Part 80 (2/2)

TENNYSON.

Britta was in the kitchen, dragging off her snow-wet cloak and fur m.u.f.flers, and crying heartily all the while. The stalwart Svensen stood looking at her in perplexity, now and then uttering a word of vague sympathy and consolation, to which she paid not the slightest heed. The poor girl was tired out, and half-numb with the piercing cold,--the excitement which had kept her up for days and days, had yielded to the nervous exhaustion, which was its natural result,--and she kept on weeping without exactly knowing why she wept. Throughout the long and fatiguing journey she had maintained unflinching energy and perseverance,--undaunted by storm, sleet, and darkness, she had driven steadily over long miles of trackless snow--her instinct had guided her by the shortest and quickest routes--she seemed to know every station and village on the way,--she always managed to obtain relays of reindeer just when they were needed,--in short, Errington would hardly have been able to reach the Altenfjord without her.

He had never realized to its full extent her strong, indomitable, devoted character, till he saw her hour after hour seated beside him in the _pulkha_, her hands tightly gripping the reins of the horned animals, whose ways she understood and perfectly controlled,--her bright, bird-like eyes fixed with watchful eagerness on the bewildering white landscape that opened out incessantly before her. Her common sense was never at fault--she forgot nothing--and with gentle but respectful firmness she would insist on Sir Philip's taking proper intervals of rest and refreshment at the different farms they pa.s.sed on their road, though he, eager to press on, chafed and fretted at every little delay.

They were welcomed all along their route with true Norse hospitality, though the good country-folk who entertained them could not refrain from astonishment at the idea of their having undertaken such a journey at such a season, and appeared to doubt the possibility of their reaching their destination at all. And now that they had reached it in safety, Britta's strength gave way. Valdemar Svensen had hastily blurted out the news of the _bonde's_ death even while she and Sir Philip were alighting from their sledge--and in the same breath had told them of Thelma's dangerous illness. What wonder, then, that Britta sobbed hysterically, and refused to be comforted,--what wonder that she turned upon Ulrika as that personage approached, in a burst of unreasonable anger.

”Oh dear, oh dear!” she cried, ”to think that the Froken should be so ill--almost dying! and have n.o.body but _you_ to attend to her!”

This, with a vindictive toss of the brown curls. Ulrika winced at her words--she was hurt, but she answered gently--

”I have done my best,” she said with a sort of grave pathos, ”I have been with her night and day--had she been a daughter of my own blood, I know not how I could have served her with more tenderness. And, surely, it has been a sore and anxious time with me also--for I, too, have learned to love her!”

Her set mouth quivered,--and Britta, seeing her emotion, was ashamed of her first hasty speech. She made an act of contrition at once by putting her arms round Ulrika's neck and kissing her--a proceeding which so much astonished that devout servant of Luther, that her dull eyes filled with tears.

”Forgive me!” said the impetuous little maiden. ”I was very rude and very unkind! But if you love the Froken, you will understand how I feel--how I wish I could have helped to take care of her. And oh! the _bonde_!”--here she gave way to a fresh burst of tears--”the dear, good, kind, brave _bonde_! That he should be dead!--oh! it is too cruel--too dreadful--I can hardly believe it!”

Ulrika patted her consolingly on the shoulder, but said nothing--and Valdemar sighed. Britta sought for her handkerchief, and dried her eyes--but, after a minute, began to cry again as recklessly as ever.

”And now”--she gasped--”if the Froken--dies--I will die too. I will--you see if I don't! I _w-w-won't_ live--without her!”

And such a big sob broke from her heaving bosom that it threatened to burst her trimly laced little bodice.

”She will not die,” said Ulrika decisively. ”I have had my fears--but the crisis is pa.s.sed. Do not fret, Britta--there is no longer any danger. Her husband's love will lift the trouble from her heart--and strength will return more speedily than it left her.”

And turning a little aside on the pretence of throwing more wood on the fire, she muttered inaudibly, ”O Lord, verily thou hast done well to grant my just demand! Even for this will I remain Thy servant for ever!”

After this parenthesis, she resumed the conversation,--Valdemar Svensen sitting silently apart,--and related all that had happened since Thelma's arrival at the Altenfjord. She also gave an account of Lovisa Elsland's death,--though Britta was not much affected by the loss of her grandmother.

”Dreadful old thing!” she said with a shudder. ”I'm glad I wasn't with her! I remember how she cursed the Froken,--perhaps her curse has brought all the trouble--if so, it's a good thing she's dead, for now everything will come right again. I used to fancy she had some crime to confess,--did she say anything wicked when she was dying?”

Ulrika avoided a direct reply to this question. What was the good of horrifying the girl by telling her that her deceased relative was to all intents and purposes a murderess? She resolved to let the secret of old Lovisa's life remain buried with her. Therefore she simply answered--

”Her mind wandered greatly,--it was difficult to hear her last words.

But it should satisfy you, Britta, to know that she pa.s.sed away in the fear of the Lord.”

Britta gave a little half-dubious, half-scornful smile. She had not the slightest belief in the sincerity of her late grandmother's religious principles.

”I don't understand people who are so much _afraid_ of the Lord,” she said. ”They must have done something wrong. If you always do your best, and try to be good, you needn't fear anything. At least, that's my opinion.”

”There is the everlasting burning,” began Ulrika solemnly.

”Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Britta quite impatiently. ”I don't believe it!”

Ulrika started back in wonder and dismay. ”You don't believe it!” she said in awed accents. ”Are you also a heathen?”

”I don't know what you mean by a heathen,” replied Britta almost gaily.

”But I can't believe that G.o.d, who is so good, is going to everlastingly burn anybody. He couldn't, you know! It would hurt Him so much to see poor creatures writhing about in flames for ever--we would not be able to bear it, and I'm quite sure it would make Him miserable even in heaven. Because He is all Love--He says so,--He couldn't be cruel!”

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