CHAPTER IIIEVERYevening lately, Ingeborg Norby had sat and read the Bible to the pensioners in the little house. The pensioners were four in number, the dairymaid and the two farm-servants, who were all between seventy and eighty years of age, and had been in service at the farm for more than half a century; and the blind tenant farmer, whom Norby had taken in, so that he should not go to the workhouse.In the little room lay the bedridden dairymaid; and in the larger room sat the two white-haired farm-labourers and speculated on various matters. They smoked, moved from one chair to another, and talked together chiefly about their various illnesses. The blind man for the most part kept his bed.From the large house nothing was seen of these four persons. Even Norby seldom went to see them; but he kept them supplied with clothes and tobacco, although they all had money in the bank.This evening the birch-wood was crackling in the stove, and the lamp shed its light upon the long table; and Ingeborg sat at the door between thetwo rooms and read so that she could be heard on both sides.When she had finished reading, she repeated the Lord’s Prayer and sang a hymn, in which the two old men upon the bench tried to join. When this was over and she was about to go, one of the men said:“How is the case going on?”“There will be an inquiry the day after to-morrow,” said Ingeborg.“Ha, ha!” laughed the blind man from his bed, while he scratched himself.“Hasn’t that there Wangen confessed yet?” murmured one of the farm-labourers, shaking his head sympathetically.“No!” sighed Ingeborg, adding: “May God turn his heart!”“If he’d only been wise enough to confess at once his punishment would have been lighter,” said the blind man, still scratching himself.“He may have confessed to God,” said Ingeborg. “But the Bible says that if any one wants to do God’s will, he must go and be reconciled to his brother. I’m sure if Wangen had come and asked father to forgive him, father would have forgiven him.”“Yes, God bless him!” said the dairymaid from the little room.Ingeborg said good-night and left the house.The two old men upon the bench began to undress,with many sighs over their rheumatism and pains in their limbs. One of them, after taking off his trousers, sat down upon the edge of his bed and lighted his pipe before drawing off his stockings. The other was also in his drawers, and now crept cautiously in his clumsy slippers into the dairymaid’s little room, and seated himself upon the edge of her bed.“Have you got enough on you at night?” he asked, as he struck a match upon his nether garments, and lighted his short pipe with a trembling hand.“Oh yes!” said the dairymaid in a sleepy voice.These two had been engaged, and had broken it off, and been engaged again, over and over again for pretty well a lifetime. For a couple of years they were not on friendly terms, and were each engaged to some one else; but then they became reconciled and engaged again, until things again went wrong, and so on. Since they had become pensioners, however, they had made peace and were good friends.“Because you’re welcome to one of my sheepskins!” he said, looking at the bowl of his pipe and trying to make it draw.“Did you ever hear such nonsense! And you would lie and shiver perhaps?” she said. “No; if I’m cold, I’ve only got to speak to the mistress.”“Very well,” said the old man, rising and tuckingher carefully up. He came in every evening before he went to bed to ask her if she wanted anything. It was a kind of good-night. Of late he had induced her to smoke, for then he could always do her some little service, such as to clean her pipe and cut up the tobacco for her. But now, without saying good-night, he slouched away and went to bed.“You’ve forgotten to put out the lamp,” said the blind man. He could not see it, but felt its light upon him.After the lamp was put out, the three old men lay and yawned audibly for some time, until there came from the little room a yawn so loud that the three men could hear it. This was their good-night to one another.“It’s coming on to blow and there’ll be a storm to-night,” said the blind man, drawing the skin coverlet over him.“Then they’ll have to have the snow-plough out again to-morrow,” said one of the others, after a short pause. Then they yawned a little more, and silence fell upon the little house.
EVERYevening lately, Ingeborg Norby had sat and read the Bible to the pensioners in the little house. The pensioners were four in number, the dairymaid and the two farm-servants, who were all between seventy and eighty years of age, and had been in service at the farm for more than half a century; and the blind tenant farmer, whom Norby had taken in, so that he should not go to the workhouse.
In the little room lay the bedridden dairymaid; and in the larger room sat the two white-haired farm-labourers and speculated on various matters. They smoked, moved from one chair to another, and talked together chiefly about their various illnesses. The blind man for the most part kept his bed.
From the large house nothing was seen of these four persons. Even Norby seldom went to see them; but he kept them supplied with clothes and tobacco, although they all had money in the bank.
This evening the birch-wood was crackling in the stove, and the lamp shed its light upon the long table; and Ingeborg sat at the door between thetwo rooms and read so that she could be heard on both sides.
When she had finished reading, she repeated the Lord’s Prayer and sang a hymn, in which the two old men upon the bench tried to join. When this was over and she was about to go, one of the men said:
“How is the case going on?”
“There will be an inquiry the day after to-morrow,” said Ingeborg.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the blind man from his bed, while he scratched himself.
“Hasn’t that there Wangen confessed yet?” murmured one of the farm-labourers, shaking his head sympathetically.
“No!” sighed Ingeborg, adding: “May God turn his heart!”
“If he’d only been wise enough to confess at once his punishment would have been lighter,” said the blind man, still scratching himself.
“He may have confessed to God,” said Ingeborg. “But the Bible says that if any one wants to do God’s will, he must go and be reconciled to his brother. I’m sure if Wangen had come and asked father to forgive him, father would have forgiven him.”
“Yes, God bless him!” said the dairymaid from the little room.
Ingeborg said good-night and left the house.
The two old men upon the bench began to undress,with many sighs over their rheumatism and pains in their limbs. One of them, after taking off his trousers, sat down upon the edge of his bed and lighted his pipe before drawing off his stockings. The other was also in his drawers, and now crept cautiously in his clumsy slippers into the dairymaid’s little room, and seated himself upon the edge of her bed.
“Have you got enough on you at night?” he asked, as he struck a match upon his nether garments, and lighted his short pipe with a trembling hand.
“Oh yes!” said the dairymaid in a sleepy voice.
These two had been engaged, and had broken it off, and been engaged again, over and over again for pretty well a lifetime. For a couple of years they were not on friendly terms, and were each engaged to some one else; but then they became reconciled and engaged again, until things again went wrong, and so on. Since they had become pensioners, however, they had made peace and were good friends.
“Because you’re welcome to one of my sheepskins!” he said, looking at the bowl of his pipe and trying to make it draw.
“Did you ever hear such nonsense! And you would lie and shiver perhaps?” she said. “No; if I’m cold, I’ve only got to speak to the mistress.”
“Very well,” said the old man, rising and tuckingher carefully up. He came in every evening before he went to bed to ask her if she wanted anything. It was a kind of good-night. Of late he had induced her to smoke, for then he could always do her some little service, such as to clean her pipe and cut up the tobacco for her. But now, without saying good-night, he slouched away and went to bed.
“You’ve forgotten to put out the lamp,” said the blind man. He could not see it, but felt its light upon him.
After the lamp was put out, the three old men lay and yawned audibly for some time, until there came from the little room a yawn so loud that the three men could hear it. This was their good-night to one another.
“It’s coming on to blow and there’ll be a storm to-night,” said the blind man, drawing the skin coverlet over him.
“Then they’ll have to have the snow-plough out again to-morrow,” said one of the others, after a short pause. Then they yawned a little more, and silence fell upon the little house.