Eli was very weak after her illness; the mother sat over her night and
day, and was never down-stairs; the father made his usual visits up to
the sick-room in his stocking feet, and leaving his cap outside of the
door. Arne was still at the gard; he and the father sat together of
evenings; he had come to think a good deal of Baard, who was a
well-educated man, a deep thinker, but seemed to be afraid of what he
knew. Arne helped him to get things right in his mind and told him much
that he did not know before, and Baard was very grateful.
Eli could now sit up at intervals; and as she began to improve she took
many fancies into her head. Thus it was that one evening as Arne sat in
the room below Eli's chamber singing songs in a loud voice, the mother
came down and brought word that Eli wanted to know if he would not come
up-stairs and sing that she might hear the words. Arne had undoubtedly
been singing for Eli all along; for when her mother gave him the message
he grew red, and rose as though he would deny what he had been doing,
although no one had charged him with it. He soon recovered his
composure, and said evasively that there was very little he could sing.
But the mother remarked that it did not seem so when he was alone.
Arne yielded and went. He had not seen Eli since the day he had helped
carry her up-stairs; he felt that she must now be greatly changed, and
was almost afraid to see her. But when he softly opened the door and
entered, it was so dark in the room that he saw no one. He paused on the
threshold.
"Who is it?" asked Eli, in a clear, low voice.
"It is Arne Kampen," he answered, in a guarded tone, that the words
might fall softly.
"It was kind of you to come."
"How are you now, Eli?"
"Thank you, I am better."
"Please sit down, Arne," said she, presently, and Arne felt his way to a
chair that stood by the foot of the bed. "It was so nice to hear you
singing, you must sing a little for me up here."
"If I only knew anything that was suitable."
There was silence for a moment; then she said, "Sing a hymn," and he did
so; it was a part of one of the confirmation hymns. When he had
finished, he heard that she was weeping, and so he dared not sing any
more; but presently she said, "Sing another one like that," and he sang
another, choosing the one usually sung when the candidates for
confirmation are standing in the church aisle.
"How many things I have thought of while I have been lying here," said
Eli. He did not know what to answer, and he heard her weeping quietly in
the dark. A clock was ticking on the wall, it gave warning that it was
about to strike, and then struck; Eli drew a long breath several times
as though she would ease her breast, and then she said, "One knows so
little. I have known neither father nor mother. I have not been kind to
them,--and that is why it gives me such strange feelings to hear that
confirmation hymn."
When people talk in the dark, they are always more truthful than when
they see each other face to face; they can say more, too.
"It is good to hear your words," replied Arne; he was thinking of what
she had said when she was taken ill.
She knew what he meant; and so she remarked, "Had not this happened to
me, God only knows how long it might have been before I had found my
mother."
"She has been talking with you now?"
"Every day; she has done nothing else."
"Then, I dare say, you have heard many things."
"You may well say so."
"I suppose she talked about my father?"
"Yes."
"Does she still think of him?"
"She does."
"He was not kind to her."
"Poor mother!"
"He was worst of all, though, to himself."
Thoughts now arose that neither liked to express to the other. Eli was
the first to break the silence.
"They say you are like your father."
"So I have heard," he answered, evasively.
She paid no heed to the tone of his voice; and so, after a while, she
continued, "Could he, too, make songs?"
"No."
"Sing a song for me,--one you have made yourself."
But Arne was not in the habit of confessing that the songs he sang were
his own. "I have none," said he.
"Indeed you have, and I am sure you will sing them for me if I ask it."
What he had never done for others, he now did for her. 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, dear; leave them alone
Till blossoms here have grown,'
Prayed the tree, while it trembled from rootlet to crown.
"The tree bore its blossoms, and all the birds sung:
'Shall I take them away?' said the wind, as it swung.
'No, dear; leave them alone
Till berries here have grown,'
Said the tree, while its leaflets all quivering hung.
"The tree bore its fruit in the midsummer glow:
Said the girl, 'May I gather thy berries or no?'
'Yes, dear, all thou canst see;
Take them; all are for thee,'
Said the tree, while it bent down its laden boughs low."[23]
This song almost took her breath away. He, too, sat there silent, after
he was through, as though he had sung more than he cared to say to her.
Darkness has great power over those who are sitting in it and dare not
speak; they are never so near each other as then. If Eli only turned,
only moved her hand on the bed-cover, only breathed a little more
heavily than usual, Arne heard it. "Arne, could not you teach me to make
songs?"
"Have you never tried?"
"Yes, these last few days I have; but I have not succeeded."
"Why, what did you want to have in them?"
"Something about my mother, who cared so much for your father."
"That is a sad theme."
"I have cried over it, too."
"You must not think of what you are going to put in your songs; it comes
of itself."
"How does it come?"
"As other precious things, when you least expect it."
They were both silent.
"I wonder, Arne, that you are longing to go away when you have so much
that is beautiful within yourself."
"Do _you_ know that I am longing?"
She made no reply to this, but lay still a few moments, as though in
thought.
"Arne, you must not go away!" said she, and this sent a glow through
him.
"Well, sometimes I have less desire to go."
"Your mother must be very fond of you. I should like to see your
mother."
"Come over to Kampen when you are well."
And now all at once he pictured her sitting in the cheerful room at
Kampen, looking out on the mountains; his chest began to heave, the
blood rushed to his head. "It is warm in here," said he, getting up.
She heard this. "Are you going, Arne?" asked she, and he sat down again.
"You must come over to us often; mother likes you so much."
"I should be glad to come myself; but I must have some errand, though."
Eli was silent for a while, as if she were considering something. "I
believe," said she, "that mother has something she wants to ask of you."
He heard her turn in bed. There was no sound to be heard, either in the
room or outside, save the ticking of the clock on the wall. At last she
burst out,--
"How I wish it were summer!"
"That it were summer?" and there rose up in his mind, blended with
fragrant foliage and the tinkling of cattle bells, shouts from the
mountains, singing from the valleys, Black Water glittering in the
sunshine, the gards rocking in it, and Eli coming out and sitting down,
as she had done that evening long ago.
"If it were summer," said she, "and I were sitting on the hill, I really
believe I could sing a song."
He laughed and asked: "What would it be about?"
"Oh, something easy, about--I do not know myself--"
"Tell me, Eli!" and he sprang up in delight; then, recollecting himself,
he sat down again.
"No; not for all the world!" She laughed.
"I sang for you when you asked me."
"Yes, you did; but--no! no!"
"Eli, do you think I would make sport of your little verse?"
"No; I do not think so, Arne; but it is not anything I have made
myself."
"It is by some one else, then."
"Yes, it just came floating of itself."
"Then you can surely repeat it to me."
"No, no; it is not altogether that either, Arne. Do not ask me any
more." She must have hid her face in the bedclothes, for the last words
seemed to come out of them.
"You are not as kind to me now, Eli, as I was to you!" he said, and
rose.
"Arne, there is a difference--you do not understand me--but it was--I do
not know myself--another time--do not be angry with me, Arne! Do not go
away from me!" She began to weep.
"Eli, what is the matter?" He listened. "Are you feeling ill?" He did
not think she was. She still wept; he thought that he must either go
forward or backward.
"Eli!"
"Yes!"
They both spoke in whispers.
"Give me your hand!"
She did not answer; he listened intently, eagerly, felt about on the
coverlid, and clasped a warm little hand that lay outside.
They heard steps on the stairs, and let go of each other's hands. It was
Eli's mother, who was bringing in a light. "You are sitting quite too
long in the dark," said she, and put the candlestick on the table. But
neither Eli nor Arne could bear the light; she turned toward the
pillow, he held his hand up before his eyes. "Oh, yes; it hurts the eyes
a little at first," said her mother; "but that will soon pass off."
Arne searched on the floor for the cap he did not have with him, and
then he left the room.
The next day he heard that Eli was coming down-stairs for a little while
after dinner. He gathered together his tools, and said good-by. When she
came down he was gone.