CHAPTER XII.

Eli was very weak after her illness; the mother sat over her night and day, and was never down-stairs; the father made his usual visits up to the sick-room in his stocking feet, and leaving his cap outside of the door. Arne was still at the gard; he and the father sat together of evenings; he had come to think a good deal of Baard, who was a well-educated man, a deep thinker, but seemed to be afraid of what he knew. Arne helped him to get things right in his mind and told him much that he did not know before, and Baard was very grateful.

Eli could now sit up at intervals; and as she began to improve she took many fancies into her head. Thus it was that one evening as Arne sat in the room below Eli's chamber singing songs in a loud voice, the mother came down and brought word that Eli wanted to know if he would not come up-stairs and sing that she might hear the words. Arne had undoubtedly been singing for Eli all along; for when her mother gave him the message he grew red, and rose as though he would deny what he had been doing, although no one had charged him with it. He soon recovered his composure, and said evasively that there was very little he could sing. But the mother remarked that it did not seem so when he was alone.

Arne yielded and went. He had not seen Eli since the day he had helped carry her up-stairs; he felt that she must now be greatly changed, and was almost afraid to see her. But when he softly opened the door and entered, it was so dark in the room that he saw no one. He paused on the threshold.

"Who is it?" asked Eli, in a clear, low voice.

"It is Arne Kampen," he answered, in a guarded tone, that the words might fall softly.

"It was kind of you to come."

"How are you now, Eli?"

"Thank you, I am better."

"Please sit down, Arne," said she, presently, and Arne felt his way to a chair that stood by the foot of the bed. "It was so nice to hear you singing, you must sing a little for me up here."

"If I only knew anything that was suitable."

There was silence for a moment; then she said, "Sing a hymn," and he did so; it was a part of one of the confirmation hymns. When he had finished, he heard that she was weeping, and so he dared not sing any more; but presently she said, "Sing another one like that," and he sang another, choosing the one usually sung when the candidates for confirmation are standing in the church aisle.

"How many things I have thought of while I have been lying here," said Eli. He did not know what to answer, and he heard her weeping quietly in the dark. A clock was ticking on the wall, it gave warning that it was about to strike, and then struck; Eli drew a long breath several times as though she would ease her breast, and then she said, "One knows so little. I have known neither father nor mother. I have not been kind to them,--and that is why it gives me such strange feelings to hear that confirmation hymn."

When people talk in the dark, they are always more truthful than when they see each other face to face; they can say more, too.

"It is good to hear your words," replied Arne; he was thinking of what she had said when she was taken ill.

She knew what he meant; and so she remarked, "Had not this happened to me, God only knows how long it might have been before I had found my mother."

"She has been talking with you now?"

"Every day; she has done nothing else."

"Then, I dare say, you have heard many things."

"You may well say so."

"I suppose she talked about my father?"

"Yes."

"Does she still think of him?"

"She does."

"He was not kind to her."

"Poor mother!"

"He was worst of all, though, to himself."

Thoughts now arose that neither liked to express to the other. Eli was the first to break the silence.

"They say you are like your father."

"So I have heard," he answered, evasively.

She paid no heed to the tone of his voice; and so, after a while, she continued, "Could he, too, make songs?"

"No."

"Sing a song for me,--one you have made yourself."

But Arne was not in the habit of confessing that the songs he sang were his own. "I have none," said he.

"Indeed you have, and I am sure you will sing them for me if I ask it."

What he had never done for others, he now did for her. He sang the following song:--

"The tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown: 'Shall I take them away?' said the frost, sweeping down. 'No, dear; leave them alone Till blossoms here have grown,' Prayed the tree, while it trembled from rootlet to crown.

"The tree bore its blossoms, and all the birds sung: 'Shall I take them away?' said the wind, as it swung. 'No, dear; leave them alone Till berries here have grown,' Said the tree, while its leaflets all quivering hung.

"The tree bore its fruit in the midsummer glow: Said the girl, 'May I gather thy berries or no?' 'Yes, dear, all thou canst see; Take them; all are for thee,' Said the tree, while it bent down its laden boughs low."[23]

This song almost took her breath away. He, too, sat there silent, after he was through, as though he had sung more than he cared to say to her.

Darkness has great power over those who are sitting in it and dare not speak; they are never so near each other as then. If Eli only turned, only moved her hand on the bed-cover, only breathed a little more heavily than usual, Arne heard it. "Arne, could not you teach me to make songs?"

"Have you never tried?"

"Yes, these last few days I have; but I have not succeeded."

"Why, what did you want to have in them?"

"Something about my mother, who cared so much for your father."

"That is a sad theme."

"I have cried over it, too."

"You must not think of what you are going to put in your songs; it comes of itself."

"How does it come?"

"As other precious things, when you least expect it."

They were both silent.

"I wonder, Arne, that you are longing to go away when you have so much that is beautiful within yourself."

"Do _you_ know that I am longing?"

She made no reply to this, but lay still a few moments, as though in thought.

"Arne, you must not go away!" said she, and this sent a glow through him.

"Well, sometimes I have less desire to go."

"Your mother must be very fond of you. I should like to see your mother."

"Come over to Kampen when you are well."

And now all at once he pictured her sitting in the cheerful room at Kampen, looking out on the mountains; his chest began to heave, the blood rushed to his head. "It is warm in here," said he, getting up.

She heard this. "Are you going, Arne?" asked she, and he sat down again.

"You must come over to us often; mother likes you so much."

"I should be glad to come myself; but I must have some errand, though."

Eli was silent for a while, as if she were considering something. "I believe," said she, "that mother has something she wants to ask of you."

He heard her turn in bed. There was no sound to be heard, either in the room or outside, save the ticking of the clock on the wall. At last she burst out,--

"How I wish it were summer!"

"That it were summer?" and there rose up in his mind, blended with fragrant foliage and the tinkling of cattle bells, shouts from the mountains, singing from the valleys, Black Water glittering in the sunshine, the gards rocking in it, and Eli coming out and sitting down, as she had done that evening long ago.

"If it were summer," said she, "and I were sitting on the hill, I really believe I could sing a song."

He laughed and asked: "What would it be about?"

"Oh, something easy, about--I do not know myself--"

"Tell me, Eli!" and he sprang up in delight; then, recollecting himself, he sat down again.

"No; not for all the world!" She laughed.

"I sang for you when you asked me."

"Yes, you did; but--no! no!"

"Eli, do you think I would make sport of your little verse?"

"No; I do not think so, Arne; but it is not anything I have made myself."

"It is by some one else, then."

"Yes, it just came floating of itself."

"Then you can surely repeat it to me."

"No, no; it is not altogether that either, Arne. Do not ask me any more." She must have hid her face in the bedclothes, for the last words seemed to come out of them.

"You are not as kind to me now, Eli, as I was to you!" he said, and rose.

"Arne, there is a difference--you do not understand me--but it was--I do not know myself--another time--do not be angry with me, Arne! Do not go away from me!" She began to weep.

"Eli, what is the matter?" He listened. "Are you feeling ill?" He did not think she was. She still wept; he thought that he must either go forward or backward.

"Eli!"

"Yes!"

They both spoke in whispers.

"Give me your hand!"

She did not answer; he listened intently, eagerly, felt about on the coverlid, and clasped a warm little hand that lay outside.

They heard steps on the stairs, and let go of each other's hands. It was Eli's mother, who was bringing in a light. "You are sitting quite too long in the dark," said she, and put the candlestick on the table. But neither Eli nor Arne could bear the light; she turned toward the pillow, he held his hand up before his eyes. "Oh, yes; it hurts the eyes a little at first," said her mother; "but that will soon pass off."

Arne searched on the floor for the cap he did not have with him, and then he left the room.

The next day he heard that Eli was coming down-stairs for a little while after dinner. He gathered together his tools, and said good-by. When she came down he was gone.