Helga never forgot these words. They echoed in her recollection through the winter months, and Kapellan Holm was nowhere.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Piscator.—Come, sir, let us be going; for the sun grows low, and I would have you look about you as you ride, for you will see an odd country, and sights that will seem strange to you."—The Complete Angler.
John Hardy, before he retired to rest, had arranged with the hotel manager at Veile to telegraph to Bække, where he designed to have a late breakfast, or rather lunch, and to a little inn, a few English miles further on, where they could pass the night. Thus the horses could rest at Bække, and then go further to a station that would leave them but a little distance to reach Esbjerg.
It was eleven before they reached Bække, travelling over not the best of roads, and when they got there Hardy's forethought in telegraphing was apparent. The Pastor was tired, but as conversational as ever. Karl and Axel were obviously hungry, and as there was nothing to be had but fried eggs, and the usual indigestible et ceteras, Hardy was anxious to get on to their destination for the night. The Pastor went into the carriage, and Helga got up by Hardy's side, but her father had specially stipulated that she was not to drive the horses. This, of course, had to be obeyed, as the Pastor's wish once expressed was enough for Helga. The direction was over by-roads, and it was perhaps best the Pastor had been so decisive.
Helga talked as before, unreservedly, and the ring of her clear voice, with its transparent truth, was a pleasure to hear.
"Travelling like this is such a pleasure," she said; "the sound of the step of the horses even has its effect, as we feel they go easily to themselves. There is the succession of change of place and scene, fresh green meadows after dry and dusty roads, and, after a dull bit, there comes a pretty prospect of a country house, with its woods and lake. The coming also to a fresh place every night has its interest. I cannot think of a more pleasant way of travelling. Do you, Herr Hardy?"
"Yes," said Hardy. "I like a fresh breeze blowing in the wished-for direction, and an English sailing yacht, as a means of travelling. You do not go so fast as you appear to sail, but it is pleasant to see the bright wave flashing by, and to feel the yacht rushing through the sea."
"But, then, there is not the varied change of scene as in travelling as we now do, Herr Hardy," said Helga.