CHAPTER VIIABRIGHTmoon shone out from among floating, silvery clouds, over snowy fields and forests in the dead of night. The buildings and the flagstaff at Norby cast shadows upon the sparkling snow. The sledges standing in the yard were turned up on their edge, so as not to freeze under their runners. A solitary dog was running round the house, giving short barks because no one let it in, although there was a light burning in one of the attic windows.During the night, one of the old men in the pensioners’ house got out of bed and crept to the window in his slippers. He stood there with the moon shining in his face, and looked across at the house. The other farm-labourer was also awake, and after yawning asked:“I suppose there’s a light in Einar’s window, isn’t there?”“Yes,” said the man at the window, hunching his shoulders because he felt cold. “I wonder,” he continued, “whether there is any change.”The dairymaid could now be heard turning over in bed in her little room, and she murmured: “Thedog has howled so dreadfully all night, and that doesn’t mean anything good.”There was a pause. The old man at the window continued to stand there looking out into the silvery night and across at the lighted window in the big house.“I heard owls last night,” said the blind man suddenly from his bed, and yawned. “And I’ve not heard an owl here since old Norby died.”“Ah, well, Einar’s always been a good lad,” said the dairymaid. “God have mercy upon his soul!” There was another pause.“It seems to me there’s some one walking up and down in the big drawing-room,” said the old man at the window. The next moment he hurried into bed as if he were frightened. After a little, the blind man said:“Wasn’t it in the big drawing-room that old Norby’s ghost used to be seen?”“If there’s any one there to-night,” said a voice from the little room, “we know very well what’ll happen.”The moon drew two windows right across the floor. The big clock on the wall struck two, and the old men turned over and drew the coverlet over their heads.The big drawing-room lay between Einar’s room and that in which the servants slept. A figure was really walking up and down there in noiseless felt slippers. The moon sent a flood of light across thefloor, and the frost-ferns upon the window-panes were flames of silver. But the man walking about there kept in the shade. At last he paused at the window, and looked out. It was very quiet out there in the night. The stars twinkled among the shining clouds, and lower down above the hills hung red and black banks of clouds, looking like some strange, variegated land. The old man wore his overcoat, and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets.The door opened, and Ingeborg entered with a candle in her hand.“How is he?” asked the old man, quietly.“Won’t you come in, father?”“Is it Einar who wants me?”“No, mother. He’s spitting blood again.”But the old man shrugged his shoulders and answered:“They often do that in inflammation of the lungs. Just you go back and take it quietly. He’s so young and strong, he’ll get over it all right.”Ingeborg went quietly out, and the old man began to pace the floor again. There was no use in fetching the doctor again; the complaint must take its course. But the old man felt he must be here because he could not sleep, and because the women wanted to have him at hand.“Oh dear!” he thought. “I do hope Einar will pull through!” But the terrible thing was that sometimes he caught himself wishing that he wouldnot pull through. Thoughts such as these buzzed about like stinging wasps on the surface of his mind. He was sometimes frightened, and sometimes would have liked to have given himself a thrashing; but the wasps came again. So low had he been dragged down in this confounded matter with Wangen.Why of course he forgave the boy! He would never refer to the matter again, if the boy recovered. But—but—this illness had followed so close upon his anger; and it would take something to sweep away every little sting.He paused again at the window, and looked out into the bright night. The wind was rising now towards morning, and began to raise snow-clouds away over the hills.Oh, how pleasant life would be, when this nasty case was done with, and he could be the old Norby once more! Here he lived on his farm, and only wanted to be left in peace; but was he allowed to? No; they dragged him into this foolery with Wangen—wanted him to support such swindles as these brickfields; and when he wanted to get out of it, they threatened him with imprisonment. Then they suborned witnesses. And then they set the son up against his father. And why was Einar ill? If they hadn’t persuaded him to come to this inquiry he would have been in town now reading his books, instead of going down there on a winter’s day without his overcoat, and getting inflammation of the lungs. Supposing he died! It would be the faultof those who had persuaded him; and they would be sure to exult if Norby lost this son too, for they had succeeded in causing him to lose his eldest. His lips began to quiver as he stood in the moonlight. Would they succeed? Would they have that pleasure? And he turned suddenly, and walked towards the door. “I’ll go for the doctor all the same,” he thought; but then he remembered that the doctor had promised to come early in the morning, and he turned back to the window, and stood gazing out at the red and black banks of cloud in the north.Supposing Einar died and went over there. There he would stand for ever, always looking at him as he had done down at the court-house, when he dug his stick into a snow-drift. “I want to follow my own conscience.” Would he not hear those words night and day, and see that form, as long as ever he lived? Always this accusation from the dead. He might travel all over the world and collect evidence and declarations to disprove it, but it would be of no use.The old man pressed his lips together again. No, the boy must be kept alive. Better that he should go to the trial and give evidence against him, than die and witness against him everlastingly.The wind was rising. It howled round the corners of the house and in the roof, and up under the icicle-fringed eaves. In the east a grey band of light began to show above the hills, but the moon still spread her silvery veil over land and water.Suddenly there was a sound of sledge-bells going down the avenue. It was the old man, in his fur coat with the collar turned up, hastening away to fetch the doctor. Einar must be kept alive. The poor dog, which had not been let in, uttered a joyful bark at sight of the driver, and bounded through the snow to join him.It was still long before any one at the farm got up; only the pensioners in the old cottage began to yawn in their sleep. This they began to do an hour before they woke, and they always woke at four, from long habit. The dairymaid always had it in her mind that she had to get up to go to the cows as she did fifteen years ago; and the men dreamed of getting up and going to the forest as they had so often done in the early winter mornings long ago. The old habit had now become regular dreams. Perhaps when these old people lie in the churchyard they will dream the same things as morning approaches.
ABRIGHTmoon shone out from among floating, silvery clouds, over snowy fields and forests in the dead of night. The buildings and the flagstaff at Norby cast shadows upon the sparkling snow. The sledges standing in the yard were turned up on their edge, so as not to freeze under their runners. A solitary dog was running round the house, giving short barks because no one let it in, although there was a light burning in one of the attic windows.
During the night, one of the old men in the pensioners’ house got out of bed and crept to the window in his slippers. He stood there with the moon shining in his face, and looked across at the house. The other farm-labourer was also awake, and after yawning asked:
“I suppose there’s a light in Einar’s window, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” said the man at the window, hunching his shoulders because he felt cold. “I wonder,” he continued, “whether there is any change.”
The dairymaid could now be heard turning over in bed in her little room, and she murmured: “Thedog has howled so dreadfully all night, and that doesn’t mean anything good.”
There was a pause. The old man at the window continued to stand there looking out into the silvery night and across at the lighted window in the big house.
“I heard owls last night,” said the blind man suddenly from his bed, and yawned. “And I’ve not heard an owl here since old Norby died.”
“Ah, well, Einar’s always been a good lad,” said the dairymaid. “God have mercy upon his soul!” There was another pause.
“It seems to me there’s some one walking up and down in the big drawing-room,” said the old man at the window. The next moment he hurried into bed as if he were frightened. After a little, the blind man said:
“Wasn’t it in the big drawing-room that old Norby’s ghost used to be seen?”
“If there’s any one there to-night,” said a voice from the little room, “we know very well what’ll happen.”
The moon drew two windows right across the floor. The big clock on the wall struck two, and the old men turned over and drew the coverlet over their heads.
The big drawing-room lay between Einar’s room and that in which the servants slept. A figure was really walking up and down there in noiseless felt slippers. The moon sent a flood of light across thefloor, and the frost-ferns upon the window-panes were flames of silver. But the man walking about there kept in the shade. At last he paused at the window, and looked out. It was very quiet out there in the night. The stars twinkled among the shining clouds, and lower down above the hills hung red and black banks of clouds, looking like some strange, variegated land. The old man wore his overcoat, and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets.
The door opened, and Ingeborg entered with a candle in her hand.
“How is he?” asked the old man, quietly.
“Won’t you come in, father?”
“Is it Einar who wants me?”
“No, mother. He’s spitting blood again.”
But the old man shrugged his shoulders and answered:
“They often do that in inflammation of the lungs. Just you go back and take it quietly. He’s so young and strong, he’ll get over it all right.”
Ingeborg went quietly out, and the old man began to pace the floor again. There was no use in fetching the doctor again; the complaint must take its course. But the old man felt he must be here because he could not sleep, and because the women wanted to have him at hand.
“Oh dear!” he thought. “I do hope Einar will pull through!” But the terrible thing was that sometimes he caught himself wishing that he wouldnot pull through. Thoughts such as these buzzed about like stinging wasps on the surface of his mind. He was sometimes frightened, and sometimes would have liked to have given himself a thrashing; but the wasps came again. So low had he been dragged down in this confounded matter with Wangen.
Why of course he forgave the boy! He would never refer to the matter again, if the boy recovered. But—but—this illness had followed so close upon his anger; and it would take something to sweep away every little sting.
He paused again at the window, and looked out into the bright night. The wind was rising now towards morning, and began to raise snow-clouds away over the hills.
Oh, how pleasant life would be, when this nasty case was done with, and he could be the old Norby once more! Here he lived on his farm, and only wanted to be left in peace; but was he allowed to? No; they dragged him into this foolery with Wangen—wanted him to support such swindles as these brickfields; and when he wanted to get out of it, they threatened him with imprisonment. Then they suborned witnesses. And then they set the son up against his father. And why was Einar ill? If they hadn’t persuaded him to come to this inquiry he would have been in town now reading his books, instead of going down there on a winter’s day without his overcoat, and getting inflammation of the lungs. Supposing he died! It would be the faultof those who had persuaded him; and they would be sure to exult if Norby lost this son too, for they had succeeded in causing him to lose his eldest. His lips began to quiver as he stood in the moonlight. Would they succeed? Would they have that pleasure? And he turned suddenly, and walked towards the door. “I’ll go for the doctor all the same,” he thought; but then he remembered that the doctor had promised to come early in the morning, and he turned back to the window, and stood gazing out at the red and black banks of cloud in the north.
Supposing Einar died and went over there. There he would stand for ever, always looking at him as he had done down at the court-house, when he dug his stick into a snow-drift. “I want to follow my own conscience.” Would he not hear those words night and day, and see that form, as long as ever he lived? Always this accusation from the dead. He might travel all over the world and collect evidence and declarations to disprove it, but it would be of no use.
The old man pressed his lips together again. No, the boy must be kept alive. Better that he should go to the trial and give evidence against him, than die and witness against him everlastingly.
The wind was rising. It howled round the corners of the house and in the roof, and up under the icicle-fringed eaves. In the east a grey band of light began to show above the hills, but the moon still spread her silvery veil over land and water.
Suddenly there was a sound of sledge-bells going down the avenue. It was the old man, in his fur coat with the collar turned up, hastening away to fetch the doctor. Einar must be kept alive. The poor dog, which had not been let in, uttered a joyful bark at sight of the driver, and bounded through the snow to join him.
It was still long before any one at the farm got up; only the pensioners in the old cottage began to yawn in their sleep. This they began to do an hour before they woke, and they always woke at four, from long habit. The dairymaid always had it in her mind that she had to get up to go to the cows as she did fifteen years ago; and the men dreamed of getting up and going to the forest as they had so often done in the early winter mornings long ago. The old habit had now become regular dreams. Perhaps when these old people lie in the churchyard they will dream the same things as morning approaches.