Front matter (continued 3)

The room was cold, but when she had finished dressing her face was flushed and heated. She had put on her silver belt, because it was a present from Oscar, and brushed her hair sideways over the forehead, because that was how Helga wore it. Then looking at herself in the glass she laughed again, for she was proud and happy.

What would Oscar say when he saw her? He would say, "Why, this is Helga! Another Helga! Not quite so tall perhaps--but just--yes, really just as nice-looking!" And then Helga would be angry, and envious, and perhaps go back to Denmark.

She was walking to and fro on tiptoe, glancing with sparkling eyes at her figure in the glass, when she heard voices in the hall below.

"Thora!" cried somebody from the foot of the stairs. It was Oscar.

"I'm coming," she answered.

"What about the great surprise?"

"Presently!" she cried.

She waited until she heard a door close below, and then, still laughing a little, but breathing rapidly, feeling sure of victory, yet with a fluttering at her heart, she went down the stairs, and sailed into the sitting-room.

Oscar was leaning on the marble stove, and Helga, sitting on a low seat, was warming her feet at the fire. They turned to Thora as she entered, and looked at her with wide eyes. There was a moment of chilling silence, and then Thora, breathing faster and faster, said:

"Well, what do you think of it?"

Helga began to laugh, first in a smothered titter, hut finally in an outright roar, whereupon Oscar, who had struggled not to smile, caught the contagion and joined her.

Thora's pitiful face fell, and she said, with a crack in her voice:

"But what are you laughing at, Oscar?"

"My dear, dear child!" said Oscar; and Helga, who was still laughing, said:

"A little milliner! It makes her look like a little milliner!"

"No, no, not that," said Oscar. "But it's not Thora. Thora is a sweet, simple Iceland maiden whose charm is her simplicity, whereas this----"

"I see," said Thora, and with her heart in her mouth she turned to go.

Oscar stepped to the door to stop her, but with the shrill cry of a hare that is wounded to death she flung out at him and passed through. She went up-stairs with a slow step, took off her English costume, put it back in the cardboard box, and pushed it under the bed--crying a little and wiping her eyes.

She knew the truth at last--she knew where she stood in Oscar's mind. A simple Iceland maiden--that was all he had ever seen in her! It was she who had merely fascinated him, and Helga whom he loved!

When the door of the sitting-room closed on Thora, Oscar looked at Helga and said:

"Whatever has come over her?"

"Don't you see?" said Helga.

"Why, no--what is it?"

"How stupid these clever boys can he! I could tell you in three words."

"Tell me, then--tell me."

"Thora is jealous."

"You don't mean that?"

Helga's face flushed; she looked up at Oscar, and a mysterious thrill went through him. The great surprise had come indeed.

VI

Oscar slept badly that night. For two months he had been moving in a garden of dreams, where the odor of sweet flowers overpower the senses, but he was awake at last, and was being dragged to trial in a tribunal of his own creating. In that court of conscience he was both righteous judge and guilty prisoner, and through the long hours of broken sleep, when he saw his life and motives as by flashes of lightning, he asked and answered some terrible questions:

Is Thora's jealousy justified?

No, yes! That is to say--I may have neglected her--thoughtlessly neglected her.

Do you love Helga?

It isn't necessary to think that. I admire her--I admire her beauty, and her intellect, but----

Then you do not love her?

I love her society--I love to be with her; she is bright and brilliant; we have many interests in common.

Then if you do not love Helga, why not cut her off rather than see Thora suffer?

I can't! I can't!

So you do love Helga?

Yes! Yes! I do love her.

Then what about Thora?

I am sorry for Thora--very sorry.

Have you ceased to love her?

Don't say that. My feeling for Thora is the same now as it has always been.

Then you have never loved her?

I thought I did--I sincerely thought I did.

So your feeling for Thora was an illusion?

A most unfortunate illusion, and I am troubled about her--I shall always be troubled about her.

But you are betrothed to her?

God help me, so I am!

What are you going to do now?

What am I going to do? I am--yes, I am going to obey the commandment of Nature. Accident and error and illusion have betrothed me to the wrong woman, but must I hold to her after I have found out that I do not love her? No! She is sweet and loving, and I have no fault to find with her, but I must obey the law of my heart, and who shall judge me if I do that?

But what about the law of the land--you have signed a contract to marry Thora?

Even so, is marriage like any other worldly transaction? Are you bound to go on merely because you have begun? Can human hearts be dealt with like so much merchandise?

So you do not intend to marry Thora?

I cannot--it is impossible--now that her sister has appeared before me, I see too well I do not love her.

But she loves you!

That is the pity of it. Poor Thora!

She thinks you are slipping away from her?

It is very pitiful--I see how I have made her suffer.

What will happen if you leave her altogether?

Her heart will break--her tender, sweet, child heart will break.

Can you break Thora's heart?

No, no, no! Better break my own!

Then what are you going to do?

I must go on with the marriage. I see now that I must--it is my duty--there is no help for it.

Wait! There is something you have not thought about. If you go on with your contract and marry Thora, you must be prepared to live her life.

I know! I know! And I am not fit for it! Good or bad, I am not fit for it!

But if you break your contract, and do not marry Thora, you may live the life of Helga.

Yes, yes, and I am fitted for that life above everything else. It thrills me, it inspires me, it lifts me up.

The one is the lower life, while the other is the higher life.

I cannot bear to think of it.

You know that if you marry Thora you condemn yourself for ever to the lower life, and give up all hope and all thought of the higher one?

Don't torture me! Don't torture me!

But the higher life will be a life consecrated to self, whereas the lower life will be a life devoted to self-sacrifice--which is it to be?

That settles it--I must go on with the contract, whatever the consequences.

When Oscar awoke in the morning from his restless sleep he thought he saw his way clearly. There was only one solution of the hard problem of his iron destiny--he must sacrifice himself! He was betrothed to Thora, and he must go on with the marriage. He loved Helga, but he must tear her out of his heart. He wished to be a musician, and to live the higher life, but he must be content with the lower life and do his duty.

A few irresistible pangs of regret, a few tears which he could not quite keep back, and then, feeling a certain satisfaction with himself, a certain pride in his self-sacrifice, Oscar went early to his work.

It was the autumn caravan time, when the farmers come with the last of the year's tallow and wool to have their accounts made up and settled. The offices and warehouses were like a market-place, and there was work for everybody. Oscar threw himself into the day's doings with astonishing energy, and when the Factor returned from breakfast he bantered him on his industry. "Better late than never, though," said the Factor, "and a good day in the autumn is worth two in the spring."

Oscar spent the morning in the office helping at the accounts. His part was to reconcile the farmers to their balances, for many of them were dissatisfied, and nearly all were in the Factor's debt. Some grumbled at the rate they received for their produce, others at the price they paid for foreign goods. Oscar's task was to persuade, cajole, and comfort them, and finally to draft the notes of hand on the bankers with which they discharged their debts. He felt mean and miserable.

Toward noon Helga sent a messenger to say that she hoped to rehearse some of the new music in the cathedral in the afternoon and to ask if Oscar would go with her. He answered that he could not, business was pressing, and he must stick to his work. It cost him a pang to send back this answer, but he had made his bed and he meant to lie on it.

He spent the afternoon in the warehouse, where the produce brought by the farmers was weighed and stacked away for the winter. The odor of the tallow and wool, mingling with the smell of the men's clothes and the reek of their bodies, made the atmosphere close and noisome, and to freshen the air Oscar ordered the big doors to be thrown open.

All at once through the clear, crisp winter air outside came the sound of the organ being played in the cathedral, and that was the last drop in his cup. It was like a voice calling him out of the lower world he lived in to the higher one he yearned for. It was like Helga beckoning to him in his unblessed surroundings, and through the roll of the music he could see her face.

For the first time Oscar was feeling bitterly about Thora, as if he were a prisoner and she were his jailer, when a man rode up to the warehouse door on a bright chestnut pony, with a line of pack ponies behind him. It was Magnus, and seeing him stand outside the counter, which he had formerly stood within, Oscar felt some qualms of shame, and called him into the scalesman's office.

The interview between the brothers was brief and commonplace, but every simple word seemed to throb and scorch like a flame. Oscar asked how Magnus was getting on at the farm, and if he had good servants, and Magnus answered "Yes"; he had always been fond of farming, and for servants he had only the old ones, and everything was as before. Oscar asked if the Governor had made satisfactory arrangements, and Magnus said he had, that the farm was his own now on terms of tenancy, and was to become his property at the old people's death.

"And how are you getting on here?" asked Magnus.

"I? Oh--pretty well, I think."

"You like the work?"

"Yes--well--not to say like, perhaps; I never expected to do that, you know; but I'm all right, I think."

They had to pause, for the din in the warehouse was louder than usual--some of the farmers were squabbling with the scalesmen.

"And Thora?" said Magnus after a moment.

"Thora? Oh, Thora is all right, too, I think. Yes, Thora is all right," said Oscar.

"Mother tells me she looks pale."

"Pale? Does she? I hadn't noticed it. Perhaps she does though, the weather is getting cold."

There was a painful pause in their conversation, and while they waited Oscar could hear the organ in the cathedral breaking into the opening notes of his own anthem.

"I hear that Helga has come home," said Magnus.

"Oh, yes, Helga has come home," said Oscar.

"They say she is handsome."

"Handsome? Yes, she's rather handsome, in fact, distinctly handsome--and musical--decidedly musical. Indeed, she has grown to be a very attractive girl--very!"

There was another awkward silence, in which the anthem pealed out over the jangling voices in the warehouse.

"I suppose the wedding will be soon," said Magnus.

"The wedding? Well, to tell you the truth, Magnus, nothing has been fixed yet."

"Not yet?"

"Nothing definite, I mean--no precise date. I don't know why, but----"

Oscar looked at his brother, and felt his tongue arrested.

Magnus was calm, his eyes were quiet, and his voice was soft, but there was something in his face which brought back a terrible memory. It was the memory of the night of the betrothal, the last time they talked together, when Magnus had said, "If you ever neglect or desert her or give her up for another woman, I'll take her back--do you hear me?--I'll take her back, and then, by God, I'll kill you!"

Oscar supped at the Factor's house that night. He was unusually solemn, and more than once during the meal Aunt Margret bantered him on his silence, but, at the end of it, while lighting a cigarette, he said:

"Godfather, I hope you'll consent to our having the wedding soon?"

Thora, who had been looking pale and nervous, colored up with a glad look, while Helga, who had been flushed and excited, grew white and rigid.

"What do you call soon, Oscar--Easter?" asked the Factor.

"Earlier, much earlier, say the middle of January at latest," said Oscar.

"But what does Thora say?"

Rising from her seat, with brightening eyes and heaving bosom, Thora crossed over to Oscar and kissed him.

"So that's what Thora says!" laughed the Factor. "Very well, I'm willing! The middle of January let it be then, and fix the date between you."

Helga's white face quivered. "So that's settled!" she cried, and leaping up she went across to the piano and began to play with great vigor. She played the wild "Ride of the Valkyries," becoming faster and louder at every bar.

Oscar was in torture, and he went home early. "What a mercy Helga does not know!" he thought. "If she did, I could not trust myself even yet! And if she loves me as I love her--good God!"

But Thora was very happy. Going to bed that night she thought, "How wrong I have been about Oscar; how cruelly, wickedly, shamefully wrong!"

VII

Next morning Oscar thought the battle was over, and his conscience had conquered, but the devil was not done with him yet. He had hardly settled to his work in the warehouse when a letter came from Helga, saying:

"The ice is perfect on the lake this morning, ant in spite of business and every other botheration you must carry out your promise to take me to skate. Therefore come at two o'clock to the minute, and you will find me waiting to go with you."

It was the first letter he had received from Helga, and it seemed to burn his fingers. The scented note-paper and the free, bold handwriting gave him a physical thrill which he had never felt before.

Should he go? His soul said, "Certainly not! Why expose yourself to temptation, especially now, when you are as weak as water." But his heart said, "You must! To make any difference in your attitude toward Helga would be to run the risk of betraying your secret. And what about the future--can you always run away like that?" His heart won, and at the appointed time he was walking up to the Factor's.

Helga was standing by the door at the top of the steps. She was dressed in pale blue serge, a short skirt exposing the long tanned boots, a jersey revealing the flexible lines of her shapely figure, and a white woolen cap, like a chain helmet, covering half her forehead and closing under her chin, leaving her vivid face bare and beautiful as a young nun's in hood and bands.

Oscar was beginning to doubt himself already, and he asked where was Thora.

"I'm here," said a cheerful voice from the hall, and Thora came to the door bright and happy, but bareheaded, and sewing a piece of moleskin cloth.

"Not ready?" said Oscar.

"I'm not going, I can't skate," said Thora.

"Then we'll take a walk instead," said Oscar. But Thora would not hear of it. Helga had set her heart on skating, and she had set her heart on something else--making a sleeve waistcoat for Hans, the sailor.

"Well, if you really wish it," said Oscar.

"Really, truly! And I'll have tea ready for you at five o'clock."

"We'll be back before that," said Oscar, and then he and Helga went swinging down the road.

Helga, in her short skirt, walked with a spring, like a young horse in sharp weather, and Oscar, as he swung along by her aide, sometimes touching her, felt his blood tingling, and every nerve tremblingly alive. This frightened him a little, and turning to look back he saw Thora waving to them from the house, and said, "God bless her, the dear little soul!" And then Helga glanced at him sideways and laughed.

The frost had filtered the air, and it was crisp and quivering with currents of electricity, which stimulated all their senses. Their voices crackled when they spoke, and when Helga laughed the sound was like that of dry sticks in a quick fire.

"What are you laughing at, Helga?"

"I don't know," she said, and then they laughed together.

The ice of the lake was glorious--a broad mirror black as ink, for there had been no snow yet, the water had frozen as by first intention, and through five fathoms they could see the stones and pebbles at the bottom.

"What a pity Thora didn't come," said Oscar.

"Isn't it?" said Helga, and again she glanced at him sideways and laughed.

They sat on the bank to put on their skates, and while Helga fumbled at her straps, Oscar thought, "I must not, I will not!" But Helga looked across at him with a smile that seemed to ask a question, and at the next moment he was down on his knees in front of her, with one of her skates and one of her long tanned boots in his quivering hands.

Oscar thought Helga's skating was wonderful. It was divine, it was devilish, it intoxicated him, he could not trust himself to look at it alone, and seeing a number of skaters at the farther side of the lake, where there was an island of lava rocks, he said:

"Let us go over to the others."

Hours passed, the exercise and the air warmed his blood, his tremors left him, and he forgot about Thora. At length the sun began to set over the sea in a flood of glory, and Oscar said, "Time to go home."

"Not yet," said Helga, and they went round and round the island, sometimes apart, sometimes with clasped hands, sometimes side by side with arms interlaced across their breasts.

The sun went down, and both sea and land became gray and cold, but still the tops of the mountains were golden.

"Tea will be waiting," said Oscar.

"A little longer!" said Helga, and nothing loath, Oscar went round and round with her again.

The night came striding up from the plain behind, and somebody lit a fire on the island.

"Too late for tea now," said Helga, and once again Oscar went round and round with her. It seemed to him that Helga's face flashed with electric flame as she swirled out of the darkness into the red glow from the fire, and back again into the darkness.

One of the skaters started the Elf-song, others joined him, and then it was a scene of complete enchantment. The frost had laid its hand on the falls that fed the lake, and they were quiet; it had stroked the streams, and they were still; but if the voices of the waters were silent, the voices of the skaters rippled and rang in the crisp night air.

"Dance by night and dance by day,

Life and Time will pass away:

Love alone will last alway."

Oscar was enraptured. The humming of the skates, the swaying of the ice, the music of the singers, the heat, the glow, the sinuous movement, and above all the girl by his side, so bright, so beautiful, so full of life and laughter, carried away every sense, and flesh and blood were afire.

Then the moon rose, a brilliant moon, and it was reflected full and round and white in the black mirror of the ice, with its streamers going off from it, as if it had been a comet that had fallen to the earth, and lay there at their feet.

"Look! Let us cut across it," cried Helga, and away they shot in the darkness, with the moon's reflection receding as they followed it, until they came to the limit of the lake, and then the skaters and the fire and the singing were far behind them.

"What a will o' the wisp she is! I could catch you quicker than I could catch her!" said Oscar.

"You couldn't!"

"I could!"

"Do it then!" cried Helga, and off she went, laughing at first, but afterward silent yet breathing fast, and at last panting audibly while she twisted and turned to escape from him, until he came down on her at length with outstretched arms and a cry of "Done!" And then, before he knew what he was doing, he was clasping her to his breast, and she was clinging to him lest she should fall, and he was beating kiss after kiss upon her lips.

At the next moment consciousness came back to him like an ice wind blowing in a furnace. His arms slackened away from Helga, and he said in a cold voice:

"I beg your pardon, Helga. It was wrong of me. I am very sorry."

Helga laughed, a nervous, broken laugh which seemed to say, "Are you sure you are thinking of me?"

"I am betrothed to your sister, and in less than two months I am to be married to her. I had no right to give way to my feelings like that," said Oscar.

The nervous, broken laugh came again, and it said, as plainly as words could speak, "Do you know what you are saying, Oscar?"

Oscar trembled like a withered leaf. He was like a man standing on the hot ground of the geysers, where the crust was thin and cracking under his feet.

"Let us go home," he said.

"Take off my skates then," said Helga.

She sat on the bank in the moonlight, and while he knelt at her feet and fumbled with the straps, his tongue went on with rambling sentences, but every word was tearing as at a torn tendon.

"When a man has engaged himself to a good woman, he ought to be true to her. It is his duty, and whatever the consequences to himself, he ought to do it. If he has to suffer, he must suffer, Helga, and if he has to sacrifice himself----"

A faint sound stopped him. Helga was crying. Her crying seemed to search his innermost thoughts, and to say, "But have you any right to sacrifice me?"

"Helga! Helga!" he cried, but she took no notice. She covered her face with her hands, and her crying became deep and long and inconsolable.

He wished to comfort her, but he dare not do so. He remembered Thora and Magnus, the Factor, and his father, and his thoughts danced about his naked soul like demons.

"Helga! Helga!" he cried again, but still Helga's weeping continued. If it had gone on a moment longer he must have taken her in his arms again and told her that he loved her; that his love for her was above all laws, all illusions, all conventions; it was the commandment of Nature, and he was compelled to obey it; and they must fly from Iceland and never return, whatever the waste of ruined lives they had to leave behind them.

But Helga's crying stopped suddenly, and throwing back her head she said fiercely, "Very well, if you are satisfied, so am I!"

Then she leapt to her feet, wiped her eyes vigorously and laughed--a short, hard, bitter laugh, and after that Oscar recovered control of himself.

"Let us be off," she said.

Going back by the road that skirts the lake, side by side, but neither touching the other, and both silent, Oscar thought, "Good heavens, what an escape! Another moment and what might not have happened! What a fool I was to expose myself to this temptation! Marriage is my only safeguard. It must be soon. Thora and I must go away. When we return, Helga may be back in Denmark, and then a scene like this will never occur again!"

When they reached the house at last, he felt like an adulterer coming home after his first offense, but Thora looked happy and unsuspicious.

"I knew you couldn't tear yourselves away from your skating, so I put the tea away, and now supper is nearly ready," she said.

After supper Oscar said, "Godfather, I wish you would permit me to alter the arrangement of last evening."

"You want to go back to Easter, eh?" said the Factor.

"No, sir, to come on to Christmas," said Oscar, and then he gave his reasons. Thora was looking pale--everybody thought so--she wanted a change--he would like to take her to England, perhaps to France, and even to Italy. They might stay away during the months of spring and come back for the first of summer, when Althing would open its session, and by that time Thora would be well, and he himself would be ready to set to work in earnest.

"But Christmas, my gracious!" cried Aunt Margret, "hardly time for the banns! And what about Thora's wedding-dress?"

But Thora herself was in raptures, and Aunt Margret's objections were borne down.

"Christmas let it be then," said the Factor, whereupon Thora gave a cry of joy, and Helga, whose eyes had passed with a quick glance from face to face, while her own grew paler and paler, leapt up, saying:

"And now let us have a dance to celebrate the happy event!"

"No, no, no," said Oscar.

"Yes, yes," said Helga, and sitting down to the piano she played a dance tune with a rapid and passionate touch. "Make him dance, Thora," she cried with an awful brightness in her eyes.

Thora took hold of Oscar and dragged him to his feet, saying laughingly, "Why not, Oscar?"

Tables and chairs were pulled aside, the Factor went off to smoke, and Oscar and Thora danced while Helga played, laughing loudly, and calling to them again and again.

"Helga! Helga! Not so fast! You'll kill us," cried Thora.

But Helga only laughed the louder and played the faster, with a fierceness that seemed to consume her like a fire.

Oscar went home that night with an aching heart, but Thora went to bed happy.

"How wrong I was about dear Helga, also!" she thought, and then drawing a deep breath she fell asleep.

VIII

To think yourself happy is to be happy, and Thora thought herself the happiest little woman in the world. The weeks before her wedding were the brightest period of her heart's existence. She counted the days backward from the day she was living in to the day of all days that was to come, and every morning, the moment she awoke, she said to herself, "Only nineteen now," and then eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen, until it became three, two, and one. "Our Thora is like a white mouse in a revolving cage--she can't make the world go round quickly enough," said Aunt Margret.

Hers was not the happiness that makes the heart afraid, and she had not a moment's misgiving about Oscar now. She never once saw him alone for more than two minutes together, but that did not trouble her at all. He came and went every day, always in a hurry, and always breathless, and she gave him the benevolence of a smile, and occasionally the charity of a kiss, when it could be done decently behind the dining-room door. But usually he had to be content to see her seated among her dressmakers and sewing-maids, and that suited him better than she knew.

There was nothing to tarnish the white simplicity of her happiness, and when Oscar could come with maps and tour lists to arrange about their journey she would say:

"Why don't you talk it over with Helga? She knows more about traveling."

And then Oscar would stammer a little and say, "Well, if you are willing to be guided by Helga's judgment, and Helga herself will----"

"Certainly I am, so be off to my bedroom and settle everything."

Whereupon Oscar would cry, "No, no, we're right enough here," and then Helga and he--the one trembling lest a word should betray him, the other going through the bitterness of looking at happiness through another's eyes--would discuss routes and railway journeys to the click of scissors and the buzz of the sewing machine.

"We'll go up by the Mont Cenis, eh?" "No, by the St. Gothard." "We'll come back by San Remo and Nice." "And Monte Carlo!" "Yes, of course--Monte Carlo."

"My gracious, it might be Helga who was going on her honeymoon," Aunt Margret would say.

"Mightn't it?" Thora would answer, and then she would laugh like a child.

In the Holy Land of her innocent heart she had only one thought about her sister--that she had done her the wrong of suspecting her. Helga might know nothing about that, but she knew, and she could never be quite satisfied until she had made amends. Time and again she thought of a way to do this, and at length an artful scheme occurred to her. It was a daring design, and asking herself when she could bring it to pass she concluded that it must be on her wedding-day, because she would be the queen of her own little kingdom then and nobody could deny her anything. Meantime it was to be her secret, and Helga was to hear nothing about lit, and even Oscar himself was not to know.

There was only one other streak of alloy in Thora's happiness, and that was her memory of Magnus. The brave heart did not break and Magnus's despair might be dumb, but the thought of his suffering was the tang of iron in the sweet wine of Thora's life. To complete her happiness everybody had to share it, so when Oscar came one day she took him into the hall and said:

"Oscar, who is to be best man?" And Oscar stammered:

"Well, really, to tell you the truth, I hadn't--that is to say----"

"Why not Magnus?" said Thora.

"Magnus? I thought of that, but--" and then came the old difficulty--he had not yet set Magnus right on the subject of the betrothal, and until that could be done the old people would object to him.

"But why shouldn't you do it now, Oscar? Such a splendid moment to heal every sore and let bygones be bygones."

"Yes, certainly, that's so," said Oscar, but he went off with a troubled face, and Thora heard no more from him on the subject until the day before the wedding, when he said:

"Oh, by the way, about the best man, that splendid scheme of yours was impossible, Thora."

"Impossible?"

"Mother tells me Magnus has gone to the Northlands--went away about a week ago, it seems."

"In the winter and on the eve of the wedding?"

"She thinks he'll be back for that, but, of course, we can't take risks, so Neils--you remember Neils Finsen, the Sheriff's son?--Neils came back in the last steamer, and he'll be best man, so that's settled."

"What a pity!" said Thora, and then Oscar, who had opened the door, cried:

"Helloa! Snowing! We're going to have a white wedding, Thora!" and with a nervous laugh he buttoned up his coat collar and went off without kissing her.

She remembered this again when she was going to bed, and, sitting on the great chair before the cheerful stove, with the curtains drawn and all so sweet and cozy, she reflected that it was the last time she was to sleep in her father's house. The three weeks were almost gone at last, and so was her girlhood; and now that both were nearly over they seemed to have vanished like a dream. She was happy still, but it would have taken very little to turn her happiness into pain. It was a pity Oscar had forgotten to kiss her, and it was a pity Magnus would not be present at the wedding.

Toward the mirk of night she went to bed, and then the snow was still falling. She thought of Magnus traveling over the desert, and wondered why he had gone away just then. Perhaps it was because he could not bear to look upon their happiness--hers and Oscar's! Poor Magnus!

But the memory of Magnus was whirled away in a cloud of other thoughts--the wedding, the wedding presents, the wedding-feast, and Oscar, always Oscar--and then the tired eyelids of her mind closed in peace and good-will with all the world, and she slept the last sleep of her maidenhood.

IX

"Thora! Thora! Well, I declare! The girl is still sleeping!"

"On her wedding-day, too. Thora! Thora!"

Thora awoke with a start at the calling and knocking at her door. Leaping out of bed she ran to the window and parted the curtains. It was broad morning, the sun was shining brightly over the snow, and all the world was white.

She opened the door, the sewing-maids and dressmakers trooped into the room, and from that moment onward for several hours the universe was a chaos without form and void, in which all talked at once and everybody ran up against everybody else, and Thora ate her breakfast while walking about or being "fitted on."

But the dress and the dressing were finished at length, and Aunt Margret was called up to look. Nobody in Iceland had ever seen such a bridal costume--the silk kirtle, the silver-gilt crown, the faldur, the veil, and the blue plush cloak.

"Isn't she beautiful, Margret?" said the maids, whereupon Aunt Margret, whose eyes were glistening behind her spectacles, said:

"Talk about Helga--tut!"

Then the cathedral bells began to ring and a hush fell on everybody. Thora went slowly down-stairs and found her father (looking taller than ever in a new silk hat) waiting for her in the hall, and Silvertop standing ready in the street, with a side-saddle of red plush and gilt. There were a few jests, a few laughs, a few furtive tears, and then they started off. The snow underfoot was as dry and soft as flour, and it was with difficulty that the pony could be made to walk sedately.

From the moment they reached the cathedral it was all like a dream to Thora, a beautiful day-dream, such as she had dreamt sometimes when she thought she was dead and her happy soul was entering heaven.

The bridesmaids were waiting in the porch--Helga looking wondrously beautiful in an English dress, and two former school-fellows in Iceland costume.

Thora, who was moving as in a vision, felt somebody taking off her plush cloak, and then the bells stopped and the organ began. At the next moment the choir was singing a hymn--the usual hymn, "When God the Father led the first of brides"--and then she was going up the aisle, leaning on her father's arm.

She had never seen so many faces since the day she was confirmed. They seemed to move past her, and they made her almost dizzy. She remembered how at other weddings the congregation had watched for the bride and looked at her as if she had been a supernatural thing. "She's coming!" "Here she comes!" She herself was the bride now, and the people were craning their necks to see her.

Thora could feel their smiling faces, and she knew that her own face was smiling. She could hear what the people were saying as she passed them: "Dear Thora!" "How lovely she looks!" "I'm satisfied now, and I don't care if I go--I only wanted to see how Thora looked in the kirtle." And meanwhile the voices of the choir were coming down from the gallery as from the sky and floating round and round her.

At the top of the nave Oscar was waiting--so perfectly dressed, so handsome, so noble-looking--with a fair young man on his right hand, and on his left the Governor, very solemn and stately with his iron-grey hair and beard.

The hymn came to an end, the organ died down, and Thora found herself standing by Oscar's side at the foot of the chancel steps, with the old Bishop in his pleated black gown and white ruff at the top of them. There was a rustle behind her, then there was silence, and the Bishop began to speak.

"My children," he said, "when long ago God the Father led the first of brides to the first of men in the beautiful garden of Eden he linked their hands together in love, and that was the first marriage. Since then He has carried on the human story by the same sweet means, and love is still the bond that binds man to woman, and woman to man."

"My children," said the Bishop again--he was speaking to her and Oscar--"you come here to be made man and wife, and because you love one another God is willing to join your hands in holy wedlock, for He blesses and sanctifies no other union, whether of wealth or worldly advantage or any other interest whatsoever.

"We know you both, my children; we who are gathered here have watched the flower of your affection bud and bloom, and now we pray to God that you may be true to the vows you are to make to-day, always bearing each other's burdens, forgiving each other's faults, and cherishing the human love that is a symbol of the love divine.

"My daughter, love him who is to be your husband; let him find on your breast his solace for every sorrow, whatever the world may do to him, and whatever the world may say.

"My son, love her who is to be your wife. There is nothing nobler in this imperfect existence, no sight more sweet and heavenly, than when a good girl leaves the father who loves her, and the home where she has been happy, and says to him who is to be her husband: 'The past was beautiful, but I trust the future all to you.' Be worthy of that trust, my son, be strong, be brave, be faithful, and He who knows our weaknesses, having trodden the earth before us, will bear you up if your feet should falter.

"Be companions to each other in the journey of this world, my dear ones, and if it should please God to give you children let them be bonds to bind you closer together. Above all, love one another, for that is the first commandment, and may He who gave it guard and guide you through all the thorny paths of life."

The Bishop's voice became tremulous toward the end, and when he finished there was some coughing and blowing of noses among the congregation. Oscar, too, was breathing heavily by Thora's side, and Helga was trampling on her train, but Thora herself was as calm as a trustful child.

At the next moment she was kneeling by Oscar's side on the communion steps--just where they had knelt as children to be confirmed--and the Bishop was administering the vows. There was a breathless hush in the crowded cathedral during this solemn and beautiful ceremony--a ceremony for ever new, for ever old, for ever awful--the consecration of the man to the woman, the woman to the man, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, "till death us do part."

Oscar was still breathing heavily, but Thora felt too happy to be agitated, too sure to be afraid. When the Bishop put their hands together, and laid his own hand on the top of them, she felt Oscar's hand tremble and his pulse throb, and she wanted to calm and comfort him. But it was all over in a moment, for they had risen to their feet, and one of the assistant clergy was giving out a hymn.

"Guide Thy children, Father, guide them,

Through the thorny paths of life."

The choir began it, but the congregation joined in, and all the voices seemed to quiver with emotion. Thora felt herself carried away, far away, but still she was holding Oscar's hand. She thought she could hear Magnus's voice among the voices behind her--the deep voice she used to hear on those evenings so long ago. Poor Magnus! But then he could have had no joy of her, so it was better even for him.

It was something of a descent when the hymn ended and the Bishop shook hands with her, and the Governor followed his example, and the bridesmaids came up and kissed her in the presence of the whole congregation. But Oscar gave her his arm, and as they moved down the nave the organ and choir began again:

"O Perfect Love, all human thought transcending,

Lowly we kneel in prayer before Thy throne."

She was now sure she could hear Magnus, and looking up at the organ loft she saw him. Yes, he was there; he was in the choir; he had come back from the Northlands to sing at her wedding.

"That theirs may be the joy that knows no ending,

Whom Thou for evermore dost join in one--"

She had only one glance at his face, but she saw it plainly. She had never seen it like that before--so broken up, and so soft, yet so strong and brave. His eyes were steadfastly fixed on his music book, and he was swaying a little and singing as with all his might.

"Grant them the joy which brightens earthly sorrow,

Grant them the peace which calms all earthly strife--"

But Magnus was whirled away from her in a moment, for the people whispered as she was going past. "Dear Thora! God bless our Thora!"

Oscar was bowing on both sides of the aisle, and the people were talking to him also. "How handsome he looks!" "He looks as if he could take care of her, too!" "Take care of her, Oscar!"

They were back in the porch at length, and somebody was putting her plush cloak over her shoulders. Silvertop was standing outside, and Hans the sailor (in his new sleeve waistcoat) was giving him water out of his pail.

Oscar lifted her to the saddle, and they turned their faces homeward. The bells began to ring again--a merry peal--and then, at last, Thora's tears began to flow. How good everybody had been to her! It was all for Oscar's sake! How sweet to think they were good to her for the sake of Oscar! Thank God for Oscar!

X

Anna and Aunt Margret were at the door of the Factor's house to receive them. They kissed Thora, and called her "Mrs. Stephenson," and then took her up-stairs to change. When she came down again the friends invited to the wedding feast were coming in quickly, taking off their snowshoes, shaking hands with Oscar, and talking all at once.

The table was laid in the double sitting-room which had been the scene of the betrothal. The Factor sat at the head with Oscar on his right (just in the place where he had trodden on Helga's photograph), and Thora on his left (where Magnus had sat on the low seat beside his mother), while the Governor faced the Factor, with Anna and Aunt Margret at either side of him, and the Bishop, the Sheriff, and the Doctor between. Helga sat midway down the table, with Neils Finsen on one side of her and the Rector on the other.

Thora was bashful but bright, reddening a little with maidenly reserve when pointed remarks were made to her, but filling the room with musical laughter. During the meal nearly everybody raised his glass to her, and at the end of it the Governor rose, bowed to her down the table with a stately grace, and began to speak.

"I rise," said the Governor, "to propose the health of the bride and bridegroom. We are all happy in the marriage which has just been celebrated, and no one can be more happy than myself. It had been for many years the dearest hope of my heart that the life-long friendship between Factor Neilsen and myself might be cemented in our children by a still closer bond."

"Your health, old friend," interrupted the Factor, raising his glass, and the Governor stopped to drink with him.

"Time was, perhaps," he continued, "when I feared lest this hope might be frustrated."

"No, no!" said the Factor, while Thora dropped her head, Anna sighed audibly, and there was silence for a moment, as if the spirit of some one who was not present had passed through the room.

"But sweet is the bliss that follows bale," said the Governor, "and thank God we are now of one mind and one family."

When the glasses of the company had ceased to jingle, the Governor went on to speak of Thora. "She has always been like a daughter in our house, and now she is our daughter indeed. We have loved her all her life, and to-day we have given her the best we had to give to any one--our son, our favorite son, the idol of our hopes and the pride of our hearts. God bless both of them!"

As soon as the Factor had done wiping his eyes with his print handkerchief he rose with a laugh and said:

"Stem before stern when the sea gets up, and I'm not much used to pulling backward, but I'm with the Governor in thanking God that the storm that threatened has blown over and we are sailing in smooth water. As for Oscar, he has been my godson ever since he was anything; and to-day he has become my son, and I could not wish for a better.

"And now," said the Factor, as soon as he was allowed to go on, "a small promise kept is better than a big one forgotten, and I'm going to keep a little promise which I made on the day of the betrothal. Perhaps some of you wouldn't think it, but I believe in young people enjoying their youth while they've got any. I managed to miss mine somehow, and it's been work, work, work with me all my days. The same with the Governor; it's been work, work, work with him too, and we haven't had a holiday between us. But we are going to have a holiday now--we're going to travel to the sunny south lands, where the ground and the sea aren't white like this and that." (The Factor waved his hands toward the windows front and back.) "Yes, we're going to see the world in our old age, the Governor and I, but it's got to be with eyes that are better than ours are now--the eyes of our children."

"What's more," continued the Factor, when the company were again quiet, "we're not going to grudge the expense either, and if Oscar will look under his bottom plate he'll find a little oil that will grease the wheels on the way."

Oscar lifted his fruit plate and took up two checks, and when the toast had been honored he rose to reply. Nobody had ever before seen him so pale, so nervous, or so serious.

"I thank the Governor and the Factor," he said, "for the splendid present they have given us--so much more than we can possibly require on our journey. I thank you all for coming to our wedding--it is so pleasant to be surrounded by the people who have known us all our lives. 'Find your wife among your friends,' says one of our Sagas. I have found mine almost in my family, and I trust the two branches now made one may never be divided as the result of what we have done this morning."

There was some applause, and when Oscar began again his voice faltered and broke.

"I thank the Bishop, too," he said, "for the words--the wise and touching words--he spoke in marrying us. I know that love--love is the only foundation of a true marriage, and I--I trust my marriage is a true one. I do not love my wife as much as I ought--as much as she deserves. I can never do that; it is impossible, but I hope to love her more and more as time goes on, and to fly from every temptation to love her less. I know I am not worthy of the dear good girl who has given herself to me to-day, but I will try so to live that she may never regret it. Often forgive the woman's faults, says another of our Sagas, but a truer word in this case would be forgive the man's, and I pray God my wife may never have too much to forgive."

When Oscar sat down the men thought his speech had been a little affected and far-fetched, but there was not a woman in the room who did not want to leap up and kiss him. Thora was openly wiping her eyes, but her face was one high noon of enjoyment, and in the buzz which followed the silence Aunt Margret called across to her.

"Mrs. Stephenson, you had better take care of your husband or some of these young women will run away with him."

There were other toasts, "The Governor," "The Factor," and finally, "The Bridesmaids," proposed by the Rector in a playful speech.

"They say a kiss isn't the same thing from all women," he said, "and being an old bachelor I know nothing about that; but the young fellow on my left" (the Rector indicated Neils Finsen), "who has a right to consider himself the best man in Iceland to-day, has confessed to me in a whisper that he finds one of the bridesmaids so charming and beautiful that if he had been in Oscar's place, and compelled by a narrow-minded law to choose between the Factor's two daughters, he would have cut off to some eastern country where he could have married both."

Everybody laughed and looked at Helga, who had herself been laughing rather hysterically, and looking at Oscar all through dinner. And then Thora, who was overflowing with happiness, glanced down at her sister, and remembered the great scheme she had conceived to make amends for mistrusting and suspecting her. Now was the moment to carry it into effect--now that she was queen in her little kingdom--and, half bold, half shy, she rose from her seat, put her arms about her father's neck, and whispered something in his ear.

The Factor's face straightened for a moment, then broadened again, and he said, "But what does Oscar say?"

"Oscar will be sure to agree," said Thora, and she whispered in her father's ear again.

"Well, I'm not going back on my word; I'm willing; but you must ask Oscar."

Then, laughing and reddening, Thora crept up behind Oscar and whispered in his ear also, while looking sideways down at Helga. As Oscar listened his face became serious and he said:

"But you are quite sure that you wish it, Thora?"

"Yes, yes, yes," said Thora, laughing and blushing, for now the eyes of the whole company were on her.

"Let us talk of it to-morrow," said Oscar.

"No, no, now," said Thora.

"But perhaps Helga herself--" began Oscar, and then he stopped, whereupon Helga, hearing her own name, said with a nervous laugh:

"What is that about Helga?"

"Yes, what is it?" said several voices at once, and then the Factor explained.

"Thora wants to have her sister to accompany them on their tour, and she is trying to persuade Oscar."

There were some unconvincing cries of "Why not?" and "Splendid!" and then there was silence, broken only by Thora's voice saying:

"Please, Oscar, please!"

It was the last thing Oscar could have expected--to have temptation thrown in his way at the moment when he was trying to escape from it; to have the flood-gate of passion opened afresh after he had struggled so hard to dam it--and to have this done by Thora herself, in her blind unselfishness and innocent joy, as if the powers of hell were making game of her.

But the company were waiting for Oscar's answer; and, not to betray himself, he tried to escape by banter. "I'm not like Neils--I don't want both of you," he said; but still the pleading, coaxing voice was at his ear, saying:

"Please, Oscar, please, please!" And when Oscar continued to hesitate the Rector said:

"Tut, tut, Oscar, refusing your wife's first request is a bad beginning."

"I'm not refusing," said Oscar, "and if Helga herself really and truly thinks she would like to go with us----"

"Would you like to go, Helga?" asked the Factor, and then there was another moment's hesitation, in which Helga, biting her lower lip with a fierceness which betrayed the struggle in her soul, looked across at Oscar as if trying to read in his face what her answer was to be.

"Tell her to say yes, Oscar," said Thora.

"Yes," said Helga, and at the next moment Thora was clapping her hands in triumphant delight and making the room ring with her laughter.

Neils Finsen had sat down to the piano and the servants were clearing the table to make way for dancing, when Anna came up behind Thora and whispered:

"Somebody outside wishes to see you, Thora."

"Is it perhaps----?"

"Yes, dear," said Anna, and Thora followed her out of the room.

XI

Magnus was waiting in the hall, dressed in snow stockings and a long cape overcoat, rough and worn and belted about the waist. His face was stamped with the deep lines which in a strong man stand for resignation and in a weak one for despair. Thora thought she had never seen him look so big and brawny, but his voice when he spoke to her was as soft as a woman's, and he broke into the sunniest of smiles. She closed the door of the sitting-room to shut out the sound of the piano, and then came forward and held out her hand, feeling little and weak in her kirtle and the bridal crown across her forehead.

"I came to say good-by and to wish you a good voyage," he said.

"I'm so glad you've come," said Thora. "I heard you had gone away, and I was afraid I was going to miss you."

"I've brought you this for a wedding present," said Magnus, taking up from the hall table a large white bear's skin which Thora had not noticed before.

"What a magnificent rug!" said Thora.

"Is it a good one?" said Magnus.

"It is perfectly beautiful. I have never seen anything like it. It must have cost you a fortune."

"No, not a great deal. I bought it in the Northlands."

"Then it was to get this that you went there?"

"Yes."

"In the winter, too--such a long, cold journey!"

"I am strong, Thora--I never feel the cold."

His sad eyes were glistening, and Thora's throat was thick.

"I shall use it on the ship and in the train and everywhere," she said. "And whenever I use it I will always think of you."

"Will you?"

"Indeed I will. But we are going south, you know."

"I know."

"To England and France--perhaps to Italy."

"It will do you good, Thora. The sun will do you good. And you will see the fruit and the flowers growing--it will be beautiful."

"Will it not?"

The piano was becoming louder, and there was a sound of shuffling feet--the people in the sitting-room were beginning to dance.

"And what do you think--Helga is going with us," said Thora.

"Helga!"

"Didn't Anna tell you?"

"Is Helga to go with you to Italy?"

"Oh, yes, and we are delighted to have her. She's so clever and bright--Oscar can never be dull for a moment while Helga is with us."

The grave face looked sideways for a moment, and then he said, in a still gentler voice:

"I hope you'll be happy on your journey, Thora."

"I'm sure I shall. We shall all be happy. We sail by the 'Laura' to-morrow morning."

"So mother told me--I've been taking your baggage aboard and seeing to your cabin."

"And you have been doing that while we----"

"I wanted to do something for you, Thora."

"But, Magnus, you ought to have been here by rights. Oscar always wished it. In fact he wanted you to be his best man."

"Oscar did?"

"Indeed he did, but you couldn't be found, because you had gone on your journey."

Over the sound of the music and the dancing the Governor's voice came from within, mingled with the Factor's hearty laughter.

"Perhaps it was just as well I was away," said Magnus. "The old people have never forgiven me for what I did, and if they ever came to suspect that somebody else was responsible----"

He stopped, and then Thora dropped her eyes and said:

"I was so glad you were in the cathedral."

"It was beautiful," said Magnus.

"You have no feeling against Oscar now?"

"Not now. When I saw you kneeling together at the communion rails I thought of the day when we all knelt there. And then--then Oscar was my little brother once again."

"Magnus--won't you--won't you kiss me?"

He hesitated for a moment, but she held her sweet face up to him--pure as a saint's and wet with tears--and he opened his great arms and gathered the little white figure to his breast and kissed her on the forehead under the bridal crown.

"Good-by, little girl, and God bless you and make you very happy. But if you ever want me say 'Come,' and I'll come to you--if it's to the farthest corner of the earth."

Thora began to cry audibly and Magnus bustled about and made for the door. He must be off, he had a long journey before him.

"And then Silvertop is outside--I must not keep him waiting.

"Silvertop?"

"Mother told me to take care of him until you return--so I'm taking him back to the farm."

"Let me say good-by to him," said Thora.

Magnus covered her from head to foot in the bear's skin and led her down the steps to the street. It was dark, but the stars were out and the northern lights were cleaving the sky as with the sweep of a mighty saber. All was white and silent, save for the deadened beat of the piano and the thud of the feet of the dancers. Two horses, saddled and bridled, stood quietly in the snow with their reins hanging over their heads, and Magnus, mounting one of them, said:

"This is Golden Mane--Silvertop's big brother."

Thora found her own pony, stroked its ears and kissed its nose, and then fled back to the door out of the frosty air.

"Good brothers go well together; we'll be home by midnight," cried Magnus.

Thora watched them go. A glittering shaft of the aurora lit up the three as they turned the corner of the road--Magnus riding Golden Mane, and Silvertop, with an empty saddle, running briskly beside him.

XII

When Thora returned to the sitting-room Oscar and Helga, both with sparkling eyes and flushed faces, were waltzing vigorously. Then Thora herself danced with the Governor, the Factor, the Hector, and, of course, with Oscar. But the room grew hot and stuffy, too full of excitement, and after a while Thora became pale and faint. Seeing this, after Aunt Margret had called attention to it, Oscar began to say it was time to break up. The young men bantered him ("Want to get rid of us, eh?") and Helga, who grew more and more hysterical, protested that the evening was still young, but Oscar sent his bride up-stairs to prepare for the journey to her husband's house.

"Let us all take her home, then," said one of the bridesmaids, and when Thora reappeared, muffled up for her night walk, with only eyes, nose, and mouth visible, she was surrounded by a group of merry girls, similarly bandaged, and chirping over her like linnets in spring.

At last the final moment came when Thora had to leave her father's house for good, and then Aunt Margret, whose face had become grotesquely long and watery, broke down altogether.

"It's no use," she said. "I'm losing her, and I don't know what they'll do with my precious now."

"Nonsense, Margret," said the Factor. "Oscar will take care of her."

"He'd better, or I'll murder him," said Aunt Margret; and the idea of Aunt Margret murdering anybody was so amusing to the company that they broke up merrily.

The Factor's family went to the door to see them off, and Helga, who was hot with dancing and excitement, but wore no wraps, stood on the top of the steps holding a lamp above her head to light them down the road. It was a paraffin lamp with a glass reservoir, but she paid no heed to any warning.

"Take care, Helga, do take care," said Oscar, but she only cried:

"Good night, pleasant dreams!" and continued to wave the flickering lamp above her head.

"Helga, for mercy's sake, Helga!" shouted Oscar, and Thora said:

"Yes, dear, don't let us have an accident on our wedding-day."

"The better the day the better the deed," cried Helga, and she sent a ringing, hysterical laugh after them as they disappeared in the darkness.

The wedding party went off in two batches, Oscar in the midst of the young men, whose arms were round his shoulders, and Thora in the midst of the young women, who were holding her by the waist and stopping at intervals to whisper mischievous messages in her ears. The crisp snow crackled under their feet, and the starry sky, with its northern lights, pulsed and throbbed like the hearts in their bosoms.

When they came to the gate of Government House somebody suggested that Oscar, as a zealous Sagaman, ought to carry out the ancient custom of lifting his bride across the threshold; and then to Thora's delight, amid a squealing chorus of laughter, Oscar picked her up in his arms and carried her into the house, where Anna (who had gone on ahead) smuggled her up-stairs while the others went into the drawing-room to drink the last toast before parting.

A bright fire was burning in the bridal chamber, the curtains were drawn, the bed was laid open, and the room looked like a white nest of eiderdown when Thora, with a fluttering heart, stepped into it.

"What a day it has been!" she said.

"Hasn't it?" said Anna, closing the door behind them.

"Well, I can always say I had a wonderful wedding-day, can't I?"

"Indeed, you can. A woman has only two days in her life that are her own--her very own--and her wedding-day is one of them."

"And what is the other day, Anna?"

"The other? Oh, the other day is too far away for you to think about it yet, but all the days between belong to somebody else--her children or her husband."

"But how sweet! How beautiful! To live in your husband, to give up everything to him, your life, yourself, everything! There's happiness in that, isn't there, Anna?"

"Indeed, there is, my dear, and pain, too, perhaps. But there's something better in this life than happiness, Thora, and that's blessedness, you know."

This made Thora think of Magnus, but she heard Oscar laughing in the room below, and soon forgot everything else in a delicious shuddering which suddenly came over her. Anna helped her to undress, and when the crown and the kirtle were laid aside, she moved about for some moments without speaking. Then she said, softly:

"Will you go to bed now, dearest, or shall I give you your dressing-gown?"

"Give me my dressing-gown," said Thora faintly.

Anna moved about on tiptoe a moment or two longer, turning the lamp down and fixing the shade. Then she opened the door and stood for an instant on the threshold looking back at Thora where she sat combing out her hair before the stove. All at once her middle-aged, homely face became young and beautiful by the magic of a memory of her own, and going softly back she kissed Thora without saying a word, and then crept silently out of the room.

Left alone, Thora looked timidly around her, and seeing things of Oscar's lying among her own she felt a new and still more delicious sense of happiness. During the days preceding the wedding she had thought that as soon as the service in the cathedral had come to an end and she was Oscar's wife a mysterious change would come over her, but that had not been so, and all day long she had felt quite the same. But now it was different, and in this room she had become another being--not herself only, but Oscar also. It was very sweet and beautiful, but it was a little frightening, too, and to ease her fast-beating heart she got into bed and covered up her face.

She could hear the company breaking up below, and a little later she heard their footsteps crunching the snow under her window, which fronted the road. They stood there and sang a bridal song. It was the song of the "Two Roses."

The winter was cold and the ground was white, but two roses of love still grew in the garden of God. The frost could not freeze the two roses of love, for they were warmed by the air of heaven; the sun could not scorch the two roses of love, for they were watered from the well of life. Two roses of love on a single stem; two roses of love in two fond young hearts; two roses of love and joy!

When the song came to an end there was some merry giggling under the window, followed by shouts of "Good night, Thora!" "Happy dreams!" Then as the company went off they started the bridal song again, and in her mind's eye Thora could see them going back to the town, arm in arm, young girls and young men.

Thora listened to the voices dying down the street, and for a moment all life seemed to be set to the music of love; Oscar and she would be children always, never growing older, but rambling hand in hand through a flowery world where everybody loved them and they loved everybody, and there could be no real trouble because love was all in all.

But just then the cathedral clock struck eleven, and she remembered Magnus. She could see him crossing the desolate white heath under the shooting stream of the northern lights--a lonesome man riding one horse, while another, with an empty saddle, was running by his side. Poor Magnus! But there was no help for it!

The voices died away in the distance, and there was a moment of silence in the cozy nest--a warm, muffled, secret kind of silence, broken by nothing but the underthrob of the ceaseless sea. Thora closed her eyes and held her breath. How happy she was! She was trembling like a bird caught and held in the hand, but even her fear was full of happiness.

At the next moment there was a noiseless footstep on the floor, a sense of somebody in the room, and then--Oscar was leaning over her and kissing her on the lips.

PART III

Yet ah, that spring should vanish with the rose!

That youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!

The nightingale that in the branches sang,

Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows?

I

The wedding being over, and the wedding party gone, Anna went on a visit to Magnus in order to bear him company during the first weeks of his first winter, and to see that his house was in order.

The farm was thirty-odd miles from the capital, not far from the scene of the sheep-gathering and in the middle of the great plain of Thingvellir--an historic spot, formerly the place of the Icelandic parliament, for the neglected Mount of Laws may still be seen there.

There were only two houses on the plain--the farmhouse and the parsonage, with its little church beside it. The farmhouse was the larger of the two, and being on the line of road from the capital to the chief market of the Northland it had become a resting place for travelers.

The Inn-farm had belonged to Anna's family for many generations and her father had been the last to hold it. He was a worthy man, silent and serious, much like Magnus in personal character, but he left the place badly embarrassed, having fallen into the hands of a defaulting factor. After his daughter married he lost his wife and then he died suddenly--people said of drink. Since then the estate had been twenty years in the hands of a steward, but the Governor had paid off the mortgage out of the savings of his salary and the farm was free.

It was an endless delight to Anna to bring the place back to its former condition. She began with the sleeping accommodation, for sin comes with a laugh, she said, but goes with a cry. The shepherd and his wife she put in the upper bedroom (the Badstofa), the maids in the lower one, and the farm-boys in the loft. Each of the rooms was under its own roof, and the homestead as a whole was less like a single house than a group of houses, or like a gipsy encampment, with its peaked tents going off in different directions. The principal apartment was a large square hall, with two guest-rooms opening out of it. Magnus was to sleep in one of these guest rooms, except when both were wanted for travelers, and then he was to lie on a mattress stretched on the floor.

Anna inspected the kitchen (the Elt House) and the storehouse (the Skemma)--examined the winter's stock of potted meat and dried and salted cod and whale, and put a lock on the Bur, for seldom does the servant-maid starve in the larder, she said. Finally she turned her attention to the Hall, which was the general living room, and furnished it afresh with a settle, an armchair, a Bornholme clock, and a big German stove. As a finishing stroke she hung two large photographs on the walls, one of the Governor, the other of herself. The Governor was gorgeous in his gold-braided uniform, but she was homely in her black hufa, and on second thoughts she would have taken her own picture down but Magnus said something nice about it and she allowed it to remain.

Anna's visit was a long one, but as often as she prepared to go, saying home was the best place for the stupid, Magnus answered that in that case Gudrun must unpack her trunk, for the Governor could not be expecting her. In this way she stayed at Thingvellir until the snow began to be honeycombed by the thaw and the ribs of the landscape to be revealed again.

Meantime her life at the farm was simple and primitive and every day had its own duty. Before it was light in the morning she rang the bell in the hall which awakened the household, and sent the maids to the shippons and the boys to the beasts in their pens. And when the short day had closed in she rang the bell again for supper, and finally for prayers, when the house-father (Magnus now) gave out a hymn and read a lesson.

On Sunday she went to church, and met the fifty-odd people who had ridden over from the farms that bordered the plain. She sat in the seat in front of the communion rail, with its picture of Christ in white robes among warm eastern foliage. Magnus sat in the choir and put up the figures on the plate that gave the numbers of the hymns. He had little voice and no music, but Anna listened and was happy.

Though the nights were long the household was never idle. While the servants had to mend and make blankets in their own quarters, Magnus would weave on a loom he set up in the hall and his mother would spin or knit stockings. He was full of great projects again, and though his former schemes were impossible to him now he had others of equal consequence.

What Iceland wanted was roads; roads were the landmarks of civilization; without roads the most productive country in the world could not prosper, for what was the use of a cow that gave much milk if it kicked over the pail?

Night after night in the pauses of the loom Anna had to listen to this story and to assent to the schemes that were tied on to it. Yes, Magnus was going to be very comfortable and she could go home in content.

"After all, perhaps everything was for the best," she said, "and if there were only a mistress in the house----"

But Magnus rattled at the loom and nothing more was heard for some moments.

"John and Gudrun are very well, in their way, but it's thin blood that isn't thicker than water, and when I go back----"

The loom rattled still louder.

"But a young man who couldn't be satisfied with a girl like Thora isn't likely to find many to his liking."

And then the loom rattled louder than ever, and nothing more was said that night.

II

At intervals during Anna's visit to the farm there came news of the wedding party--the letters being sent on by the weekly post from Government House and from the Factor's. The first to come was from England, and it was a joint letter to everybody written by all three of the wanderers. Oscar began it, with a playful review of their journey from the time of the departure of the "Laura."

"As soon as we set foot on the ship we were told that Captain Zimsen had given up his own cabin to us, and from that hour to this everybody has shown us boundless hospitality, especially father's old college friends, the professor at Oxford and the banker here in London. Naturally we know we owe everything to the magic of the Governor's name, and consequently I am cultivating an extraordinary reverence for it, though I doubt if I shall ever find it more beautiful than I did on the morning of our wedding at the bottom of that splendid check."

"Ha, ha, the mouse knows where to come back for his cheese," said Anna.

Helga came next, with a glowing account of the London theaters, opera-houses, and picture-galleries.

"The half had not been told me, as the big Book says, and I wonder more than ever why a poor girl should be doomed to waste her life in a wilderness when she might live in a world of so many clever and beautiful people."

"M'm! It's poor work pouring water on a rock," said Anna.

Thora came last with a rather sad little note. It was all very wonderful, no doubt, but she was feeling just a wee bit home-sick. Did not care so very much for operas and picture-galleries, so Oscar had to take Helga by herself.

"I like best to sit in the window of the hotel and look at the crowds in the square. Such multitudes! Always going and coming and hardly anybody ever speaking to anybody else! That's what strikes you at first as most extraordinary. It is so strange to think that the people in the streets do not even know each other by sight, and that every young woman who goes by has her own family somewhere--her own husband and perhaps her own children--and that she is hurrying away to them. I don't know why, but it makes me feel so lonely, and then I almost want to be back in my dear, sweet, homely old Iceland."

Magnus had to read this letter aloud--for Anna was no reader of handwriting--and when he came to Thora's part his voice thickened and broke.

The next letter came from Paris, and Helga wrote the whole of it.

"Such sights! Such luxury! Such gaiety! And such dreams of dresses! And then the opera--Chopin, Verdi, Wagner, Greig! We are at the opera every night--that is to say, Oscar and I are, Thora not caring very much for music. Thora's chief pleasure is to walk in the flower market by the Madeleine and watch the children playing, and look as if she wished she were one of them."

"Just like our Thora," said Anna.

"Neils is here--Neils Finsen you know. Neils has finished his course at the Musical College, and is connected in some way with Covent Garden and has come to Paris on managerial business. He seems to be getting along wonderfully and it makes me feel almost envious. Oh, to get on in life! To escape forever from that grey sky and all those freezing surroundings! What I would give to do it! Nothing should stand between me and success in life if I only saw the chance of it. And who knows--perhaps I may some day! Neils declares that my voice has improved wonderfully and I am practising constantly. But to have any real opportunity in music one ought to be here or in London or Dresden, and it is so expensive. I'm nearly penniless as it is, and I am so shockingly dowdy that if some one does not send me----"

The letter was to the Factor and he had cut away the end of it.

"M'm! M'm!" said Anna. "What the Miss is used to, the Misses keeps up." And then they ate their supper of smoked mutton and black bread in silence and rang the bell for prayers.

The third letter from the wedding party came from Italy, and it was written by Oscar only. The post that brought it had been delayed by a snow-storm, and had sheltered two nights on the Moss Fell Heath. At the Inn-farm the cattle-pens had been completely buried, and Magnus and the men had worked up to their waists from daylight to dark, digging a way out of the snow that the beasts might be fed and watered.

"The world will be white with you in Iceland, but here in Italy the roses are in bud, and the sky is blue and the air is balmy. What a time we have had of it! We came down from Venice, the city of silence and dream, through Florence, the city of sunshine, and Rome, the mother of cities, to Naples, the city of song. Italy seems to set all Europe to music! Lovely and beloved Italy! If only some one could do the same for Iceland! Rugged, gaunt, grand old Iceland! But wait--only wait--perhaps somebody will do it yet!"

"Ah, Oscar, Oscar," said Anna, "it's easier to count twelve mountains than to climb one."

"Helga is enjoying the trip tremendously. Out every minute of the day and making friends on every side. Thora does not seem so well, poor child, and she hardly cares to go about. We are going on to the Riviera next week and thence back to Iceland. I must, of course, be home for the opening of Althing, but Helga is grudging every day. It is now two o'clock in the morning and we have just returned from a Veglioni--that is to say a masque ball--this (yesterday) being the last of Lent. Flowers, streamers, confetti, and such dresses! Helga looked magnificent in a pale blue chiffon of the latest model and was, out of all comparison, the belle of the evening. Poor Thora did not care to go, so she stayed in the hotel and went to bed early."

Magnus and his mother also went to bed early on the night they read that letter. Anna rung the bell that hung from the ceiling of the hall, and the servants in their skin slippers and woolen stockings trooped in for prayers. The lesson was the story of the widow's cruise and the hymn was--

"Meek and low, meek and low,

I shall soon my Jesus know."

The last letter they received from the wanderers came on the first day of spring, when the thaw had set in, and the water was running down the discolored snow on the mountains like tears on a wrinkled face, and the sheep were beginning to lamb. It was from Monte Carlo and was written by Thora to Anna herself.

"This place is so beautiful, Anna, yet I do not think I like it very much. The houses are all splendid palaces, but they don't seem so comfortable as the little homes in Iceland. I dare not say this to Oscar, lest he should think me ungrateful, and certainly there is no fog or mist here, and no big white waves, because the sea is always blue; and of course the trees are so wonderful and the blossoms so beautiful! Sometimes they have a carnival, and then wagon-loads of flowers are flung about everywhere; but next day it is quite pitiful to see the lovely roses that have been trampled upon being swept up in the streets.

"In the afternoon a band plays in a garden and you drive in a carriage round and round it. At night you go to a restaurant--bigger than the Artisan's Institute--and there another band plays while you eat your dinner--two or three hundred at once, and all the ladies in low dresses. After that you go to a Casino, where all is silent and rather dark and people sit round tables and play cards for money. Everybody plays cards here because everybody seems to be always taking a holiday."

"Ah, but the devil never does," said Anna.

"It is shocking to hear, though, how much is sometimes lost in a moment. Last night Oscar pointed out a pale-faced young man who had gambled away the whole of his estate--larger and more valuable than the Inn-farm itself. They say he had not intended to play at all when he went into the room, but the fever mastered him and he could not resist it.

"Ay, ay, we don't see the ruts when the snow covers them," said Anna.

"It made me feel ill and I couldn't stay any longer, but Helga wished to remain, so Oscar put me in a carriage and I came back to the hotel and went to bed. I do wish Helga were not so fond of such places. She is, however, and as a consequence Oscar is compelled to go with her, although he does not want to, and sometimes he comes back very depressed. Since we came here his sleep has been much broken, and his manner very restless. I shall be glad when we leave this place.

"But we have had such a wonderful time altogether, and Oscar has been so kind to me and I have been so happy. All the same, I shall be glad to be home again, to see all the dear old faces--yours and Auntie Margret's and father's and the Governor's. I suppose Magnus does not talk of me now--does he? How is Silvertop? Tell Magnus to rub his ears for me and kiss his rough old nose. What a romp we'll have over the Heath some day! But I suppose I must not romp too much now, must I? It is so strange, Anna--there are hardly any babies about this place! Not like Italy, where you see them everywhere, with their poor little legs wrapped up like a mummy's.

"We are to be back for the first of summer, and I'm counting the days already. Give our love to everybody and if anybody asks after me in particular say I am so well and so happy."

The loom in the hall lay idle on the night when Magnus read this letter. Nobody spoke until Anna lit two candles and gave one of them to Magnus, saying:

"Here! You're tired, and no wonder, being up before daybreak. How many lambs this morning, Magnus?"

"Twenty-two, but one of the best of them is dead."

"That's the way of it always. Good night!"

"Good night!"

At the door of his bedroom Magnus paused, candle in hand.

"Mother!"

"Well?"

"Do you think she is so very happy?"

"Our Thora? God knows, my son!" said Anna.

III

The snow was gone and the pale ground was green and golden with the raiment and the jewels of spring when the travelers returned to Iceland. Rounding the head of the fiord in the early morning, when the little capital was smoking for breakfast, Captain Zimsen had fired a cannon in honor of their home-coming, and everybody ran out-of-doors in delight, thinking the man-of-war had come from Copenhagen, but there was greater joy still when the "Laura" dropped her anchor and the little boats that had gone out to meet her came back with the news that the wedding party had returned.

Half the men of the town went down to the jetty to welcome the wanderers; among them the Governor in his gala uniform, the Factor in his best scull-cap, smoking his best German pipe, the Sheriff, the Rector, and the Bishop.

The Factor's big white boat had been sent off instantly to fetch the three ashore, and when it was coming back there was a good deal of curiosity as to how they would look after their long journey. Oscar, who was standing in the bow, was seen to be sunburnt, and slightly older-looking, having grown a small, fair mustache, which was curled up at the ends. It was observed by somebody that he wore the latest pattern of waistcoat and carried an Italian cloak over his arm. Helga, who was standing in the middle of the boat, looked a shade more buxom, and wore a new French hat. She had a kodak swung over her shoulder and was looking at the people on the jetty through an ivory-framed field-glass. And Thora, who was sitting in the stern in the costume in which she went away, with Magnus's white bearskin across her knees, looked a thought thinner than before, but her face was bright with smiles, though there were tears in her sparkling eyes.

When the boat came alongside the salutations were lusty and robustious. Such laughter! Such chaff! Such prolonged handshaking and slapping on the back! After the Governor and the Factor had kissed Thora they found their cheeks were wet, but Helga was as bright as the day and Oscar made everybody happy. He shook hands all round and hailed even the fishermen and boatmen by name. "He doesn't forget an old friend, eh?" said an old fellow in bare feet.

Then away they trooped to Government House, where Anna was waiting in apron and hufa at the door of the porch. Thora cried for joy at sight of her, and had to be carried off to her bedroom. And when Aunt Margret came in her oiled ringlets and Oscar would have kissed her she beat him off with a playful pat on the cheek, and saying, "I must see what you've done with my child first," ran straight upstairs.

Helga went up also to take off her hat, and the Governor and the Factor carried Oscar into the drawing-room, where the Bishop, the Sheriff and the Rector joined them. Maria brought in coffee and chocolate, and the old men charged their pipes and plied Oscar with questions. The Governor asked about English politics, the Factor about custom-house duties, the Bishop about the Vatican, and the Rector about the excavations in the Roman Forum.

Oscar answered all of them with a dash and emphasis that had the look of knowledge and the effect of wit, and then glancing off the heavy ground of fact he went tobogganing down the slippery slopes of fiction, with amusing tales of their travels and of the ridiculous things that had and had not happened to them.

All his stories told, every time he pulled the trigger his pistol fired, and the old men laughed until they cried. "What a boy he is!" "He plays with every finger." His high spirits affected them like sunshine after dark days, like a breeze after a calm at sea, like the swing of a boat after the first dip of the oar. He was the same reckless, irresponsible, lovable prodigal as before, and it was not until afterward that anybody remembered there had been a hollow ring in his hilarity, a false note in his joy.

Helga came down to the drawing-room and the men received her with a shout.

"How plump she has grown!" said the Governor.

"She has certainly filled out on the trip," said the Factor.

"Hasn't she?" said Oscar. "Just what she wanted--all she wanted."

"Nonsense! Let us talk of something serious," said Helga.

Thora came next, with Anna and Aunt Margret buzzing and humming about her like bees. She had changed to her old Iceland dress--just for remembrance--and now that she could be seen without her veil she was undoubtedly thinner, and she had a pinched look about the nostrils and a feverish spot in the middle of her cheeks. But her face was shining with timid smiles and she was overflowing with gratitude.

"Anna has given us such beautiful rooms, Oscar, the big one overlooking the road and the long one behind it, though I don't know what in the world we are going to do with two."

"Oh, don't worry yourself about that, dear--we may find a use for them by and by," said Anna with a knowing nod of the head, and then the color flew up to Thora's eyes like a flag of distress, and the men began to smile.

Anna was smiling also and making signals to the Governor and chuckling to him behind her hand. "Is it so?" "Yes, indeed, I asked her up-stairs and it's just as I expected." Then the Governor in his turn began to chuckle and to whisper to the Factor. "No? Is it a fact?" "So Anna tells me." And then they chuckled together, until everybody laughed at them, whereupon the Factor said:

"And now, Oscar, you've told us all about London and Paris and Rome, but not a word about the place where they make money without working for it."

"Monte Carlo? Haven't I?" said Oscar. "Oh, well--a beautiful place! In fact an absolute paradise."

"An absolute hell if half one hears is true," said the Governor.

"Well, yes--yes, that's so, too," said Oscar.

"I once heard of a man who made ten pounds in a single night--think of that," said the Factor.

"Goodness' sake!" cried Aunt Margret.

"But what's the good of having a chest full of gold if the devil keeps the key?" said the Governor.

Then Helga, who was sitting on the piano-stool, began to play softly, and Oscar swung round to her.

"Ah, 'Addio Napoli!' We must sing you some of the Neapolitan songs, father."

This was received with a chorus of approval, and for the next half-hour Helga played and Oscar sang the gay ditties with which Naples fills the air of Italy with song. And when at one moment the Factor would have come back to the man who made ten pounds in a single night, Helga struck up the tarantella and Oscar danced it.

At length the Governor said, "Everything has a stopping place except Time. It's late, and Thora is looking tired, so I'm going to turn out everybody who doesn't live here."

"Quite right, too," said Aunt Margret, "and I'm going to carry Helga off to her own quarters."

"I will take Helga home," said Oscar, and with further handshaking and well-wishing the party began to break up.

"After all I suppose you are glad to be back, Thora?" said the Bishop.

"Very, very glad," replied Thora.

"Ha, ha! It isn't easy to hobble a home-sick pony," laughed the Rector. "And you, Helga?"

"I'm not glad at all, Rector. Who could be glad to leave all that loveliness for a wilderness like this."

That chilled everybody for a moment, and thinking to come to Helga's relief, Oscar said:

"There's something in what Helga says, certainly."

"Then you, also, Oscar----"

"No, Rector, no--that is to say--well, I'm glad to be back and I shall be glad to go away again."

And then everybody was as happy as before.

IV

Next day Oscar and Helga spent many hours in a round of return visits, while Thora, who was still tired, stayed at home and received some of her old schoolfellows. One of them, who had been the beauty of her day, had married a farmer fifteen miles away and borne him three children. It was all work, work, work with her now and the once-bright girl was a slave.

"Ah, Thora, how lucky you were not to marry Magnus!" she said.

"Do you think so?" said Thora.

"Why, yes, Thora. And then everybody says Oscar is going to be such a distinguished man."

It was the spring caravan time and Magnus himself, who had brought his wool to the Factor's, came late in the afternoon. Thora thought he looked brawnier and bigger than ever, and she could not help seeing that his hands were coarser and his nails chopped off square. But his voice was as soft as it used to be, and he was shy and even nervous.

The light was low when he came into the drawing-room, and looking closely at her face he asked three times over if she was well, until she laughed as she gave him the same answer again and again. Then he laughed, too, and after that they got on better, and exchanged all the "newses."

Silvertop was in good condition; he had got his summer coat and looked splendid; in fact, he had been too well fed and was getting a little over himself and would have to be taken down a peg or two before Thora rode him again. Ah, well, she wouldn't want him just yet--not just yet--and Magnus had better keep the rascal at the farm a little longer.