Part 4

"Yes, now we shall hope to attain to something in life," said the schoolmaster, "better than running after blind men and numbers. What do you say to the Training School?"

"Yes, I should like to go there."

"You mean the Agricultural School?"

"Yes."

"That is certainly the best; it gives other prospects than those of a schoolmaster."

"But how can I get there? I do so wish it, but I have no means."

"Be industrious and good, and the means will be found."

Ovind was quite overwhelmed with gratitude. He felt the kindling in the eye, the lightheartedness, the endless fire of love, that comes when we experience the unexpected kindness of our fellow-men. The whole future presents itself for a moment, with that sort of feeling one has when walking in fresh mountain air, of being borne along rather than of walking.

When they came home, both the parents were in the sitting-room, quietly waiting there, though it was the busy time of the day. The schoolmaster entered first; Ovind after; both were smiling.

"Now?" said the father, laying aside a prayer-book, where he had just been reading a catechumen's prayer.

The mother was standing by the fire-place; she smiled, but did not say anything; her hands trembled, and she evidently expected good news though she did not wish to betray herself.

"I thought I must just come to give you the good news, that he has answered every question correctly, and that the pastor said, after Ovind was gone, that he had not examined a more promising candidate.

"Oh no!" said the mother, and was much moved.

"Well done!" said the father, and turned restlessly round.

After a long silence, the mother asked in a low voice, "What number is he?"

"Number 9 or 10," said the schoolmaster quietly.

The mother looked at the father, who looked first at her and then at Ovind,--"A peasant lad cannot expect more," said he.

Ovind looked at him in return; it was as if something would stick in his throat, but he forced it back by quickly thinking of one cheering thing after another.

"Now I must leave," said the schoolmaster, nodded, and turned to go.

As usual both parents followed him out; then the schoolmaster taking a quid, said smiling, "He will be Number One after all, but it is better not to tell him till the day comes."

"No, no," said the father, and nodded. "No, no," said the mother, and nodded too; then taking the schoolmaster's hand,--"Thank you for all you have done," said she. "Yes, thank you," said the father, and the schoolmaster went, but they stood long and looked after him.

CHAP. VII.

A VOICE FROM THE RIDGE.

The schoolmaster had judged well when he asked the pastor to prove whether Ovind could bear to stand Number One. In the three weeks intervening between this time and the confirmation he was with the lad every day. It is one thing for a pure young heart to yield to an impression, and another to hold fast the good qualities he possesses. Many dark hours came to the lad before he learnt to build his future on better things than vanity and pride. When sitting at his work he would suddenly leave it, saying hopelessly,--"What is the use? What do I gain?" But then a minute after, he would remember the kind words and goodness of the schoolmaster, and so each time he lost sight of his higher duties, he was enabled, by these human means, to bring them into view again.

At the little farm they were preparing at the same time, for his examination, and for his journey to the Agricultural School,--as the day after the confirmation he was to set off. The tailor and the shoemaker sat at work in the loft, the mother was baking in the kitchen, and the father was busy with a trunk. They were querying as to how much it would cost them in two years, and whether he could come home the first Christmas, perhaps he could not even come the second, and how hard it would be to be so long separated. They spoke also of the love he should bear to his parents, when they strove so hard to put their child forward. Ovind sat as one, who in his first trial at sea, had upset the boat, and been picked up by kindly sailors.

Such a feeling brings humility, and with it many other things. As the great day drew near, he felt himself to be fully prepared for it, and looked hopefully to the future. Every time the image of Marit presented itself to his mind, he strove carefully to put it aside, though it always gave him pain to do it. By practice in it he sought to strengthen himself, but instead he felt only a deeper pain. Therefore he felt weary the last evening, when, after a long self-proving, he prayed to God that in this matter He would not try him.

The schoolmaster came in in the evening. They all sat together, after having prepared themselves as it is customary to do, the evening before taking the Sacrament. The mother was much moved, and the father was unusually silent; separation lay behind the festival of the morning, and it was uncertain when they could all meet again. The schoolmaster took the Psalm-book, they had a little service and sang, and then he prayed from the heart as words came to him.

These four sat there until late in the evening; they gradually grew silent, each occupied with his own thoughts; then they separated with best wishes for the coming day, and the influence it would have.

Ovind thought when he went to rest that night that he had never been so happy before, and he gave his own special interpretation to it; never before, thought he, have I laid down so desirous of fulfilling God's will and so trustful in it. Marit's face soon presented itself again, and the last he remembered was, that he lay and proved himself:--not quite happy, not quite;--and that he replied:--yes, quite;--but again:--not quite;--yes, quite;--no; not quite.

When he awoke, he at once remembered what day it was; he prayed, and felt refreshed, as one does in a morning. He rose in good time and carefully tried on his new clothes, for he had never had such fine ones before. There was a round jacket especially that seemed strange to him; it was made of fine cloth, and he felt it again and again before he got used to it. When he had put his collar on, and for the fourth time tried on the jacket, he got hold of a little looking-glass, and, catching sight of the beautiful hair encircling his own self-satisfied face, it suddenly struck him that this again was vanity. Yes; but people may surely be well-dressed and clean, he argued, as he turned away from the glass as though it were sin to look in it. Well, but not to think so much of themselves for it. No, certainly, but the Lord must like that one should care to be tidy. That may be, but would He not like better that you should look well without thinking so much about it. Yes, but it's only because everything is so new. Well then, by-and-bye you will forget it. Then he began in the same way to prove himself first upon one point and then upon another, he felt so afraid lest any sin should blot that day.

When he came down his parents were all ready and waiting breakfast for him. He went up to them and thanked them for his new clothes; they wished him the customary, "Health to wear them and strength to tear them;" then they seated themselves at the table, said grace, and began the meal. When they had finished, the mother cleared the table and brought in the lunch basket for the journey to church. The father put on his jacket, and the mother her shawl, they took the Psalm-books, locked up the house and set off. On reaching the main road they met with a great many going to church, some driving and some on foot, a few of the candidates for confirmation among them, and now and then white-haired grand-parents, who tried to get to church just this once again.

It was an Autumn day without sunshine as, if the weather were about to break. The clouds, met and parted again; great masses broke into small patches, chasing each other far away and bearing with them orders for rain; down on the earth it was still quiet, the leaves hung dead and motionless, the air was a little oppressive; the people carried cloaks but did not require to use them. A large concourse of people had gathered round the solitary church; but the confirmation candidates all went straight in, to be placed before the service began. Then the schoolmaster in his blue dress coat and knickerbockers, high boots, stiff neck-cloth, and pipe sticking out of his pocket, walked about, nodding and smiling, patting one on the shoulder, and telling another to answer clearly and distinctly, until he reached the lower end where Ovind stood talking to his friend Hans, and answering all his questions about the journey. "Good morning, Ovind, you look very well to-day." He took hold of him by the coat saying confidentially, "I think a great deal of you; I have been talking to the pastor, and you are to have your right place as Number One; go up and take it and answer well."

Ovind looked up astonished at him; the schoolmaster nodded; the lad went a few steps forward, then stopped, then a few more steps, then stopped again; yes, it's true--he has spoken to the pastor for me,--and the lad went straight on.

"You are Number One after all," whispered one.

"Yes," said Ovind in a low tone, but scarcely knew yet whether he dare say it.

The placing being accomplished, and the pastor having come, the bell rung and the people streamed into the church. Ovind looked up and saw Marit Heidegaard standing straight opposite him. She also saw him, but they both of them felt so awed by the sacredness of the place that they dared not greet each other. He saw only that she was bright and beautiful, and that she wore nothing on her head. Ovind, who for half-a-year had had so many pleasant dreams of standing opposite to her, now that it was really come to pass, forgot both the place and her.

When all was over, his relations and friends came to offer their congratulations; then his companions having heard that he was to travel next day came to say good-bye; and many of the younger ones, whom he had driven in the sledges, and whom he had assisted at school, cried a little at the thought of his departure. At last Ovind and his parents left for home accompanied by the schoolmaster. On the way there were several more came to offer him their good wishes and to take leave; otherwise they did not speak much till they sat again in the quiet room at home.

The schoolmaster tried to help them to keep their courage up, but now that it was come to the point, they all three, never before having been parted for a single day, dreaded the separation for two whole years, but none of them wished to shew their feelings. As the time passed on Ovind grew worse and worse, and at last he went out of doors to quiet himself.

It was growing dark, he stood upon the steps and looked up listening to the gentle sighing of the wind. Then he heard his own name called down from the ridge, quite softly, yet there was no mistaking it, it was repeated twice. He looked up, and could just discern a woman's figure looking down from among the trees.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"I hear you are going away," she said in a low tone, "so I thought I would come and say good-bye to you, seeing you hadn't come to me."

"Dear, is that you, Marit! I'll come up to you."

"No, don't, I've been here so long, and then I should have to stay still longer, and no one knows where I am, so I must be quick home."

"It was kind of you to come," said he.

"I couldn't bear that you should leave in that way Ovind; we have known each other since we were children."

"Yes, we have."

"And now we haven't spoken to each other for half-a-year."

"No we haven't."

"We were separated so strangely that time too."

"Yes, I think I must come up to you."

"Oh no, don't! but tell me, I hope you are not grieved with me?"

"Dear, how could you think so?"

"Good-bye then Ovind, and thank you for all the pleasant times we have had together!"

"Marit!"

"Yes, but now I must go, they will miss me.

"Marit,--Marit!"

"No, I daren't stay longer, Ovind; farewell!"

"Farewell!"

The rest of the evening he was, as it were, in a dream, answering absently when they spoke to him. They attributed this to the thought of his coming departure, which was quite a natural thing, and which certainly did occupy his attention at the moment when the schoolmaster took his leave, and slipped something into his hand, which he afterwards found to be a five dollar piece. Soon, however, it passed out of his mind, and he thought only of the words that had come down from the ridge and gone up again.

CHAP. VIII.

BE SURE THAT YOU BURN IT.

Dear Parents,--We have a great deal more to read now, but as I am much more up to the others, it is not such hard work. When I come home I shall make great changes in father's farm, for there is a great deal that is very bad, and it is a wonder that things have hung together as they have. But I shall put all to rights, for I have learnt many things here. I should like to be in a place where I can have things as I now know they should be; so when I am ready I must seek for a good situation. All here say that Jon Hatlen is not so clever as they think at home, but he has his own farm, so that is no matter. Many who come from here get a very high salary, and they are so well paid because this is the best agricultural school in the country. Some say that there is a better in the next county, but that is not true.

There are two words here, the one is called Theory, and the other Practice; one is nothing without the other, but it is well to know them both; the last, however, is the best. Theory is to know the reason why a thing should be done, and practice is to be able to do it. Here we learn both. The Principal is so clever that nobody can come up to him. At the last General Agricultural Meeting he brought forward two subjects for discussion, while the principals from the other schools had none of them more than one, and in the discussions they found he was always right. But the last meeting, when he wasn't there, ended in nothing but talk. The lieutenant, who teaches us surveying, was engaged only because he is so very clever; the other schools have no lieutenant.

The schoolmaster asks if I go to church; yes, certainly I go to church, for now the pastor has got a curate who preaches so that everybody is terrified, and it is a pleasure to hear him. He comes from the college in Christiania, and people think he is too strict, but it is good for them.

At present we are reading history that we have never read before, and it is wonderful to see all that has happened in the world, especially in our country, for we have constantly conquered except when we have lost, and that has been only when we haven't been equal. Now we have more liberty than any other country except America, but there they are not happy; and our liberty we must prize above all things.

Now I must conclude for this time, for I have written a great deal. The schoolmaster will read this letter, and when he answers for you, ask him to tell me some news about one or another, for this he doesn't do. With best love, Your attached son, Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.

Dear Parents,

I must now tell you that we have had an examination, and I stand very high in many things. I am high in writing, and land measuring, but not so good in composition. The principal says this is because I have not read enough, and he has given me some books by Ole Vig, which are very easy to understand.

Everything here is so small to what it is in other countries; we understand next to nothing, we learn everything from the Scotch and Swiss, but gardening most from Holland.

I have now been here nearly a year, and I thought I had learnt a great deal; but when I saw what those who left at the last examination knew, and thought that not even they knew anything in comparison to the foreigners, I felt quite disheartened. I am now in the first class, and must stay here another year before I am ready. But most of my companions are gone, and I long for home. It seems as if I stood alone, though I certainly do not, but it feels so strange when one has been long away.

What am I to do when I leave here? I shall naturally come home first, and then I must seek for some situation, but it must not be far away.

Good-bye dear parents. Remember me kindly to those who ask after me, and say I am well, but I long to come home.

Your attached son, Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.

Dear Schoolmaster,

This is to ask you if you will be so good as to send the enclosed letter, but be sure and say nothing about it to anybody. If you will not, then it must be burnt.

Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.

To Marit Knudsdatter Heidegaard.

You will very likely be surprised to receive a letter from me, but you need not be, for I will only ask how you fare, and this you must let me know as soon as possible and in every respect.

Respecting myself, I have only to say that I shall be ready to leave here in one year.

Respectfully, Ovind Pladsen.

To Ovind Pladsen,

At the Agricultural School.

I duly received your letter from the schoolmaster, and will answer it as you ask me, though I am rather afraid, because you are now so learned; I have a letter book but it doesn't suit. However, I will do my best, and you must take the will for the deed; but you musn't show it, or else you are not what I think you are; and you musn't hide it because any one might easily get hold of it, but you must burn it, that you must promise me. There are a great many things that I wanted to write about, but I dare not. We have had a good Autumn; potatoes are high, and here at Heidegaard we have plenty of them. But the bears have made sad havoc among the stock this Summer; they killed two of Ole Nedregaard's cows, and injured one of our tenant's calves so that it was obliged to be killed.

I am weaving a very large web like the Scotch plaid, and it is very difficult. And now I must tell you that I am still at home, though there are some who would have it otherwise.

I have nothing more to say this time, and so good-bye.

Marit Knudsdatter.

You must be sure to burn this letter.

To Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.

I have said to you Ovind, that he who walks with God shall have a good inheritance. And now listen to my advice: look not to the world with too much longing and anxiety, but trust in God and let not your heart be discouraged.

Your father and mother are both well, but I suffer a good deal, for now I feel the effects of the hardships I endured in the war. That which you sow in your young days you reap in your old, both in body and soul, and this is now my experience. But the aged should not complain, for sorrow teacheth wisdom, and affliction worketh patience, and strengthens for the last journey.

There are many reasons why I take the pen to write to you to-day, but first and foremost on Marit's account, for she has grown a good girl, though she is light of foot as a reindeer and is changeable. She would wish to keep to one, but it is not in her nature. I have often observed that with such tender hearts the Lord is merciful and lenient, and does not suffer them to be tempted above that they are able to bear.

I duly gave her the letter and she hid it from all but her own heart. If the Lord will further this matter I have nothing against it. That she finds approbation in the eyes of the young men can easily be seen, and she has abundance of this world's goods and also of the heavenly, but with the latter there is much unsettledness; the fear of God with her is like water in a shallow dam, it is there when it rains but away when the sun shines.

Now my eyes will not bear any more, for though I can see pretty well at a distance, they begin to water when I look closely at anything. Finally, let me remind you, Ovind, whatsoever you aspire to, take counsel of God, as it is written:--"Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hands full, with travail and vexation of spirit."--(Proverbs IV. 6.)

Your old schoolmaster, Baard Andersen Opdal.

To Marit Knudsdatter Heidegaard.

Thanks for your letter, which I have read, and burnt as you told me to do. You write a great deal, but you don't say anything about that I want you to, and I dare not write about a certain matter until I know how you fare in every respect.

The schoolmaster says nothing to be depended upon, he praises you, but he calls you wavering. That you were before. Now I don't know what to believe; you must write, for I shall feel uneasy until I have heard from you. Just now I often think of that last evening when you came to the ridge, and of what you then said.

I will not write more this time, so good-bye.

With all respect, Ovind Pladsen.

To Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.

The schoolmaster has given me a fresh letter from you, which I have now read, but I cannot understand it, which must be because I am not learned. You want to know how I fare in every respect. I am quite well. I have a good appetite and sleep at nights, and sometimes also in the day. I have danced a great deal this Winter, for there have been many delightful parties here. I go to church when there is not too much snow, but it has been very thick. Now you must have heard everything, but, if not, I don't know anything better than that you should write to me again.

Marit Knudsdatter.

To Marit Knudsdatter Heidegaard.

I have received your letter, but you appear to wish me to remain as wise as before. Perhaps this is an answer after all, I don't know. I dare not venture to write that which I wish to, because I don't feel to know you. Perhaps you don't know me any better. You must not think I am any longer the soft fellow that you crushed the spirit out of, as I sat and watched you dance; I have had many provings since then. Neither am I, as I used to be, like those long-haired dogs that hang their ears and shun people; but enough of this now.

Your letter was humorous enough, but the joking was just where it should not have been, for you understood me quite well, and you should have known that I did not ask in joke, but because lately I have not been able to think of anything else than that I asked you about. I waited anxiously, and then there came nothing but foolery.

Farewell, Marit Heidegaard. I shall take care not to look too much at you as I did at that dance. Grant you may both eat well and sleep well, and get your new web finished, and grant above all, that you may shovel away the snow lying before the church door.

With all respect, Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.

To Ovind Thoresen.