However, her anxiety was gradually relieved by the day to day silence on the part of the London press, and also by a letter from Cowperwood in which he outlined his various difficulties, among them his sudden reduction in health and strength, and at the same time expressed his desire to return to England in order that he might rest and see her again.
This reference to his health caused her to ponder on the wisdom of a trip they might take to some region of quiet and beauty which should be comparatively free of the hustle and bustle of trade.
But where was such a land?
It was possible that he had already seen and wearied of it, for he had traveled so much—Italy, Greece, Switzerland, France, Austria-Hungary, Germany, Turkey, the Holy Land.
But what of Norway?
As she now recalled, she had never heard him speak of it.
And accordingly, so moved was she by the desire to persuade him to take a rest in a strange and different land that she purchased a book about that country in order to inform herself in detail as to its novelty and beauty.
Enthusiastically she turned the pages to study photographs of dark, high cliffs; mountains or fjells rising perpendicularly to thousands of feet over gorges cut by Nature in a stern, relentless mood; cataracts and leaping waterfalls, at the base of which lay beautiful, peaceful lakes.
And clinging to the sides of tall mountains, like shipwrecked sailors to a life raft, were little farms.
She read about their strange gods: Odin, the god of battle; Thor, the god of thunder; and, Valhalla, a heaven of sorts prepared for the souls of those who had perished in battle.
Reading and examining these pictures, the country appeared to be entirely free of industrialism.
This land should indeed prove restful for him.
Chapter 57
By the time Cowperwood, looking exceedingly tired, arrived in England, Berenice was able to inoculate him with some of her own enthusiasm for Norway, which, strangely enough, he had not previously visited.
And so it was, not long after, that he set Jamieson to the task of finding and chartering a yacht.
But before one was found, a certain Lord Tilton, hearing through Stane of Cowperwood’s intention, very generously insisted on loaning him his own yacht, the Pelican, for the purpose.
And eventually, toward midsummer, he and Berenice were cruising smoothly along the west coast of Norway toward Stavanger Fjord.
The yacht was a handsome craft, and Eric Hansen, the Norwegian skipper, a man of skill.
He was powerfully built, although of not more than medium height, with a florid complexion and sandy-colored hair that fountained out over his forehead.
His eyes were a steely blue that seemed to challenge any sea or any experience connected with it.
His movements seemed to suggest a natural bracing against rough weather, even when he walked on level ground—a kind of rhythmic oneness with the sea at all times.
He had been a seafaring man all of his life, and he truly loved these inland waterways that wound through a maze of mysterious mountains soaring straight up thousands of feet from their depths to thousands of feet below the water line.
Some said they were the result of faulting or cracking of the crust of the earth’s surface; others thought volcanic eruptions had caused them.
But Eric knew that they had been cut through by mighty prehistoric Vikings who had the power to carve their way through any barrier in order to make highways to the rest of the world.
But as Berenice viewed these steep hillsides, with the cottages perched so far above the water’s edge, she could not imagine how the inhabitants got down to a passing boat or climbed up to their little homes again.
Or for what reason they did it.
It all seemed so strange.
She was not familiar with the art of mountain-climbing, which the Norwegian had probably learned, out of sheer necessity, from watching his goats maneuver themselves from crag to crag.
“What a strange land,” Cowperwood said.
“I’m glad you brought me up here, Bevy, but it does seem to me, beautiful as it is, this country is one of Nature’s climatic mistakes.
There’s too much daylight in summer and too little in winter.
Too many romantic waterways and too many sterile mountains.
Although I must confess that it interests me enormously.”
Indeed, Berenice had noticed his interest in the country was intense.
He frequently rang for his very respectful skipper in order that he might ask questions.
“What do they live on in these towns, outside of fish?” he inquired of Eric.
“Well, Mr. Dickson”—the name assumed by Cowperwood—“they have a number of other things.
They have goats and they sell goat’s milk.
They have chickens, and so, eggs.
They have cows.
In fact, they often judge a man’s wealth by the number of cows he owns.
Also they have butter.
These are sturdy, hard-working people, and they can make five acres yield more than you would believe.
Although I’m not an expert on the subject, and really can’t tell you much about it, they get along better than you would think.
Another thing,” he continued, “most of the young men of this region go in for training in navigation.
When they get a little older, they get positions as captains, mates, or cooks, on the hundreds of vessels coming in and out of Norway and touching the cities and shipping centers all over the world.”
At this point Berenice spoke up.
“It strikes me that what they lack in quantity, they make up in quality,” was her comment.
“You’re right, madam,” said the skipper, “that’s what I mean,” and, becoming more enthusiastic, he continued: “In fact they’ve learned to live comfortably within themselves.
But they know the world, not only from the outside of books but inside. We Norwegians are a bookish people, prizing education.