When Ovind awoke the next morning it was from a long refreshing sleep, and happy dreams. Marit had been on the mountain and tossed gra.s.s down upon him; he had gathered it up and thrown it back again; it went up and down in a thousand shapes and colours, the sun stood high in the heavens, and the whole mountain looked dazzling in its brightness. On awaking, he looked round to see it all again; but then he remembered the events of the day before, and the same acute stinging pain at his heart returned. This will never leave me, he thought, and a feeling of helplessness came over him, as though the whole future were lost to him.
"You have slept long," said his mother, as she sat by his side and spun,--"Come now, and get your breakfast, your father is already in the forest, hewing wood."
It was as if the voice helped him; he got up with a little more courage. It may be the mother remembered her own dancing time, for she sat and hummed at her wheel whilst he took breakfast. This he could not bear; he rose from the table and went to the window; the same heaviness and indifference possessed him, but he sought to overcome it by thinking of his work. The weather had changed, it was colder, and that which yesterday threatened for rain fell to-day in wet sleet. He put on his sailor"s jacket and mittens, his gaiters, and a skin cap, then said "Good morning," and took his axe on his shoulder.
The snow fell slowly in great white flakes; he trudged laboriously over the sledge hill to enter the forest from the left. Never before, either Winter or Summer, had he pa.s.sed over the sledge hills without some joyful remembrance or happy thought. Now it was a lifeless, weary way; he dragged through the wet snow, his knees were stiff, either from dancing the day before or from lack of energy. He felt that the sledge play was at an end for this year, and, therefore, for ever. Something else he longed for, as he threaded his way among the trees where the snow fell noiselessly; a frightened ptarmigan screamed and fluttered a few yards off, and everything seemed to stand as though waiting for a word that never was said. But what it was that he longed for he could not exactly tell, only it was not to be at home, nor was it to be anywhere else; it was not pleasure, nor work, it was something high above or far away. Shortly after, it shaped itself into a definite wish; it was to be confirmed in the Spring, and there to be number one.
His heart beat as he thought of it, and before he could hear the sound of his father"s axe among the branches, this desire had stronger hold of him than any he had ever known since he was born.
As usual his father did not speak many words to him; they both hewed, and threw the wood together in heaps. Now and then they came into close contact, and once Ovind let slip the unhappy words,--"A poor peasant has much to endure!"
"As much as others," said the father, spat on his hands, and took the axe again.
When the tree was felled, and the father dragged it to the heap, Ovind remarked,--"If you were a rich farmer you wouldn"t have to slave so."
"Oh, well there"d be other things to trouble me then," he replied, and worked away.
The mother came up with their dinner, and they seated themselves. The mother seemed in good spirits, she sat and hummed, and beat her feet together to the time.
"What will you be when you grow up, Ovind?" she said suddenly.
"Oh! for a peasant lad there isn"t much to choose," said he.
"The schoolmaster says you must go to the training school."
"Can one go there free?" asked Ovind.
"The school fund pays," answered the father whilst he was eating.
"Would you like it?" asked the mother.
"I should like to learn something, but not to be schoolmaster."
They were all three silent awhile, she hummed again, and looked round.
Ovind went away and sat by himself.
"We don"t need to take from the school fund," said she, when the lad was gone.
Her husband looked at her: "Poor people like us!"
"I don"t like, Th.o.r.e, that you should always give yourself out for poor when you are not so."
They both of them peeped to see whether the lad could hear them where he sat.
Then the father looked sharply at her. "Nonsense! you don"t understand things."
She laughed, then said seriously, "It seems like not thanking G.o.d that we have got on well."
"He can be thanked without wearing silver b.u.t.tons," observed the father.
"Yes, but to let Ovind go as he went yesterday to the dance is not to thank Him."
"Ovind is a peasant lad."
"Yet he may dress decently when we can afford it."
"Say it so that he can hear it!"
"He can"t hear, or else I should have a good mind to do it," she said, looking naively at her husband, as he glumly put his spoon away and took out his pipe.
"Such a poor farm we have," said he.
"I can"t help laughing at you, you always talk of the farm and never speak of the mills!"
"Oh dear! you and the mills; I don"t think you care whether they go or not."
"Yes, thank G.o.d, if they"d only go both night and day."
"But now they"ve been standing ever since before Christmas."
"No one grinds at Christmas time."
"They grind when there"s water; but since they got the mill up at Nystrommen, there"s nothing to be done."
"The schoolmaster didn"t say so to-day."
"H"m-- I shall let a more discreet man than the schoolmaster manage our affairs."
"Yes, last of all he should talk with your own wife."
Th.o.r.e did not reply to this, but lighting his pipe, he rose and leaned against the wood pile, looking first at his wife and then at his son, and finally fixing his gaze on an old crow"s nest that hung deserted up in a pine tree.
Ovind sat by himself, with the future spread before him, like a long blank sheet of ice, along which, for the first time, he rushed restlessly from one side to the other. He saw clearly that poverty hemmed him in on every side, but this made him only the more determined to overcome it. From Marit it had certainly separated him for ever; he half regarded her as engaged to Jon Hatlen; but he resolved that with all his might he would strive to keep pace with them through life. Not to be any more humiliated as he had been yesterday, he would keep away, till, by G.o.d"s help, he could become something more than he was at present, and he did not feel a doubt in his own mind but that he should succeed. He had a sort of feeling that he would do best to study, but what further that should lead to he must leave to the future.
There was capital sledge driving in the evenings; the children all came to the hill, but not Ovind. Ovind sat by the fire and read, he had not a moment to spare. The children waited long for him; at last they became impatient, and one and another came and peeped in and called to him, but he pretended not to hear. Evening after evening they came and waited outside in wonderment, but he turned his back to them and read, paying no heed to their entreaties.
Later he heard that Marit had not been to the sledge playing either. He read with such diligence that even his father thought it went too far.
He grew thoughtful; his face, which had been so round and mild, became thinner and sharper, his eyes deeper; he seldom sang and never played, it was as if time were too short. When the desire to join his old companions came over him, it was as if something whispered, "Not yet, not yet,"--and continually, "not yet." The children played, shouted, and laughed awhile as before, but when they saw they could not by any means induce him to come, they gradually disappeared; they found other grounds and soon the sledge hill was quite vacated.
The schoolmaster soon observed that he was not the same Ovind who used to read because it fell out so, and play because it was necessary. He often talked with him, and sought to find the cause, for the lad"s heart was not light as in former days. He spoke also with the parents, and by agreement he came one Sunday evening late in the Winter, and after sitting awhile, he said,--"Come, Ovind, let us go out, I want to talk with you a little."
Ovind got up and went with him. They took the path towards Heidegaard.
The conversation did not flag, but they spoke of nothing important; when they came near the farms, the schoolmaster took the direction of the middle one, and as they got nearer they heard the sound of laughter and merriment.
"What is up here?" said Ovind.
"They are dancing," said the schoolmaster, "shall we not go in?"
"No."