“You drove the horse fast enough from the market last night, Gjermund,” the boy said.
The words troubled Gjermund, his mind had been filled with thoughts about his business, and he now remembered having driven unreasonably fast in the darkness, and even used the whip mercilessly, when the wheels sank deeper in the mud. He therefore only answered—
“What will you take?”
Brunsberg began to talk volubly about the Grey’s good qualities; he had bought the animal three years ago at auction from a man who was known to have only good horses, it wasn’t more than eleven years old. Gjermund, it is true, knew better, for it was now fifteen; but he said nothing to lower the Grey’s value, and when Brunsberg closed by saying that he would not sell him under thirty thalers, Gjermund, to the other’s great surprise, paid the money without bargaining.
He now began to wash and clean the animal, devoting several hours to it before he went away, leading the horse by a halter behind him.
Brunsberg often told the story of how he had once got the better of Gjermund Strömshagen in a horse-trade. “The only thing was,” he added as if regretting it, “the old Grey was not yet used up.”
For some years Jon Evjen had thought more about Strömshagen than he would have confessed; he sometimes visited the widow, and he and his wife often spoke to her at church. Sigrid’s parents knew she was waiting for Gjermund, and during the last three years had made no objection, for the rumor that he had become a rich man had reached even his native mountains. They only wondered that he did not return, they had already given away their younger daughters.
At last the state of affairs had changed, and the widow had come to Evjen several times without having her visit returned. This was Sigrid’s desire, though she herself crossed the stream as often as usual.
Sigrid had now entered her twenty-sixth year. She was still paler and looked even more slender than in her girlhood, but was no less stately and beautiful; only of late there was still more dignity and self-possession in her quiet manner, and she devoted herself more closely to household affairs. “Some new idea has come into her head,” said old Jon. The latter thought one day that he had done wrong to refuse Gjermund his assistance in building the bridge over the ravine, and now—six years afterwards—tried to make amends by saying he would take all the eight logs there himself. Sigrid said, “That is scarcely necessary.” Jon gave her a long look, but yielded to her wish.
One evening there was an unusual bustle at Strömshagen. Something must have happened at the farm. Jon wondered about it to his wife, but they said nothing to their daughter. Sigrid was unusually busy that evening, and did not seem to have noticed anything.
Early the next morning Sigrid went down to the river with some clothes. The sun was pouring its golden rays full upon the Birkberg. As she stood on the bank, she heard a neigh on the opposite hillside and from the shadow of the birches came—she was not mistaken—the Grey, yes, the Grey. It raised its head as in the old days, and stood motionless. She gazed silently at the horse for a time, while her eyes slowly filled with tears. At last she exclaimed—
“Oh, I thought he had forgotten you too, old Grey!” The next moment she added, in a voice trembling with wounded pride, “But you have been ill treated, I see, and he has cared little about you all this time.”
With these words she turned away, leaving the clothes on the river bank; she felt that Gjermund could not be far off. The steel-grey eyes, usually so gentle and beautiful, flashed with the angry pride Gjermund so dreaded. On reaching home, she performed her morning tasks as usual.
Gjermund had arrived the night before, but lacked courage to appear before Sigrid, when his mother had told him how matters stood at Evjen. He had really been on the hillside in the morning, concealed behind the bushes, and seen how Sigrid recognized the Grey. But when he heard her words and saw her go away, he did not venture to approach her, as he had at first intended. He felt sure that he had lost her.
He usually preferred to attend to his own affairs himself, but now as he walked home absorbed in sorrowful thoughts he wondered whether it would not be better for his mother to go and speak to her first—but she must ride over on the Grey. True, people might think it foolish to use a horse for so short a distance, but Sigrid would understand the meaning.
This was done, though his mother at first thought he was old enough to go on his errands of love himself. She must not speak of money or anything of that sort, Gjermund said, only tell Sigrid what was strictly true, that he sincerely repented having stayed away so long, and did not venture to go to her himself. When his mother rode down the hillside
