And then, with a sympathetic little group of listeners, Blanche gave a full account of her narrow escape.
“And you are really not hurt at all? Not too much shaken to care to dance to-night?”
“Not a bit,” said Blanche merrily. “And you promised to put on your peasant costume and show us the spring dans, you know.”
“So I did. I must make haste and dress, then,” and Sigrid ran upstairs, appearing again before long in a simply made dark skirt, white sleeves and chemisette, and red bodice, richly embroidered in gold. Her beautiful hair was worn in two long plaits down her back, and the costume suited her to perfection. There followed a merry supper in the dépendence where all meals were served; then every one adjourned to the hotel salon, the tables and chairs were hastily pushed aside, and dancing began.
Herr Falck’s eyes rested contentedly on the slim little figure in the maize-colored dress who so often danced with his son; and, indeed, Blanche looked more lovely than ever that evening, for happiness and excitement had brightened her dark eyes, and deepened the glow of color in her cheeks. The father felt proud, too, of his children, when, in response to the general entreaty, Frithiof and Sigrid danced the spring dans together with its graceful evolutions and quaint gestures. Then nothing would do but Frithiof must play to them on the violin, after which Blanche volunteered to teach every one Sir Roger de Coverly, and old and young joined merrily in the country dance, and so the evening passed on all too rapidly to its close. It was a scene which somehow lived on in Cecil’s memory; the merry dancers, the kindly landlord, Ole Kvikne, sitting near the door and watching them, the expression of content visible in Herr Falck’s face as he sat beside him, the pretty faces and picturesque attire of Sigrid and Swanhild, the radiant beauty of Blanche Morgan, the unclouded happiness of Frithiof.
The evening had done her good; its informality, its hearty unaffected happiness and merriment made it a strange contrast to any other dance she could recollect; yet even here there was a slight shadow. She could not forget those words which she had overheard on board the steamer, could not get rid of the feeling that some trouble hung over the Falck family, and that hidden away, even in this Norwegian paradise, there lurked somewhere the inevitable serpent. Even as she mused over it, Frithiof crossed the room and made his bow before her, and in another minute had whirled her off. Happiness shone in his eyes, lurked in the tones of his voice, added fresh spirit to his dancing; she thought she had never before seen such an incarnation of perfect content. They talked of Norwegian books, and her interest in his country seemed to please him.
“You can easily get English translations of our best novelists,” he said. “You should read Alexander Kielland’s books, and Bjornsen’s. I have had a poem of Bjornsen’s ringing all day in my head; we will make Sigrid say it to us, for I only know the chorus.”
Then as the waltz came to an end he led her toward his sister, who was standing with Roy near the piano.
“We want you to say us Bjornsen’s poem, Sigrid, in which the refrain is, ‘To-day is just a day to my mind.’ I can’t remember anything but the chorus.”
“But it is rather a horrid little poem,” said Sigrid, hesitating.