Part 5

In spite of my age and the weakness of my eyes, together with the pain in my hip, I must yet give in to the entreaties of the young, for they are glad to make use of the old people when they stick fast themselves. They call and cry till they are let loose, and then they run away again and will not hear us any more. This time it is Marit, who, with many coaxing words, has begged me to write a letter to send with hers, as she dare not trust herself to write alone. She had thought she had Jon Hatlen or another fool to deal with, and not one that schoolmaster Baard had brought up, but now the matter has come to a critical point. Yet you have been a little too hard, for there are some women who joke to keep from weeping. I am glad, however, that you look at serious things seriously, otherwise you could not laugh at that which is laughable. The position in which you stand to each other, is now apparent from many things. I have often had my doubts about Marit, for she is variable as the wind, but now I know she has refused Jon Hatlen, and greatly enraged her grandfather thereby. She was pleased when she received your letter, and it was not to repulse you that she wrote jokingly. She has suffered much, and that in waiting for the one she cared for, and now you will not have her but set her aside as a foolish child.

This was what I had to say to you, and if you take my advice you ought to be at one with her, for you will find enough besides to trouble you. I am like an old man who has seen three generations;--I know folly and its reward.

Your father and mother send their best love to you: they long to see you back. I have always avoided speaking of this before, lest it should make you home-sick. You do not know your father, and when you really learn to know him, you will marvel. He has been depressed and silent in respect of his affairs, but your mother made his mind easy, and now things look brighter.

Now my eyes grow dim, and my hand is unsteady, so I commend you to Him whose eye is ever watchful and whose hand stayeth not.

Baard Andersen Opdal.

To Ovind Pladsen.

I am grieved that you are vexed with me, for I didn't mean it as you have taken it. I am aware I have not always acted rightly towards you, and I wish to tell you so, but you must not show this to any one. Once when I got what I liked I wasn't good, and now no one cares for me any more, and I'm very unhappy. Jon Hatlen has written a song about me, and all the lads sing it, so that I daren't go anywhere. Both the old people know about it, and they are very cross. I am writing this alone, and you mustn't show it to any one.

I have often been down to see your parents. I have spoken with your mother, and we understand each other now, but I cannot tell you more for you wrote so strangely last time. The schoolmaster only makes game of me, but he knows nothing about the song, for no one dare sing such before him. I stand alone and feel to have no one to talk to. I often think of the time when we were children, when I always rode on your sledge, and you were so good to me. I could wish we were children again.

I dare not ask you to answer me any more, but if you will write just this once I shall never forget it, Ovind.

Marit Knudsdatter.

P.S.--I beg you burn this letter, I scarcely know if I dare send it.

Dear Marit,

It was a happy moment when you wrote that letter; and I thank you for it.

I feel as if I could scarcely stay here any longer Marit, I love you so much, and if you love me as truly, then Jon Hatlen's song and others' bitter words shall be like the chaff that the wind blows away. Since I received your letter I am like another man,--I feel so much stronger, and am not afraid of anything in the whole world. After I had sent my last letter I regretted it so, that it made me almost ill, and now you shall hear what this led to. The principal took me aside and asked me what was the matter; he thought I read too much. Then he said to me that when my year here was completed, he would allow me to stay a year longer free of expense; I should assist him in several ways, and he would give me a chance of learning more. Then I thought that work was the only thing for me, and I was very grateful, and even now, though I long so much to come to you, I do not regret it, for it will put me in a better position for the future. How happy I am! I do the work of three, and shall never be behind in anything. I will send you a book I am reading, for there is a great deal about love, and I read it at nights when the others are asleep; then I read your letter over too.

Have you thought of the time when we shall meet again? I think about it very often, and so must you, it is so delightful. I am glad I wrote so much before, though it was so difficult, for now I can open my whole heart to you. I shall send you several books to read, that you may see what those who truly love each other have had to go through, choosing rather to die of sorrow than to give each other up. And we should do so too. Though it will be two years before we see each other, and longer still before we really belong to each other, we must cheer our hearts by thinking that each day as it goes brings us one day nearer.

I have a great deal to write about, but I will leave it till next time, as I have not got any more paper to night, and the others are all asleep.

Now I shall go to bed and think of you till I sleep.

Your friend, Ovind Pladsen.

CHAP. IX.

OVIND THROWS HIS CAP IN THE AIR.

One Saturday, at Midsummer, Thore Pladsen rowed over the lake to meet his son, who was coming that afternoon from the Agricultural School. The mother had had a charwoman for two or three days, and everything was made beautifully clean and tidy. Ovind's room had been ready some time, and the stove was set in order. To-day his mother decorated it with green, took the linen up, and made the bed, looking out between times over the water, to see if there was not a boat. The table was ready spread, and yet there was always something to be done,--flies to chase away, or dust, constant dust.

Still there was no boat. She seated herself in the window sill and looked out; then she heard footsteps on the other side and turned to see who was there; it was the schoolmaster, who came slowly along leaning upon a stick for his hip was very bad. He stopped a minute to rest, the expressive eyes moved quietly round; he nodded to her: "Not come yet?"

"No, I am expecting them every moment."

"Good hay weather to-day."

"But very hot for old people to be out."

The schoolmaster smiled: "Has somebody else been out in the heat to-day?"

"Yes, but she's gone again."

"Oh! well, may be they'll be meeting somewhere to-night."

"I suppose so, but Thore says they shall not meet in his house till the old people give their consent."

"Quite right."

"They are coming, I do believe!" the mother exclaimed.

"Yes, that is them."

The schoolmaster came in and rested a little, and then they went down to the lake, while the boat plied quickly along, for both father and son were rowing. When they came near, Ovind turned, rested his oars, and called "Good morning, mother; good morning, schoolmaster!"

"What a manly voice," said the mother, "but still the same light hair," she added.

Ovind sprang out, and shook hands; he laughed, and so unlike the peasants' way, he at once began to tell them all about the examination, the journey, the principal's testimonial, his prospects, &c.; then he asked about the harvest, and about his friends, all except one. And so they went home, Ovind laughing and talking; the mother smiling, not knowing exactly what to say; the schoolmaster and the father listening. Ovind was pleased with everything he saw,--first, that the house was painted; then, that the mill was enlarged; then, that the lead windows were taken out of the parlour, and white glass put instead of green.

When they came in, everything looked so exceedingly small, so different from what he had remembered it; but so cheerful, and all looked so inviting.

They seated themselves at the table, but there was not much eaten, for Ovind was constantly talking. Once when he was telling them a long story about one of his schoolfellows, and there came a moment's pause, his father said, "I can scarcely understand a single word of what you say, lad, you speak so exceedingly quick." They all laughed, and Ovind not the least; he knew it was true, but he seemed as though he could not help it.

All that he had seen and heard during his long absence, had so impressed and aroused him, that the powers which had hitherto lain dormant were now awakened, and the brain was constantly at work.

He was delighted with his little room; he thought he should like to stay at home for a time, assisting with the hay harvest and reading; where he should go after he could not tell, but it was all the same to him. They were afraid lest he should have grown thoughtless, but on the contrary he remembered everything; and it was he who thought of the boat and unpacked the things. He had gained a quickness and power of thought that was quite refreshing, and a liveliness in expressing his feelings, which, during the whole year, had only been repressed.

The schoolmaster looked ten years younger. "Now we have come so far with him," said he, as he rose to go.

The mother called Ovind aside, "Some one expects you at nine o'clock," she whispered.

"Where?"

"Up on the ridge."

Ovind looked at the clock, it was nearly nine. He could not wait in the house, but went out, clambered up the ridge, and looked round. The house roof lay close below; the bushes on the roof were very much larger, and all the small trees had grown; he could remember each one. And there lay the road, grey and sombre, and the wood with its varied foliage, and in the bay a vessel laden with planks, waiting for wind. The lake was bright and calm; some sea-birds flew over, but did not cry as it was late. He sat down waiting; the small trees prevented him from seeing very far over, but he listened to the slightest noise. For some time there were only birds that started up and deceived him; then again, a squirrel springing from tree to tree. But at last he heard a rustling, then it ceased; then it came again. He rose,--his heart beat fast, the blood rushed into his head; there was a movement in the bushes close to him, and a shaggy dog appeared; it was the dog from Heidegaard, and close behind, it rustled again; the dog looked back and wagged his tail; now comes Marit.

A bush caught her dress, she turned to release it, and so she stood when he first saw her; she had her hair plainly dressed, as was the custom with the peasant girls on week days; she wore a strong plaided dress without sleeves, and nothing on her neck except the linen collar. She had stolen away from her work, and durst not stay to tidy herself. She looked up and smiled, then she came forward, growing more and more red at each step. He went to meet her, and took her hand in both of his; she looked down, and so they stood.

"Thanks for all your letters," was the first he said, and when she then looked up a little and laughed, he felt that she was the most roguish little elf he ever could meet in a wood; but he was caught, and she not any the less.

"How you have grown!" she said, but meant something quite different.

They looked at each other but said nothing. Meanwhile the dog had seated himself at the edge of the ridge, and looked down upon the farm, and Thore observing his head from below, could not for his life think what it could be.

When, at last, the two began to talk, Ovind spoke so quickly that Marit couldn't help laughing.

"Yes, you see, it's when I am glad, really glad, you see, and when we came to understand each other it was as if a lock sprang open within me, sprang open, you see."

She laughed, then she said, "I know all the letters you sent me by heart."

"And I know yours too, but you always wrote such short letters."

"Because you always wanted them so long."

"And when I wanted you to write about one particular thing, you slipped away, and I never heard how you got rid of Jon Hatlen."

"I laughed."

"How?"

"Laughed, don't you know what it is to laugh?"

"Yes, I can laugh!"

"Let me see!"

"Did you ever hear such a thing! I must have something to laugh at first."

"I don't need it when I am happy."

"Are you happy now, Marit?"

"Do I laugh now, then?"

"Yes, that you do!"

He took both her hands, and clapped them together as he looked at her. Here the dog began to growl, then his hair stood on end, and he barked, and grew more and more angry till at last he seemed quite savage. Marit sprang up in fear, but Ovind went forward and looked down. It was his father the dog was barking at; he was standing close under the ridge, with both his hands in his pockets.

"What! are you there, too? Pray, whose is that savage dog?"

"It's a dog from Heidegaard," replied Ovind, rather taken aback.

"How in the world did it come there?"

The mother hearing the noise, had come out to see what it was, and understanding at once how things were, she laughed, and said: "The dog comes here every day, so it's nothing wonderful."

"But what a ferocious animal!"

"He'll be quiet if he's spoken to," said Ovind, and patted him. The dog ceased barking though he continued to growl. The father was satisfied and went down again.

"Safe this time!" said Marit, "but there's some one else to watch us."

"Your grandfather?"

"Exactly."

"But that won't do any harm."

"Not the slightest."

"You promise me?"

"Yes, I do Ovind."

"How pretty you are, Marit!"

"So said the fox to the raven, and got the cheese."

"You may think I want the cheese too."

"But you won't get it."

"I shall take it then."

She turned her head, and he didn't take it.

"I'll tell you something, Ovind," and she looked slily round.

"Well."

"How ugly you have grown."

"You'll give me the cheese though."

"No, indeed I won't," and she turned away again.

"Now, I must go, Ovind."

"I'll go with you."

"But not out of the wood, or grandfather will see you."

"No, not out of the wood,--dear, are you running?"

"We cannot go side by side here."

"But this isn't to go in company."

"Catch me then," and on she ran.

They stopped when they got to the end of the trees.

"When shall we meet again?" she whispered.

"To-morrow, to-morrow."

"Yes, to-morrow."

"Good bye;" she ran.

"Marit!" and she stopped.

"How strange that we should meet first up on the ridge."

"Yes, it is;" she ran again.

He looked long after her,--the dog ran before and barked, she after, trying to silence him. Ovind took his cap, and tossed it again and again; "Now, I believe, I really begin to be happy," said he, and sang as he went home.

CHAP. X.

TURN THE RIVER WHERE IT CAN FLOW.

When they were all making hay, one afternoon, in the summer, a little bare-headed, bare-footed boy came running down the ridge over the field to Ovind, and gave him a note.

"You are running fast," said Ovind.

"Yes, I am paid for it," answered the boy.

Ovind was a little perplexed when he opened the note, it was so carefully wrapped up and sealed; it ran as follows:--

"He is on his way now, but he goes slowly. Go into the wood and hide.

You Know Who From."

"No, that I won't," thought Ovind, and looked defiantly up over the hill.

It was not long before an old man came into sight on the top of the hill; resting, then going a little further, and resting again. The father and the mother both left off working to look at him. Thore smiled; but the mother, on the contrary, changed colour.

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, there's no mistaking him."

The old man came slowly nearer and nearer. He was somewhat tall and burly, and being rather lame, he could only with difficulty walk by the help of his staff. When he came close to, he stopped, took off his cap, and wiped his forehead. His head was quite bald at the back; he had a round tight-drawn face, small piercing eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a full row of teeth. He spoke in a sharp shrill voice, hopping, as it were, over gravel and stone, and every now and then resting with great delight upon an inviting R. In his younger days he had been known as a cheerful, but hot tempered, man; now, after many adversities, he had grown peevish and distrustful.

Thore and his son had many journeys backwards and forwards before old Ole got up to them, but at last, as they came out from the hay loft, they saw him standing in front of the kitchen door, as though doubtful what to do; he held his cap and staff in one hand, and with the other wiped his bald head with a handkerchief. Ovind stood behind his father as he went up and accosted him.

"You must be tired, will you not come in?"

Ole turned and looked sharply at him, at the same time adjusting his cap, before he replied:

"No, I can rest where I stand, I shall not be long."

Since he had lost his hair his cap was far too big for him, it came down over his eyes; so that to be able to see, he had to hold his head right back.

"Is that your son standing there behind you?" he began in a harsh voice.

"They say so."

"His name is Ovind, is it not?"

"Yes, they call him Ovind."

"He has been to one of those Agricultural Schools in the south, hasn't he?"

"Yes, something of that kind."

"H'm, my girl, my granddaughter, Marit seems to have lost her senses in these latter days."

"That's a pity."

"She will not marry."

"What?"

"She won't have any of the fine young men who come to pay their addresses to her."

"Indeed?"

"And it is his fault, his that stands there."

"Indeed?"

"He has completely turned her head, that son of yours, Ovind."

"Do you say so?"

"See now, I don't like that any one should take my horses when I let them go to the mountains; and neither do I like that any one should take my daughters when I let them go to the dance, don't like it at all."

"No, of course not."

"I cannot go after them, I am old, I cannot take care of them."

"No no, no no."

"You see I wish to keep order, and when I say a thing must be done, it must, and when I say to her, not him, but him, it must be him, and not him!"

"Certainly!"

"But it is not so; for three years she has said no, and for three years there hasn't been a good understanding between us. That is not good, and if it is he who is the cause of it, I will only say to him, so that you hear it, you who are his father, that it is no use, he must give up."

"Well."

Ole looked a minute at Thore, then said, "You give such short answers."

"I can't make the sausage longer than it is."

Here Ovind must laugh, though in sooth he was in no laughing mood; but with some people laughter and fear go hand in hand.

"What are you laughing at?" said Ole sharply.

"I?"

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Heavens preserve me!" but his own reply only made him worse.

Ole saw this, and it infuriated him. They would turn the conversation, and begged him to go in, but it was three years' pent up anger that now sought liberty, and it was not to be stayed.

"Don't think to make a fool of me," he began, "I seek my granddaughter's happiness as I understand it, and your giggling laughter shall not hinder me. One doesn't bring up a girl just to hand her over to the first peasant that turns up, neither does one labor for forty years to leave all to the first that fools her. My daughter went on so, till at last she married a scamp; he ruined them both through drink, and I had to take the child, and pay for the entertainment, but, on my word, it shall not be so with my granddaughter, do you hear that? I tell you that as true as I am Ole Nordistuen of Heidegaard, the priest might as well think of publishing the banns for the trolls up in the forest, as to give out such names from the pulpit as Marit's and your's, you puppy dog! You sly fox, as if I didn't know what you think of, you and she! You think old Ole must soon turn his nose up in the church-yard, and then you'll trip away to the altar. No, no, I've lived seventy years now, and you shall see, boy, that I shall not die till you are both tired out! I tell you, you may watch for her, and not even see her footprints, for I shall send her away somewhere where she will be safe, and you may roam about like a fool, and keep company with the wind and the rain! And now I shan't say any more to you, but you, who are his father, know my will, and if you desire his happiness in this respect, you will get him to turn the river where it can flow, for through my territory it shall not pass." He turned, and hobbled away with short quick steps, lifting the right foot higher than the left, and grumbling to himself.

An evil foreboding overshadowed those who remained; there was no more joking and laughter and the house stood as though empty. They entered without a word being said. The mother, who had overheard all from the kitchen door, looked at Ovind sorrowfully, almost in tears, and would not make matters harder for him by saying anything. The father sat down in the window, and looked after Ole. Ovind watched for the slightest change of expression on that grave and serious face, for on his first word the destiny of the future might depend. If Thore should join Ole in saying no, it would hardly be possible to overcome it. His frightened thoughts bore him swiftly on from one obstruction to another. He saw before him only poverty, opposition, and misunderstanding, and each support that he had relied on seemed to give way under the thought. It increased his anxiety that his mother stood with her hand on the door-latch, uncertain whether to stay and see the result or not, and that at last she quite lost courage and stole quietly out. Thore was still staring out of the window, and Ovind dared not speak to him, for he knew he must have his thought out. Just then, his own thoughts having run their unhappy course, took courage again, and, as he looked at his father's knitted brows, he thought: "None but God can separate us in the end." Thore drew a long sigh, he rose, and at the same time met his son's gaze. He stopped, and looked long at him: "I should like it best if you could give her up, for one should not either beg, or force oneself upon others; but if you cannot, you must let me know, and perhaps I can help you." He went to his work, and the son followed.

In the evening Ovind had got his plan all ready. He would try to get to be Agriculturist for the district, and would ask the principal and the schoolmaster to help him. "If she will hold out, by God's help I shall win her through my work."

He waited in vain for Marit that evening, but whilst he waited he sang the song he loved the best:--

"Come lift your head up, my thoughtful lad, If a hope from your heart be riven, Another may brighten your tearful eye, If you turn to the light of heaven!

Come lift your head up, and look around, Voices are kindly calling,-- A thousand voices are bidding you come, Softly their echoes are falling!

Come lift your head up, for deep within Lieth a fountain of blessing, Tones of music are flowing free, Love on your heart impressing.

Come lift your head up, and gaily sing, Nor fear for the coming morrow,-- As the buds of the Spring return again, So joy will come after sorrow.

Then lift your head up, and courage take In the hope around you springing, From the blue above, to the green beneath, To the world she ever is singing."

CHAPTER XI.

GATHERING BERRIES.