He wrapped it in paper, and put it in his pocket book; she watched him till the pocket book was hidden again. "Let us go now, I'm tired of standing here."--"But, I must say I think it rather flat, Petra!"--"Very well, if you won't, it's all the same to me!"--"Certainly I will, it's not that; but shan't I even so much as get hold of your hand!"--"What for that?"--"As a sign that we're really engaged."--"Such nonsense, does that make it more certain? You can have my hand, anyhow; here it is! No thank you, no squeezing, sir!"--She drew her head within the handkerchief again, then suddenly she lifted the handkerchief with both hands, and her face came full into view. "If you tell any one, Gunnar, I shall say it is not true, so you know!" She laughed, and went on down the hill. A little after, she stopped, and said: "The sewing school will be over to-morrow at nine, so you can go and stand at the foot of the garden."--"Very well."--"Yes, but now you must go!"--"Won't you, then, even give me your hand at parting?"--"I don't know what you are always wanting with my hand,--no, you won't get it now. Good bye!" she cried, and away she sprang.
Next evening she arranged it so, that she was the last at the sewing school. It was nearly ten when she left, but when she had passed through the garden, Gunnar was not there. She had imagined all sorts of misfortunes, but not this; she was so much offended, that she waited, merely to give it him in earnest, when at last he did come. Besides she had good company as she walked up and down; for the merchants' singing club had just begun to practise with open windows, in a house near by, and a Spanish song, that mild evening, lured her thoughts till she was in Spain, and heard her praises sung from the open balcony. Spain was her great longing, for every summer came the dark Spanish ships into the harbour, the Spanish songs into the streets, and upon Odegaard's walls, hung a row of pictures from Spain; perhaps he was there again now, and she was with him! But in the same minute she was called home again, for there, behind the apple tree, was Gunnar coming at last; she rushed towards--not Gunnar, but the one returned from Spain, the light hat over the light hair. "Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed the light laughter, "so you take me for another?" She denied it eagerly, hastily, and began to run in her vexation, but he ran after, talking incessantly whilst he ran very quickly, and with that mixed accent that people get when they use several languages. "Yes, I can easily keep you company, for I'm a capital runner,--it won't help you,--I must speak to you,--it is too quiet here, people are dead, but you are not dead, I can see. I must speak to you; I am here for the eighth evening."--"For the eighth evening!"--"The eighth evening; ha, ha, ha, I would gladly go for eight more, for we two suit each other, don't we? It's no use, I shan't let you slip, for now you are tired, I can see."--"No, I'm not."--"Yes, you are."--"No, I'm not."--"Yes, you are! Talk, then, if you are not tired!"--"Ha, ha, ha!"--"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Yes, that's not to talk," and so they stopped. They exchanged a few witty words, half in jest, and half in earnest; then he began to speak in praise of Spain, and one picture followed another, till he ended in cursing the little town at their feet. The first, Petra followed with beaming eyes; the second tingled in her ears, while her eyes moved up and down over a gold chain that hung twice round his neck. "Yes, this," he said hastily, and drew out the end of the chain, to which a gold cross was fastened, "see, I took it with me to-night, to show at the singing club; it is from Spain. You shall hear its history." Then he related: "When I was in the south of Spain, I was present at a shooting match, and won this prize; it was handed to me at the festival with these words: 'Take this with you to Norway and give it to the most beautiful woman in your country, with the respectful homage of Spanish Cavaliers.' Then followed shouts, and processions, the waving of banners and the clapping of cavaliers, and I received the gift."--"No, how splendid! Tell more, more!" broke in Petra, for her imagination already pictured the Spanish feast, with the Spanish colours and songs, and the dusky Spaniards, standing under the vines in the evening sunlight, sending their thoughts to the most beautiful woman in the land of snow. He did as she requested; he increased her longing with new recitals, and, as if transported to that wonderful land, she began humming the Spanish song she had just heard, and, little by little, to move her feet to its time. "What! You can dance the Spanish dance?" he cried.--"Yes, yes--yes!" she sang in dancing time, snapping her fingers to imitate the castanets, and making some rapid steps upon the spot where she stood, for she had seen the Spanish sailors dance!--"You shall have the gift of the Spanish Cavaliers," cried he, in ecstacy, "you are the most beautiful woman I have met." He had taken the gold chain from his own neck, and had lightly thrown it once or twice round hers before she came to understand it. But, when she understood it, she was suffused with the deep scarlet, peculiarly her own, and the tears were about to burst forth, so that he, falling from one surprise into another, did not know what more to do, but felt that he ought to go, and went.
At twelve o'clock with the chain in her hand, she still stood at the open window of her little room. The summer night lay gently over town and fiord and distant mountains; from the street the Spanish song sounded again, for the club had gone home with young Yngve Vold. Word for word it could be heard, about a beautiful wreath. Two voices only sang the words, the rest hummed the guitar accompaniment.
Take up the wreath, dearest, it is for thee,
Take up the wreath, dearest, thinking of me;