"Yes; it is he who has kept him at the agricultural school."
"The school-master?"
"The school-master."
"Hearken now, Marit; I will have no more of this nonsense; you shall leave the parish. You only cause me sorrow and trouble; that was the way with your mother, too, only sorrow and trouble. I am an old man.
I want to see you well provided for. I will not live in people"s talk as a fool just for this matter. I only wish your own good; you should understand this, Marit. Soon I will be gone, and then you will be left alone. What would have become of your mother if it had not been for me? Listen, Marit; be sensible, pay heed to what I have to say. I only desire your own good."
"No, you do not."
"Indeed? What do I want, then?"
"To carry out your own will, that is what you want; but you do not ask about mine."
"And have you a will, you young sea-gull, you? Do you suppose you know what is for your good, you fool? I will give you a taste of the rod, I will, for all you are so big and tall. Listen now, Marit; let me talk kindly with you. You are not so bad at heart, but you have lost your senses. You must listen to me. I am an old and sensible man. We will talk kindly together a little; I have not done so remarkably well in the world as folks think; a poor bird on the wing could easily fly away with the little I have; your father handled it roughly, indeed he did.
Let us care for ourselves in this world, it is the best thing we can do. It is all very well for the school-master to talk, for he has money himself; so has the priest;--let them preach. But with us who must slave for our daily bread, it is quite different. I am old. I know much. I have seen many things; love, you see, may do very well to talk about; yes, but it is not worth much. It may answer for priests and such folks, peasants must look at it in a different light. First food, you see, then G.o.d"s Word, and then a little writing and arithmetic, and then a little love, if it happens to come in the way; but, by the Eternals! there is no use in beginning with love and ending with food. What can you say, now, Marit?"
"I do not know."
"You do not know what you ought to answer?"
"Yes, indeed, I know that."
"Well, then?"
"May I say it?"
"Yes; of course you may say it."
"I care a great deal for that love of mine."
He stood aghast for a moment, recalling a hundred similar conversations with similar results, then he shook his head, turned his back, and walked away.
He picked a quarrel with the hous.e.m.e.n, abused the girls, beat the large dog, and almost frightened the life out of a little hen that had strayed into the field; but to Marit he said nothing.
That evening Marit was so happy when she went up-stairs to bed, that she opened the window, lay in the window-frame, looked out and sang.
She had found a pretty little love-song, and it was that she sang.
"Lovest thou but me, I will e"er love thee, All my days on earth, so fondly; Short were summer"s days, Now the flower decays,-- Comes again with spring, so kindly.
"What you said last year Still rings in my ear, As I all alone am sitting, And your thoughts do try In my heart to fly,-- Picture life in sunshine flitting.
"Litli--litli--loy, Well I hear the boy, Sighs behind the birches heaving.
I am in dismay, Thou must show the way, For the night her shroud is weaving.
"Flomma, lomma, hys, Sang I of a kiss, No, thou surely art mistaken.
Didst thou hear it, say?
Cast the thought away; Look on me as one forsaken.
"Oh, good-night! good-night!
Dreams of eyes so bright, Hold me now in soft embraces, But that wily word, Which thou thought"st unheard, Leaves in me of love no traces.
"I my window close, But in sweet repose Songs from thee I hear returning; Calling me they smile, And my thoughts beguile,-- Must I e"er for thee be yearning?"
CHAPTER XII.
Several years have pa.s.sed since the last scene.
It is well on in the autumn. The school-master comes walking up to Nordistuen, opens the outer door, finds no one at home, opens another, finds no one at home; and thus he keeps on until he reaches the innermost room in the long building. There Ole Nordistuen is sitting alone, by the side of his bed, his eyes fixed on his hands.
The school-master salutes him, and receives a greeting in return; he finds a stool, and seats himself in front of Ole.
"You have sent for me," he says.
"I have."
The school-master takes a fresh quid of tobacco, glances around the room, picks up a book that is lying on the bench, and turns over the leaves.
"What did you want of me?"
"I was just sitting here thinking it over."
The school-master gives himself plenty of time, searches for his spectacles in order to read the t.i.tle of the book, wipes them and puts them on.
"You are growing old, now, Ole."
"Yes, it was about that I wanted to talk with you. I am tottering downward; I will soon rest in the grave."
"You must see to it that you rest well there, Ole."
He closes the book and sits looking at the binding.
"That is a good book you are holding in your hands."
"It is not bad. How often have you gone beyond the cover, Ole?"
"Why, of late, I"--
The school-master lays aside the book and puts away his spectacles.
"Things are not going as you wish to have them, Ole?"
"They have not done so as far back as I can remember."