EINAR NORBY still kept his bed. He sat up among his pillows in the
middle of the day, and each day a little longer than on the preceding
one. As the days passed, he saw the last patch of snow melt away down
in the yard, and heard the noise of wheels take the place of the
sledge-bells' jingle, and the starling making a noise in the gutter
over his head. One day, too, he heard the sheep being let out with a
great deal of bleating in deep and high tones, and little Knut
shouting at them from the steps.
To Einar this illness was a black darkness that separated him from
something that had happened long ago, and about which he could not now
think. As he emerged from this darkness, too, it struck him how
comfortable he was lying there. He was a child once more, wrapped in
the clothes his mother put upon him, and eating what she gave him with
her own hand; he showed temper, and was exacting, and she scolded him;
she washed him, and warmed his night-shirt for him at the stove, as in
days gone by.
A recovery from such an illness is like being born into the world
again. Worn out as one is, every little trouble brings the tears to
one's eyes, just as they make the baby scream; and waiting for mother
when she is away too long is unbearable torture.
As his strength returned, Einar noticed that his father never came to
see him; and at the same time he understood that this was something he
ought not to mention. It was also something that he ought not to think
about; for there was so much besides that went with it, and that
should not be allowed to come near him now.
One day Ingeborg came up with some hot water in a bath, saying she
thought it was about time he had his feet washed; and as he put out
his clammy feet, and enjoyed the wet sponge and her gentle touch, the
tears came again to his eyes. "Oh, how good it is to be at home now!"
he thought.
He remembered that during his first attacks of fever, he had felt
horror at being tended by those whom he had betrayed; but that must
have been part of the illness. During the feverish attacks, he had
also seen Wangen standing in the room and saying: "I shall be sent to
prison, and it is your fault." And Einar had screamed with terror; but
that too had been part of his illness, and he had now recovered from
it. Yes, it was a strange thing to be ill.
While his sister dried his feet with a warm bath-towel, he looked up
at the ceiling, and thought: "Thank goodness that I was prevented from
doing these people any harm!"
As the days passed, and he gradually became able once more to retain
difficult thoughts, he felt a certain fear as to how it would be when
he went downstairs and met his father. He supposed he would have to
ask his forgiveness; but that, too, caused him a strange pain.
Thoughts came to him. "I have abandoned a sacred purpose; and just
because I am lying here and receiving all this affection, I am
becoming more and more powerless to take it up again. I was to save an
innocent man from punishment, and I was to stand a test of character.
But I broke down. I took flight! And now I am lying and thanking God
for it!"
"Mother!" he cried involuntarily; and if she were not in the room, he
would be seized with an uncomfortable fear until she came back and he
knew her to be near him.
"How pale and thin you are, mother! How often you must have sat up at
night!"
"That's nothing, my dear boy. How are you now? Is there anything
you've a fancy for?"
He felt these few affectionate words quite overwhelming, because they
dispelled all fears, and for a time gave him perfect contentment and
rest.
Ingeborg came up one day with some budding birch-twigs which she threw
upon his bed. "There's a harbinger of spring," she said. "Now you must
be quick and come out, and see what I'm doing in the garden."
When at last he was allowed to sit up, his seat was placed at the
window. Girls were running bare-headed across the yard. They were
laughing and joking. It made him smile too. He had had a lot of fun
down there among the houses as a boy; there was a reminiscence
connected with every corner, and these were now awakened, and all his
ideas connected themselves more and more with the place and the people
who lived in it.
Ingeborg came to him rather timidly one day, and asked him to let her
read to him out of a devotional book, and he assented in order to give
her a pleasure. Gradually as he listened, however, he began to think
it was beautiful. He had been mistaken in this too.
One evening, when the reading was over, she said: "The lake is quite
open now; the steamer ran to-day." And Einar saw the great open lake,
its surface of a greenish colour from the melting of the snow. Logs
were drifting about here and there, and a bird was sitting upon a
solitary piece of ice, and floating along with it, now and again
flapping its wings. He saw the steamer with its awning, and ladies on
board in light dresses. Heigh-ho! Summer was coming!
"Do you know what father's doing?" asked Ingeborg with a smile.
"Father?" whispered Einar, turning his head towards the wall.
"Yes. He's having a little room put up for you at the _sæter._ The
doctor wants you to be on the mountains this summer."
Einar turned his face to her and smiled suddenly like a naughty boy.
Was his father really thinking about him and doing something for him
too?
"Father hasn't come to see me," he said after a little, sadly.
Ingeborg sighed and gazed at the candle.
"He asks after you a hundred times a day," she said; "and when you
were worst, he neither slept nor ate."
A little later she looked at Einar's pale face among the pillows; and
though his eyes were closed, the tears were forcing their way from
under their lids, and his lips were compressed. She rose, and wiped
the tears away with her pocket-handkerchief, saying: "I think it's to
spare you that father doesn't come. And besides, you can hardly expect
him to come as long as he doesn't know what you think of him."
Einar's lips were more tightly compressed, as if something hurt him.
"Shall I ask father to come, Einar?"
"Yes," he whispered.
Norby had said to his wife that there had been a disagreement between
himself and Einar, and that he would not go in to see him until the
boy was well enough to talk about the matter.
He had gradually become quite sure that his enemies had incited the
boy against him; but who could have been knowing enough for that?
Einar! Yes, it was well done.
But how anxiously he had waited to see whether Einar would send to
him; for after the manner in which they had parted, he did not feel
able to see him until he yielded. But would he yield? Should he get
his boy back?
What were his thoughts now when the moment came at last? He went
slowly up the stairs, but had to hold tight to the banisters. When he
entered the room, he saw at once how emaciated the boy was. The thin
beard that had been allowed to grow while he was ill made him
unrecognisable. Einar's eyes were still wet, and he smiled anxiously
as he held out his hand.
Ingeborg had come up again with him, but slipped quietly out when she
saw her father's emotion; and the two were left alone. The old man's
lips were compressed as he seated himself and took his son's
outstretched hand. It was so damp and nerveless and thin that he was
quite afraid to take hold of it. Einar saw his father's emotion, and
worn and excited as he was already, he burst into tears.
"Forgive me, father!"
The old man rose and arranged the coverlet better about his son.
"Don't talk about it!" he managed to say. "And you musn't take this to
heart now; it's bad for you."
When, a little later, the old man once more stood alone in his office,
he was sniffing as if he had a cold.
"Heaven be praised!" he said, with his eyes raised to the ceiling.
"Thank God that I have got my boy back again!"
He sank upon the leather sofa, and sat staring in front of him, his
lips trembling. Nothing so great had ever happened at Norby before.
And so there was a higher purpose in this illness. He understood it
now.
"Thank God!" he said again, with his eyes raised to the ceiling.
When a woman gets back her child that robbers have taken, one can
understand that her joy is unbounded, but that her hatred of those who
took him from her, her fear of their coming again, and her desire to
render them harmless, are just as great as her happiness. It was the
same with Norby now. In the midst of his joy he thought of Wangen.
"They didn't succeed," he thought. "There's One who's stronger than
all their artifices." While he sat and thanked God in an indescribable
feeling of happiness, he saw Wangen and his other enemies as evil
forces that might come again; but they should really be made harmless
now. "He shall leave the district!" he thought, in mingled anger and
pleasure. "He's done harm enough now. He shan't only go to jail; he
ought to be transported!" And if Norby's best friend had now said to
him: "But you have guaranteed for this same Wangen," Norby would have
knocked him down. For God knows it was false. Could the hands be clean
of a man who had recourse to such tricks? No, no, no! If a thought
such as this crossed the old man's mind, it filled him with disgust,
and he felt he must spit it out. No, he was completely in the right.
That devil actually declared that Norby had signed his document at the
Grand! Good gracious!
"I thank Thee, O God!--But he shall be turned out of the district!"