WHEN at length the day for the dinner could be fixed, it became a busy
time for Fru Thora. She managed to get it agreed to, that for once
they should try to kindle exhilaration without the aid of strong
drink; there should be only home-made wine and milk. To make up for
this, she got hold of the best members of the young men's club, and
began to rehearse a play that was to be acted after the dinner. She
also intended to decorate the walls of the large town-hall, in which
the dinner was to be held, in a way that would form a suitable frame
to the guest of honour.
When at last the great day arrived she was both worn-out and nervous;
for, as usual when one person is energetic and throws himself heart
and soul into a matter, the other members of the dinner-committee had
sat down and left everything to her.
In the afternoon of that day she heard that Fru Wangen was still
confined to her bed; whereupon Fru Thora very quickly made up her mind
that she could not take part in any gaiety that evening without first
having inquired about the poor woman. If there was nothing else to be
done, she would offer to take her in for a time, and the children with
her.
When she came to the little cottage among the fir-trees in which the
Wangens had last lived, she found the door locked and the shutters
before the windows. An uncomfortable fear made her actually run up to
the farm, where she met a girl who was drawing up water from a well.
"Where is Fru Wangen?" she asked.
"She is up in an attic here," said the girl.
"I suppose I can go up to her?"
The girl shook her head. Fru Wangen would not even speak to the
master; and both the priest and the doctor had come to see her, and
she would not see either of them.
"Oh, but do go up and tell her it's me!" said Fru Thora.
The girl took the bucket and went; but when she came out on to the
steps again, she shook her head. Fru Wangen wanted to be alone.
Besides, the girl then added, she had got up and was going to see her
children.
"But what is she going to do now?" asked Fru Thora.
"Nobody knows," said the girl. "She doesn't say a word about it."
Fru Thora had tears in her eyes as she went homewards. Of course this
dinner for Norby must wound Fru Wangen, but it really could not be
helped. Guilt is guilt, and reparation must be made to the innocent.
It was Saturday afternoon, and the dinner was at seven. The last loads
of hay had been driven in from the fields, and the well-raked hills
had taken on a soft, dark green colour; while the leafy slopes had
here and there begun to get golden patches, upon which the sun shone.
When, at about six o'clock, the first carriages drove up towards the
town-hall, they met near the fjord a tall, pale woman, hurrying along
with bent head. It was Fru Wangen. Her little, faded straw hat seemed
to have been put on in a hurry, and stood off too much from her head,
raised by the quantity of fair hair that still lay like a crown above
her pale beautiful face.
When she got out to the ridge that descends steeply to the fjord, she
saw no more carriages in front of her, and seated herself upon a stone
by the wayside. She rested her elbows on her knees, and her chin in
her hands, and gazed out over the fjord whose calm surface reflected
the red clouds in the sky.
When she had seen the children, where should she go?--what should she
do? Could she keep both herself and them? Or--Oh no, she ought not to
think of that now; for thinking was what she could not and dared not
do. She passed her hand across her forehead and sighed. "I must take
care," she thought, "that what is in there doesn't get loose, for then
I might go mad; and then I shouldn't be allowed even to see the
children."
She had had a letter from Wangen that day; he said that he was trying
to obtain a pardon. But she was not equal to further faith; she could
not believe in his innocence any more. If he had only confessed it at
first, at any rate to her! But now! Her father had been right. Her
father! The whole thing overwhelmed her like a terrible darkness.
Suddenly she started up and hurried on. She must manage to reach the
children before dark, for she dared not be out alone when it was dark.
When the carriage drove down the avenue from Norby Farm, the two
daughters sat opposite their parents, and Einar with the coachman on
the box. Einar had come home quite unexpectedly. That evening when he
rowed across to Buvik Sæter he had met with a great disappointment.
The doctor's daughter had left for the valley that afternoon.
From that time Einar found it unbearable up on the mountains. It was
no help now, in his expeditions over the moors, to look over to Buvik
Sæter. The disgrace he had fled from now met him both out of doors and
indoors; and his eagerness to reach this young woman thereby became
greater than ever. So he packed up his things and set off. He must
catch her up; he must know for a certainty whether she cared for him
or not.
At home he settled down in a wonderful way. The good conscience that
every one there had was infectious; and he could not but feel glad
that his parents should now be rewarded for all their troubles with
this dinner. It was high time that he, too, gave up his ugly
suspicion.
As he sat upon the box, he gazed at the carriages that were driving up
to the flag-decorated town-hall. Would she be there this evening?
Marit Norby looked handsome as she sat leaning a little towards her
husband, dressed in a silk dress and light straw bonnet. Knut,
however, was by no means happy; for as he grew to feel himself more
and more firmly in the right, he had become more indifferent to the
respect of the district. Fancy if people were making this fuss because
they were sorry for him! In that case he would like to tell them that
they were mistaken. There was nothing the matter with him yet.
Nevertheless as he saw carriage after carriage drive up to the
town-hall a smile played about the corners of his mouth; for he was
thinking of Mads Herlufsen. Would he come? Or was he sitting at home
sulking? In that case Norby would like to see him.
As they drove into the yard of the town-hall, Einar saw the doctor's
gig driving away. There was room for only two in it, the doctor and
his wife, so _she_ was not there. He had been so anxious about this
for days and nights past that the disappointment was very great, and
for a moment he lost all desire to go in. Something awoke in him, that
shook him and said: "What are you about, Einar?"
Between two flags on the steps stood the bailiff and Fru Thora of
Lidarende to receive the guests of honour; and Einar slowly followed
the others up the steps.
Laura, who to-day was wearing her first light silk dress, grew
suddenly red when she noticed a beardless youth standing in the
passage and looking at her. It was the bailiff's son, who had just
taken his degree in forestry. "I wonder if he will take me in to
dinner!" she thought, her heart beginning to beat.
The only person who lived in the town-hall building was the midwife of
the district, who had two rooms in one wing. There the pastor's wife
was now busy, at the head of a flock of maids, serving the dinner. She
was both angry and in despair, because the Railway Hotel, which was
providing the dinner, had forgotten to send gravy with the joint, and
now a servant came and said that Norby had come, and that people were
sitting down to table.
"Who's asked them to sit down to table?" cried the pastor's wife. "A
nice dinner-committee they are!" And she rushed to the telephone and
rang up violently. "Hullo! Are you never going to let us have that
gravy?"