CHAPTER XVII.
Although it was the middle of August, a bitterly cold wind blew round the dreary little posting station of Hjerkin, on the Dovrefield, and at the very time when Frithiof lay dying in the intolerable heat of London, Sigrid, shivering with cold, paced drearily along the bleak mountain road with her aunt. They had come to the Dovrefield a fortnight before for the summer holiday, but the weather had been unfavorable, and away from home, with nothing very particular to occupy their time, Fru Grönvold and Sigrid seemed to jar upon each other more than ever. Apparently the subject they were discussing was not at all to the girl’s taste, for as they walked along there were two ominous little depressions in her forehead, nor did her black fur hat entirely account for the shadow that overspread her face.
“Yes,” said Fru Grönvold emphatically, “I am sorry to have to say such a thing of you, Sigrid, but it really seems to me that you are playing the part of the dog in the manger. You profess absolute indifference to every man you meet, yet you go on absorbing attention, and standing in Karen’s light, in a way which I assure you is very trying to me.”
Sigrid’s cheek flamed.
“I have done nothing to justify you in saying such a thing,” she said angrily.
“What!” cried Fru Grönvold. “Did not that Swedish botanist talk to you incessantly? Does not the English officer follow you about whenever he has the opportunity?”
“The botanist talked because we had a subject in common,” replied Sigrid. “And probably the officer prefers talking to me because my English is more fluent than Karen’s.”
“And that I suppose was the reason that you must be the one to teach him the spring dans? And the one to sing him the ‘Bridal Song of the Hardanger’?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sigrid, with an impatient little stamp of the foot, “am I to be forever thinking of this wretched scheming and match-making? Can I not even try to amuse a middle-aged Englishman who is disappointed of his reindeer, and finds himself stranded in a dreary little inn with a handful of foreigners? I have only been courteous to him—nothing more; and if I like talking to him it is merely because he comes from England.”
“I don’t wish to be hard on you,” said Fru Grönvold, “but naturally I have the feelings of a mother, and do not like to see Karen eclipsed. I accuse you of nothing worse, my dear, than a slight forwardness—a little deficiency in tact. There is no occasion for anger on your part.”