One Saturday, at Midsummer, Thore Pladsen rowed over the lake to meet
his son, who was coming that afternoon from the Agricultural School.
The mother had had a charwoman for two or three days, and everything
was made beautifully clean and tidy. Ovind's room had been ready some
time, and the stove was set in order. To-day his mother decorated it
with green, took the linen up, and made the bed, looking out between
times over the water, to see if there was not a boat. The table was
ready spread, and yet there was always something to be done,--flies to
chase away, or dust, constant dust.
Still there was no boat. She seated herself in the window sill and
looked out; then she heard footsteps on the other side and turned to
see who was there; it was the schoolmaster, who came slowly along
leaning upon a stick for his hip was very bad. He stopped a minute to
rest, the expressive eyes moved quietly round; he nodded to her: "Not
come yet?"
"No, I am expecting them every moment."
"Good hay weather to-day."
"But very hot for old people to be out."
The schoolmaster smiled: "Has somebody else been out in the heat
to-day?"
"Yes, but she's gone again."
"Oh! well, may be they'll be meeting somewhere to-night."
"I suppose so, but Thore says they shall not meet in his house till the
old people give their consent."
"Quite right."
"They are coming, I do believe!" the mother exclaimed.
"Yes, that is them."
The schoolmaster came in and rested a little, and then they went down
to the lake, while the boat plied quickly along, for both father and
son were rowing. When they came near, Ovind turned, rested his oars,
and called "Good morning, mother; good morning, schoolmaster!"
"What a manly voice," said the mother, "but still the same light hair,"
she added.
Ovind sprang out, and shook hands; he laughed, and so unlike the
peasants' way, he at once began to tell them all about the examination,
the journey, the principal's testimonial, his prospects, &c.; then he
asked about the harvest, and about his friends, all except one. And so
they went home, Ovind laughing and talking; the mother smiling, not
knowing exactly what to say; the schoolmaster and the father listening.
Ovind was pleased with everything he saw,--first, that the house was
painted; then, that the mill was enlarged; then, that the lead windows
were taken out of the parlour, and white glass put instead of green.
When they came in, everything looked so exceedingly small, so different
from what he had remembered it; but so cheerful, and all looked so
inviting.
They seated themselves at the table, but there was not much eaten, for
Ovind was constantly talking. Once when he was telling them a long
story about one of his schoolfellows, and there came a moment's pause,
his father said, "I can scarcely understand a single word of what you
say, lad, you speak so exceedingly quick." They all laughed, and Ovind
not the least; he knew it was true, but he seemed as though he could
not help it.
All that he had seen and heard during his long absence, had so
impressed and aroused him, that the powers which had hitherto lain
dormant were now awakened, and the brain was constantly at work.
He was delighted with his little room; he thought he should like to
stay at home for a time, assisting with the hay harvest and reading;
where he should go after he could not tell, but it was all the same to
him. They were afraid lest he should have grown thoughtless, but on the
contrary he remembered everything; and it was he who thought of the
boat and unpacked the things. He had gained a quickness and power of
thought that was quite refreshing, and a liveliness in expressing his
feelings, which, during the whole year, had only been repressed.
The schoolmaster looked ten years younger. "Now we have come so far
with him," said he, as he rose to go.
The mother called Ovind aside, "Some one expects you at nine o'clock,"
she whispered.
"Where?"
"Up on the ridge."
Ovind looked at the clock, it was nearly nine. He could not wait in the
house, but went out, clambered up the ridge, and looked round. The
house roof lay close below; the bushes on the roof were very much
larger, and all the small trees had grown; he could remember each one.
And there lay the road, grey and sombre, and the wood with its varied
foliage, and in the bay a vessel laden with planks, waiting for wind.
The lake was bright and calm; some sea-birds flew over, but did not cry
as it was late. He sat down waiting; the small trees prevented him from
seeing very far over, but he listened to the slightest noise. For some
time there were only birds that started up and deceived him; then
again, a squirrel springing from tree to tree. But at last he heard a
rustling, then it ceased; then it came again. He rose,--his heart beat
fast, the blood rushed into his head; there was a movement in the
bushes close to him, and a shaggy dog appeared; it was the dog from
Heidegaard, and close behind, it rustled again; the dog looked back and
wagged his tail; now comes Marit.
A bush caught her dress, she turned to release it, and so she stood
when he first saw her; she had her hair plainly dressed, as was the
custom with the peasant girls on week days; she wore a strong plaided
dress without sleeves, and nothing on her neck except the linen collar.
She had stolen away from her work, and durst not stay to tidy herself.
She looked up and smiled, then she came forward, growing more and more
red at each step. He went to meet her, and took her hand in both of
his; she looked down, and so they stood.
"Thanks for all your letters," was the first he said, and when she then
looked up a little and laughed, he felt that she was the most roguish
little elf he ever could meet in a wood; but he was caught, and she not
any the less.
"How you have grown!" she said, but meant something quite different.
They looked at each other but said nothing. Meanwhile the dog had
seated himself at the edge of the ridge, and looked down upon the farm,
and Thore observing his head from below, could not for his life think
what it could be.
When, at last, the two began to talk, Ovind spoke so quickly that Marit
couldn't help laughing.
"Yes, you see, it's when I am glad, really glad, you see, and when we
came to understand each other it was as if a lock sprang open within
me, sprang open, you see."
She laughed, then she said, "I know all the letters you sent me by
heart."
"And I know yours too, but you always wrote such short letters."
"Because you always wanted them so long."
"And when I wanted you to write about one particular thing, you slipped
away, and I never heard how you got rid of Jon Hatlen."
"I laughed."
"How?"
"Laughed, don't you know what it is to laugh?"
"Yes, I can laugh!"
"Let me see!"
"Did you ever hear such a thing! I must have something to laugh at
first."
"I don't need it when I am happy."
"Are you happy now, Marit?"
"Do I laugh now, then?"
"Yes, that you do!"
He took both her hands, and clapped them together as he looked at her.
Here the dog began to growl, then his hair stood on end, and he barked,
and grew more and more angry till at last he seemed quite savage. Marit
sprang up in fear, but Ovind went forward and looked down. It was his
father the dog was barking at; he was standing close under the ridge,
with both his hands in his pockets.
"What! are you there, too? Pray, whose is that savage dog?"
"It's a dog from Heidegaard," replied Ovind, rather taken aback.
"How in the world did it come there?"
The mother hearing the noise, had come out to see what it was, and
understanding at once how things were, she laughed, and said: "The dog
comes here every day, so it's nothing wonderful."
"But what a ferocious animal!"
"He'll be quiet if he's spoken to," said Ovind, and patted him. The dog
ceased barking though he continued to growl. The father was satisfied
and went down again.
"Safe this time!" said Marit, "but there's some one else to watch us."
"Your grandfather?"
"Exactly."
"But that won't do any harm."
"Not the slightest."
"You promise me?"
"Yes, I do Ovind."
"How pretty you are, Marit!"
"So said the fox to the raven, and got the cheese."
"You may think I want the cheese too."
"But you won't get it."
"I shall take it then."
She turned her head, and he didn't take it.
"I'll tell you something, Ovind," and she looked slily round.
"Well."
"How ugly you have grown."
"You'll give me the cheese though."
"No, indeed I won't," and she turned away again.
"Now, I must go, Ovind."
"I'll go with you."
"But not out of the wood, or grandfather will see you."
"No, not out of the wood,--dear, are you running?"
"We cannot go side by side here."
"But this isn't to go in company."
"Catch me then," and on she ran.
They stopped when they got to the end of the trees.
"When shall we meet again?" she whispered.
"To-morrow, to-morrow."
"Yes, to-morrow."
"Good bye;" she ran.
"Marit!" and she stopped.
"How strange that we should meet first up on the ridge."
"Yes, it is;" she ran again.
He looked long after her,--the dog ran before and barked, she after,
trying to silence him. Ovind took his cap, and tossed it again and
again; "Now, I believe, I really begin to be happy," said he, and sang
as he went home.