But though she tried in this way to take the edge off her pleasure, she could not do it. Afterward might take care of itself. There was no possibility of realizing it now, she would enjoy to the full just the present that was hers, the long talks with Frithiof, the delightful sense of fellowship with him, the mutual enjoyment of that exquisite valley.
And so they drove on, past Aak, with its lovely trees and its rippling river, past the lovely Romsdalshorn, past the Troltinderne, with their weird outline looming up against the blue sky like the battlements and pinnacles of some magic city. About the middle of the day they reached Horgheim, where it had been arranged that they should spend the night. Frithiof was in a mood to find everything beautiful; he even admired the rather bare-looking posting-station, just a long, brown, wooden house with a high flight of steps to the door and seats on either side. On the doorstep lay a fine white and tabby cat, which he declared he could remember years before when they had visited the Romsdal.
“And that is very possible,” said the landlady, with a pleased look. “For we have had him these fourteen years.”
Every one crowded round to look at this antiquated cat.
“What is his name?” asked Cecil, speaking in Norse.
“His name is Mons,” said the landlady, “Mons Horgheim.”
They all laughed at the thought of a cat with a surname, and then came a general dispersion in quest of rooms. Cecil and Swanhild chose one which looked out across a grassy slope to the river; the Rauma just at this part is very still, and of a deep green color; beyond were jagged, gray mountains and the moraine of a glacier covered here and there with birch and juniper. Half-a-dozen little houses with grass-grown roofs nestled at the foot, and near them were sweet-smelling hayfields and patches of golden corn.
They dined merrily on salmon, wild strawberries, and cream, and then a walk was proposed. Cecil, however, excused herself, saying that she had letters to write home, and so it chanced that Frithiof and Sigrid had what did not often fall to their lot in those days, the chance of a quiet talk.
“What is wrong with you, dear old boy?” she said; for since they had left Horgheim she could not but notice that he had grown grave and absorbed.
“Nothing,” he said, with rather a forced laugh. But, though he tried to resume his usual manner and talked with her and teased her playfully, she knew that he had something on his mind, and half-hopefully, half-fearfully, made one more attempt to win his confidence.