"In these mountain solitudes men breed ghosts for company.Let us make a fire.Perhaps,when he sees the light,his desire for food and shelter may get the better of his fears."We felt about in the small enclosure round the house,and gathered juniper and birch-twigs,and kindled a fire upon the open stove built in the corner of the room.Fortunately,we had some dried reindeer and bread in our bag,and on that and the ryper and the contents of our flasks we supped.Afterwards,to while away the time,we made an inspection of the strange eyrie we had lighted on.
It was an old log-built saeter.Some of these mountain farmsteads are as old as the stone ruins of other countries.Carvings of strange beasts and demons were upon its blackened rafters,and on the lintel,in runic letters,ran this legend:"Hund builded me in the days of Haarfager."The house consisted of two large apartments.
Originally,no doubt,these had been separate dwellings standing beside one another,but they were now connected by a long,low gallery.Most of the scanty furniture was almost as ancient as the walls themselves,but many articles of a comparatively recent date had been added.All was now,however,rotting and falling into decay.
The place appeared to have been deserted suddenly by its last occupants.Household utensils lay as they were left,rust and dirt encrusted on them.An open book,limp and mildewed,lay face downwards on the table,while many others were scattered about both rooms,together with much paper,scored with faded ink.The curtains hung in shreds about the windows;a woman's cloak,of an antiquated fashion,drooped from a nail behind the door.In an oak chest we found a tumbled heap of yellow letters.They were of various dates,extending over a period of four months;and with them,apparently intended to receive them,lay a large envelope,inscribed with an address in London that has since disappeared.
Strong curiosity overcoming faint scruples,we read them by the dull glow of the burning juniper twigs,and,as we lay aside the last of them,there rose from the depths below us a wailing cry,and all night long it rose and died away,and rose again,and died away again;whether born of our brain or of some human thing,God knows.
And these,a little altered and shortened,are the letters:-Extract from first letter:
"I cannot tell you,my dear Joyce,what a haven of peace this place is to me after the racket and fret of town.I am almost quite recovered already,and am growing stronger every day;and,joy of joys,my brain has come back to me,fresher and more vigorous,Ithink,for its holiday.In this silence and solitude my thoughts flow freely,and the difficulties of my task are disappearing as if by magic.We are perched upon a tiny plateau halfway up the mountain.On one side the rock rises almost perpendicularly,piercing the sky;while on the other,two thousand feet below us,the torrent hurls itself into the black waters of the fiord.The house consists of two rooms--or,rather,it is two cabins connected by a passage.The larger one we use as a living room,and the other is our sleeping apartment.We have no servant,but do everything for ourselves.I fear sometimes Muriel must find it lonely.The nearest human habitation is eight miles away,across the mountain,and not a soul comes near us.I spend as much time as I can with her,however,during the day,and make up for it by working at night after she has gone to sleep;and when I question her,she only laughs,and answers that she loves to have me all to herself.(Here you will smile cynically,I know,and say,'Humph,I wonder will she say the same when they have been married six years instead of six months.')At the rate I am working now I shall have finished my first volume by the spring,and then,my dear fellow,you must try and come over,and we will walk and talk together 'amid these storm-reared temples of the gods.'I have felt a new man since I arrived here.Instead of having to 'cudgel my brains,'as we say,thoughts crowd upon me.
This work will make my name."
Part of the third letter,the second being mere talk about the book (a history apparently)that the man was writing:
"MY DEAR JOYCE,--I have written you two letters--this will make the third--but have been unable to post them.Every day I have been expecting a visit from some farmer or villager,for the Norwegians are kindly people towards strangers--to say nothing of the inducements of trade.A fortnight having passed,however,and the commissariat question having become serious,I yesterday set out before dawn,and made my way down to the valley;and this gives me something to tell you.Nearing the village,I met a peasant woman.
To my intense surprise,instead of returning my salutation,she stared at me,as if I were some wild animal,and shrank away from me as far as the width of the road would permit.In the village the same experience awaited me.The children ran from me,the people avoided me.At last a grey-haired old man appeared to take pity on me,and from him I learnt the explanation of the mystery.It seems there is a strange superstition attaching to this house in which we are living.My things were brought up here by the two men who accompanied me from Drontheim,but the natives are afraid to go near the place,and prefer to keep as far as possible from any one connected with it.
"The story is that the house was built by one Hund,'a maker of runes'(one of the old saga writers,no doubt),who lived here with his young wife.All went peacefully until,unfortunately for him,a certain maiden stationed at a neighbouring saeter grew to love him.
