Book 3 The Land of the Long Shadow Chapter 34

"I have led her home, my love, my only friend; 
There is none like her, none! 
And never yet so warmly ran my blood, 
And sweetly on and on, 
Calming itself to the long-wished-for end, 
Full to the banks, close on the promised good." 
TENNYSON.

Britta was in the kitchen, dragging off her snow-wet cloak and fur mufflers, and crying heartily all the while. The stalwart Svensen stood looking at her in perplexity, now and then uttering a word of vague sympathy and consolation, to which she paid not the slightest heed. The poor girl was tired out, and half-numb with the piercing cold,--the excitement which had kept her up for days and days, had yielded to the nervous exhaustion, which was its natural result,--and she kept on weeping without exactly knowing why she wept. Throughout the long and fatiguing journey she had maintained unflinching energy and perseverance,--undaunted by storm, sleet, and darkness, she had driven steadily over long miles of trackless snow--her instinct had guided her by the shortest and quickest routes--she seemed to know every station and village on the way,--she always managed to obtain relays of reindeer just when they were needed,--in short, Errington would hardly have been able to reach the Altenfjord without her.

He had never realized to its full extent her strong, indomitable, devoted character, till he saw her hour after hour seated beside him in the pulkha, her hands tightly gripping the reins of the horned animals, whose ways she understood and perfectly controlled,--her bright, bird-like eyes fixed with watchful eagerness on the bewildering white landscape that opened out incessantly before her. Her common sense was never at fault--she forgot nothing--and with gentle but respectful firmness she would insist on Sir Philip's taking proper intervals of rest and refreshment at the different farms they passed on their road, though he, eager to press on, chafed and fretted at every little delay. They were welcomed all along their route with true Norse hospitality, though the good country-folk who entertained them could not refrain from astonishment at the idea of their having undertaken such a journey at such a season, and appeared to doubt the possibility of their reaching their destination at all. And now that they had reached it in safety, Britta's strength gave way. Valdemar Svensen had hastily blurted out the news of the bonde's death even while she and Sir Philip were alighting from their sledge--and in the same breath had told them of Thelma's dangerous illness. What wonder, then, that Britta sobbed hysterically, and refused to be comforted,--what wonder that she turned upon Ulrika as that personage approached, in a burst of unreasonable anger.