Chapter V

There were other things that might have given Isak matter for surprise, but he was no great hand at thinking of more than one thing at a time.  “Where’s Inger?” was all he said as he passed by the kitchen door.  He was only anxious to see that Geissler was well received.

Inger?  Inger was out plucking berries; had been out plucking berries ever since Isak started—­she and Gustaf the Swede.  Ay, getting on in years, and all in love again and wild with it; autumn and winter near, but she felt the warmth in herself again, flowers and blossoming again.  “Come and show where there’s cloudberries,” said Gustaf; “cranberries,” said he.  And how could a woman say no?  Inger ran into her little room and was both earnest and religious for several minutes; but there was Gustaf standing waiting outside, the world was at her heels, and all she did was to tidy her hair, look at herself carefully in the glass, and out again.  And what if she did?  Who would not have done the same?  Oh, a woman cannot tell one man from another; not always—­not often.

And they two go out plucking berries, plucking cloudberries on the moorland, stepping from tuft to tuft, and she lifts her skirts high, and has her neat legs to show.  All quiet everywhere; the white grouse have their young ones grown already and do not fly up hissing any more; they are sheltered spots where bushes grow on the moors.  Less than an hour since they started, and already they are sitting down to rest.  Says Inger:  “Oh, I didn’t think you were like that?” Oh, she is all weakness towards him, and smiles piteously, being so deep in love—­ay, a sweet and cruel thing to be in love, ’tis both!  Right and proper to be on her guard—­ay, but only to give in at last.  Inger is so deep in love—­desperately, mercilessly; her heart is full of kindliness towards him, she only cares to be close and precious to him.

Ay, a woman getting on in years....

“When the work’s finished, you’ll be going off again,” says she.

No, he wasn’t going.  Well, of course, some time, but not yet, not for a week or so.

“Hadn’t we better be getting home?” says she.

“No.”

They pluck more berries, and in a little while they find a sheltered place among the bushes, and Inger says:  “Gustaf, you’re mad to do it.”  And hours pass—­they’ll be sleeping now, belike, among the bushes.  Sleeping?  Wonderful—­far out in the wilderness, in the Garden of Eden.  Then suddenly Inger sits upright and listens:  “Seems like I heard some one down on the road away off?”

The sun is setting, the tufts of heather darkening in shadow as they walk home.  They pass by many sheltered spots, and Gustaf sees them, and Inger, she sees them too no doubt, but all the time she feels as if some one were driving ahead of them.  Oh, but who could walk all the way home with a wild handsome lad, and be on her guard all the time?  Inger is too weak, she can only smile and say:  “I never knew such a one.”