Chapter Nine.
Hund’s report.
Hund performed his journey by night,—a journey perfectly unlike any that was ever performed by night in England. He did not for a moment think of going by the fiord, short and easy as it would have been in comparison with the land road. He would rather have mounted all the steeps, and crossed the snows of Sulitelma itself, many times over, than have put himself in the way a second time of such a vision as he had seen. Laboriously and diligently, therefore, he overcame the difficulties of the path, crossing ravines, wading through swamps, scaling rocks, leaping across water-courses, and only now and then throwing himself down on some tempting slope of grass, to wipe his brows, and, where opportunity offered, to moisten his parched throat with the wild strawberries which were fast ripening in the sheltered nooks of the hills. It was now so near midsummer, and the nights were so fast melting into the days, that Hund could at the latest scarcely see a star, though there was not a fleece of cloud in the whole circle of the heavens. While yet the sun was sparkling on the fiord, and glittering on every farm-house window that fronted the west, all around was as still as if the deepest darkness had settled down. The eagles were at rest on their rocky ledge, a thousand feet above the waters. The herons had left their stand on the several promontories of the fiord, and the flapping of their wings overhead was no more heard. The raven was gone home; the cattle were all far away on the mountain pastures; the goats were hidden in the woods which yielded the tender shoots on which they subsisted. The round eyes of a white owl stared out upon him here and there, from under the eaves of a farm-house; and these seemed to be the only eyes besides his own that were open. Hund knew as he passed one dwelling after another,—knew as well as if he had looked in at the windows,—that the inhabitants were all asleep, even with the sunshine lying across their very faces.
Every few minutes he observed how his shadow lengthened, and he longed for the brief twilight which would now soon be coming on. Now, his shadow stretched quite across a narrow valley, as he took breath on a ridge crossed by the soft breeze. Then, the shadow stood up against a precipice, taller than the tallest pine upon the steep. Then the yellow gleam grew fainter, the sparkles on the water went out, and he saw the large pale circle of the sun sink and sink into the waves, where the fiord spread out wide to the south-west. Even the weary spirit of this unhappy man seemed now to be pervaded with some of the repose which appeared to be shed down for the benefit of all that lived. He walked on and on; but he felt the grass softer under his feet,—the air cooler upon his brow; and he began to comfort himself with thinking that he had not murdered Rolf. He said to himself that he had not laid a finger on him, and that the skiff might have sunk exactly as it did, if he had been sitting at home, carving a bell-collar. There could be no doubt that the skiff had been pulled down fathoms deep by a strong hand from below; and if the spirits were angry with Rolf, that was no concern of Rolf’s human enemies.—Thus Hund strove to comfort himself; but it would not do. The more he tried to put away the thought, the more obstinately it returned, that he had been speeding on his way to injure Rolf when the strange disappearance took place; and that he had long hated and envied his fellow-servant, however marvellously he had been prevented from capturing or slaying him. These thoughts had no comfort in them; but better came after a time.
He had to pass very near M. Kollsen’s abode; and it crossed his mind that it would be a great relief to open his heart to a clergyman. He halted for a minute, in sight of the house, but presently went on, saying to himself that he could not say all to M. Kollsen, and would therefore say nothing. He should get a lecture against superstition, and hear hard words of the powers he dreaded; and there would be no consolation in this. It was said that the Bishop of Tronyem was coming round this way soon, in his regular progress through his diocese, and everybody bore testimony to his gentleness and mercy. It would be best to wait for his coming. Then Hund began to calculate how soon he would come; for aching hearts are impatient for relief; and the thought how near midsummer was, made him look up into the sky,—that beautiful index of the seasons in a northern climate. There were a few extremely faint stars—a very few,—for only the brightest could now show themselves in the sky where daylight lingered so as never quite to depart. A pale-green hue remained where the sun had disappeared, and a deep-red glow was even now beginning to kindle where he was soon to rise. Just here, Hund’s ear caught some tones of the soft harp music which the winds make in their passage through a wood of pines; and there was a fragrance in the air from a new thatch of birch-bark just laid upon a neighbouring roof. This fragrance, that faint vibrating music, and the soft veiled light were soothing; and when, besides, Hund pictured to himself his mind relieved by a confession to the good bishop—perhaps cheered by words of pardon and of promise, the tears burst from his eyes, and the fever of his spirit was allayed.
Then up came the sun again, and the new thatch reeked in his beams, and the birds shook off sleep, and plumed themselves, and the peak of Sulitelma blushed with the softest rose-colour, and the silvery fish leaped out of the water, and the blossoms in the gardens opened, though it was only an hour after midnight. Every creature except man seemed eager to make the most of the short summer season,—to waste none of its bright hours, which would be gone too soon;—every creature except man; but man must have rest, be the sun high or sunk beneath the horizon: so that Hund saw no face, and heard no human voice, before he found himself standing at the top of the steep rocky pathway, which led down to Erlingsen’s abode.
Hund might have known that he should find everything in a different state from that in which he had left the place; but yet he was rather surprised at the aspect of the farm. The stable-doors stood wide; and there was no trace of milk-pails. The hurdles of the fold were piled upon one another in a corner of the yard. It was plain that herd, flock, and dairy-women were gone to the mountain: and, though Hund dreaded meeting Erica, it struck upon his heart, to think that she was not here. He felt now how much it was for her sake that he had come back.
He half resolved to go away again: but from the gallery of the house some snow-white sheets were hanging to dry; and this showed that some neat and busy female hands were still here. Next, his eye fell upon the boat which lay gently rocking with the receding tide in its tiny cove; and he resolved to lie down in it and rest, while considering what to do next. He went down, stepping gently over the pebbles of the beach, lest his tread should reach and waken any ear through the open windows, lay down at the bottom of the boat, and, as might have been expected, fell asleep as readily as an infant in a cradle.