his eyes; he stroked it back with both hands, and put on his cap as
if he were going away; but when, as he was about to rise, he turned
towards the house, he checked himself and added, while looking up at
the bed-room window.
"I thought it better that she and Mathilde shouldn't see each other
to say good-bye: that, too, was wrong. I told her the wee bird was
dead; for it was my fault, and so I thought it better to confess; but
that again was wrong. And so it is with everything: I've always meant
to do for the best, but it has always turned out for the worst; and
now things have come to such a pass that both wife and daughter speak
ill of me, and I'm going here lonely."
A servant-girl called out to them that the dinner was becoming cold.
Baard rose. "I hear the horses neighing; I think somebody has
forgotten them," he said, and went away to the stable to give them
some hay.
Arne rose, too; he felt as if he hardly knew whether Baard had been
speaking or not.
XII.
A GLIMPSE OF SPRING.
Eli felt very weak after the illness. The mother watched by her night
and day, and never came down-stairs; the father came up as usual,
with his boots off, and leaving his cap outside the door. Arne still
remained at the house. He and the father used to sit together in
the evening; and Arne began to like him much, for Baard was a
well-informed, deep-thinking man, though he seemed afraid of saying
what he knew. In his own way, he, too, enjoyed Arne's company, for
Arne helped his thoughts and told him of things which were new to
him.
Eli soon began to sit up part of the day, and as she recovered, she
often took little fancies into her head. Thus, one evening when Arne
was sitting in the room below, singing songs in a clear, loud voice,
the mother came down with a message from Eli, asking him if he would
go up-stairs and sing to her, that she might also hear the words. It
seemed as if he had been singing to Eli all the time, for when the
mother spoke he turned red, and rose as if he would deny having done
so, though no one charged him with it. He soon collected himself,
however, and replied evasively, that he could sing so very little.
The mother said it did not seem so when he was alone.
Arne yielded and went. He had not seen Eli since the day he helped to
carry her up-stairs; he thought she must be much altered, and he
felt half afraid to see her. But when he gently opened the door and
went in, he found the room quite dark, and he could see no one. He
stopped at the door-way.
"Who is it?" Eli asked in a clear, low voice.
"It's Arne Kampen," he said in a gentle, guarded tone, so that his
words might fall softly.
"It was very kind of you to come."
"How are you, Eli?"
"Thanks, I'm much better now."
"Won't you sit down, Arne?" she added after a while, and Arne felt
his way to a chair at the foot of the bed. "It did me good to hear
you singing; won't you sing a little to me up here?"
"If I only knew anything you would like."
She was silent a while: then she said, "Sing a hymn." And he sang
one: it was the confirmation hymn. When he had finished he heard her
weeping, and so he was afraid to sing again; but in a little while
she said, "Sing one more." And he sang another: it was the one which
is generally sung while the catechumens are standing in the aisle.
"How many things I've thought over while I've been lying here," Eli
said. He did not know what to answer; and he heard her weeping again
in the dark. A clock that was ticking on the wall warned for
striking, and then struck. Eli breathed deeply several times, as if
she would lighten her breast, and then she said, "One knows so
little; I knew neither father nor mother. I haven't been kind to
them; and now it seems so sad to hear that hymn."
When we talk in the darkness, we speak more faithfully than when we
see each other's face; and we also say more.
"It does one good to hear you talk so," Arne replied, just
remembering what she had said when she was taken ill.
She understood what he meant. "If now this had not happened to me,"
she went on, "God only knows how long I might have gone before I
found mother."
"She has talked matters over with you lately, then?"
"Yes, every day; she has done hardly anything else."
"Then, I'm sure you've heard many things."
"You may well say so."
"I think she spoke of my father?"
"Yes."
"She remembers him still?"
"She remembers him."
"He wasn't kind to her."
"Poor mother!"
"Yet he was worst to himself."
They were silent; and Arne had thoughts which he could not utter. Eli
was the first to link their words again.
"You are said to be like your father."
"People say so," he replied evasively.
She did not notice the tone of his voice, and so, after a while she
returned to the subject. "Could he, too, make songs?"
"No."
"Sing a song to me ... one that you've made yourself."
"I have none," he said; for it was not his custom to confess he had
himself composed the songs he sang.
"I'm sure you have; and I'm sure, too, you'll sing one of them when I
ask you."
What he had never done for any one else, he now did for her, as he
sang the following song,--
"The Tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown:
'Shall I take them away?' said the Frost, sweeping down.
'No; leave them alone
Till the blossoms have grown,'
Prayed the tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.
"The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung:
'Shall I take them away?' said the Wind, as he swung.
'No; leave them alone
Till the berries have grown,'
Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.
"The Tree bore his fruit in the Midsummer glow:
Said the girl, 'May I gather thy berries or no?'
'Yes; all thou canst see;
Take them; all are for thee,'
Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low."
That song nearly took her breath away. He, too, remained silent after
it, as though he had sung more than he could say.
Darkness has a strong influence over those who are sitting in it and
dare not speak: they are never so near each other as then. If she
only turned on the pillow, or moved her hand on the blanket, or
breathed a little more heavily, he heard it.
"Arne, couldn't you teach me to make songs?"
"Did you never try?"
"Yes, I have, these last few days; but I can't manage it."
"What, then, did you wish to have in them?"
"Something about my mother, who loved your father so dearly."
"That's a sad subject."
"Yes, indeed it is; and I have wept over it."
"You shouldn't search for subjects; they come of themselves."
"How do they come?"
"Just as other dear things come--unexpectedly."
They were both silent. "I wonder, Arne, you're longing to go away;
you who have such a world of beauty within yourself."
"Do _you_ know I am longing?"
She did not answer, but lay still a few moments as if in thought.
"Arne, you mustn't go away," she said; and the words came warm to his
heart.
"Well, sometimes I have less mind to go."
"Your mother must love you much, I'm sure. I must see your mother."
"Go over to Kampen, when you're well again."
And all at once, he fancied her sitting in the bright room at Kampen,
looking out on the mountains; his chest began to heave, and the blood
rushed to his face.
"It's warm in here," he said, rising.
She heard him rise. "Are you going, Arne?" He sat down again.
"You must come over to see us oftener; mother's so fond of you."
"I should like to come myself, too; ... but still I must have some
errand."
Eli lay silent for a while, as if she was turning over something in
her mind. "I believe," she said, "mother has something to ask you
about." ...
They both felt the room was becoming very hot; he wiped his brow, and
he heard her rise in the bed. No sound could be heard either in the
room or down-stairs, save the ticking of the clock on the wall. There
was no moon, and the darkness was deep; when he looked through the
green window, it seemed to him as if he was looking into a wood; when
he looked towards Eli he could see nothing, but his thoughts went
over to her, and then his heart throbbed till he could himself hear
its beating. Before his eyes flickered bright sparks; in his ears
came a rushing sound; still faster throbbed his heart: he felt he
must rise or say something. But then she exclaimed,
"How I wish it were summer!"
"That it were summer?" And he heard again the sound of the
cattle-bells, the horn from the mountains, and the singing from the
valleys; and saw the fresh green foliage, the Swart-water glittering
in the sunbeams, the houses rocking in it, and Eli coming out and
sitting on the shore, just as she did that evening. "If it were
summer," she said, "and I were sitting on the hill, I think I could
sing a song."
He smiled gladly, and asked, "What would it be about?"
"About something bright; about--well, I hardly know what myself." ...
"Tell me, Eli!" He rose in glad excitement; but, on second thoughts,
sat down again.
"No; not for all the world!" she said, laughing.
"I sang to you when you asked me."
"Yes, I know you did; but I can't tell you this; no! no!"
"Eli, do you think I would laugh at the little verse you have made?"
"No, I don't think you would, Arne; but it isn't anything I've made
myself."
"Oh, it's by somebody else then?"
"Yes."
"Then, you can surely say it to me."
"No, no, I can't; don't ask me again, Arne!"
The last words were almost inaudible; it seemed as if she had hidden
her head under the bedclothes.
"Eli, now you're not kind to me as I was to you," he said, rising.
"But, Arne, there's a difference ... you don't understand me ... but
it was ... I don't know ... another time ... don't be offended with
me, Arne! don't go away from me!" She began to weep.
"Eli, what's the matter?" It came over him like sunshine. "Are you
ill?" Though he asked, he did not believe she was. She still wept; he
felt he must draw nearer or go quite away. "Eli." He listened. "Eli."
"Yes."
She checked her weeping. But he did not know what to say more, and
was silent.
"What do you want?" she whispered, half turning towards him.
"It's something--"
His voice trembled, and he stopped.
"What is it?"
"You mustn't refuse ... I would ask you...."
"Is it the song?"
"No ... Eli, I wish so much...." He heard her breathing fast and
deeply ... "I wish so much ... to hold one of your hands."
She did not answer; he listened intently--drew nearer, and clasped a
warm little hand which lay on the coverlet.
Then steps were heard coming up-stairs; they came nearer and nearer;
the door was opened; and Arne unclasped his hand. It was the mother,
who came in with a light. "I think you're sitting too long in the
dark," she said, putting the candlestick on the table. But neither
Eli nor Arne could bear the light; she turned her face to the pillow,
and he shaded his eyes with his hand. "Well, it pains a little at
first, but it soon passes off," said the mother.
Arne looked on the floor for something which he had not dropped, and
then went down-stairs.
The next day, he heard that Eli intended to come down in the
afternoon. He put his tools together, and said good-bye. When she
came down he had gone.
XIII.
MARGIT CONSULTS THE CLERGYMAN.
Up between the mountains, the spring comes late. The post, who in
winter passes along the high-road thrice a week, in April passes only
once; and the highlanders know then that outside, the snow is
shovelled away, the ice broken, the steamers are running, and the
plough is struck into the earth. Here, the snow still lies six feet
deep; the cattle low in their stalls; the birds arrive, but feel cold
and hide themselves. Occasionally some traveller arrives, saying he
has left his carriage down in the valley; he brings flowers, which he
examines; he picked them by the wayside. The people watch the advance
of the season, talk over their matters, and look up at the sun and
round about, to see how much he is able to do each day. They scatter
ashes on the snow, and think of those who are now picking flowers.
It was at this time of year, old Margit Kampen went one day to the
parsonage, and asked whether she might speak to "father." She was
invited into the study, where the clergyman,--a slender, fair-haired,
gentle-looking man, with large eyes and spectacles,--received her
kindly, recognized her, and asked her to sit down.
"Is there something the matter with Arne again?" he inquired, as if
Arne had often been a subject of conversation between them.
"Oh, dear, yes! I haven't anything wrong to say about him; but yet
it's so sad," said Margit, looking deeply grieved.
"Has that longing come back again!"
"Worse than ever. I can hardly think he'll even stay with me till
spring comes up here."
"But he has promised never to go away from you."
"That's true; but, dear me! he must now be his own master; and if his
mind's set upon going away, go, he must. But whatever will become of
me then?"
"Well, after all, I don't think he will leave you."
"Well, perhaps not; but still, if he isn't happy at home? am I then
to have it upon my conscience that I stand in his way? Sometimes I
feel as if I ought even to ask him to leave."
"How do you know he is longing now, more than ever?"
"Oh,--by many things. Since the middle of the winter, he hasn't
worked out in the parish a single day; but he has been to the town
three times, and has stayed a long while each time. He scarcely ever
talks now while he is at work, but he often used to do. He'll sit for
hours alone at the little up-stairs window, looking towards the
ravine, and away over the mountains; he'll sit there all Sunday
afternoon, and often when it's moonlight he sits there till late in
the night."
"Does he never read to you?"
"Yes, of course, he reads and sings to me every Sunday; but he seems
rather in a hurry, save now and then when he gives almost too much of
the thing."
"Does he never talk over matters with you then?"
"Well, yes; but it's so seldom that I sit and weep alone between
whiles. Then I dare say he notices it, for he begins talking, but
it's only about trifles; never about anything serious."
The Clergyman walked up and down the room; then he stopped and asked,
"But why, then, don't you talk to him about his matters?"
For a long while she gave no answer; she sighed several times, looked
downwards and sideways, doubled up her handkerchief, and at last
said, "I've come here to speak to you, father, about something that's
a great burden on my mind."
"Speak freely; it will relieve you."
"Yes, I know it will; for I've borne it alone now these many years,
and it grows heavier each year."
"Well, what is it, my good Margit?"
There was a pause, and then she said, "I've greatly sinned against my
son."
She began weeping. The Clergyman came close to her; "Confess it," he
said; "and we will pray together that it may be forgiven."
Margit sobbed and wiped her eyes, but began weeping again when she
tried to speak. The Clergyman tried to comfort her, saying she could
not have done anything very sinful, she doubtless was too hard upon
herself, and so on. But Margit continued weeping, and could not begin
her confession till the Clergyman seated himself by her side, and
spoke still more encouragingly to her. Then after a while she began,
"The boy was ill-used when a child; and so he got this mind for
travelling. Then he met with Christian--he who has grown so rich over
there where they dig gold. Christian gave him so many books that he
got quite a scholar; they used to sit together in the long evenings;
and when Christian went away Arne wanted to go after him. But just at
that time, the father died, and the lad promised never to leave me.
But I was like a hen that's got a duck's egg to brood; when my
duckling had burst his shell, he would go out on the wide water, and
I was left on the bank, calling after him. If he didn't go away
himself, yet his heart went away in his songs, and every morning I
expected to find his bed empty.
"Then a letter from foreign parts came for him, and I felt sure it
must be from Christian. God forgive me, but I kept it back! I thought
there would be no more, but another came; and, as I had kept the
first, I thought I must keep the second, too. But, dear me! it seemed
as if they would burn a hole through the box where I had put them;
and my thoughts were there from as soon as I opened my eyes in the
morning till late at night when I shut them. And then,--did you ever
hear of anything worse!--a third letter came. I held it in my hand a
quarter of an hour; I kept it in my bosom three days, weighing in my
mind whether I should give it to him or put it with the others; but
then I thought perhaps it would lure him away from me, and so I
couldn't help putting it with the others. But now I felt miserable
every day, not only about the letters in the box, but also for fear
another might come. I was afraid of everybody who came to the house;
when we were sitting together inside, I trembled whenever I heard the
door go, for fear it might be somebody with a letter, and then he
might get it. When he was away in the parish, I went about at home
thinking he might perhaps get a letter while there, and then it would
tell him about those that had already come. When I saw him coming
home, I used to look at his face while he was yet a long way off,
and, oh, dear! how happy I felt when he smiled; for then I knew he
had got no letter. He had grown so handsome; like his father, only
fairer, and more gentle-looking. And, then, he had such a voice; when
he sat at the door in the evening-sun, singing towards the mountain
ridge, and listening to the echo, I felt that live without him. I
never could. If I only saw him, or knew he was somewhere near, and he
seemed pretty happy, and would only give me a word now and then, I
wanted nothing more on earth, and I wouldn't have shed one tear
less.
"But just when he seemed to be getting on better with people, and
felt happier among them, there came a message from the post-office
that a fourth letter had come; and in it were two hundred dollars! I
thought I should have fell flat down where I stood: what could I do?
The letter, I might get rid of, 'twas true; but the money? For two or
three nights I couldn't sleep for it; a little while I left it
up-stairs, then, in the cellar behind a barrel, and once I was so
overdone that I laid it in the window so that he might find it. But
when I heard him coming, I took it back again. At last, however, I
found a way: I gave him the money and told him it had been put out at
interest in my mother's lifetime. He laid it out upon the land, just
as I thought he would; and so it wasn't wasted. But that same
harvest-time, when he was sitting at home one evening, he began
talking about Christian, and wondering why he had so clean forgotten
him.
"Now again the wound opened, and the money burned me so that I was
obliged to go out of the room. I had sinned, and yet my sin had
answered no end. Since then, I have hardly dared to look into his
eyes, blessed as they are.
"The mother who has sinned against her own child is the most
miserable of all mothers; ... and yet I did it only out of love....
And so, I dare say, I shall be punished accordingly by the loss of
what I love most. For since the middle of the winter, he has again
taken to singing the tune that he used to sing when he was longing to
go away; he has sung it ever since he was a lad, and whenever I hear
it I grow pale. Then I feel I could give up all for him; and only see
this." She took from her bosom a piece of paper, unfolded it and gave
it to the Clergyman. "He now and then writes something here; I think
it's some words to that tune.... I brought it with me; for I can't
myself read such small writing ... will you look and see if there
isn't something written about his going away...."
There was only one whole verse on the paper. For the second verse,
there were only a few half-finished lines, as if the song was one he
had forgotten, and was now coming into his memory again, line by
line. The first verse ran thus,--
"What shall I see if I ever go
Over the mountains high?
Now I can see but the peaks of snow,
Crowning the cliffs where the pine trees grow,
Waiting and longing to rise
Nearer the beckoning skies."
"Is there anything about his going away?" asked Margit.
"Yes, it is about that," replied the Clergyman, putting the paper
down.
"Wasn't I sure of it! Ah me! I knew the tune!" She sat with folded
hands, looking intently and anxiously into the Clergyman's face,
while tear after tear fell down her cheeks.
The Clergyman knew no more what to do in the matter than she did.
"Well, I think the lad must be left alone in this case," he said.
"Life can't be made different for his sake; but what he will find in
it must depend upon himself; now, it seems, he wishes to go away in
search of life's good."
"But isn't that just what the old crone did?"
"The old crone?"
"Yes; she who went away to fetch the sunshine, instead of making
windows in the wall to let it in."
The Clergyman was much astonished at Margit's words, and so he had
been before, when she came speak to him on this subject; but,
indeed, she had thought of hardly anything else for eight years.
"Do you think he'll go away? what am I to do? and the money? and the
letters?" All these questions crowded upon her at once.
"Well, as to the letters, that wasn't quite right. Keeping back what
belonged to your son, can't be justified. But it was still worse to
make a fellow Christian appear in a bad light when he didn't deserve
it; and especially as he was one whom Arne was so fond of, and who
loved him so dearly in return. But we will pray God to forgive you;
we will both pray."
Margit still sat with her hands folded, and her head bent down.
"How I should pray him to forgive me, if I only knew he would stay!"
she said: surely, she was confounding our Lord with Arne. The
Clergyman, however, appeared as if he did not notice it.
"Do you intend to confess it to him directly?" he asked.
She looked down, and said in a low voice, "I should much like to wait
a little if I dared."
The Clergyman turned aside with a smile, and asked, "Don't you
believe your sin becomes greater, the longer you delay confessing
it?"
She pulled her handkerchief about with both hands, folded it into a
very small square, and tried to fold it into a still smaller one, but
could not.
"If I confess about the letters, I'm afraid he'll go away."
"Then, you dare not rely upon our Lord?"
"Oh, yes, I do, indeed," she said hurriedly; and then she added in a
low voice, "but still, if he were to go away from me?"
"Then, I see you are more afraid of his going away than of continuing
to sin?"
Margit had unfolded her handkerchief again; and now she put it to her
eyes, for she began weeping. The Clergyman remained for a while
looking at her silently; then he went on, "Why, then, did you tell me
all this, if it was not to lead to anything?" He waited long, but she
did not answer. "Perhaps you thought your sin would become less when
you had confessed it?"
"Yes, I did," she said, almost in a whisper, while her head bent
still lower upon her breast.
The Clergyman smiled and rose. "Well, well, my good Margit, take
courage; I hope all will yet turn out for the best."
"Do you think so?" she asked, looking up; and a sad smile passed over
her tear-marked face.
"Yes, I do; I believe God will no longer try you. You will have joy
in your old age, I am sure."
"If I might only keep the joy I have!" she said; and the Clergyman
thought she seemed unable to fancy any greater happiness than living
in that constant anxiety. He smiled and filled his pipe.
"If we had but a little girl, now, who could take hold on him, then
I'm sure he would stay."
"You may be sure I've thought of that," she said, shaking her head.
"Well, there's Eli Boeen; she might be one who would please him."
"You may be sure I've thought of that." She rocked the upper part of
her body backwards and forwards.
"If we could contrive that they might oftener see each other here at
the parsonage?"
"You may be sure I've thought of that!" She clapped her hands and
looked at the Clergyman with a smile all over her face. He stopped
while he was lighting his pipe.
"Perhaps this, after all, was what brought you here to-day?"
She looked down, put two fingers into the folded handkerchief, and
pulled out one corner of it.
"Ah, well, God help me, perhaps it was this I wanted."
The Clergyman walked up and down, and smiled. "Perhaps, too, you came
for the same thing the last time you were here?"
She pulled out the corner of the handkerchief still farther, and
hesitated awhile. "Well, as you ask me, perhaps I did--yes."
The Clergyman went on smoking. "Then, too, it was to carry this point
that you confessed at last the thing you had on your conscience."
She spread out the handkerchief to fold it up smoothly again. "No;
ah, no; that weighed so heavily upon me, I felt I must tell it to
you, father."
"Well, well, my dear Margit, we will talk no more about it."