"We are to lunch together," he said.

"Are we?" she replied.

She looked at the table; it was laid for five.

"Have you heard lately from your husband?"

"No."

A long pause. Was Peter Klausson fit company for Aksel Aaroe? Her husband's boon companion! Aaroe, who will have nothing but what is genuine. But as she thought this, she had to admit that Peter Klausson's impulsive nature was perfectly truthful, which indeed it was. The waiter came in with a basket of wine, but did not shut the door after him until he had lifted in some more from outside: champagne in ice.

"Shall we want so much wine?" asked Ella.

"Oh, it's all right," answered Peter Klausson, evidently delighted.

"But Aaroe does not drink wine!"

"Aaroe? When he asked me to come here to-day—I chanced to look in on him—we had some first-rate cognac together."

Ella turned to the window, for she felt that she had grown pale.

Very soon Aaroe came in, so courteous and stately that Peter Klausson felt compelled to take his hands out of his pockets. He hardly dared to speak. Aaroe said that he had invited the Holmbos, but they had just sent an excuse. They three must make the best of each other's society. He led Ella to the table.

It was soon evident that Aaroe was the most delightful and accomplished of hosts. He spoke English to the waiter, and directed him by frequent signs, covered his blunders, and smoothed away every little difficulty, in such a way that it was hardly noticed. All the time he kept up a constant flow of conversation, narrating small anecdotes from his experiences of society, but he never poured out wine for himself, and when he raised his glass his hand shook. Ella had fancied before that this was the case—it was torture to her now.

Oysters were served for the first course; she relished them thoroughly, for she was very hungry; but as the meal proceeded, she became each moment less able to enjoy it. At last her throat seemed to contract, she felt more inclined to cry than to eat and drink.

At first the reason was not clear to her. She only felt that this was absolutely different from what she had dreamed of. This glorious day was to be a disappointment. At first she thought—this will end some time, and we shall go comfortably home again. But by degrees, as his spirits rose, she became merely the guest of a society man. As such she was shown all imaginable attention—indeed, the two gentlemen joined in making much of her, till she could have cried.

After luncheon she was ceremoniously conducted on Aaroe's arm into another room which was also in readiness for them; comfortable, well furnished, and with a piano.

Coffee was served at once with liqueur, and not long afterwards the two men asked to be excused; they wanted to smoke, they would not be long. They went, and left her alone. This was scarcely polite, and now she first realised that it was not the day only, but Aaroe, who had become different from what she had believed him. The great darkness which had overwhelmed her on the night of the ball again menaced her; she fought against it; she got up and paced the room; she longed to be out of doors, as though she could find him again there, such as she had imagined him. She looked for the luncheon-room, put on her red shawl, and had just come out on to the broad space before the building, when the waiter came up to her and said something in English which she could not at first understand. Indeed, she was too much occupied with her own thoughts to be able suddenly to change languages.

The waiter told her that one of her companions was ill, and the other not to be found. Even when she understood the words, she did not realise what was the matter, but followed mechanically. As she went she remembered that Aaroe's tongue had not been quite obedient when, after the liqueur, he had asked permission to go and smoke; surely he had not had a stroke.

They passed the smoking-room, which seemed to be full—at all events of smoke and laughter. The door of a little room by the side of it was opened; there lay Aksel Aaroe on a bed. He must have slunk in there alone, perhaps to drink more; indeed, he had taken a short thick bottle in with him, which still stood on a table by the bed, on which he lay fully dressed with closed eyes and without sense or feeling.

"Tip, tip, Pete!" he said to her, and repeated it with outstretched finger, "Tip, tip, Pete!" He spoke in a falsetto voice. Did he mean Peter? Did he take her for a man? Behind him on a pillow lay something hairy; it was a toupet; she now saw that he was bald on the crown. "Tip, tip, Pete!" she heard as she rushed out.

Few people have felt smaller than Ella as she trudged along the country road, back to the town as fast as her short legs could carry her, in thin shoes and winter attire. The heavy cloak which she had worn for driving was unfastened, she carried the shawl in her hand, but still the perspiration streamed off her; the idea was upon her that it was her dreams which were falling from her.

At first she only thought of Aksel Aaroe, the unhappy lost one! To-morrow or the next day he would leave the country; she knew this from past experience, and this time it would be for ever.

But as she thought how terrible it was, the toupet on the pillow seemed to ask: "Was Aksel Aaroe so very genuine?" "Yes, yes, how could he help it if he became bald so early." "H'm," answered the toupet; "he could have confessed to it."

She struggled on; luckily she did not meet any one, nor was she overtaken by any of those who had been at Baadshaug. She must look very comical, perspiring and tearful, with unfastened cloak, in thin shoes and with a shawl in her hand. Several times she slackened her pace, but the disturbance of her feelings was too great, and it was her nature to struggle forward.

But through all her feverish haste the great question forced itself upon her: "Would you not wish now, Ella, to relinquish all your dreams, since time after time things go so badly?" She sobbed violently and answered: "Not for worlds. No! for these dreams are the best things that I have. They have given me the power to measure others so that I can never exalt anything which is base. No! I have woven them round my children as well, so that I have a thousand times more pleasure in them. They and the flowers are all that I have." And she sobbed and pressed on.

"But now you will have no dream, Ella!"

At first she did not know what to reply to this, it seemed but too true, too terribly true, and the toupet showed itself again.

It was here that Aaroe had sung the old winter song, and as the tinkle of the sledge-bells had accompanied it, so now her tears were unceasingly accompanied by two little voices: "Mamma, mamma!" It was not strange, for it was towards the children that she was hurrying, but now they seemed to demand that she should dream about them. No, no! "You have something real there," Aaroe's voice seemed to say. She remembered his saying it, she remembered his sadness as he did so. Had he really thought of himself and her, or of the children and her? Had he compared his own weakness with their health, with their future? Her thoughts wandered far away from the boys, and she was once more immersed in all his words and looks, trying by them to solve this enigma. But these, with the yearning and pain, came back as they had never done before. Her whole life was over; her dream was of too long standing, too strong, too clear, the roots could not be pulled up; it was impossible. Were they not round everything which, next day, she should see, or touch, or use? As a last stroke she remembered that the boys were not at home; she would come to an empty house.

But she resisted still; for when she got home and had bathed and gone to bed, and again the moonlight shone in on her and reminded her of her thoughts the night before, she turned away and cried aloud like a child. None could enter, none could hear her; her heart was young, as though she were but seventeen; it could not, it would not give up!

What was it, in fact, that she had wished for to-day? She did not know—no, she did not! She only knew that her happiness was there—and so she had let it remain. Now she was disappointed and deluded in a way that certainly few had been.

She could not bear to desecrate him further. Then the winter song swept past in his voice, sweet, full, sorrowful, as if it wished to make all clear to her; and, tractable as a child, she composed herself and listened. What did it say? That her dreams united two summers, the one which had been and the one which was slowly struggling up anew. Thanks be to the dreams which had awakened it. It said, too, that the dreams were something in themselves often of greater truth than reality itself. She had felt this when she was tending her flowers.

In her uneasy tossing in her bed, her plait had come close to her hand. Sadly she drew it forward; he had kissed it again to-day. And so she lay on her side, and took it between her hands, and cried.

"Mamma, mamma!" she heard whispered, and thus she slept.



THE NOVELS OF BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON

Edited by EDMUND GOSSE

Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 3s. net

Synnoeve Solbakken Arne A Happy Boy The Fisher Lass The Bridal March, & One Day Magnhild, & Dust Captain Mansana, & Mother's Hands Absalom's Hair, & A Painful Memory

LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN

21 Bedford Street, W. C.



Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. London and Edinburgh

THE END