“We have been looking out the routes, dear,” said Fru Grönvold, coming into the room, “and the best way will be for you to try for the Friday afternoon boat from Christiania; it generally gets to Hull a little before the Saturday one from Bergen, your uncle says.”
“When can I start?” asked Sigrid eagerly.
“You must start almost at once for Lille-elvedal; it will be a terribly tiring drive for you, I’m afraid—eighty-four kilometers and a rough road. But still there is time to do it, which is the great thing. At Lille-elvedal you will take the night train to Christiania; it is a quick one, and will get you there in ten hours, quite in time to catch the afternoon boat, you see. Your uncle will take you and see you into the train, and if you like we can telegraph to some friend to meet you at the Christiania station: the worst of it is, I fear most people are away just now.”
“Oh, I shall not want any one,” said Sigrid. “If only I can catch the steamer nothing matters.”
“And do not worry more than you can help,” said Fru Grönvold. “Who knows? You may find him much better.”
“They would not have sent unless they feared—” Sigrid broke off abruptly, unable to finish her sentence. And then with a few incoherent words she clung to her aunt, asking her forgiveness for having annoyed her so often, and thanking her for all her kindness. And Fru Grönvold, whose conscience also pricked her, kissed the girl, and cried over her, and was goodness itself.
Then came the wrench of parting with poor Swanhild, who broke down altogether, and had to be left in the desolate little bedroom sobbing her heart out, while Sigrid went downstairs with her aunt, bade a hurried farewell to Major Brown, Oscar, and Karen; then, with a pale, tearless face she climbed into the stolkjaerre, and was driven slowly away in the direction of Dalen.
Her uncle talked kindly, speculating much as to the cause of Frithiof’s illness, and she answered as guardedly as she could, all the time feeling convinced that somehow Blanche Morgan was at the bottom of it all. Were they never to come to the end of the cruel mischief wrought by one selfish woman’s vanity? One thing was clear to her; if Frithiof was spared to them she could never leave him again, and the thought of a possible exile from Norway made her look back lingeringly at the scenes she was leaving. Snehaetten’s lofty peaks still appeared in the distance, rising white and shining into the clear blue sky; what ages it seemed since she had watched it from Hjerkinshö in the wonderful stillness which had preceded this great storm! Below her, to the right, lay a lovely, smiling valley with birch and fir-trees, and beyond were round-topped mountains, with here and there patches of snow gleaming out of black, rocky clefts.
But soon all thought of her present surroundings was crowded out by the one absorbing anxiety, and all the more because of her father’s recent death hope seemed to die within her, and something seemed to tell her that this hurried journey would be in vain. Each time the grisly fear clutched at her heart, the slowness of their progress drove her almost frantic, and the easy-going people at Dalen, who leisurely fetched a horse which proved to be lame, and then, after much remonstrance, leisurely fetched another, tried her patience almost beyond bearing. With her own hands she helped to harness the fresh pony, and at the dreary little station of Kroghaugen, where all seemed as quiet as the grave, she not only made the people bestir themselves, but on hearing that it was necessary to make some sort of a meal there, fetched the fagots herself to relight the fire, and never rested till all that the place would afford was set before Herr Grönvold.