"I don't like, Thore, that you should always give yourself out for poor
when you are not so."
They both of them peeped to see whether the lad could hear them where
he sat.
Then the father looked sharply at her. "Nonsense! you don't understand
things."
She laughed, then said seriously, "It seems like not thanking God that
we have got on well."
"He can be thanked without wearing silver buttons," observed the
father.
"Yes, but to let Ovind go as he went yesterday to the dance is not to
thank Him."
"Ovind is a peasant lad."
"Yet he may dress decently when we can afford it."
"Say it so that he can hear it!"
"He can't hear, or else I should have a good mind to do it," she said,
looking naively at her husband, as he glumly put his spoon away and
took out his pipe.
"Such a poor farm we have," said he.
"I can't help laughing at you, you always talk of the farm and never
speak of the mills!"
"Oh dear! you and the mills; I don't think you care whether they go or
not."
"Yes, thank God, if they'd only go both night and day."
"But now they've been standing ever since before Christmas."
"No one grinds at Christmas time."
"They grind when there's water; but since they got the mill up at
Nystrommen, there's nothing to be done."
"The schoolmaster didn't say so to-day."
"H'm-- I shall let a more discreet man than the schoolmaster manage our
affairs."
"Yes, last of all he should talk with your own wife."
Thore did not reply to this, but lighting his pipe, he rose and leaned
against the wood pile, looking first at his wife and then at his son,
and finally fixing his gaze on an old crow's nest that hung deserted up
in a pine tree.
Ovind sat by himself, with the future spread before him, like a long
blank sheet of ice, along which, for the first time, he rushed
restlessly from one side to the other. He saw clearly that poverty
hemmed him in on every side, but this made him only the more determined
to overcome it. From Marit it had certainly separated him for ever; he
half regarded her as engaged to Jon Hatlen; but he resolved that with
all his might he would strive to keep pace with them through life. Not
to be any more humiliated as he had been yesterday, he would keep away,
till, by God's help, he could become something more than he was at
present, and he did not feel a doubt in his own mind but that he should
succeed. He had a sort of feeling that he would do best to study, but
what further that should lead to he must leave to the future.
There was capital sledge driving in the evenings; the children all came
to the hill, but not Ovind. Ovind sat by the fire and read, he had not
a moment to spare. The children waited long for him; at last they
became impatient, and one and another came and peeped in and called to
him, but he pretended not to hear. Evening after evening they came and
waited outside in wonderment, but he turned his back to them and read,
paying no heed to their entreaties.
Later he heard that Marit had not been to the sledge playing either. He
read with such diligence that even his father thought it went too far.
He grew thoughtful; his face, which had been so round and mild, became
thinner and sharper, his eyes deeper; he seldom sang and never played,
it was as if time were too short. When the desire to join his old
companions came over him, it was as if something whispered, "Not yet,
not yet,"--and continually, "not yet." The children played, shouted,
and laughed awhile as before, but when they saw they could not by any
means induce him to come, they gradually disappeared; they found other
grounds and soon the sledge hill was quite vacated.
The schoolmaster soon observed that he was not the same Ovind who used
to read because it fell out so, and play because it was necessary. He
often talked with him, and sought to find the cause, for the lad's
heart was not light as in former days. He spoke also with the parents,
and by agreement he came one Sunday evening late in the Winter, and
after sitting awhile, he said,--"Come, Ovind, let us go out, I want to
talk with you a little."
Ovind got up and went with him. They took the path towards Heidegaard.
The conversation did not flag, but they spoke of nothing important;
when they came near the farms, the schoolmaster took the direction of
the middle one, and as they got nearer they heard the sound of laughter
and merriment.
"What is up here?" said Ovind.
"They are dancing," said the schoolmaster, "shall we not go in?"
"No."
"Will you not go to a dance, lad!"
"No, not yet."
"Not yet? When then?"
He did not answer.
"What do you mean,--not yet?"