PART I
[CHAPTER I]
Ditte's Family Tree
It has always been considered a sign of good birth to be able to count one's ancestors for centuries back. In consequence of this, Ditte Child o' Man stood at the top of the tree. She belonged to one of the largest families in the country, the family of Man.
No genealogical chart exists, nor would it be easy to work it out; its branches are as the sands of the sea, and from it all other generations can be traced. Here it cropped out as time went on—then twined back when its strength was spent and its part played out. The Man family is in a way as the mighty ocean, from which the waves mount lightly towards the skies, only to retreat in a sullen flow.
According to tradition, the first mother of the family is said to have been a field worker who, by resting on the cultivated ground, became pregnant and brought forth a son. And it was this son who founded the numerous and hardy family for whom all things prospered. The most peculiar characteristic of the Man family in him was that everything he touched became full of life and throve.
This boy for a long time bore the marks of the clinging earth, but he outgrew it and became an able worker of the field; with him began the cultivation of the land. That he had no father gave him much food for thought, and became the great and everlasting problem of his life. In his leisure he created a whole religion out of it.
He could hold his own when it came to blows; in his work there was no one to equal him, but his wife had him well in hand. The name Man is said to have originated in his having one day, when she had driven him forth by her sharp tongue, sworn threateningly that he was master in his own house, "master" being equivalent to "man." Several of the male members of this family have since found it hard to bow their pride before their women folk.
A branch of the family settled down on the desert coast up near the Cattegat, and this was the beginning of the hamlet. It was in those times when forest and swamp still made the country impassable, and the sea was used as a highway. The reefs are still there on which the men landed from the boats, carrying women and children ashore; by day and by night white seagulls take turns to mark the place—and have done so through centuries.
This branch had in a marked degree the typical characteristics of the family: two eyes—and a nose in the middle of their faces; one mouth which could both kiss and bite, and a pair of fists which they could make good use of. In addition to this the family was alike in that most of its members were better than their circumstances. One could recognize the Man family anywhere by their bad qualities being traceable to definite causes, while for the good in them there was no explanation at all: it was inbred.
It was a desolate spot they had settled upon, but they took it as it was, and gave themselves up patiently to the struggle for existence, built huts, chopped wood and made ditches. They were contented and hardy, and had the Man's insatiable desire to overcome difficulties; for them there was no bitterness in work, and before long the result of their labors could be seen. But keep the profit of their work they could not; they allowed others to have the spending of it, and thus it came about, that in spite of their industry they remained as poor as ever.
Over a century ago, before the north part of the coast was discovered by the land folk, the place still consisted of a cluster of hunch-backed, mildewed huts, which might well have been the originals, and on the whole resembled a very ancient hamlet. The beach was strewn with tools and drawn-up boats. The water in the little bay stank of castaway fish, catfish and others which, on account of their singular appearance, were supposed to be possessed of devils, and therefore not eaten.
A quarter of an hour's walk from the hamlet, out on the point, lived Sören Man. In his young days he had roamed the seas like all the others, but according to custom had later on settled himself down as a fisherman. Otherwise, he was really more of a peasant and belonged to that branch of the family which had devoted itself to the soil, and for this had won much respect. Sören Man was the son of a farmer, but on reaching man's estate, he married a fisher girl and gave himself up to fishing together with agriculture—exactly as the first peasant in the family had done.
The land was poor, two or three acres of downs where a few sheep struggled for their food, and this was all that remained of a large farm which had once been there, and where now seagulls flocked screaming over the white surf. The rest had been devoured by the ocean.
It was Sören's, and more particularly Maren's foolish pride that his forefathers had owned a farm. It had been there sure enough three or four generations back; with a fairly good ground, a clay bank jutting out into the sea. A strong four-winged house, built of oak—taken from wrecks—could be seen from afar, a picture of strength. But then suddenly the ocean began to creep in. Three generations, one after the other, were forced to shift the farm further back to prevent its falling into the sea, and to make the moving easier, each time a wing was left behind; there was, of course, no necessity for so much house-room, when the land was eaten by the sea. All that now remained was the heavy-beamed old dwelling-house which had prudently been placed on the landward side of the road, and a few sandhills.
Here the sea no longer encroached. Now the best had gone, with the lands of Man, it was satiated and took its costly food elsewhere; here, indeed, it gave back again, throwing sand up on to the land, which formed a broad beach in front of the slope, and on windy days would drift, covering the rest of the field. Under the thin straggling downs could still be traced the remains of old plowland, broken off crudely on the slope, and of old wheeltracks running outwards and disappearing abruptly in the blue sky over the sea.
For many years, after stormy nights with the sea at high tide, it had been the Man's invariable custom each morning to find out how much had again been taken by the sea; burrowing animals hastened the destruction; and it happened that whole pieces of field with their crops would suddenly go; down in the muttering ocean it lay, and on it the mark of harrow and plow and the green reflection of winter crops over it.
It told on a man to be witness of the inevitable. For each time a piece of their land was taken by the sea with all their toil and daily bread on its back, they themselves declined. For every fathom that the ocean stole nearer to the threshold of their home, nibbling at their good earth, their status and courage grew correspondingly less.
For a long time they struggled against it, and clung to the land until necessity drove them back to the sea. Sören was the first to give himself entirely up to it: he took his wife from the hamlet and became a fisherman. But they were none the better for it. Maren could never forget that her Sören belonged to a family who had owned a farm; and so it was with the children. The sons cared little for the sea, it was in them to struggle with the land and therefore they sought work on farms and became day-laborers and ditchers, and as soon as they saved sufficient money, emigrated to America. Four sons were farming over there. They were seldom heard of, misfortune seemed to have worn out their feeling of relationship. The daughters went out to service, and after a time Sören and Maren lost sight of them, too. Only the youngest, Sörine, stayed at home longer than was usual with poor folks' children. She was not particularly strong, and her parents thought a great deal of her—as being the only one they had left.
It had been a long business for Sören's ancestors to work themselves up from the sea to the ownership of cultivated land; it had taken several generations to build up the farm on the Naze. But the journey down hill was as usual more rapid, and to Sören was left the worst part of all when he inherited; not only acres but possessions had gone; nothing was left now but a poor man's remains.
The end was in many ways like the beginning. Sören was like the original man in this also, that he too was amphibious. He understood everything, farming, fishing and handicraft. But he was not sharp enough to do more than just earn a bare living, there was never anything to spare. This was the difference between the ascent and the descent. Moreover, he—like so many of the family—found it difficult to attend to his own business.
It was a race which allowed others to gather the first-fruits of their labors. It was said of them that they were just like sheep, the more the wool was clipped, the thicker it grew. The downfall had not made Sören any more capable of standing up for himself.
When the weather was too stormy for him to go to sea, and there was nothing to do on his little homestead, he sat at home and patched seaboots for his friends down in the hamlet. But he seldom got paid for it. "Leave it till next time," said they. And Sören had nothing much to say against this arrangement, it was to him just as good as a savings bank. "Then one has something for one's old days," said he. Maren and the girl were always scolding him for this, but Sören in this as in everything else, did not amend his ways. He knew well enough what women were; they never put by for a rainy day.
[CHAPTER II]
Before The Birth
The children were now out of their care—that is to say, all the eight of them. Sören and Maren were now no longer young. The wear and tear of time and toil began to be felt; and it would have been good to have had something as a stand-by. Sörine, the youngest, was as far as that goes, also out of their care, in that she was grown up and ought long ago to have been pushed out of the nest; but there was a reason for her still remaining at home supported by her old parents.
She was very much spoiled, this girl—as the youngest can easily be; she was delicate and bashful with strangers. But, as Maren thought, when one has given so many children to the world, it was pleasant to keep one of them for themselves; nests without young ones soon become cold. Sören in the main thought just the same, even if he did grumble and argue that one woman in the house was more than enough. They were equally fond of children. And hearing so seldom from the others they clung more closely to the last one. So Sörine remained at home and only occasionally took outside work in the hamlet or at the nearest farms behind the downs. She was supposed to be a pretty girl, and against this Sören had nothing to say: but what he could see was that she did not thrive, her red hair stood like a flame round her clear, slightly freckled forehead, her limbs were fragile, and strength in her there was none. When speaking to people she could not meet their eyes, her own wandered anxiously away.
The young boys from the hamlet came wooing over the downs and hung round the hut—preferably on the warm nights; but she hid herself and was afraid of them.
"She takes after the bad side of the family," said Sören, when he saw how tightly she kept her window closed.
"She takes after the fine side," said the mother then. "Just you wait and see, she will marry a gentleman's son."
"Fool," growled Sören angrily and went his way: "to fill both her own and the girl's head with such rubbish!"
He was fond enough of Maren, but her intellect had never won his respect. As the children grew up and did wrong in one way or another, Sören always said: "What a fool the child is—it takes after its mother." And Maren, as years went on, bore patiently with this; she knew quite as well as Sören that it was not intellect that counted.
Two or three times in the week, Sörine went up town with a load of fish and brought goods home again. It was a long way to walk, and part of the road went through a pine wood where it was dark in the evening and tramps hung about.
"Oh, trash," said Sören, "the girl may just as well try a little of everything, it will make a woman of her."
But Maren wished to shelter her child, as long as she could. And so she arranged it in this way, that her daughter could drive home in the cart from Sands farm which was then carrying grain for the brewery.
The arrangement was good, inasmuch as Sörine need no longer go in fear of tramps, and all that a timid young girl might encounter; but, on the other hand, it did not answer Maren's expectations. Far from having taken any harm from the long walks, it was now proved what good they had done her. She became even more delicate than before, and dainty about her food.
This agreed well with the girl's otherwise gentle manners. In spite of the trouble it gave her, this new phase was a comfort to Maren. It took the last remaining doubt from her heart: it was now irrevocably settled. Sörine was a gentlefolks' child, not by birth, of course—for Maren knew well enough who was father and who mother to the girl, whatever Sören might have thought—but by gift of grace. It did happen that such were found in a poor man's cradle, and they were always supposed to bring joy to their parents. Herrings and potatoes, flounders and potatoes and a little bacon in between—this was no fare for what one might call a young lady. Maren made little delicacies for her, and when Sören saw it, he spat as if he had something nasty in his mouth and went his way.
But, after all one can be too fastidious, and when at last the girl could not keep down even an omelet, it was too much of a good thing for Maren. She took her daughter up to a wise woman who lived on the common. Three times did she try her skill on Sörine, with no avail. So Sören had to borrow a horse and cart and drove them in to the homeopathist. He did it very unwillingly. Not because he did not care for the girl, and it might be possible, as Maren said, that as she slept, an animal or evil spirit might have found its way into her mouth and now prevented the food from going down. Such things had been heard of before. But actually to make fools of themselves on this account—rushing off with horse and cart to the doctor just as the gentry did, and make themselves, too, the laughing stock of the whole hamlet, when a draught of tansy would have the same effect—this was what Sören could not put up with.
But, of course, although the daily affairs were settled by Sören Man, there were occasions when Maren insisted on having her way—more so when it seriously affected her offspring. Then she could—as with witchcraft—suddenly forget her good behavior, brush aside Sören's arguments as endless nonsense, and would stand there like a stone wall which one could neither climb over, nor get round. Afterwards he would be sorry that the magic word which should have brought Maren down from her high and mightiness, failed him at the critical moment. For she was a fool—especially when it affected her offspring. But, whether right or wrong, when she had her great moments, fate spoke through her mouth, and Sören was wise enough to remain silent.
This time it certainly seemed as if Maren was in the right; for the cure which the homeopathist prescribed, effervescent powder and sweet milk, had a wonderful effect. Sörine throve and grew fat, so that it was a pleasure to see her.
There can be too much of a good thing, and Sören Man, who had to provide the food, was the first to think of this. Sörine and her mother talked much together and wondered what the illness could be, could it be this or could it be that? There was a great to-do and much talking with their heads together; but, as soon as Sören appeared, they became silent.
He had become quite unreasonable, going about muttering and swearing. As though it was not hard enough already, especially for the poor girl! He had no patience with a sick person, beggar that he was; and one day it broke out from him with bitterness and rage: "She must be—it can be nothing else."
But like a tiger, Maren was upon him.
"What are you talking about, you old stupid? Have you borne eight children, or has the girl told you what's amiss? A sin and a shame it is to let her hear such talk; but now it is done, you might just as well ask her yourself. Answer your father, Sörine—is it true, what he says?"
Sörine sat drooping by the fireplace, suffering and scared. "Then it would be like the Virgin Mary," she whispered, without looking up. And suddenly sank down, sobbing.
"There, you can see yourself, what a blockhead you are," said Maren harshly. "The girl is as pure as an unborn child. And here you come, making all this racket in the house, while the child, perhaps, may be on the point of death."
Sören Man bowed his head, and hurried out on to the downs. Ugh! it was just like thunder overhead. Blockhead she had called him—for the first time in the whole of their life together; he would have liked to have forced that word home again and that, at once, before it stuck to him. But to face a mad, old wife and a howling girl—no, he kept out of it.
Sören Man was an obstinate fellow; when once he got a thing into his three-cornered head, nothing could hammer it out again. He said nothing, but went about with a face which said: "Ay, best not to come to words with women folk!" Maren, however, did not misunderstand him. Well, as long as he kept it to himself. There was the girl torturing herself, drinking petroleum, and eating soft soap as if she were mad, because she had heard it was good for internal weakness. It was too bad; it was adding insult to injury to be jeered at—by her own father too.
At that time he was as little at home as possible, and Maren had no objection as it kept him and his angry glare out of their way. When not at sea, he lounged about doing odd jobs, or sat gossiping high up on the downs, from where one could keep an eye on every boat going out or coming in. Generally, he was allowed to go in peace, but when Sörine was worse than usual, Maren would come running—piteous to see in her motherly anxiety—and beg him to take the girl in to town to be examined before it was too late. Then he would fall into a passion and shout—not caring who might hear: "Confound you, you old nuisance—have you had eight children yourself and still can't see what ails the girl?"
Before long he would repent, for it was impossible to do without house and home altogether; but immediately he put his foot inside the door the trouble began. What was he to do? He had to let off steam, to prevent himself from going mad altogether with all this woman's quibbling. Whatever the result might be, he was tempted to stand on the highest hill and shout his opinion over the whole hamlet, just for the pleasure of getting his own back.
One day, as he was sitting on the shore weighting the net, Maren came flying over the downs: "Now, you had better send for the doctor," said she, "or the girl will slip through our fingers. She's taking on so, it's terrible to hear."
Sören also had himself heard moans from the hut; he was beside himself with anger and flung a pebble at her. "Confound you, are you deaf too, that you cannot hear what that sound means?" shouted he. "See and get hold of a midwife—and that at once; or I'll teach you."
When Maren saw him rise, she turned round and ran home again. Sören shrugged his shoulders and fetched the midwife himself. He stayed outside the hut the whole afternoon without going in, and when it was evening he went down to the inn. It was a place within which he seldom set his foot; there was not sufficient money for that; if house and home should have what was due to it. With unaccustomed shaking hand he turned the handle, opened the door with a jerk and stood with an uncertain air in the doorway.
"So, that was it, after all," said he with miserable bravado. And he repeated the same sentence over and over again the whole evening, until it was time to stumble home.
Maren was out on the down waiting for him; when she saw the state he was in, she burst into tears. "So, that was——" he began, with a look which should have been full of withering scorn—but suddenly he stopped. Maren's tears moved him strangely deep down under everything else; he had to put his arms round her neck and join in her tears.
The two old people sat on the down holding each other until their tears were spent. Already considerable evil had fallen in the path of this new being; now fell the first tears.
When they had got home and busied themselves with mother and child and had gone to rest in the big double bed, Maren felt for Sören's hand. So she had always fallen asleep in their young days, and now it was as if something of the sweetness of their young days rose up in her again—was it really owing to the little lovechild's sudden appearance, or what?
"Now, perhaps, you'll agree 'twas as I told you all along," said Sören, just as they were falling asleep.
"Ay, 'twas so," said Maren. "But how it could come about ... for men folk...."
"Oh, shut up with that nonsense," said Sören, and they went to sleep.
So Maren eventually had to give in. "Though," as Sören said, "like as not one fine day she'd swear the girl had never had a child." Womenfolk! Ugh! there was no persuading them.
Anyhow, Maren was too clever to deny what even a blind man could see with a stick; and it was ever so much easier for her to admit the hard truth; in spite of the girl's innocent tears and solemn assurances, there was a man in the case all the same, and he moreover, the farmer's son. It was the son of the owner of Sands farm, whom Sörine had driven home with from the town—in fear of the dark forest.
"Ay, you managed it finely—keeping the girl away from vagabonds," said Sören, looking out of the corners of his eyes towards the new arrival.
"Rubbish! A farmer's son is better than a vagabond, anyway," answered Maren proudly.
After all it was she who was right; had she not always said there was refinement in Sörine? There was blue blood in the girl!
One day, Sören had to put on his best clothes and off he went to Sands farm.
"'Twas with child she was, after all," said he, going straight to the point. "'Tis just born."
"Oh, is it," said the farmer's son who stood with his father on the thrashing-floor shaking out some straw. "Well, that's as it may be!"
"Ay, but she says you're the father."
"Oh, does she! Can she prove it, I'd like to know."
"She can take her oath on it, she can. So you had better marry the girl."
The farmer's son shouted with laughter.
"Oh, you laugh, do you?" Sören picked up a hayfork and made for the lad, who hid behind the threshing-machine, livid with fear.
"Look here," the boy's father broke in: "Don't you think we two old ones had better go outside and talk the matter over? Young folk nowadays are foolish. Whatever the boy's share in the matter may be, I don't believe he'll marry her," began he, as they were outside.
"That he shall, though," answered Sören, threateningly.
"Look you, the one thing to compel him is the law—and that she will not take, if I know anything about her. But, I'll not say but he might help the girl to a proper marriage—will you take two hundred crowns once and for all?"
Sören thought in his own mind that it was a large sum of money for a poor babe, and hurried to close the bargain in case the farmer might draw back.
"But, no gossip, mind you, now. No big talk about relationship and that kind of thing," said the farmer as he followed Sören out of the gate. "The child must take the girl's name—and no claim on us."
"No, of course not!" said Sören, eager to be off. He had got the two hundred crowns in his inner pocket, and was afraid the farmer might demand them back again.
"I'll send you down a paper one of these days and get your receipt for the money," said the farmer. "It is best to have it fixed up all right and legal."
He said the word "legal" with such emphasis and familiarity that Sören was more than a little startled.
"Yes, yes," was all Sören said and slipped into the porch with his cap between his hands. It was not often he took his hat off to any one, but the two hundred crowns had given him respect for the farmer. The people of Sands farm were a race who, if they did break down their neighbor's fence, always made good the damage they had done.
Sören started off and ran over the fields. The money was more than he and Maren had ever before possessed. All he had to do now was to lay out the notes in front of her so as to make a show that she might be impressed. For Maren had fixed her mind on the farmer's son.
[CHAPTER III]
A Child Is Born
There are a milliard and a half of stars in the heavens, and—as far as we know—a milliard and a half of human beings on the earth. Exactly the same number of both! One would almost think the old saying was right,—that every human being was born under his own star. In hundreds of costly observatories all over the world, on plain and mountain, talented scientists are adjusting the finest instruments and peering out into the heavens. They watch and take photographic plates, their whole life taken up with the one idea: to make themselves immortal with having discovered a new star. Another celestial body—added to the milliard and a half already moving gracefully round.
Every second a human soul is born into the world. A new flame is lit, a star which perhaps may come to shine with unusual beauty, which in any case has its own unseen spectrum. A new being, fated, perhaps, to bestow genius, perhaps beauty around it, kisses the earth; the unseen becomes flesh and blood. No human being is a repetition of another, nor is any ever reproduced; each new being is like a comet which only once in all eternity touches the path of the earth, and for a brief time takes its luminous way over it—a phosphorescent body between two eternities of darkness. No doubt there is joy amongst human beings for every newly lit soul! And, no doubt they will stand round the cradle with questioning eyes, wondering what this new one will bring forth.
Alas, a human being is no star, bringing fame to him who discovers and records it! More often, it is a parasite which comes upon peaceful and unsuspecting people, sneaking itself into the world—through months of purgatory. God help it, if into the bargain it has not its papers in order.
Sörine's little one had bravely pushed itself into the light of day, surmounting all obstacles, denial, tears and preventatives, as a salmon springs against the stream. Now she lay in the daylight, red and wrinkled, trying to soften all hearts.
The whole of the community had done with her, she was a parasite and nothing else. A newly born human being is a figure in the transaction which implies proper marriage and settling down, and the next step which means a cradle and perambulator and—as it grows up—an engagement ring, marriage and children again. Much of this procedure is upset when a child like Sörine's little one is vulgar enough to allow itself to be born without marriage.
She was from the very first treated accordingly, without maudlin consideration for her tender helplessness. "Born out of wedlock" was entered on her certificate of birth which the midwife handed to the schoolmaster when she had helped the little one into the world, and the same was noted on the baptismal certificate. It was as if they all, the midwife, the schoolmaster and the parson, leaders of the community, in righteous vengeance were striking the babe with all their might. What matter if the little soul were begotten by the son of a farmer, when he refused to acknowledge it, and bought himself out of the marriage? A nuisance she was, and a blot on the industrious orderly community.
She was just as much of an inconvenience to her mother as to all the others. When Sörine was up and about again, she announced that she might just as well go out to service as all her sisters had done. Her fear of strangers had quite disappeared: she took a place a little further inland. The child remained with the grandparents.
No one in the wide world cared for the little one, not even the old people for that matter. But all the same Maren went up into the attic and brought out an old wooden cradle which had for many years been used for yarn and all kinds of lumber; Sören put new rockers, and once more Maren's old, swollen legs had to accustom themselves to rocking a cradle again.
A blot the little one was to her grandparents too—perhaps, when all is said and done, on them alone. They had promised themselves such great things of the girl—and there lay their hopes—an illegitimate child in the cradle! It was brought home to them by the women running to Maren, saying: "Well, how do you like having little ones again in your old days?" And by the other fishermen when Sören Man came to the harbor or the inn. His old comrades poked fun at him good-naturedly and said: "All very well for him—strong as a young man and all, Sören, you ought to stand treat all round."
But it had to be borne—and, after all, it could be got over. And the child was—when one got one's hand in again—a little creature who recalled so much that otherwise belonged to the past. It was just as if one had her oneself—in a way she brought youth to the house.
It was utterly impossible not to care for such a helpless little creature.
[CHAPTER IV]
Ditte's First Step
Strange how often one bears the child while another cares for it. For old Maren it was not easy to be a mother again, much as her heart was in it. The girl herself had got over all difficulties, and was right away in service in another county; and here was the babe left behind screaming.
Maren attended to it as well as she could, procured good milk and gave it soaked bread and sugar, and did all she could to make up for its mother.
Her daughter she could not make out at all. Sörine rarely came home, and preferably in the evening when no one could see her; the child she appeared not to care for at all. She had grown strong and erect, not in the least like the slender, freckled girl who could stand next to nothing. Her blood had thickened and her manners were decided; though that, of course, has happened before,—an ailing woman transformed by having a child, as one might say, released from witchcraft.
Ditte herself did not seem to miss a mother's tender care: she grew well in spite of the artificial food, and soon became so big that she could keep wooden shoes on her small feet, and, with the help of old Sören's hand, walk on the downs. And then she was well looked after.
However, at times things would go badly. For Maren had quite enough of her own work to do, which could not be neglected, and the little one was everywhere. And difficult it was suddenly to throw up what one had in hand—letting the milk boil over and the porridge burn—for the sake of running after the little one. Maren took a pride in her housework and found it hard at times to choose between the two. Then, God preserve her: the little one had to take her chance.
Ditte took it as it came and could be thankful that she was with her grandparents. She was an inquisitive little being, eager to meddle with everything; and a miracle it was that the firewood did not fall down. Hundreds of times in the day did she get into scrapes, heedless and thoughtless as she was. She would rush out, and lucky it was if there was anything to step on, otherwise she would have fallen down. Her little head was full of bruises, and she could never learn to look after herself in spite of all the knocks she got. It was too bad to be whipped into the bargain! When the hurt was very bad, Grandfather had to blow it, or Granny put the cold blade of the bread-knife on the bruise to make it well again.
"Better now," said she, turning a smiling face towards her granny; the tears still hanging on the long lashes, and her cheeks gradually becoming roughened by them.
"Yes, dear," answered Maren. "But, Girlie must take care."
This was her name in those days, and a real little girlie she was, square and funny. It was impossible to be angry with her, although at times she could make it somewhat difficult for the old ones. Her little head would not accept the fact that there were things one was not allowed to do; immediately she got an idea, her small hands acted upon it. "She's no forethought," said Sören significantly, "she's a woman. Wonder if a little rap over the fingers after all wouldn't——"
But Maren ignored this. Took the child inside with her and explained, perhaps for the hundredth time, that Girlie must not do so. And one day she had a narrow escape. Ditte had been up to mischief as usual in her careless way. But when she had finished, she offered her little pouting mouth to the two old ones: "Kiss me then—and say 'beg pardon'," said she.
And who could resist her?
"Now, perhaps, you'll say that she can't be taught what's right and wrong?" said Maren.
Sören laughed: "Ay, she first does the thing, and waits till after to think if it's right or wrong. She'll be a true woman, right enough."
At one time Ditte got into the habit of pulling down and breaking things. She always had her little snub nose into everything, and being too small to see what was on the table, she pulled it down instead. Sören had to get a drill and learn to mend earthenware to make up for the worst of her depredations. A great many things fell over Ditte without alarming her in the least.
"She'll neither break nor bend—she's a woman all over," said Sören, inwardly rather proud of her power of endurance. But Maren had to be ever on the watch, and was in daily fear for the things and the child herself.
One day Ditte spilled a basin of hot milk over herself and was badly scalded; that cured her of inquisitiveness. Maren put her to bed and treated her burns with egg-oil and slices of new potato; and it was some time before Ditte was herself again. But when she was again about, there was not so much as a scar to be seen. This accident made Maren famous as a curer of burns and people sought her help for their injuries. "You're a wise one," said they, and gave her bacon or fish by way of thanks. "But 'tis not to be wondered at, after all."
The allusion to the fact that her mother had been a "wise woman" did not please Maren at all. But the bacon and the herrings came to an empty cupboard, and—as Sören said: "Beggars cannot be choosers and must swallow their pride with their food."
Ditte shot up like a young plant, day by day putting forth new leaves. She was no sooner in the midst of one difficult situation, and her troubled grandparents, putting their heads together, had decided to take strong measures, than she was out of it again and into something else. It was just like sailing over a flat bottom—thought Sören—passing away under one and making room for something new. The old ones could not help wondering if they themselves and their children had ever been like this. They had never thought of it before, having had little time to spend on their offspring beyond what was strictly necessary; the one had quite enough to do in procuring food and the other in keeping the home together. But now they could not help thinking; however much they had to do, and they marveled much over many things.
"'Tis strange how a bit of a child can open a body's eyes, for all one's old. Ay, there's a lot to learn," said Maren.
"Stupid," said Sören. From his tone it could be gathered that he himself had been thinking the same.
Ditte was indeed full of character. Little as she had had to inherit, she nevertheless was richly endowed; her first smile brought joy; her feeble tears, sorrow. A gift she was, born out of emptiness, thrown up on the beach for the wornout old couple. No one had done anything to deserve her,—on the contrary, all had done their utmost to put her out of existence. Notwithstanding, there she lay one day with blinking eyes, blue and innocent as the skies of heaven. Anxiety she brought from the very beginning, many footsteps had trodden round her cradle, and questioning thoughts surrounded her sleep. It was even more exciting when she began to take notice; when only a week old she knew their faces, and at three she laughed to Sören. He was quite foolish that day and in the evening had to go down to the [tap-room] to tell them all about it. Had any one ever known such a child? She could laugh already! And when she first began to understand play, it was difficult to tear oneself away—particularly for Sören. Every other moment he had to go in and caress her with his crooked fingers. Nothing was so delightful as to have the room filled with her gurgling, and Maren had to chase him away from the cradle, at least twenty times a day. And when she took her first toddling steps!—that little helpless, illegitimate child who had come defiantly into existence, and who, in return for life brightened the days of the two old wornout people. It had become pleasant once more to wake in the morning to a new day: life was worth living again.
Her stumbling, slow walk was in itself a pleasure; and the contemplative gravity with which she crossed the doorstep, both hands full, trotted down the road—straight on as if there was nothing behind her, and with drooping head—was altogether irresistible. Then Maren would slink out round the corner and beckon to Sören to make haste and come, and Sören would throw down his ax and come racing over the grass of the downs with his tongue between his lips. "Heaven only knows what she is up to now," said he, and the two crept after her down the road. When she had wandered a little distance, in deep thought, she would suddenly realize her loneliness, and begin to howl, a picture of misery, left alone and forsaken. Then the two old people would appear on the scene, and she would throw herself into their arms overjoyed at finding them again.
Then quite suddenly she got over it—the idea that things were gone forever if she lost sight of them for a moment. She began to look out and up into people's faces: hitherto, she had only seen the feet of those who came within her horizon. One day she actually went off by herself, having caught sight of the houses down in the hamlet. They had to look after her more seriously now that the outside world had tempted her.
"We're not enough for her, seems like," said Sören despondently, "got a fancy for the unknown already."
It was the first time she had turned away from them, and Sören recognized in that something of what he had experienced before, and for a moment a feeling of loneliness came over him. But Maren, wise as she had grown since the coming of the little one, again found a way. She threw her kerchief over her head and went down to the hamlet with Ditte, to let her play with other children.
[CHAPTER V]
Grandfather Strikes Out Afresh
All that Sören possessed—with the exception of the house—was a third share in a boat and gear. He had already, before Ditte came into the world, let out his part of the boat to a young fisher boy from the hamlet, who having no money to buy a share in a boat repaid Sören with half of his catch. It was not much, but he and Maren had frugal habits, and as to Sören, she occasionally went out to work and helped to make ends meet. They just managed to scrape along with their sixth share of the catch, and such odd jobs as Sören could do at home.
Once again there was a little one to feed and clothe. For the present, of course, Ditte's requirements were small, but her advent had opened out new prospects. It was no good now to be content with toiling the time away, until one's last resting-place was reached, patiently thinking the hut would pay for the burial. It was not sufficient to wear out old clothes, eat dried fish, and keep out of the workhouse until they were well under the ground. Sören and Maren were now no longer at the end of things, there was one in the cradle who demanded everything from the beginning, and spurred them on to new efforts. It would never do to let their infirmity grow upon them or allow themselves to become pensioners on what a sixth share of a boat might happen to bring home. Duty called for a new start.
The old days had left their mark on them both. They came into line with the little one, even her childish cries under the low ceiling carried the old couple a quarter of a century back, to the days when the weight of years was not yet felt, and they could do their work with ease. And once there, the way to still earlier days was not so far—to that beautiful time when tiredness was unknown, and Sören after a hard day's work would walk miles over the common, to where Maren was in service, stay with her until dawn, and then walk miles back home again, to be the first man at work.
Inevitably they were young again! Had they not a little one in the house? A little pouting mouth was screaming and grunting for milk. Sören came out of his old man's habit, and turned his gaze once more towards the sea and sky. He took back his share in the boat and went to sea again.
Things went tolerably well to begin with. It was summer time when Ditte had pushed him back to his old occupation again; it was as if she had really given the old people a second youth. But it was hard to keep up with the others, in taking an oar and pulling up nets by the hour. Moreover in the autumn when the herrings were deeper in the sea, the nets went right down, and were often caught by the heavy undertow, Sören had not strength to draw them up like the other men, and had to put up with the offer of lighter work. This was humiliating; and even more humiliating was it to break down from night watches in the cold, when he knew how strong he had been in days gone by.
Sören turned to the memories of old days for support, that he might assert himself over the others. Far and wide he told tales of his youth, to all who would listen.
In those days implements were poor, and clothes were thin, and the winter was harder than now. There was ice everywhere, and in order to obtain food they had to trail over the ice with their gear on a wooden sledge right out to the great channel, and chop holes to fish through. Woollen underclothing was unknown, and oilskins were things none could afford; a pair of thick leather trousers were worn—with stockings and wooden shoes. Often one fell in—and worked on in wet clothes, which were frozen so stiff that it was impossible to draw them off.
To Sören it was a consolation to dwell upon all this, when he had to give up such strenuous work as the rowing over to the Swedish coast, before he could get a good catch. There he would sit in the stern feeling small and useless, talking away and fidgeting with the sails in spite of the lack of wind. His partners, toiling with the heavy oars, hardly listened to him. It was all true enough, they knew that from their fathers, but it gained nothing in being repeated by Sören's toothless mouth. His boasting did not make the boat any lighter to pull; old Sören was like a stone in the net.
Maren was probably the only one, who at her own expense could afford to give a helping hand. She saw how easily he became tired, try as he would to hide it from her—and she made up her mind to trust in Providence for food. It was hard for him to turn out in the middle of the night, his old limbs were as heavy as lead, and Maren had to help him up in bed.
"'Tis rough tonight!" said she, "stay at home and rest." And the next night she would persuade him again, with another excuse. She took care not to suggest that he should give up the sea entirely; Sören was stubborn and proud. Could she only keep him at home from time to time, the question would soon be decided by his partners.
So Sören remained at home first one day and then another; Maren said that he was ill. He fell easily into the trap, and when this had gone on for some little time, his partners got tired of it, and forced him to sell his part of the boat and implements. Now that he was driven to remain at home, he grumbled and scolded, but settled down to it after a while. He busied himself with odd jobs, patched oilskins and mended wooden shoes for the fishermen and became quite brisk again. Maren could feel the improvement, when he good-naturedly began to chaff her again as before.
He was happiest out on the downs, with Ditte holding his hand, looking after the sheep. Sören could hardly do without the little one; when she was not holding his hand, he felt like a cripple without his staff. Was it not he whom she had chosen for her first smile, when but three weeks old! And when only four or five months old dropped her comforter and turned her head on hearing his tottering steps.
"'Tis all very well for you," said Maren half annoyed. "'Tis you she plays with, while I've the looking after and feeding of her; and that's another thing." But in her heart she did not grudge him first place with the little one; after all he was the man—and needed a little happiness.
There was no one who understood Ditte as did her grandfather. They two could entertain each other by the hour. They spoke about sheep and ships and trees, which Ditte did not like, because they stood and made the wind blow. Sören explained to her that it was God who made the wind blow—so that the fishermen need not toil with their oars so much. Trees on the contrary did no work at all and as a punishment God had chained them to the spot.
"What does God look like?" asked Ditte. The question staggered Sören. There he had lived a long life and always professed the religion taught him in childhood; at times when things looked dark, he had even called upon God; nevertheless, it had never occurred to him to consider what the good God really looked like. And here he was confounded by the words of a little child, exactly as in the Bible.
"God?" began Sören hesitating on the word, to gain time. "Well, He's both His hands full, He has. And even so it seems to us others, that at times He's taken more upon Himself than He can do—and that's what He looks like!"
And so Ditte was satisfied.
To begin with Sören talked most, and the child listened. But soon it was she who led the conversation, and the old man who listened entranced. Everything his girlie said was simply wonderful, and all of it worth repetition, if only he could remember it. Sören remembered a good deal, but was annoyed with himself when some of it escaped his memory.
"Never knew such a child," said he to Maren, when they came in from their walk. "She's different from our girls somehow."
"Well, you see she's the child of a farmer's son," answered Maren, who had never got over the greatest disappointment of her life, and eagerly caught at anything that might soften it.
But Sören laughed scornfully and said: "You're a fool, Maren, and that's all about it."
[CHAPTER VI]
The Death Of Sören Man
One day Sören came crawling on all fours over the doorstep. Once inside, he stumbled to his feet and moved with great difficulty towards the fireplace, where he clung with both hands to the mantelpiece, swaying to and fro and groaning pitifully the while. He collapsed just as Maren came in from the kitchen, she ran to him, got off his clothes and put him to bed.
"Seems like I'm done for now," said Sören, when he had rested a little.
"What's wrong with you, Sören?" asked Maren anxiously.
"'Tis naught but something's given inside," said Sören sullenly.
He refused to say more, but Maren got out of him afterwards that it had happened when drawing the tethering-peg out of the ground. Usually it was loose enough. But today it was firm as a rock, as if some one was holding it down in the earth. Sören put the tethering-rope round his neck and pulled with all his might, it did give way; but at the same time something seemed to break inside him. Everything went dark, and a big black hole appeared in the earth.
Maren gazed at him with terror. "Was 't square?" asked she.
Sören thought it was square.
"And what of Girlie?" asked Maren suddenly.
She had disappeared when Sören fainted.
Maren ran out on the hills with anxious eyes. She found Ditte playing in the midst of a patch of wild pansies, fortunately Maren could find no hole in the ground. But the old rotten rope had parted. Sören, unsteady on his feet, had probably fallen backwards and hurt himself. Maren knotted the rope together again and went towards the little one. "Come along, dearie," said she, "we'll go home and make a nice cup of coffee for Grandad." But suddenly she stood transfixed. Was it not a cross the child had plaited of grass, and set among the pansies? Quietly Maren took the child by the hand and went in. Now she knew.
Sören stayed in bed. There was no outward hurt to be seen, but he showed no inclination to get up. He hardly slept at all, but lay all day long gazing at the ceiling, and fumbling with the bedclothes.
Now and then he groaned, and Maren would hurry to his side. "What ails you, Sören, can't you tell me?" said she earnestly.
"Ails me? Nothing ails me, Maren, but death," answered Sören. Maren would have liked to try her own remedies on him, but might just as well spare her arts for a better occasion; Sören had seen a black hole in the ground; there was no cure for that.
So matters stood. Maren knew as well as he, that this was the end; but she was a sturdy nature, and never liked to give in. She would have wrestled with God himself for Sören, had there been anything definite to fight about. But he was fading away, and for this there was no cure; though if only the poison could be got out of his blood, he might even yet be strong again.
"Maybe 'tis bleeding you want."
But Sören refused to be bled. "Folks die quickly enough without," said he, incredulous as he had always been. Maren was silent and went back to her work with a sigh. Sören never did believe in anything, he was just as unbelieving as he had been in his young days—if only God would not be too hard on him.
At first Sören longed to have the child with him always, and every other minute Maren had to bring her to the bedside. The little one did not like to sit quietly on a chair beside Grandad's bed, and as soon as she saw a chance of escape, off she would run. This was hardest of all to Sören, he felt alone and forsaken, all was blackness and despair.
Before long, however, he lost all interest in the child, as he did in everything else. His mind began to wander from the present back to bygone days; Maren knew well what it meant. He went further and still further back to his youth and childhood. Strange it was how much he could remember things which otherwise had been forgotten. And it was not rambling nonsense that he talked, but all true enough; people older than he who came from the hamlet to visit him confirmed it, and wondered at hearing him speak of events that must have happened when he was but two or three years old. Sören forgot the latter years of his life, indeed he might never have lived them so completely had they faded from his mind.
This saddened Maren. They had lived a long life, and gone through so much together, and how much more pleasant it would have been, if they could have talked of the past together once more before they parted. But Sören would not listen, when it came to their mutual memories. No, the garden on the old farm—where Sören lived when five years old—that he could remember! Where this tree stood, and that—and what kind of fruit it bore.
And when he had gone as far back as he could remember, his mind would wander forward again, and in his delirium he would rave of his days as a shepherd boy or sailor boy and heaven knows what.
In his uneasy dreams he mixed up all his experiences, the travels of his youth, his work and difficulties. At one minute he would be on the sea furling sail in the storm, the next he would struggle with the ground. Maren who stood over him listened with terror to all that he toiled with; he seemed to be taking his life in one long stride. Many were the tribulations he had been through, and of which she now heard for the first time. When his mind cleared once more, he would be worn out with beads of perspiration standing on his forehead.
His old partners came to see him, and then they went through it again—Sören had to talk of old times. He could only say a few words, weak as he was; but then the others would continue. Maren begged them not to speak too much, as it made him restless, and he would struggle with it in his dreams.
It was worst when he imagined himself on the old farm; pitiful to see how he fought against the sea's greedy advance, clutching the bedclothes with his wasted fingers. It was a wearisome leave-taking with existence, as wearisome as existence itself had been to him.
One day when Maren had been to the village shop, Ditte ran out screaming, as she came back. "Grandad's dead!" she burst out sobbing. Sören lay bruised and senseless across the doorstep to the kitchen. He had been up on the big chest, meddling with the hands of the clock. Maren dragged him to bed and bathed his wounds, and when it was done he lay quietly following her movements with his eyes. Now and then he would ask in a low voice what the time was, and from this Maren knew that he was nearing his end.
On the morning of the day he died he was altogether changed again. It was as if he had come home to take a last farewell of everybody and everything; he was weak but quite in his senses. There was so much he wanted to touch upon once again. His talk jumped from one thing to another and he seemed quite happy. For the first time for many months he could sit on the edge of the bed drinking his morning coffee, chatting to Maren whenever she came near. He was exactly like a big child, and Maren could not but put his old head to hers and caress it. "You've worn well, Sören," said she, stroking his hair—"your hair's as soft as when we were young."
Sören fell back, and lay with her hand in his, gazing silently at her with worship in his faded eyes. "Maren, would you let down your hair for me?" he whispered bashfully at last. The words came with some difficulty.
"Nay, but what nonsense!" said Maren, hiding her face against his chest; "we're old now, you know, dear."
"Let down your hair for me!" whispered he, persisting, and tried with shaking fingers to loosen it himself. Maren remembered an evening long ago, an evening behind a drawn-up boat on the beach, and with sobs she loosened her gray hair and let it fall down over Sören's head, so that it hid their faces. "It's long and thick," he whispered softly, "enough to hide us both." The words came as an echo from their bygone youth.
"Nay, nay," said Maren, crying, "it's gray and thin and rough. But how fond you were of it once."
With closed eyes Sören lay holding Maren's hand. There was much to do in the kitchen, and she tried again and again to draw her hand away, but he opened his eyes each time, so she sat down, letting the things look after themselves, and there she was with the tears running down her furrowed face, while her thoughts ran on. She and Sören had [lived] happily together; they had had their quarrels, but if anything serious happened, they always faced it together; neither of them had lived and worked for themselves only. It was so strange that they were now to be separated, Maren could not understand it. Why could they not be taken together? Where Sören went, Maren felt she too should be. Perhaps in the place where he was going he needed no one to mend his clothes and to see that he kept his feet dry, but at least they might have walked hand in hand in the Garden of Eden. They had often talked about going into the country to see what was hidden behind the big forest. But it never came to anything, as one thing or another always kept Maren at home. How beautiful it would have been to go with Sören now; Maren would willingly have made the journey with him, to see what was on the other side—had it not been for Ditte. A child had always kept her back, and thus it was now. Maren's own time was not yet; she must wait, letting Sören go alone.
Sören now slept more quietly, and she drew her hand gently out of his. But as soon as she rose, he opened his eyes, gazing at Maren's loosened hair and tear-stained face.
"Don't cry, Maren," said he, "you and Ditte'll get on all right. But do this for me, put up your hair as you did at our wedding, will you, Maren?"
"But I can't do it myself, Sören," answered the old woman, overwhelmed and beginning to cry again. But Sören held to his point.
Then Maren gave in, and as she could not leave Sören alone for long, she ran as fast as she could to the hamlet, where one of the women dressed her thin gray hair in bridal fashion. On her return she found Sören restless, but he soon calmed down; he looked at her a long time, as she sat crying by the bed with his hand in hers. He was breathing with much difficulty.
Then suddenly he spoke in a stronger voice than he had done for many days.
"We've shared good and bad together, Maren—and now it's over. Will you be true to me for the time you have left?" He rose on his elbow, looking earnestly into her face.
Maren dried her bleared eyes, and looked faithfully into his. "Ay," she said slowly and firmly—"no one else has ever been in my thought nor ever shall be. 'Tis Christ Himself I take as a witness, you can trust me, Sören."
Sören then fell back with closed eyes, and after a while his hand slipped out of hers.
[CHAPTER VII]
The Widow And The Fatherless
After Sören's death there were hard days in store for the two in the hut on the Naze. Feeble as he had been, yet he had always earned something, and had indeed been their sheet anchor. They were now alone, with no man to work for them. Not only had Maren to make things go as far as possible, but she had to find the money as well. This was a task she had never done before.
All they had once received for their share in the boat and its fittings had gone too; and the funeral took what was left. Their affairs could be settled by every one, and at the time of Sören's death there was much multiplying and subtracting in the homes round about on Maren's behalf. But to one question there was no answer; what had become of the two hundred crowns paid for Ditte for once and for all? Ay, where had they gone? The two old people had bought nothing new at that time, and Sören had firmly refused to invest in a new kind of fishing-net—an invention tried in other places and said to be a great success. Indeed, there were cases where the net had paid for itself in a single night. However, Sören would not, and as so much money never came twice to the hamlet in one generation, they carried on with their old implements as usual.
The money had certainly not been used, nor had it been eaten up, that was understood. The two old folk had lived exactly as before, and it would have been known if the money had gone up through the chimney. There was no other explanation, than that Maren had put it by; probably as something for Ditte to fall back upon, when the two old ones had gone.
There was a great deal of talking in the homes, mostly of how Maren and Ditte were to live. But with that, their interest stopped. She had grown-up children of her own, who were her nearest, and ought to look after her affairs. One or two of them turned up at the funeral, more to see if there was anything to be had, and as soon as Sören was well underground they left, practically vanishing without leaving a trace, and with no invitation to Maren, who indeed hardly found out where they lived. Well, Maren was not sorry to see the last of them. She knew, in some measure, the object of her children's homecoming; and for all she cared they might never tread that way again—if only she might keep Ditte. Henceforth they were the only two in the world.
"They might at least have given you a helping hand," said the women of the hamlet—"after all, you're their mother."
"Nay, why so," said Maren. They had used her as a pathway to existence—and it had not always been easy; perhaps they did not thank her for their being here on earth, since they thought they owed her nothing. One mother can care for eight children if necessary, but has any one ever heard of eight children caring for one mother? No, Maren was thankful they kept away, and did not come poking round their old home.
She tried to sell the hut and the allotment in order to provide means, but as no buyers offered for either, she let the hut to a workman and his family, only keeping one room and an end of the kitchen for herself. After settling this she studded her own and the child's wooden shoes with heavy nails. She brought forth Sören's old stick, wrapped herself and the little one well up—and wandered out into the country.
Day after day, in all weathers, they would set out in the early morning, visiting huts and farms. Maren knew fairly well for whom Sören had worked, and it was quite time they paid their debts. She never asked directly for the money, but would stand just inside the door with the child in front of her, rattling a big leather purse such as fisher folk used, and drone:
"God bless your work and your food—one and all for sure! Times is hard—ay, money's scarce—ay, 'tis dear to live, and folks get old! And all's to be bought—fat and meat and bread, ay, every scrap!—faith, an old wife needs the money!"
Although Maren only asked for what was her due, it was called begging, when she went on this errand, and she and the child were treated accordingly. They often stood waiting in the scullery or just inside the living room, while every one ran to and fro to their work without appearing to notice them. People must be taught their proper place, and nothing is so good as letting them stand waiting, and that without any reason. If they are not crushed by this, something must be wrong.
Maren felt the slight, and the smart went deep; but in no way shook her purpose—inwardly she was furious, though too wise to show it, and, old as she was, quietly added experience to experience. Perhaps after all it was the child who made it easier for her to submit to circumstances. So that was how she was treated when she needed help! But when they themselves needed help, it was a different matter; they were not too proud to ask her advice. Then they would hurry down to her, often in the middle of the night, knocking at the window with the handle of a whip; she must come, and that at once.
Maren was not stupid, and could perfectly well put two and two together, only neglecting what she had no use for. As long as Sören was by her side and held the reins, she had kept in the background, knowing that one master in the house was quite enough; and only on special occasions—when something of importance was at stake—would she lend a guiding hand, preferably so unostentatiously that Sören never noticed it.
Blockhead, he used to call her—right up to his illness. About a week before his death they had spoken of the future, and Sören had comforted Maren by saying: "'Twill all be right for you, Maren—if but you weren't such a blockhead."
For the first time Maren had protested against this, and Sören, as was his wont, referred to the case of Sörine: "Ay, and did you see what was wrong with the girl, what all saw who set eyes on her? And was it not yourself that fed her with soft soap and paraffin?"
"Maybe 'twas," answered Maren, unmoved.
Sören looked at her with surprise: well to be sure—but behind her look of innocence gleamed something which staggered him for once. "Ay, ay," said he. "Ay, ay! 'twas nigh jail that time."
Maren good-naturedly blinked her heavy eyelids. "'Tis too good some folks are to be put there," answered she.
Sören felt as if cold water were running down his back; here had he lived with Maren by his side for forty-five years, and never taken her for anything else but a good-natured blockhead—and he had nearly gone to his grave with that opinion. And perhaps after all it was she who had mastered him, and that by seeming a fool herself.
[CHAPTER VIII]
Wise Maren
The heavy waves crashed on the shore. Large wet flakes of snow hurled themselves on bushes and grass; what was not caught by the high cliffs was frozen to ice in the air and chased before the storm.
The sea was foaming. The skies were all one great dark gray whirl, with the roaring breakers beneath. It was as if the abyss itself threw out its inexhaustible flood of cold and wickedness. Endlessly it mounted from the great deep; dense to battle against, and as fire of hell to breathe.
Two clumsy figures worked their way forward over the sandhills, an old grandmother holding a little girl by the hand. They were so muffled up, that they could hardly be distinguished in the thick haze.
Their movements were followed by watchful eyes, in the huts on the hills women stood with faces pressed flat against the window-panes! "'Tis wise Maren battling against the storm," they told the old and the sick within. And all who could, crawled to the window. They must see for themselves.
"'Tis proper weather for witches to be out," said youth, and laughed. "But where is her broomstick?"
The old ones shook their heads. Maren ought not to be made fun of; she had the Gift and did much good. Maybe that once or twice she had misused her talents—but who would not have done the same in her place? On a day like this she would be full of power; it would have been wise to consult her.
The two outside kept to the path that ran along the edge of the steep cliff, hollowed out in many places by the sea. Beneath them thundered the surf, water and air and sand in one yellow ferment, and over it seagulls and other sea birds, shrieking and whipping the air with their wings. When a wave broke they would swoop down and come up again with food in their beaks—some fish left stunned by the waves to roll about in the foam.
It seemed foolish of the two keeping just inside the edge of the cliff, against which the storm was throwing itself with all its might, to fall down well inland. The old woman and the child clung to each other, gasping for breath.
At one place the path went through a thicket of thorns, bent inland by the strong sea wind, and here they took shelter from the storm to regain their breath. Ditte whimpered, she was tired and hungry.
"Be a big girl," said the old one, "we'll soon be home now." She drew the child towards her under the shawl, with shaking hands brushing the snow from her hair, and blowing her frozen fingers. "Ay, just big," she said encouragingly, "and you'll get cakes and nice hot coffee when we get home. I've the coffee beans in the bag—ah, just smell!"
Granny opened the bag, which she had fastened round her waist underneath her shawl. Into it went all that she was given, food and other odds and ends.
The little one poked her nose down into the bag, but was not comforted at once.
"We've nothing to warm it with," said she sulkily.
"And haven't we then? Granny was on the beach last night, and saw the old boat, she did. But Ditte was in the land of Nod, and never knew."
"Is there more firewood?"
"Hush, child, the coastguard might hear us. He's long ears—and the Magistrate pays him for keeping poor folks from getting warm. That's why he himself takes all that's washed ashore."
"But you're not frightened of him, Granny, you're a witch and can send him away."
"Ay, ay, of course Granny can—and more too, if he doesn't behave. She'll strike him down with rheumatism, so that he can't move, and have to send for wise Maren to rub his back. Ah me, old Granny's legs are full of water, and aches and pains in every limb; a horrid witch they call her, ay—and a thieving woman too! But there must be some of both when an old worn woman has to feed two mouths; and you may be glad that Granny's the witch she is. None but she cares for you—and lazy, no folks shall ever call her that. She's two-and-seventy years now, and 'tis for others her hands have toiled all along. But never a hand that's lifted to help old Maren."
They sat well sheltered, and soon Ditte became sleepy, and they started out again. "We'll fall asleep if we don't, and then the black man'll come and take us," said Granny as she tied her shawl round the little one.
"Who's the black man?" Ditte stopped, clinging to her grandmother from very excitement.
"The black man lives in the churchyard under the ground. 'Tis he who lets out the graves to the dead folks, and he likes to have a full house."
Ditte had no wish to go down and live with a black man, and tripped briskly along hand in hand with the old one. The path now ran straight inland, and the wind was at their back—the storm had abated somewhat.
When they came to the Sand farm, she refused to go further. "Let's go in there and ask for something," said she, dragging her grandmother. "I'm so hungry."
"Lord—are you mad, child! We daren't set foot inside there."
"Then I'll go alone," declared Ditte firmly. She let go her granny's hand and ran towards the entrance. When there, however, she hesitated. "And why daren't we go in there?" she shouted back.
Maren came and took her hand again: "Because your own father might come and drive us away with a whip," said she slowly. "Come now and be a good girl."
"Are you afraid of him?" asked the little one persistently. She was not accustomed to seeing her granny turned aside for anything.
Afraid, indeed no—the times were too bad for that! Poor people must be prepared to face all evils and accept them too. And why should they go out of their way to avoid the Sand farm as if it were holy ground. If he did not care to take the chance of seeing his own offspring occasionally, he could move his farm elsewhere. They two had done nothing to be shamed into running away, that was true enough. Perhaps there was some ulterior motive behind the child's obstinacy? Maren was not the one to oppose Providence—still less if it lent her a helping hand.
"Well, come then!" said she, pushing the gate open. "They can but eat us."
They went through the deep porch which served as wood and tool house as well. At one side turf was piled neatly up right to the beams. Apparently they had no thought of being cold throughout the winter. Maren looked at the familiar surroundings as they crossed the yard towards the scullery. Once in her young days she had been in service here—for the sake of being nearer the home of her childhood and Sören. It was some years ago, that! The grandfather of the present young farmer reigned then—a real Tartar who begrudged his servant both food and sleep. But he made money! The old farmer, who died about the same time as Sören, was young then, and went with stocking feet under the servants' windows! He and Sören cared nought for each other! Maren had not been here since—Sören would not allow it. And he himself never set foot inside, since that dreary visit about Sörine. A promise was a promise.
But now it was so long ago, and two hundred crowns could not last forever. Sören was dead, and Maren saw things differently in her old days. Cold and hardship raised her passion, as never before, against those sitting sheltered inside, who had no need to go hunting about like a dog in all weathers, and against those who for a short-lived joy threw years of heavy burden on poor old shoulders. Why had she waited so long in presenting his offspring to the farmer? Perhaps they were longing for it. And why should not the little one have her own way? Perhaps it was the will of Providence, speaking through her, in her obstinate desire to enter her father's house.
All the same, Maren's conscience was not quite clear while standing with Ditte beside her, waiting for some one to come. The farmer apparently was out, and for that she was thankful. She could hear the servant milking in the shed, they would hardly have a man at this time of the year.
The cracked millstone still lay in front of the door, and in the middle of the floor was a large flat tombstone with ornaments in the corners, the inscription quite worn away.
A young woman came from the inner rooms. Maren had not seen her before. She was better dressed than the young wives of the neighborhood, and had a kind face and gentle manners. She asked them into the living room, took off their shawls, which she hung by the fire to dry. She then made them sit down and gave them food and drink, speaking kindly to them all the while; to Ditte in particular, which softened Maren's heart.
"And where do you come from?" asked she, seating herself beside them.
"Ay, where do folk come from?" answered Maren mumblingly. "Where's there room for poor people like us? Some have plenty—and for all that go where they have no right to be; others the Lord's given naught but a corner in the churchyard. But you don't belong to these parts, since you ask."
No, the young woman came from Falster; her voice grew tender as she spoke of her birthplace.
"Is't far from here?" said Maren, glancing at her.
"Yes, it takes a whole day by train and by coach, and from the town too!"
"Has it come to that, that the men of the Sand farm must travel by train to find wives for themselves? But the hamlet is good enough for sweethearts."
The young woman looked uncertainly at her. "We met each other at the Continuation School," said she.
"Well, well, has he been to Continuation School too? Ay, 'tis fine all must be nowadays. Anyway, 'twas time he got settled."
The young woman flushed. "You speak so strangely," said she.
"Belike you'll tell me how an old wife should speak? 'Tis strange indeed that a father sits sheltered at home while his little one runs barefoot and begs."
"What do you mean?" whispered the young woman anxiously!
"What the Lord and every one knows, but no-one's told you. Look you at the child there—faces don't tell lies, she's the image of her father. If all was fair, 'twould be my daughter sitting here in your stead—ay, and no hunger and cold for me."
As she spoke, Maren sucked a ham bone. She had no teeth, and the fat ran down over her chin and hands.
The young woman took out her handkerchief. "Let me help you, mother," said she, gently drying her face. She was white to the lips, and her hands shook.
Maren allowed herself to be cared for. Her sunken mouth was set and hard. Suddenly she grasped the young woman by the hips with her earth-stained hands. "'Tis light and pure!" she mumbled, making signs over her. "In childbirth 'twill go badly with you." The woman swayed in her hands and fell to the ground without a sound; little Ditte began to scream.
Maren was so terrified by the consequence of her act, that she never thought of offering help. She tore down the shawls from the fire and ran out, dragging the child after her. It was not until they reached the last house in the hamlet, the lifeboat shed, that she stopped to wrap themselves up.
Ditte still shook. "Did you kill her?" asked she.
The old woman started, alarmed at the word. "Nay, but of course not. 'Tis nothing to prate about: come along home," said she harshly, pushing the child. Ditte was unaccustomed to be spoken to in this manner, and she hurried along.
The house was cold as they entered it, and Maren put the little one straight to bed. Then having gathered sticks for the fire, she put on water for the coffee, talking to herself all the while. "Ugh, just so; but who's to blame? The innocent must suffer, to make the guilty speak."
"What did you say, Granny?" asked Ditte from the alcove.
"'Twas only I'm thinking your father'll soon find his way down here after this."
A trap came hurrying through the dark and stopped outside. In burst the owner of the Sand farm. There was no good in store for them; his face was red with anger and he started abusing them almost before he got inside the door. Maren had her head well wrapped up against the cold, and pretended to hear nothing. "Well, well, you're a sight for sore eyes," said she, smilingly inviting him in.
"Don't suppose that I've come to make a fuss of you, you crafty old hag!" stormed Anders Olsen in his thin cracked voice. "No, I've come to fetch you, I have, and that at once. So you'd better come!" seizing her by the arm.
Maren wrenched herself out of his grasp. "What's wrong with you?" asked she, staring at him in amazement.
"Wrong with me?—you dare to ask that, you old witch, you. Haven't you been up to the farm this afternoon—dragging the brat with you? though you were bought and paid to keep off the premises. Made trouble you have, you old hag, and bewitched my wife, so she's dazed with pain. But I'll drag you to justice and have you burned at the stake, you old devil!" He foamed at the mouth and shook his clenched fist in her face.
"So you order folks to be burnt, do you?" said Maren scornfully. "Then you'd best light up and stoke up for yourself as well. Seemingly you've taken more on your back than you can carry."
"What do you mean by that?" hissed the farmer, gesticulating, as if prepared at any moment to pounce upon Maren and drag her to the trap. "Maybe it's a lie, that you've been to the farm and scared my wife?" He went threateningly round her, but without touching her. "What have you to do with my back?" shouted he loudly, with fear in his eyes. "D'you want to bewitch me too, what?"
"'Tis nothing with your back I've to do, or yourself either. But all can see that the miser's cake'll be eaten, ay, even by crow and raven if need be. Keep your strength for your young wife—you might overstrain yourself on an old witch like me. And where'd she be then, eh?"
Anders Olsen had come with the intention of throwing the old witch into the trap and taking her home with him—by fair means or foul—so that she could undo her magic on the spot. And there he sat on the woodbox, his cap between his hands, a pitiful sight. Maren had judged him aright, there was nothing manly about him, he fought with words instead of fists. The men of the Sand farm were a poor breed, petty and grasping. This one was already bald, the muscles of his neck stood sharply out, and his mouth was like a tightly shut purse. It was no enviable position to be his wife; the miser was already uppermost in him! Already he was shivering with cold down his back—having forgotten his fear for his wife in his thought for himself.
Maren put a cup of coffee on the kitchen table, then sat down herself on the steps leading to the attic with a cracked cup between her fingers. "Just you drink it up," said she, as he hesitated—"there's no-one here that'll harm you and yours."
"But you've been home and made mischief," he mumbled, stretching out his hand for the cup; he seemed equally afraid of drinking or leaving the coffee.
"We've been at the farm we two, 'tis true enough. The bad storm drove us in, 'twas sore against our will." Maren spoke placidly and with forbearance. "And as to your wife, belike it made her ill, and couldn't bear to hear what a man she's got. A kind and good woman she is—miles too good for you. She gave us nought but the best, while you're just longing to burn us. Ay, ay, 'twould be plenty warm enough then! For here 'tis cold, and there's no-one to bring a load of peat to the house."
"Maybe you'd like me to bring you a load?" snapped the farmer, closing his mouth like a trap.
"The child's yours for all that; she's cold and hungry, work as I may."
"Well, she was paid for once and for all."
"Ay, 'twas easy enough for you! Let your own offspring want; 'tis the only child, we'll hope, the Lord'll trust you with."
The farmer started, as if awakened to his senses. "Cast off your spell from my wife!" he shouted, striking the table with his hands.
"I've nought against your wife. But just you see, if the Lord'll put a child in your care. 'Tis not likely to me."
"You leave the Lord alone—and cast off the spell," he whispered hoarsely, making for the old woman, "or I'll throttle you, old witch that you are." He was gray in the face, and his thin, crooked fingers clutched the air.
"Have a care, your own child lies abed and can hear you." Maren pushed open the door to the inner room. "D'you hear that, Ditte, your father's going to throttle me."
Anders Olsen turned away from her and went towards the door. He stood a moment fumbling with the door handle, as if not knowing what he did; then came back, and sank down on the woodbox, gazing at the clay floor. He looked uncommonly old and had always done so ever since his childhood, it was said people of the Sand farm were always born toothless.
Maren came and placed herself in front of him. "Maybe you're thinking of the son your wife should bear? And maybe seeing him already running by your side in the fields, just like a little foal, and learning to hold the plow. Ay! many a one's no son to save for, but enjoys putting by for all that. And often 'tis a close-fisted father has a spendthrift son; belike 'tis the Lord punishing them for their greedy ways. You may fight on till you break up—like many another one. Or sell the farm to strangers, when there's no more work in you—and shift in to the town to a fine little house! For folks with money there's many a way!"
The farmer lifted his head. "Cast off your spell from my wife," he said beseechingly, "and I'll make it worth your while."
"On the Sand farm we'll never set foot again, neither me nor the child. But you can send your wife down here—'tis no harm she'll come to, but don't forget if good's to come of it, on a load of peat she must ride!"
Early next morning the pretty young wife from the Sand farm, could be seen driving through the hamlet seated on top of a swinging cartload of peat. Apparently the farmer did not care to be seen with his wife like this, for he himself was not there; a lad drove the cart. Many wondered where they were going, and with their faces against the window-panes watched them pass. From one or another hut, with no outlook, a woman would come throwing a shawl over her head as she hurried towards the Naze. As the lad carried the peat into Maren's woodshed, and the farmer's wife unpacked eggs, ham, cakes, butter and many other good things on the table in the little sitting room, they came streaming past, staring through the window—visiting the people in the other part of the house with one or other foolish excuse. Maren knew quite well why they came, but it did not worry her any longer. She was accustomed to people keeping an eye on her and using her neighbors as a spying ground.
A few days afterwards the news ran round the neighborhood that the farmer had begun to take notice of his illegitimate child—not altogether with a good will perhaps. Maren was supposed to have had a hand in the arrangement. No-one understood her long patience with him; especially as she had right on her side. But now it would seem she had tired of it and had begun casting spells over the farmer's young wife—first charmed a child into her, and then away again, according to her will. Some declared Ditte was used for this purpose—by conjuring her backwards, right back to her unborn days, so that the child was obliged to seek a mother, and it was because of this she never grew properly. Ditte was extraordinarily small for her age, for all she was never really ill. Probably she was not allowed to grow as she should do, or she would be too big to will away to nothing.
There was much to be said both for and against having such as wise Maren in the district. That she was a witch was well known; but as they went she was in the main a good woman. She never used her talents in the service of the Devil, that is as far as any one knew—and she was kind to the poor; curing many a one without taking payment for it. And as to the farmer of the Sand farm, he only got what he deserved.
Maren's fame was established after this. People have short memories, when it is to their own advantage, and Anders Olsen was seldom generous to them. There would be long intervals in between his visits, then suddenly he would take to coming often. The men of the Sand farm had always been plagued by witchcraft. They might be working in the fields, and bending down to pick up a stone or a weed, when all of a sudden some unseen deviltry would strike them with such excruciating pains in the back, that they could not straighten themselves, and had to crawl home on all fours. There they would lie groaning for weeks, suffering greatly from doing nothing, and treated by cupping, leeches and good advice, till one day the pain would disappear as quickly as it had come. They themselves put it down to the evil eye of women, who perhaps felt themselves ignored and took their revenge in this mean fashion; others thought it was a punishment from Heaven for having too fat a back. At all events this was their weak spot, and whenever the farmer felt a twinge of pain in his back he would hurry to propitiate wise Maren.
This was not sufficient to live on, but her fame increased, and with it her circle of patients.
Maren herself never understood why she had become so famous; but she accepted the fact as it was, and turned it to the best account she could. She took up one thing or another of what she remembered from her childhood of her mother's good advice—and left the rest to look after itself; generally she was guided by circumstances as to what to say and do.
Maren had heard so often that she was a witch, and occasionally believed it herself. Other times she would marvel at people's stupidity. But she always thought with a sigh of the days when Sören still lived and she was nothing more than his "blockhead"—those were happy days.
Now she was lonely. Sören lay under the ground, and every one else avoided her like the plague, when they did not require her services. Others met and enjoyed a gossip, but no one thought of running in to Maren for a cup of coffee. Even her neighbors kept themselves carefully away, though they often required a helping hand and got it too. She had but one living friend, who looked to her with confidence and who was not afraid of her—Ditte.
It was a sad and sorry task to be a wise woman—only more so as it was not her own choice; but it gave her a livelihood.
[CHAPTER IX]
Ditte Visits Fairyland
Ditte was now big enough to venture out alone, and would often run away from home, without making Maren uneasy. She needed some one to play with, and sought for playmates in the hamlet and the huts at the edge of the forest. But the parents would call their children in when they saw her coming. Eventually the children themselves learned to beware of her; they would throw stones at her when she came near, and shout nicknames: bastard and witch's brat. Then she tried children in other places and met the same fate; at last it dawned upon her that she stood apart. She was not even sure of the children at home; just as she was playing with them on the sandhills, making necklaces and rings of small blue scabious, the mother would run out and tear the children away.
She had to learn to play alone and be content with the society of the things around her; which she did. Ditte quickly invested her playthings with life; sticks and stones were all given a part and they were wonderfully easy to manage. Almost too well behaved, and Ditte herself sometimes had to put a little naughtiness into them; or they would be too dull. There was an old wornout wooden shoe of Sören's; Maren had painted a face on it and given it an old shawl as a dress. In Ditte's world it took the part of a boy—a rascal of a boy—always up to mischief and in some scrape or other. It was constantly breaking things, and every minute Ditte had to punish it and give it a good whipping.
One day she was sitting outside in the sun busily engaged in scolding this naughty boy of a doll, in a voice deep with motherly sorrow and annoyance. Maren, who stood inside the kitchen door cleaning herrings, listened with amusement. "If you do it once more," said the child, "we'll take you up to the old witch, and she'll eat you all up."
Maren came quickly out. "Who says that?" asked she, her furrowed face quivering.
"The Bogie-man says it," said Ditte cheerfully.
"Rubbish, child, be serious. Who's taught you that? Tell me at once."
Ditte tried hard to be solemn. "Bogie-doggie said it—tomorrow!" bubbling over with mirth.
No-one could get the better of her; she was bored, and just invented any nonsense that came into her head. Maren gave it up and returned to her work quietly and in deep thought.
She stood crying over her herrings, with the salt tears dropping down into the pickle. She often cried of late, over herself and over the world in general; the people treated her as if she were infected with the plague, poisoning the air round her with their meanness and hate, while as far as she knew she had always helped them to the best of her ability. They did not hesitate in asking her advice when in trouble, though at the same time they would blame her for having brought it upon them—calling her every name they could think of when she had gone. Even the child's innocent lips called her a witch.
Since Sören's death sorrow and tears had reddened Maren's eyes with inflammation and turned her eyelids, but her neighbors only took it as another sign of her hardened witchcraft. Her sight was failing too, and she often had to depend upon Ditte's young eyes; and then it would happen that the child took advantage of the opportunity and played pranks.
Ditte was not bad—she was neither bad nor good. She was simply a little creature, whose temperament required change. And so little happened in her world, that she seized on whatever offered to prevent herself from being bored to death.
One day something did happen! From one of the big farms, lying at the other side of the common, with woods bounding the sandhills, Maren had received permission to gather sticks in the wood every Tuesday. There was not much heat in them, but they were good enough for making a cup of coffee.
These Tuesdays were made into picnics. They took their meals with them, which they enjoyed in some pleasant spot, preferably by the edge of the lake, and Ditte would sit on the wheelbarrow on both journeys. When they had got their load, they would pick berries or—in the autumn—crab-apples and sloes, which were afterwards cooked in the oven.
Now Granny was ill, having cried so much that she could no longer see—which Ditte quite understood—but the extraordinary part of it was that the water seemed to have gone to her legs, so that she could not stand on them. The little one had to trudge all alone to the forest for the sticks. It was a long way, but to make up for it, the forest was full of interest. Now she could go right in, where otherwise she was not allowed to go, because Granny was afraid of getting lost, and always kept to the outskirts. There were singing birds in there, their twittering sounded wonderful under the green trees, the air was like green water with rays of light in it, and it hummed and seethed in the darkness under the bushes.
Ditte was not afraid, though it must be admitted she occasionally shivered. Every other minute she stopped to listen, and when a dry stick snapped, she started, thrilled with excitement. She was not bored here, her little body was brimming over with the wonder of it; each step brought her fresh experiences full of unknown solemnity. Suddenly it would jump out at her with a frightful: pshaw!—exactly as the fire did when Granny poured paraffin over it—and she would hurry away, as quickly as her small feet would carry her, until she came to an opening in the wood.
On one of these flights she came to a wide river, with trees bending over it. It was like a wide stream of greenness flowing down, and Ditte stood transfixed, in breathless wonder. The green of the river she quickly grasped, for this was the color poured down on all trees—and the river here was the end of the world. Over on the other side the Lord lived; if she looked very hard she could just catch a glimpse of his gray bearded face in a thicket of thorns. But how was all this greenness made?
She ran for some distance along the edge of the river, watching it, until she was stopped by two ladies, so beautiful that she had never seen anything like them before. Though there was no rain, and they were walking under the trees in the shadow, they held parasols, on which the sun gleamed through the green leaves, looking like glowing coins raining down on to their parasols. They kneeled in front of Ditte as if she were a little princess, lifting her bare feet and peeping under the soles, as they questioned her.
Well, her name was Ditte. Ditte Mischief and Ditte Goodgirl—and Ditte child o' Man!
The ladies looked at each other and laughed, and asked her where she lived.
In Granny's house, of course.
"What Granny?" asked the stupid ladies again.
Ditte stamped her little bare foot on the grass:
"Oh, Granny! that's blind sometimes 'cos she cries so much. Ditte's own Granny."
Then they pretended to be much wiser, and asked her to go home with them for a little while. Ditte gave her little hand trustingly to one of them and trotted along; she did not mind seeing if they lived on the other side of the river—with the Lord. Then it would be angels she had met.
They went along the river; Ditte, impatient with excitement, thought it would never end. At last they came to a footbridge, arched across the river. At the end of the bridge was a barred gate with railings on each side, which it was impossible to climb over or under. The ladies opened the gate with a key and carefully locked it again, and Ditte found herself in a most beautiful garden. By the path stood lovely flowers in clusters, red and blue, swaying their pretty heads; and on low bushes were delicious large red berries such as she had never tasted before.
Ditte knew at once that this was Paradise. She threw herself against one of the ladies, her mouth red with the juice of the berries, looking up at her with an unfathomable expression in her dark blue eyes and said: "Am I dead now?"
The ladies laughed and took her into the house, through beautiful rooms where one walked on thick soft shawls with one's boots on. In the innermost room a little lady was sitting in an armchair. She was white-haired and wrinkled and had spectacles on her nose; and wore a white nightcap in spite of it being the middle of the day. "This is our Granny!" said one of the ladies.
"Grandmother, look, we have caught a little wood goblin," they shouted into the old lady's ear. Just think, this Granny was deaf—her own was only blind.
Ditte went round peeping inquisitively into the different rooms. "Where's the Lord?" asked she suddenly.
"What is the child saying?" exclaimed one of the ladies. But the one who had taken Ditte by the hand, drew the little one towards her and said: "The Lord does not live here, he lives up in Heaven. She thinks this is Paradise," she added, turning to her sister.
It worried them to see her running about barefooted, and they carefully examined her feet, fearing she might have been bitten by some creeping thing in the wood. "Why does not the child wear boots?" said the old lady. Her head shook so funnily when she spoke, all the white curls bobbed—just like bluebells.
Ditte had no boots.
"Good Heavens! do you hear that, Grandmother, the child has no boots. Have you nothing at all to put on your feet?"
"Bogie-man," burst out Ditte, laughing roguishly.
She was tired now of answering all their questions. However, they dragged out of her that she had a pair of wooden shoes, which were being kept for winter.
"Then with the help of God she shall have a pair of my cloth ones," said the old lady. "Give her a pair, Asta; and take a fairly good pair."
"Certainly, Grandmother," answered one of the young women—the one Ditte liked best.
So Ditte was put into the cloth boots. Then she was given different kinds of food, such as she had never tasted before, and did not care for either; she kept to the bread, being most familiar with that—greatly to the astonishment of the three women.
"She is fastidious," said one of the young ladies.
"It can hardly be called that, when she prefers bread to anything else," answered Miss Asta eagerly. "But she is evidently accustomed to very plain food, and yet see how healthy she is." She drew the little one to her and kissed her.
"Let her take it home with her," said the old lady, "such children of nature never eat in captivity. My husband once captured a little wild monkey down on the Gold Coast, but was obliged to let it go again because it refused to eat."
Then Ditte was given the food packed into a pretty little basket of red and white straw; a Leghorn hat was put upon her head, and a large red bow adorned her breast. She enjoyed all this very much—but suddenly, remembering her Granny, wanted to go home. She stood pulling the door handle, and they had to let this amusing little wood goblin out again. Hurriedly a few strawberries were put into the basket, and off she disappeared into the wood.
"I hope she can find her way back again," said Miss Asta looking after her with dreaming eyes.
Ditte certainly found her way home. It was fortunate that in her longing to be there, she entirely forgot what was in the basket. Otherwise old Maren would have gone to her grave without ever having tasted strawberries.
After that Ditte often ran deep into the forest, in the hope that the adventure would repeat itself. It had been a wonderful experience, the most wonderful in her life. Old Maren encouraged her too. "You just go right into the thicket," she said. "Naught can harm you, for you're a Sunday child. And when you get to the charmed house, you must ask for a pair of cloth boots for me too. Say that old Granny has water in her legs and can hardly bear shoes on her feet."
The river was easily found, but she did not meet the beautiful ladies again, and the footbridge with the gate had disappeared. There were woods on the other side of the river just as on this, the Lord's face she could no longer find either, look as she might; Fairyland was no more.
"You'll see, 'twas naught but a dream," said old Maren.
"But, Granny, the strawberries," answered Ditte.
Ay, the strawberries—that was true enough! Maren had eaten some of them herself, and she had never tasted anything so delicious either. Twenty times bigger than wild strawberries, and satisfying too—so unlike other berries, which only upset one.
"The dream goblin, who took you to Fairyland, gave you those so that other folks might taste them too," said the old one at last.
And with this explanation they were satisfied.
[CHAPTER X]
Ditte Gets A Father
On getting up one morning, Maren found her tenants had gone, they had moved in the middle of the night. "The Devil has been and fetched them," she said cheerfully. She was not at all sorry that they had vanished; they were a sour and quarrelsome family! But the worst of it was that they owed her twelve weeks' rent—twelve crowns—which was all she had to meet the winter with.
Maren put up a notice and waited for new tenants, but none offered themselves; the old ones had spread the rumor that the house was haunted.
Maren felt the loss of the rent so much more as she had given up her profession. She would no longer be a wise woman, it was impossible to bear the curse. "Go to those who are wiser, and leave me in peace," she answered, when they came for advice or to fetch her, and they had to go away with their object unaccomplished, and soon it was said that Maren had lost her witchcraft.
Yes, her strength diminished, her sight was almost gone, and her legs refused to carry her. She spun and knitted for people and took to begging again, Ditte leading her from farm to farm. They were weary journeys; the old woman always complaining and leaning heavily on the child's shoulder. Ditte could not understand it at all, the flowers in the ditches and a hundred other things called her, she longed to shake off the leaden arm and run about alone, Granny's everlasting wailing filled her with a hopeless loathing. Then a mischievous thought would seize her. "I can't find the way, Granny," she would suddenly declare, refusing to go a step further, or she would slip away, hiding herself nearby. Maren scolded and threatened for a while, but as it had no effect, she would sit down on the edge of the ditch crying; this softened Ditte and she would hurry back, putting her arms around her grandmother's neck. Thus they cried together, in sorrow over the miserable world and joy at having found each other again.
A little way inland lived a baker, who gave them a loaf of bread every week. The child was sent for it when Maren was ill in bed. Ditte was hungry, and this was a great temptation, so she always ran the whole way home to keep the tempter at bay; when she succeeded in bringing the bread back untouched, she and her Granny were equally proud. But it sometimes happened that the pangs of hunger were too strong, and she would tear out the crump from the side of the warm bread as she ran. It was not meant to be seen, and for that reason she took it from the side of the bread—just a little, but before she knew what had happened the whole loaf was hollowed out. Then she would be furious, at herself and Granny and everything.
"Here's the bread, Granny," she would say in an offhand voice, throwing the bread on the table.
"Thank you, dear, is it new?"
"Yes, Granny," and Ditte disappeared.
Thereupon the old woman would sit gnawing the crust with her sore gums, all the while grumbling at the child. Wicked girl—she should be whipped. She should be turned out, to the workhouse.
To their minds there was nothing worse than the workhouse; in all their existence, it had been as a sword over their heads, and when brought forth by Maren, Ditte would come out from her hiding-place, crying and begging for pardon. The old woman would cry too, and the one would soothe the other, until both were comforted.
"Ay, ay, 'tis hard to live," old Maren would say. "If you'd but had a father—one worth having. Maybe you'd have got the thrashings all folks need, and poor old Granny'd have lived with you instead of begging her food!"
Maren had barely finished speaking, when a cart with a bony old nag in the shafts stopped outside on the road. A big stooping man with tousled hair and beard sprang down from the cart, threw the reins over the back of the nag, and came towards the house. He looked like a coalheaver.
"He's selling herrings," said Ditte, who was kneeling on a stool by the window. "Shall I let him in?"
"Ay, just open the door."
Ditte unbolted the door, and the man came staggering in. He wore heavy wooden boots, into which his trousers were pushed; and each step he took rang through the room, which was too low for him to stand upright in. He stood looking round just inside the door; Ditte had taken refuge behind Granny's spinning wheel. He came towards the living room, holding out his hand.
Ditte burst into laughter at his confusion when the old woman did not accept it. "Why, Granny's blind!" she said, bubbling over with mirth.
"Oh, that's it? Then it's hardly to be expected that you could see," he said, taking the old woman's hand. "Well, I'm your son-in-law, there's news for you." His voice rang with good-humor.
Maren quickly raised her head. "Which of the girls is it?" asked she.
"The mother of this young one," answered he, aiming at Ditte with his big battered hat. "It's not what you might call legal yet; we've done without the parson till he's needed—so much comes afore that. But a house and a home we've got, though poor it may be. We live a good seven miles inland on the other side of the common—on the sand—folks call it the 'Crow's Nest'!"
"And what's your name?" asked Maren again.
"Lars Peter Hansen, I was christened."
The old woman considered for a while, then shook her head. "I've never heard of you."
"My father was called the hangman. Maybe you know me now?"
"Ay, 'tis a known name—if not of the best."
"Folks can't always choose their own names, or character either, and must just be satisfied with a clear conscience. But as I was passing I thought I'd just look in and see you. When we're having the parson to give us his blessing, Sörine and me, I'll come with the trap and fetch the two of you to church. That's if you don't care to move down to us at once—seems like that would be best."
"Did Sörine send the message?" asked Maren suspiciously.
Lars Peter Hansen mumbled something, which might be taken for either yes or no.
"Ay, I thought so, you hit on it yourself, and thanks to you for your kindness; but we'd better stay where we are. Though we'd like to go to the wedding. 'Tis eight children I've brought into the world, and nigh all married now, but I've never been asked to a wedding afore." Maren became thoughtful. "And what's your trade?" she asked soon after.
"I hawk herrings—and anything else to be got. Buy rags and bones too when folks have any."
"You can hardly make much at that—for folks wear their rags as long as there's a thread left—and there's few better off than that. Or maybe they're more well-to-do in other places?"
"Nay, 'tis the same there as here, clothes worn out to the last thread, and bones used until they crumble," answered the man with a laugh. "But a living's to be made."
"Ay, that's so, food's to be got from somewhere! But you must be hungry? 'Tisn't much we've got to offer you, though we can manage a cup of coffee, if that's good enough—Ditte, run along to the baker and tell him what you've done to the bread, and that we've got company. Maybe he'll scold you and give you another—if he doesn't, we'll have to go without next week. But tell the truth. Hurry up now—and don't pull out the crump."
With lingering feet Ditte went out of the door. It was a hard punishment, and she hung back in the hope that Granny would relent and let her off fetching the bread. Pull out the crump—no, never again, today or as long as she lived. Her ears burned with shame at the thought that her new father should know her misdeeds, the baker too would know what a wicked girl she was to Granny. She would not tell an untruth, for Granny always said to clear oneself with a lie was like cutting thistles: cut off the head of one and half a dozen will spring up in its place. Ditte knew from experience that lies always came back on one with redoubled trouble; consequently she had made up her little mind, that it did not pay to avoid the truth.
Lars Peter Hansen sat by the window gazing after the child, who loitered along the road, and as she suddenly began to run, he turned to the old woman, asking: "Can you manage her?"
"Ay, she's good enough," said Maren from the kitchen, fumbling with the sticks in trying to light the fire. "I've no one better to lean on—and don't want it either. But she's a child, and I'm old and troublesome—so the one makes up for the other. The foal will kick backwards, and the old horse will stand. But 'tis dull to spend one's childhood with one that's old and weak and all."
Ditte was breathless when she reached the baker's, so quickly had she run in order to get back as soon as possible to the big stooping man with the good-natured growl.
"Now I've got a father, just like other children," she shouted breathlessly. "He's at home with Granny—and he's got a horse and cart."
"Nay, is that so?" said they, opening their eyes, "and what's his name?"
"He's called the rag and bone man!" answered Ditte proudly.
And they knew him here! Ditte saw them exchange glances.
"Then you belong to a grand family," said the baker's wife, laying the loaf of bread on the counter—without realizing that the child had already had her weekly loaf, so taken up was she with the news.
And Ditte, who was even more so, seized the bread and ran. Not until she was halfway home did she remember what she ought to have confessed; it was too late then.
Before Lars Peter Hansen left, he presented them with a dozen herrings, and repeated his promise of coming to fetch them to the wedding.
[CHAPTER XI]
The New Father
When Ditte was six months old, she had the bad habit of putting things into her mouth—everything went that way. This was the proof whether they could be eaten or not.
Ditte laughed when Granny told about it, because she was so much wiser now. There were things one could not eat and yet get pleasure from, and other things which could be eaten, but gave more enjoyment if one left them alone, content in the thought of how they would taste if——Then one hugged oneself with delight at keeping it so much longer. "You're foolish," said Granny, "eat it up before it goes bad!" But Ditte understood how to put by. She would dream over one or other thing she had got: a red apple, for instance, she would press to her cheek and mouth and kiss. Or she would hide it and go about thinking of it with silent devotion. Should she return and find it spoiled, well, in imagination she had eaten it over and over again. This was beyond Granny; her helplessness had made her greedy, and she could never get enough to eat; now it was she who put everything into her mouth.
But then they had watched the child, for fear she should eat something which might harm her. More so Sören. "Not into your mouth!" he often said. Whereupon the child would gaze at him, take the thing out of her own mouth and try to put it into his. Was it an attempt to get an accomplice, or did the little one think it was because he himself wanted to suck the thing, that he forbade her? Sören was never quite clear on this point.
At all events, Ditte had learned at an early age to reckon with other people's selfishness. If they gave good advice or corrected her, it was not so much out of consideration for her as for their own ends. Should she meet the bigger girls on the road, and happen to have an apple in her hand, they would say to her: "Fling that horrible apple away, or you'll get worms!" But Ditte no longer threw the apple away; she had found out that they only picked it up as soon as she had gone, to eat it themselves. Things were not what they appeared to be, more often than not there was something behind what one saw and heard.
Some people declared, that things really meant for one were put behind a back—a stick, for instance; it was always wise to be on the watch.
With Granny naturally it was not like this. She was simply Granny through all their ups and downs, and one need never beware of her. She was only more whining than she used to be, and could no longer earn their living. Ditte had to bear the greatest share of the burden, and was already capable of getting necessities for the house; she knew when the farmers were killing or churning, and would stand barefooted begging for a little for Granny. "Why don't you get poor relief?" said some, but gave all the same; the needy must not be turned away from one's door, if one's food were to be blessed. But under these new conditions it was impossible to have any respect for Granny, who was treated more as a spoiled child, and often corrected and then comforted.
"Ay, 'tis all very well for you," said the old woman—"you've got sight and good legs, the whole world's afore you. But I've only the grave to look forward to."
"Do you want to die?" asked Ditte, "and go to old Grandfather Sören?"
Indeed, no, Granny did not wish to die. But she could not help thinking of the grave; it drew her and yet frightened her. Her tired limbs were never really rested, and a long, long sleep under the green by Sören's side was a tempting thought, if only one could be sure of not feeling the cold. Yes, and that the child was looked after, of course.
"Then I'll go over to my new father," declared Ditte whenever it was spoken of. Granny need have no fear for her. "But do you think Grandfather Sören's still there?"
Yes, that was what old Maren was not quite sure of herself. She could so well imagine the grave as the end of everything, and rest peacefully with that thought; oh! the blissfulness of laying one's tired head where no carts could be heard, and to be free for all eternity from aches and pains and troubles, and only rest. Perhaps this would not be allowed—there was so much talking: the parson said one thing and the lay preacher another. Sören might not be there any longer, and she would have to search for him till she found him, which would be difficult enough if after death he had been transformed to youth again. Sören had been wild and dissipated. Where he was, Maren must also be, there was no doubt about that. But she preferred to have it arranged so that she could have a long rest by Sören's side, as a reward for all those weary years.
"Then I'll go to my new father!" repeated Ditte. This had become her refrain.
"Ay, just as ye like!" answered Maren harshly. She did not like the child taking the subject so calmly.
But Ditte needed some one who could secure her future. Granny was no good, she was too old and helpless, and she was a woman. There ought to be a man! And now she had found him. She lay down to sleep behind Granny with a new feeling now; she had a real father, just like other children, one who was married to her mother, and in addition possessed a horse and cart. The bald young owner of the Sand farm, who was so thin and mean that he froze everybody near him, she never took to, he was too cold for that. But the rag and bone man had taken her on his knee and shouted in her ear with his big blustering voice. They might shout "brat" after her as much as they liked, for all she cared. She had a father taller than any of theirs, he had to bend his head when he stood under the beams in Granny's sitting room.
The outlook was so much better now, one fell asleep feeling richer and woke again—not disappointed as when one had dreamt—but with a feeling of security. Such a father was much better to depend upon, than an old blind Granny, who was nothing but a bundle of rags. Every night when Granny undressed, Ditte was equally astonished at seeing her take off skirt after skirt, getting thinner and thinner until, as if by witchcraft, nothing was left of the fat grandmother but a skeleton, a withered little crone, who wheezed like the leaky bellows by the fireplace.
They looked forward to the day when the new father would come and fetch them to the wedding. Then of course it would be in a grand carriage—the other one was only a cart. It would happen when they were most wearied with life, not knowing where to turn for food or coffee. Suddenly they would hear the cheerful crack of a whip outside, and there he would stand, saluting with his whip, the rascal; and as they got into the carriage, he would sit at attention with his whip—like the coachman on the estate.
Maren, poor soul, had never seen a carriage at her door; she was almost more excited than the child, and described it all to her. "And little I thought any carriage would ever come for me, but the one that took me to the churchyard," she would say each time. "But your mother, she always had a weakness for what is grand."
There had come excitement into their poor lives. Ditte was no longer bored, and did not have to invent mischief to keep her little mind occupied. She had also developed a certain feeling of responsibility towards her grandmother, now that she was dependent on her—they got on much better together. "You're very good to your old Granny, child," Maren would often say, and then they would cry over each other without knowing why.
The little wide-awake girl now had to be eyes for Granny as well, and old Maren had to learn to see things through Ditte. And as soon as she got used to it and put implicit faith in the child, all went well. Whenever Ditte was tempted to make fun, Maren had only to say: "You're not playing tricks, are you, child?" and she would immediately stop. She was intelligent and quick, and Maren could wish for no better eyes than hers, failing the use of her own. There she would sit fumbling and turning her sightless eyes towards every sound without discovering what it could be. But thanks to Ditte she was able by degrees to take up part of her old life again.
Perhaps after all she missed the skies more than anything else. The weather had always played a great part in Maren's life; not so much the weather that was, as that to come. This was the fishergirl in her; she took after her mother—and her mother again—from the time she began to take notice she would peer at the skies early and late. Everything was governed by them, even their food from day to day, and when they were dark—it cleared the table once and for all by taking the bread-winner. The sky was the first thing her eyes sought for in the morning, and the last to dwell upon at night. "There'll be a storm in the night," she would say, as she came in, or: "It'll be a good day for fishing tomorrow!" Ditte never understood how she knew this.
Maren seldom went out now, so it did not matter to her what the weather was, but she was still as much interested in it. "What's the sky like?" she would often ask. Ditte would run out and peer anxiously at the skies, very much taken up with her commission.
"'Tis red," she announced on her return, "and there's a man riding over it on a wet, wet horse. Is it going to rain then?"
"Is the sun going down into a sack?" asked Granny. Ditte ran out again to see.
"There's no sun at all," she came in and announced with excitement.
But Granny shook her head, there was nothing to be made of the child's explanation; she was too imaginative.
"Have you seen the cat eat grass today?" asked Maren after a short silence.
No, Ditte had not seen it do that. But it had jumped after flies.
Maren considered for a while. Well, well, it probably meant nothing good. "Go and see if there are stars under the coffee kettle," said she.
Ditte lifted the heavy copper kettle from the fire—yes, there were stars of fire in the soot, they swarmed over the bottom of the kettle in a glittering mass.
"Then it'll be stormy," said Granny relieved. "I've felt it for days in my bones." Should there be a storm, Maren always remembered to say: "Now, you see, I was right." And Ditte wondered over her Granny's wisdom.
"Is that why folks call you 'wise Maren'?" asked she.
"Ay, that's it. But it doesn't need much to be wiser than the others—if only one has sight. For folks are stupid—most of them."
Lars Peter Hansen they neither saw nor heard of for nearly a year. When people drove past, who they thought might come from his locality, they would make inquiries; but were never much wiser for all they heard. At last they began to wonder whether he really did exist; it was surely not a dream like the fairy-house in the wood?
And then one day he actually stood at the door. He did not exactly crack his whip—a long hazel-stick with a piece of string at the end—but he tried to do it, and the old nag answered by throwing back its head and whinnying. It was the same cart as before, but a seat with a green upholstered back, from which the stuffing protruded, had been put on. His big battered hat was the same too, it was shiny from age and full of dust, and with bits of straw and spiders' webs in the dents. From underneath it his tousled hair showed, so covered with dust and burrs and other things that the birds of the air might be tempted to build their nests in it.
"Now, what do you say to a little drive today?" he shouted gaily, as he tramped in. "I've brought fine weather with me, what?"
He might easily do that, for even yesterday Granny had seen to it that the weather should be fine, although she knew nothing of this. Last evening she touched the dew on the window-pane with her hand and had said: "There's dew for the morning sun to sparkle on."
Lars Peter Hansen had to wait, while Ditte lit the fire and made coffee for him. "What a clever girl you are," he burst out, as she put it in front of him, "you must have a kiss." He took her in his arms and kissed her; Ditte put her face against his rough cheek and did not speak a word. Suddenly he realized his cheek was wet, and turned her face toward his. "Have I hurt you?" he asked alarmed, and put her down.
"Nay, never a bit," said the old woman. "The child has been looking forward to a kiss from her father, and now it has come to pass—little as it is. You let her have her cry out; childish tears only wet the cheeks."
But Lars Peter Hansen went into the peat shed, where he found Ditte sobbing. Gently raising her, he dried her cheeks with his checked handkerchief, which looked as if it had been out many times before today.
"We'll be friends sure enough, we two—we'll be friends sure enough," he repeated soothingly. His deep voice comforted the child, she took his hand and followed him back again.
Granny, who was very fond of coffee, though she would never say so, had seized the opportunity to take an extra cup while they were out. In her haste to pour it out, some had been spilt on the table, and now she was trying to wipe it up in the hope it might not be seen. Ditte helped her to take off her apron, and washed her skirt with a wet cloth, so that it should not leave a mark; she looked quite motherly. She herself would have no coffee, she was so overwhelmed with happiness, that she could not eat.
Then the old woman was well wrapped up, and Lars Peter lifted them into the cart. Granny was put on the seat by his side, while Ditte, who was to have sat on the fodder-bag at the back, placed herself at their feet, for company. Lars took up the reins, pulled them tightly, and loosened them again; having done this several times, the old nag started with a jerk, which almost upset their balance, and off they went into the country.
It was glorious sunshine. Straight ahead the rolling downs lay bathed in it—and beyond, the country with forest and hill. It all looked so different from the cart, than when walking with bare feet along the road; all seemed to curtsey to Ditte, hills and forests and everything. She was not used to driving, and this was the first time she had driven in state and looked down on things. All those dreary hills that on other days stretched so heavily and monotonously in front of her, and had often been too much for her small feet, today lay down and said: "Yes, Ditte, you may drive over us with pleasure!" Granny did not share in all this, but she could feel the sun on her old back and was quite in holiday mood.
The old nag took its own time, and Lars Peter Hansen had no objection. He sat the whole time lightly touching it with his whip, a habit of his, and one without which the horse could not proceed. Should he stop for one moment, while pointing with his whip at the landscape, it would toss its head with impatience and look back—greatly to Ditte's enjoyment.
"Can't it gallop at all?" asked she, propping herself up between his knees.
"Rather, just you wait and see!" answered Lars Peter Hansen proudly. He pulled in the reins, but the nag only stopped, turned round, and looked at him with astonishment. For each lash of the whip, it threw up its tail and sawed the air with its head. Ditte's little body tingled with enjoyment.
"'Tisn't in the mood today," said Lars Peter Hansen, when he had at last got it into its old trot again. "It thinks it's a fraud to expect it to gallop, when it's been taking such long paces all the time."
"Did it say that?" asked Ditte, her eyes traveling from the one to the other.
"That's what it's supposed to mean. It's not far wrong."
Long paces it certainly did take—about that there was no mistake—but never two of equal length, and the cart was rolling in a zigzag all the time. What a funny horse it was. It looked as if it was made of odd parts, so bony and misshapen was it. No two parts matched, and its limbs groaned and creaked with every movement.
They drove past the big estate, where the squire lived, over the common, and still further out into the country which Granny had never seen before.
"But you can't see it now either," corrected Ditte pedantically.
"Oh, you always want to split hairs, 'course I can see it! When I hear you two speak, I see everything quite plainly. 'Tis a gift of God, to live through all this in my old days. But I smell something sweet, what is it?"
"Maybe 'tis the fresh water, Granny," said Lars Peter. "Two or three miles down to the left is the big lake. Granny has a sharp nose for anything that's wet." He chuckled over his little joke.
"'Tis water folks can drink without harm," said Maren thoughtfully; "Sören's told me about it. We were going to take a trip down there fishing for eels, but we never did. Ay, they say 'tis a pretty sight over the water to see the glare of the fires on the summer nights."
In between Lars Peter told them about conditions in his home. It was not exactly the wedding they were going to, for they had married about nine months ago—secretly. "'Twas done in a hurry," he apologetically explained, "or you two would have been there."
Maren became silent; she had looked forward to being present at the wedding of one of her girls at least, and nothing had come of it. Otherwise, it was a lovely trip.
"Have you any little ones then?" she asked shortly after.
"A boy," answered Lars Peter, "a proper little monkey—the image of his mother!" He was quite enthusiastic at the thought of the child. "Sörine's expecting another one soon," he added quietly.
"You're getting on," said Maren. "How is she?"
"Not quite so well this time. 'Tis the heartburn, she says."
"Then 'twill be a long-haired girl," Maren declared definitely. "And well on the way she must be, for the hair to stick in the mother's throat."
It was a beautiful September day. Everything smelt of mold, and the air was full of moisture, which could be seen as crystal drops over the sunlit land; a blue haze hung between the trees sinking to rest in the undergrowth, so that meadow and moor looked like a glimmering white sea.
Ditte marveled at the endlessness of the world. Constantly something new could be seen: forests, villages, churches; only the end of the world, which she expected every moment to see and put an end to everything, failed to appear. To the south some towers shone in the sun; it was a king's palace, said her father—her little heart mounted to her throat when he said that. And still further ahead——
"What's that I smell now?" Granny suddenly said, sniffing the air. "'Tis salt! We must be near the sea."
"Not just what one would call near, 'tis over seven miles away. Can you really smell the sea?"
Ay, ay, no-one need tell Maren that they neared the sea; she had spent all her life near it and ought to know. "And what sea is that?" asked she.
"The same as yours," answered Lars Peter.
"That's little enough to drive through the country for," said Maren laughingly.
And then they were at the end of their journey. It was quite a shock to them, when the nag suddenly stopped and Lars Peter sprang down from the cart. "Now, then," said he, lifting them down. Sörine came out with the boy in her arms; she was big and strong and had rough manners.
Ditte was afraid of this big red woman, and took refuge behind Granny. "She doesn't know you, that's why," said Maren, "she'll soon be all right."
But Sörine was angry. "Now, no more nonsense, child," said she, dragging her forward. "Kiss your mother at once."
Ditte began to howl, and tore herself away from her. Sörine looked as if she would have liked to use a parent's privilege and punish the child then and there. Her husband came between by snatching the child from her and placing her on the back of the horse. "Pat the kind horse and say thank you for the nice drive," said he. Thus he quieted Ditte, and carried her to Sörine. "Kiss mother," he said, and Ditte put forth her little mouth invitingly. But now Sörine refused. She looked at the child angrily, and went to get water for the horse.
Sörine had killed a couple of chickens in their honor, and on the whole made them comfortable, as far as their food and drink went; but there was a lack of friendliness which made itself felt. She had always been cold and selfish, and had not improved with years. By the next morning old Maren saw it was quite time for them to return home, and against this Sörine did not demur. After dinner Lars Peter harnessed the old nag, lifted them into the cart, and off they set homewards, relieved that it was over. Even Lars Peter was different out in the open to what he was at home. He sang and cracked jokes, while home he was quiet and said little.
They were thankful to be home again in the hut on the Naze. "Thank the Lord, 'tis not your mother we've to look to for our daily bread," said Granny, when Lars Peter Hansen had taken leave; and Ditte threw her arms round the old woman's neck and kissed her. Today she realized fully Granny's true worth.
It had been somewhat of a disappointment. Sörine was not what they had expected her to be, and her home was not up to much. As far as Granny found out from Ditte's description, it was more like a mud-hut, which had been given the name of dwelling-house, barn, etc. In no way could it be compared with the hut on the Naze.
But the drive had been beautiful.
[CHAPTER XII]
The Rag And Bone Man
All who knew Lars Peter Hansen agreed that he was a comical fellow. He was always in a good temper, and really there was no reason why he should be—especially where he was concerned. He belonged to a race of rag and bone men, who as far back as any one could remember, had traded in what others would not touch, and had therefore been given the name of rag and bone folk. His father drove with dogs and bought up rags and bones and other unclean refuse; when a sick or tainted animal had to be done away with he was always sent for. He was a fellow who never minded what he did, and would bury his arms up to the elbows in the worst kind of carrion, and then go straight to his dinner without even rinsing his fingers in water; people declared that in the middle of the night he would go and dig up the dead animals and strip them of their skin. His father, it was said, had gone as a boy to give his uncle a helping hand. As an example of the boy's depravity, it was said that when the rope would not tighten round the neck of a man who was being hung, he would climb up the gallows, drop down on to the unfortunate man's shoulder, and sit there.
There was not much to inherit, and there was absolutely nothing to be proud of. Lars Peter had probably felt this, for when quite young he had turned his back on the home of his childhood. He crossed the water and tried for work in North Sea land—his ambition was to be a farmer. He was a steady and respectable fellow, and as strong as a horse, any farmer would willingly employ him.
But if he thought he could run away from things, he was mistaken. Rumors of his origin followed faithfully at his heels, and harmed him at every turn. He might just as well have tried to fly from his own shadow.
Fortunately it did not affect him much. He was good-natured—wherever he had got it from—there was not a bad thought in his mind. His strength and trustworthiness made up for his low origin, so that he was able to hold his own with other young men; it even happened, that a well-to-do girl fell in love with his strength and black hair, and wanted him for a husband. In spite of her family's opposition they became engaged; but very soon she died, so he did not get hold of her money.
So unlucky was he in everything, that it seemed as if the sins of his fathers were visited upon him. But Lars Peter took it as the way of the world. He toiled and saved, till he had scraped together sufficient money to clear a small piece of land on the Sand—and once again looked for a wife. He met a girl from one of the fishing-hamlets; they took to each other, and he married her.
There are people, upon whose roof the bird of misfortune always sits flapping its black wings. It is generally invisible to all but the inmates of the house; but it may happen, that all others see it, except those whom it visits.
Lars Peter was one of those whom people always watched for something to happen. To his race stuck the two biggest mysteries of all—the blood and the curse; that he himself was good and happy made it no less exciting. Something surely was in store for him; every one could see the bird of misfortune on his roof.
He himself saw nothing, and with confidence took his bride home. No one told him that she had been engaged to a sailor, who was drowned; and anyway, what good would it have done? Lars Peter was not the man to be frightened away by the dead, he was at odds with no man. And no one can escape his fate.
They were as happy together as any two human beings can be; Lars Peter was good to her, and when he had finished his own work, would help her with the milking, and carry water in for her. Hansine was happy and satisfied; every one could see she had got a good husband. The bird that lived on their roof could be none other than the stork, for before long Hansine confided in Lars Peter that she was with child.
It was the most glorious news he had ever had in his life, and if he had worked hard before he did even more so now. His evenings were spent in the woodshed; there was a cradle to be made, and a rocking-chair, and small wooden shoes to be carved. As he worked he would hum, something slightly resembling a melody, but always the same tune; then suddenly Hansine would come running out throwing herself into his arms. She had become so strange under her pregnancy, she could find no rest, and would sit for hours with her thoughts far away—as if listening to distant voices—and could not be roused up again. Lars Peter put it down to her condition, and took it all good-humoredly. His even temperament had a soothing effect upon her, and she was soon happy again. But at times she was full of anxiety, and would run out to him in the fields, almost beside herself. It was almost impossible to persuade her to return to the house, he only succeeded after promising to keep within sight. She was afraid of one thing or another at home, but when he urged her to tell him the reason, she would look dumbly at him.
After the child's birth, she was her old self again. Their delight was great in the little one, and they were happier even than before.
But this strange phase returned when she again became pregnant, only in a stronger degree. There were times, when her fear forced her out of the house, and she would run into the fields, wring her hands in anguish. The distracted husband would fetch the screaming child to her, thus tempting her home again. This time she gave in and confided in him, that she had been engaged to a sailor, who had made her promise that she would remain faithful, if anything happened to him at sea.
"Did he never come back then?" asked Lars Peter slowly.
Hansine shook her head. And he had threatened to return and claim her, if she broke her word. He had said, he would tap on the trap-door in the ceiling.
"Did you promise of your own free will?" Lars Peter said ponderously.
No, Hansine thought he had pressed her.
"Then you're not bound by it," said he. "My family, maybe, are not much to go by, scum of the earth as we are. But my father and my grandfather always used to say, there's no need to fear the dead; they were easier to get away from than the living." She sat bending over the babe, which had cried itself to sleep on her knees, and Lars Peter stood with his arms round her shoulder, softly rocking her backwards and forwards, as he tried to talk her to reason. "You must think of the little one here—and the other little one to come! The only thing which can't be forgiven, is unkindness to those given to us."
Hansine took his hand and pressed it against her tearful eyes. Then rising herself she put the child to bed; she was calm now.
The rag and bone man had no superstition of any kind, or fear either, it was the only bright touch in the darkness of his race that they possessed; this property caused them to be outcasts—and decided their trade. Those who are not haunted, haunt others.
The only curse he knew, was the curse of being an outcast and feared; and this, thank the Lord, had been removed where he was concerned. He did not believe in persecution from a dead man. But he understood the serious effect it had upon Hansine, and was much troubled on her account. Before going to bed, he took down the trap-door and hid it under the roof.
Thus they had children one after the other, and with it trouble and depression. Instead of becoming better it grew worse with each one; and as much as Lars Peter loved his children, he hoped each one would be the last. The children themselves bore no mark of having been carried under a heart full of fear. They were like small shining suns, who encircled him all day long from the moment they could move. They added enjoyment to his work, and as each new one made its appearance, he received it as a gift of God. His huge fists entirely covered the newly born babe, when handed to him by the midwife—looking in its swaddling clothes like the leg of a boot—as he lifted it to the ceiling. His voice in its joy was like the deep chime of a bell, and the babe's head rolled from side to side, while blinking its eyes at the light. Never had any one been so grateful for children, wife and everything else as Lars Peter. He was filled with admiration for them all, it was a glorious world.
He did not exactly make headway on his little farm. It was poor land, and Lars Peter was said to be unlucky. Either he lost an animal or the crop was spoiled by hail. Other people kept an account of these accidents, Lars Peter himself had no feeling of being treated badly. On the contrary he was thankful for his farm, and toiled patiently on it. Nothing affected him.
When Hansine was to have her fifth child, she was worse than ever. She had made him put up the trap-door again, on the pretense that she could not stay in the kitchen for the draught, and she would be nowhere else but there—she was waiting for the tap. She complained no longer nor on the whole was she anxious either. It was as if she had learned to endure what could not be evaded; she was absent-minded, and Lars Peter had the sad feeling that she no longer belonged to him. In the night he would suddenly realize that she was missing from his side—and would find her in the kitchen stiff with cold. He carried her back to bed, soothing her like a little child, and she would fall asleep on his breast.
Her condition was such, that he never dared go from home, and leave her alone with the children; he had to engage a woman to keep an eye on her, and look after the house. She now neglected everything and looked at the children as if they were the cause of her trouble.
One day when he was taking a load of peat to town, an awful thing happened. What Hansine had been waiting for so long, now actually took place. She sent the woman, who was supposed to be with her, away on some excuse or other; and when Lars Peter returned, the animals were bellowing and every door open. There was no sign of wife or children. The poultry slipped past him, as he went round calling. He found them all in the well. It was a fearful sight to see the mother and four children lying in a row, first on the cobble-stoned yard, wet and pitiful, and afterwards on the sitting-room table dressed for burial. Without a doubt the sailor had claimed his right! The mother had jumped down last, with the youngest in her arms; they found her like this, tightly clasping the child, though she had not deserved it.
Every one was deeply shocked by this dreadful occurrence. They would willingly have given him a comforting and helping hand now; but it seemed that nothing could be done to help him in his trouble. He did not easily accept favors.
He busied himself round and about the dead, until the day of the funeral. No one saw him shed a single tear, not even when the earth was thrown on to the coffins, and people wondered at his composure; he had clung so closely to them. He was probably one of those who were cursed with inability to cry, thought the women.
After the funeral, he asked a neighbor to look after his animals; he had to go to town, said he. With that he disappeared, and for two years he was not seen; it was understood that he had gone to sea. The farm was taken over by the creditors; there was no more than would pay what he owed, so that at all events, he did not lose anything by it.
One day he suddenly cropped up again, the same old Lars Peter, prepared, like Job, to start again from the beginning. He had saved a little money in the last two years, and bought a partly ruined hut, a short distance north of his former farm. With the hut went a bit of marsh, and a few acres of poor land, which had never been under the plow. He bought a few sheep and poultry, put up an outhouse of peat and reeds taken from the marsh—and settled himself in. He dug peat and sold it, and when there was a good catch of herrings, would go down to the nearest fishing hamlet with his wheelbarrow and buy a load, taking them from hut to hut. He preferred to barter them, taking in exchange old metal, rags and bones, etc. It was the trade of his race he took up again, and although he had never practised it before, he fell into it quite easily. One day he took home a big bony horse, which he had got cheap, because no-one else had any use for it; another day he brought Sörine home. Everything went well for him.
He had met Sörine at some gathering down in one of the fishing huts, and they quickly made a match of it. She was tired of her place and he of being alone; so they threw in their lot together.
He was out the whole day long, and often at night too. When the fishing season was in full swing, he would leave home at one or two o'clock in the night, to be at the hamlet when the first boats came in. On these occasions Sörine stayed up to see that he did not oversleep himself. This irregular life came as naturally to her as to him, and she was a great help to him. So now once more he had a wife, and one who could work too. He possessed a horse, which had no equal in all the land—and a farm! It was not what could be called an estate, the house was built of hay, mud and sticks; people would point laughingly at it as they passed. Lars Peter alone was thankful for it.
He was a satisfied being—rather too much so, thought Sörine. She was of a different nature, always straining forward, and pushing him along so that her position might be bettered. She was an ambitious woman. When he was away, she managed everything; and the first summer helped him to build a proper outhouse, of old beams and bricks, which she made herself by drying clay in the sun. "Now we've a place for the animals just like other people," said she, when it was finished. But her voice showed that she was not satisfied.
At times Lars Peter Hansen would suggest that they ought to take Granny and Ditte to live with them. "They're so lonely and dull," said he, "and the Lord only knows where they get food from."
But this Sörine would not hear of. "We've enough to do without them," answered she sharply, "and Mother's not in want, I'm sure. She was always clever at helping herself. If they come here, I'll have the money paid for Ditte. 'Tis mine by right."
"They'll have eaten that up long ago," said Lars Peter.
But Sörine did not think so; it would not be like her father or her mother. She was convinced that her mother had hidden it somewhere or other. "If she would only sell the hut, and give the money to us," said she. "Then we could build a new house."
"Much wants more!" answered Lars Peter smilingly. In his opinion the house they lived in was quite good enough. But he was a man who thought anything good enough for him, and nothing too good for others. If he were allowed to rule they would soon end in the workhouse!
So Lars Peter avoided the question, and after Granny's visit, and having seen her and Sörine together, he understood they would be best apart. They did not come to his home again, but when he was buying up in their part of the country, he would call in at the hut on the Naze and take a cup of coffee with them. He would then bring a paper of coffee and some cakes with him, so as not to take them unawares, and had other small gifts too. These were days of rejoicing in the little hut. They longed for him, from one visit to another, and could talk of very little else. Whenever there were sounds of wheels, Ditte would fly to the window, and Granny would open wide her sightless eyes. Ditte gathered old iron from the shore as a surprise for her father; and when he drove home, she would go with him as far as the big hill, behind which the sun went down.
Lars Peter said nothing of these visits when he got home.
[CHAPTER XIII]
Ditte Has A Vision
Before losing her sight Maren had taught Ditte to read, which came in very useful now. They never went to church; their clothes were too shabby, and the way too long. Maren was not particularly zealous in her attendance, a life-long experience had taught her to take what the parson said with a grain of salt. But on Sundays, when people streamed past on their way to church, they were both neatly dressed, Ditte with a clean pinafore and polished wooden shoes, and Granny with a stringed cap. Then Granny would be sitting in the armchair at the table, spectacles on her nose and the Bible in front of her, and Ditte standing beside her reading the scriptures for the day. In spite of her blindness, Maren insisted upon wearing her spectacles and having the holy book in front of her, according to custom, otherwise it was not right.
Ditte was nearly of school age, but Maren took no notice of it, and kept her home. She was afraid of the child not getting on with the other children—and could not imagine how she herself could spare her the whole day long. But at the end of six months they were found out, and Maren was threatened, that unless the child was sent to school, she would be taken from her altogether.
Having fitted out Ditte as well as she could, she sent her off with a heavy heart. The birth certificate she purposely omitted giving her; as it bore in the corner the fateful: born out of wedlock. Maren could not understand why an innocent child should be stamped as unclean; the child had enough to fight against without that. But Ditte returned with strict injunctions to bring the certificate the next day, and Maren was obliged to give it to her. It was hopeless to fight against injustice.
Maren knew well that magistrates were no institution of God's making—she had been born with this knowledge! They only oppressed her and her kind; and with this end in view used their own hard method, which was none of God's doing at all. He, on the contrary, was a friend of the poor; at least His only son, who was sitting on His right hand, whispered good things of the poor, and it was reasonable to expect that He would willingly help. But what did it help when the mighty ones would have it otherwise? It was the squire and his like, who had the power! It was towards them the parson turned when preaching, letting the poor folks look after themselves, and towards them the deacon glanced when singing. It was all very fine for them, with the magistrate carrying their trains, and opening their carriage door, with a peasant woman always ready to lay herself on all fours to prevent them wetting their feet as they stepped in. No "born out of wedlock" on their birth certificate; although one often might question their genuineness!
"But why does the Lord let it be like that?" asked Ditte wonderingly.
"He has to, or there'd be no churches built nor no fuss made of Him," answered Maren. "Grandfather Sören always said, that the Lord lived in the pockets of the mighty, and it seems as if he's right."
Ditte now went three times a week to school, which lay an hour's journey away, over the common. She went together with the other children from the hamlet, and got on well with them.
Children are thoughtless, but not wicked; this they learn from their elders. They had only called after her what they had heard at home; it was their parents' gossip and judgment they had repeated. They meant nothing by it; Ditte, who was observant in this respect, soon found out that they treated each other just in the same way. They would shout witch's brat, at her one minute and the next be quite friendly; they did not mean to look down upon her. This discovery took the sting from the abusive word—fortunately she was not sensitive. And the parents no longer, in superstition, warned their children against her; the time when Maren rode about as a witch was entirely forgotten. Now she was only a poor old woman left alone with an illegitimate child.
To the school came children just as far in the opposite direction, from the neighborhood of Sand. And it happened, that from them Maren and Ditte could make inquiries about Sörine and Lars Peter. They had not seen Ditte's father for some time, and he might easily have met with an accident, being on the roads night and day in all sorts of weather. It was fortunate that Ditte met children from those parts, who could assure her that all was well. Sörine had never been any good to her mother, although she was her own flesh and blood.
One day Ditte came home with the news that she was to go to her parents; one of the children had brought the message.
Old Maren began to shake, so that her knitting needles clinked.
"But they said they didn't want you!" she broke out, her face quivering.
"Yes, but now they want me—you see, I've to help with the little ones," answered Ditte proudly, gathering her possessions together and putting them on the table. Each time she put a thing down was like a stab to the old woman; then she would comfort and stroke Granny's shaking hand, which was nothing but blue veins. Maren sat dumbly knitting; her face was strangely set and dead-looking.
"Of course I'll come home and see you; but then you must take it sensibly. Can't you understand that I couldn't stay with you always? I'll bring some coffee when I come, and we'll have a lovely time. But you must promise not to cry, 'cause your eyes can't stand it."
Ditte stood talking in a would-be wise voice, as she tied up her things.
"And now I must go, or I shan't get there till night, and then mother will be angry." She said the word "mother" with a certain reverence as if it swept away all objections. "Good-by, dear, dear Granny!" She kissed the old woman's cheek and hurried off with her bundle.
As soon as the door had closed on her Maren began crying, and calling for her; in a monotonous undertone she poured out all her troubles, sorrow and want and longing for death. She had had so many heavy burdens and had barely finished with one when another appeared. Her hardships had cut deeply—most of them; and it did her good to live through them again and again. She went on for some time, and would have gone on still longer had she not suddenly felt two arms round her neck and a wet cheek against her own. It was the mischievous child, who had returned, saying that after all she was not leaving her.
Ditte had gone some distance, as far as the baker's, who wondered where she was going with the big parcel and stopped her. Her explanation, that she was going home to her parents, they refused to believe; her father had said nothing about it when the baker had met him at the market the day before, indeed he had sent his love to them. Ditte stood perplexed on hearing all this. A sudden doubt flashed through her mind; she turned round with a jerk—quick as she was in all her movements—and set off home for the hut on the Naze. How it had all happened she did not bother to think, such was her relief at being allowed to return to Granny.
Granny laughed and cried at the same time, asked questions and could make no sense of it.
"Aren't you going at all, then?" she broke out, thanking God, and hardly able to believe it.
"Of course I'm not going. Haven't I just told you, the baker said I wasn't to."
"Ay, the baker, the baker—what's he got to do with it? You'd got the message to go."
Ditte was busily poking her nose into Granny's cheek.
Maren lifted her head: "Hadn't you, child? Answer me!"
"I don't know, Granny," said Ditte, hiding her face against her.
Granny held her at an arm's length: "Then you've been playing tricks, you bad girl! Shame on you, to treat my poor old heart like this." Maren began sobbing again and could not stop; it had all come so unexpectedly. If only one could get to the bottom of it; but the child had declared that she had not told a lie. She was quite certain of having had the message, and was grieved at Granny not believing her. She never told an untruth when it came to the point, so after all must have had the message. On the other side the child herself said that she was not going—although the baker's counter orders carried no authority. They had simply stopped her, because her expedition seemed so extraordinary. It was beyond Maren—unless the child had imagined it all.
Ditte kept close to the old woman, constantly taking hold of her chin. "Now I know how sorry you'll be to lose me altogether," she said quietly.
Maren raised her face: "Do you think you'll soon be called away?"
Ditte shook her head so vehemently that Granny felt it.
Old Maren was deep in thought; she had known before that the child understood, that it was bound to come.
"Whatever it may be," said she after a few moments, "you've behaved like the great man I once read about, who rehearsed his own funeral—with four black horses, hearse and everything. All his servants had to pretend they were the procession, dressed in black, they had even to cry. He himself was watching from an attic window, and when he saw the servants laughing behind their handkerchiefs instead of crying, he took it so to heart that he died. 'Tis dangerous for folks to make fun of their own passing away—wherever they may be going!"
"I wasn't making fun, Granny," Ditte assured her again.
From that day Maren went in daily dread of the child being claimed by her parents. "My ears are burning," she often said, "maybe 'tis your mother talking of us."
Sörine certainly did talk of them in those days. Ditte was now old enough to make herself useful; her mother would not mind having her home to look after the little ones. "She's nearly nine years old now and we'll have to take her sooner or later," she explained.
Lars Peter demurred; he thought it was a shame to take her from Granny. "Let's take them both then," said he.
Sörine refused to listen, and nagged for so long that she overcame his opposition.
"We've been expecting you," said Maren when at last he came to fetch the child. "We've known for long that you'd come on this errand."
"'Tisn't exactly with my good will. But in a way a mother has a right to her own child, and Sörine thinks she'd like to have her," answered Lars Peter. He wanted to smooth it down for both sides.
"I know you've done your best. Well, it can't be helped. And how's every one at home? There's another mouth to feed, I've heard."
"Ay, he's nearly six months old now." Lars Peter brightened up, as he always did when speaking of his children.
They got into the cart. "We shan't forget you, either of us," said Lars Peter huskily, while trying to get the old nag off.
Then the old woman stumbled in, they saw her feeling her way over the doorstep with her foot and closing the door behind her.
"'Tis lonely to be old and blind," said Lars Peter, lashing his whip as usual.
Ditte heard nothing; she was sitting with her face in one big smile. She was driving towards something new; she had no thought for Granny just then.
[CHAPTER XIV]
At Home With Mother
The rag and bone man's property—the Crow's Nest—stood a little way back from the road, and the piece up towards the road he had planted with willows, partly to hide the half-ruined abode, and partly to have material for making baskets during the winter, when there was little business to be done. The willows grew quickly, and already made a beautiful place for playing hide and seek. He made the house look as well as it could, with tar and whitewash, but miserable looking it ever would be, leaking and falling to pieces; it was the dream of Sörine's life, that they should build a new dwelling-house up by the road, using this as outhouse. The surroundings were desolate and barren, and a long way from neighbors. The view towards the northwest was shut off by a big forest, and on the opposite side was the big lake, which reflected all kinds of weather. On the dark nights could be heard the quacking of the ducks in the rushes on its banks, and on rainy days, boats would glide like shadows over it, with a dark motionless figure in the bow, the eel-fisher. He held his eel-fork slantingly in front of him, prodded the water sleepily now and then, and slid past. It was like a dream picture, and the whole lake was in keeping. When Ditte felt dull she would pretend that she ran down to the banks, hid herself in the rushes, and dream herself home to Granny. Or perhaps away to something still better; something unknown, which was in store for her somewhere or other. Ditte never doubted but that there was something special in reserve for her, so glorious that it was impossible even to imagine it.
In her play too, her thoughts would go seawards, and when her longing for Granny was too strong, she would run round the corner of the house and gaze over the wide expanse of water. Now she knew Granny's true worth.
She had not yet been down to the sea; as a matter of fact there was no time to play. At six o'clock in the morning, the youngest babe made himself heard, as regularly as clockwork, and she had to get up in a hurry, take him from his mother and dress him. Lars Peter would be at his morning jobs, if he had not already gone to the beach for fish. When he was at home, Sörine would get up with the children; but otherwise she would take a longer nap, letting Ditte do the heaviest part of the work for the day. Then her morning duties would be left undone, the two animals bellowed from the barn, the pigs squealed over their empty trough, and the hens flocked together at the hen-house door waiting to be let out. Ditte soon found out that her mother was more industrious when the father was at home than when he was out; then she would trail about the whole morning, her hair undone and an old skirt over her nightdress, and a pair of down-trodden shoes on her bare feet, while everything was allowed to slide.
Ditte thought this was a topsy-turvy world. She herself took her duties seriously, and had not yet been sufficiently with grown-up people to learn to shirk work. She washed and dressed the little ones. They were full of life, mischievous and unmanageable, and she had as much as she could do in looking after the three of them. As soon as they saw an opportunity, the two eldest would slip away from her, naked as they were; then she had to tie up the youngest while she went after them.
The days she went to school she felt as a relief. She had just time to get the children ready, and eat her porridge, before leaving. At the last moment her mother would find something or other, which had to be done, and she had to run the whole way.
She was often late, and was scolded for it, yet she loved going to school. She enjoyed sitting quietly in the warm schoolroom for hours at a stretch, resting body and mind; the lessons were easy, and the schoolmaster kind. He often let them run out for hours, when he would work in his field, and it constantly happened that the whole school helped him to gather in his corn or dig up his potatoes. This was a treat indeed. The children were like a flock of screaming birds, chattering, making fun and racing each other at the work. And when they returned, the schoolmaster's wife would give them coffee.
More than anything else Ditte loved the singing-class. She had never heard any one but Granny sing, and she only did it when she was spinning—to prevent the thread from being uneven, and the wheel from swinging, said she. It was always the same monotonous, gliding melody; Ditte thought she had composed it herself, because it was short or long according to her mood.
The schoolmaster always closed the school with a song, and the first time Ditte heard the full chorus, she burst into tears with emotion. She put her head on the desk, and howled. The schoolmaster stopped the singing and came down to her.
"She must have been frightened," said the girls nearest to her.
He comforted her, and she stopped crying. "Have you never heard singing before, child?" he asked wonderingly, when she had calmed down.
"Yes, the spinning-song," sniffed Ditte.
"Who sang it to you then?"
"Granny——" Ditte suddenly stopped and began to choke again, the thought of Granny was too much for her. "Granny used to sing it when she was spinning," she managed at last to say.
"That must be a good old Granny, you have. Do you love her?"
Ditte did not answer, but the face she turned to him was like sunshine after the storm.
"Will you sing us the spinning-song?"
Ditte looked from the one to the other; the whole class gazed breathlessly at her; she felt something was expected of her. She threw a hasty glance at the schoolmaster's face; then fixed her eyes on her desk and began singing in a delicate little voice, which vibrated with conflicting feelings; shyness, the solemnity of the occasion, and sorrow at the thought of Granny, who might now sit longing for her. Unconsciously she moved one foot up and down as she sang, as one who spins. One or two attempted to giggle, but one look from the master silenced them.
Now we spin for Ditte for stockings and for vest,
Spin, spin away, Oh, and spin, spin away!
Some shall be of silver and golden all the rest,
Fal-de-ray, fal-de-ray, de-ray, ray, ray!
Ditte went awalking, so soft and round and red,
Spin, spin away, Oh, and spin, spin away,
Met a little princeling who doff'd his cap and said,
Fal-de-ray, fal-de-ray, de-ray, ray, ray!
Oh, come with me, fair maiden, to father's castle fine,
Spin, spin away, Oh, and spin, spin away!
We'll play the livelong day and have a lovely time,
Fal-de-ray, fal-de-ray, de-ray, ray, ray!
Alas, dear little prince, your question makes me grieve,
Spin, spin away, Oh, and spin, spin away!
There's Granny waits at home for me, and her I cannot leave,
Fal-de-ray, fal-de-ray, de-ray, ray, ray!
She's blind, poor old dear, 'tis sad to see, alack!
Spin, spin away, Oh, and spin, spin away!
She's water in her legs and pains all down her back,
Fal-de-ray, fal-de-ray, de-ray, ray, ray!
—If 'tis but for a child, she's cried her poor eyes out,
Spin, spin away, Oh, and spin, spin away!
Then she shall never want of that there is no doubt,
Fal-de-ray, fal-de-ray, de-ray, ray, ray!
When toil and troubles tell and legs begin to ache,
Spin, spin away, Oh, and spin, spin away!
We'll dress her up in furs and drive her out in state,
Fal-de-ray, fal-de-ray, de-ray, ray, ray!
Now Granny spins once more for sheet and bolster long,
Spin, spin away, Oh, and spin, spin away!
For Ditte and the prince to lie and rest upon,
Fal-de-ray, fal-de-ray, de-ray, ray, ray!
When she had finished her song, there was stillness for a few moments in the schoolroom.
"She thinks she's going to marry a prince," said one of the girls.
"And that she probably will!" answered the schoolmaster. "And then Granny can have all she wants," he added, stroking her hair.
Without knowing it, Ditte at one stroke had won both the master's and the other children's liking. She had sung to the whole class, quite alone, which none of the others dared do. The schoolmaster liked her for her fearlessness, and for some time shut his eyes whenever she was late. But one day it was too much for him, and he ordered her to stay in. Ditte began to cry.
"'Tis a shame," said the other girls, "she runs the whole way, and she's whipped if she's late home. Her mother stands every day at the corner of the house waiting for her—she's so strict."
"Then we'll have to get hold of your mother," said the schoolmaster. "This can't go on!" Ditte escaped staying in, but was given a note to take home.
This having no effect, the schoolmaster went with her home to speak to her mother. But Sörine refused to take any responsibility. If the child arrived late at school, it was simply because she loitered on the way. Ditte listened to her in amazement; she could not make out how her mother could look so undisturbed when telling such untruths.
Ditte, to help herself, now began acting a lie too. Each morning she seized the opportunity of putting the little Swiss clock a quarter of an hour forward. It worked quite well in the morning, so that she was in time for school; but she would be late in arriving home.
"You're taking a quarter of an hour longer on the road now," scolded her mother.
"We got out late today," lied Ditte, trying to copy her mother's unconcerned face, as she had seen it when she lied. Her heart was in her mouth, but all went well—wonderful to relate! How much wiser she was now! During the day she quietly put the clock back again.
One day, in the dusk, as she stood on the chair putting the clock back, her mother came behind her. Ditte threw herself down from the chair, quickly picking up little Povl from the floor, where he was crawling; in her fear, she tried to hide behind the little one. But her mother tore him from her, and began thrashing her.
Ditte had had a rap now and then, when she was naughty, but this was the first time she had been really whipped. She was like an animal, kicking and biting, and shrieking, so that it was all her mother could do to manage her. The three little ones' howls equaled hers.
When Sörine thought she had had enough, she dragged her to the woodshed and locked her in. "Lie there and howl, maybe it'll teach you not to try those tricks again!" she shouted, and went in. She was so out of breath that she had to sit down; that wicked child had almost got the better of her.
Ditte, quite beyond herself, went on screaming and kicking for some time. Her cries gradually quietened down to a despairing wail of: "Granny, Granny!" It was quite dark in the woodshed, and whenever she called for Granny, she heard a comforting rustling sound from the darkness at the back of the shed. She gazed confidently towards it, and saw two green fire-balls shining in the darkness, which came and went by turns. Ditte was not afraid of the dark. "Puss, puss," she whispered. The fire-balls disappeared, and the next moment she felt something soft touching her. And now she broke down again, this caress was too much for her, and she pitied herself intensely. Puss, little puss! There was after all one who cared for her! Now she would go home to Granny.
She got up, dazed and bruised, and felt her way to the shutter. When Sörine thought that she had been locked in long enough, and came to release her, she had vanished.
Ditte ran into the darkness, sobbing; it was cold and windy, and the rain was beating on her face. She wore no knickers under her dress—these her mother had taken for the little ones, together with the thick woollen vest Granny had knitted for her—the wet edge of her skirt cut her bare legs, which were swollen from the lash of the cane. But the silent rain did her good. Suddenly something flew up from beside her; she heard the sound of rushes standing rustling in the water—and knew that she had got away from the road. She collapsed, and crawled into the undergrowth, and lay shivering in a heap, like a sick puppy.
There she lay groaning without really having any more pain; the cold had numbed her limbs and deadened the smart. It was distress of soul which made her wince now and then; it was wrung by the emptiness and meaninglessness of her existence. She needed soothing hands, a mother first of all, who would fondle her—but she got only hard words and blows from that quarter. Yet it was expected that she should give what she herself missed most of all—a mother's long-suffering patience and tender care to the three tiresome little ones, who were scarcely more helpless than she was.
Her black despair little by little gave place to numbness. Hate and anger, feebleness and want, had all fought in her mind and worn her out. The cold did the rest, and she fell into a doze.
A peculiar, grinding, creaking and jolting noise came from the road. Only one cart in all the world could produce that sound. Ditte opened her eyes, and a feeling of joy went through her—her father! She tried to call, but no sound came, and each time she tried to rise her legs gave way under her. She crawled up with difficulty over the edge of the ditch, out into the middle of the road, and there collapsed.
As the nag neared that spot, it stopped, threw up its head, snorted, and refused to go on. Lars Peter jumped down and ran to the horse's head to see what was wrong; there he found Ditte, stiff with cold and senseless.
Under his warm driving cape she came to herself again, and life returned to the cold limbs. Lars Peter thawed them one by one in his huge fists. Ditte lay perfectly quiet in his arms; she could hear the beat of his great heart underneath his clothes, throb, throb! Each beat was like the soft nosing of some animal, and his deep voice sounded to her like an organ. His big hands, which took hold of so much that was hard and ugly, were the warmest she had ever known. Just like Granny's cheek—the softest thing in all the world—were they.
"Now we must get out and run a little," said the father suddenly. Ditte was unwilling to move, she was so warm and comfortable. There was no help for it however. "We must get the blood to run again," said he, lifting her out of the cart. Then they ran for some time by the side of the nag, which threw out its big hoofs in a jog-trot, so as not to be outdone.
"Shall we soon be home?" asked Ditte, when she was in the cart again, well wrapped up.
"Oh-h, there's a bit left—you've run seven miles, child! Now tell me what's the meaning of your running about like this."
Then Ditte told him about the school, the injustice she had had to bear, the whipping and everything. In between there were growls from Lars Peter, as he stamped his feet on the bottom of the cart—he could hardly tolerate to listen to this tale. "But you won't tell Sörine, will you?" she added with fear. "Mother, I mean," she hastily corrected herself.
"You needn't be afraid," was all he said.
He was silent for the rest of the journey, and was very slow in unharnessing; Ditte kept beside him. Sörine came out with a lantern and spoke to him, but he did not answer. She cast a look of fear at him and the child, hung up the lantern, and hurried in.
Soon after he came in, holding Ditte by the hand, her little hand shaking in his. His face was gray; in his right hand was a thick stick. Sörine fled from his glance; right under the clock; pressing herself into the corner, gazing at them with perplexity.
"Ay, you may well gaze at us," said he, coming forward—"'tis a child accusing you. What's to be done about it?" He had seated himself under the lamp, and lifting Ditte's frock, he carefully pressed his palm against the blue swollen weals, which smarted with the slightest touch. "It still hurts—you're good at thrashing! let's see if you're equally good at healing. Come and kiss the child, where you've struck her, a kiss for each stroke!"
He sat waiting. "Well——"
Sörine's face was full of disgust.
"Oh, you think your mouth's too good to kiss what your hand's struck." He reached out for the stick.
Sörine had sunk down on the ground, she put out her hands beseechingly. But he looked inexorably at her, not at all like himself. "Well——"
Sörine lingered a few moments longer, then on her knees went and kissed the child's bruised limbs.
Ditte threw her arms violently round her mother's neck. "Mother," said she.
But Sörine got up and went out to get the supper. She never looked at them the whole evening.
Lars Peter was his old self the next morning. He woke Sörine with a kiss as usual, humming as he dressed. Sörine still looked at him with malice, but he pretended not to notice it. It was quite dark, and as he sat eating his breakfast, with the lantern in front of him on the table, he kept looking at the three little ones, in bed. They were all in a heap—like young birds. "When Povl has to join them, we'll have to put two at each end," he said thoughtfully. "Better still, if we could afford another bed."
There was no answer from Sörine.
When ready to leave, he bent over Ditte, who lay like a little mother with the children in her arms. "That's a good little girl, you've given us," said he, straightening himself.
"She tells lies," answered Sörine from beside the fireplace.
"Then it's because she's had to. My family's not thought much of, Sörine—and maybe they don't deserve it either. But never a hand was laid on us children, I'll tell you. I remember plainly my father's death-bed, how he looked at his hands, and said: 'These have dealt with much, but never has the rag and bone man's hands been turned against the helpless!' I'd like to say that when my time comes, and I'd advise you to think of it too."
Then he drove away. Sörine put the lantern in the window, to act as a guide to him, and crept back to bed, but could not sleep. For the first time Lars Peter had given her something to think of. She had found that in him which she had never expected, something strange which warned her to be careful. A decent soul, she had always taken him for—just as the others. And how awful he could be in his rage—it made her flesh creep, when thinking of it. She certainly would be careful not to come up against him again.
[CHAPTER XV]
Rain And Sunshine
On the days when Ditte did not go to school, there were thousands of things for her to do. She had to look after the little ones, care for the sheep and hens too, and gather nettles in a sack for the pigs. At times Lars Peter came home early, having been unlucky in selling his fish. Then she would sit up with her parents until one or two o'clock in the night, cleaning the fish, to prevent it spoiling. Sörine was one of those people who fuss about without doing much. She could not bear the child resting for a moment, and drove her from one task to another. Often when Ditte went to bed, she was so tired that she could not sleep. Sörine had the miserable habit of making the day unhappy for the children. She was rough with them should they get in her way; and always left children's tears like streams of water behind her. When Ditte went to gather sticks, or pick berries, she always dragged the little ones with her, so as not to leave them to their mother's tender mercy. There were days when Sörine was not quite so bad—she was never quite happy and kind, but at other times she was almost mad with anger, and the only thing to do was to keep out of her way. Then they would all hide, and only appear when their father came home.
Sörine was careful not to strike Ditte, and sent her off to school in good time—she had no wish to see Lars Peter again as he was that evening. But she had no love for the child, she wanted to get on in life; it was her ambition to build a new dwelling-house, get more land and animals—and be on the same footing with the other women on the small farms round about. The child was a blot on her. Whenever she looked at Ditte, she would think: Because of that brat, all the other women look down on me!
The child certainly was a good worker, even Sörine grudgingly admitted it to Lars Peter. It was Ditte who made butter, first in a bottle, which had to be shaken, often by the hour, before the butter would come—and now in the new churn. Sörine herself could not stand the hard work of churning. Ditte gathered berries and sold them in the market, ran errands, fetched water and sticks, and looked after the sheep, carrying fat little Povl wherever she went. He cried if she left him behind, and she was quite crooked with carrying him.
Autumn was the worst time for the children. It was the herring season, and their father would stay down at the fishing hamlet—often for a month at a time—helping with the catch. Sörine was then difficult to get on with; the only thing which kept her within bounds was Ditte's threat of running away. There were not many men left in the neighborhood in the autumn, and Sörine went in daily dread of tramps. Should they knock at the door in the evening, she would let Ditte answer it.
Ditte was not afraid. This and her cleverness gave her moral power over her mother; she had no fear of answering her back now. She was quicker with her fingers than her mother, both in making baskets and brooms, and did better work too.
What money they made in this way, Sörine had permission to keep for herself. She never spent a penny of it, but put it by, shilling by shilling, towards building the new house. They must try hard to make enough, so that Lars Peter could work at home instead of hawking his goods on the road. As long as the people had the right to call him rag and bone man, it was natural they should show no respect. Land they must have, and for this, money was necessary.
Money! money! That word was always in Sörine's mind and humming in her ears. She scraped together shilling after shilling, and yet the end was far from being in sight, unless something unexpected happened. And what could happen to shorten the wearisome way to her goal, only one thing—that her mother should die. She had really lived long enough and been a burden to others. Sörine thought it was quite time she departed, but no such luck.
It happened that Lars Peter returned one day in the middle of the afternoon. The shabby turn-out could be seen from afar. The cart rocked with every turn of the wheels, creaking and groaning as it was dragged along. It was as if all the parts of the cart spoke and sang at once, and when the children heard the well-known noise along the road, they would rush out, full of excitement. The old nag, which grew more and more like a wandering bag of bones, snorted and puffed, and rumbled, as if all the winds from the four corners of the earth were locked in its belly. And Lars Peter's deep hum joined the happy chorus.
When the horse saw the little ones, it whinnied; Lars Peter raised himself from his stooping position and stopped singing, and the cart came to a standstill. He lifted them up in the air, all three or four together in a bunch, held them up to the sky for a moment, and put them into the cart as carefully as if they were made of glass. The one who had seen him first was allowed to hold the reins.
When Lars Peter came home and found Sörine in a temper and the house upside down, he was not disturbed at all, but soon cheered them all up. He always brought something home with him, peppermints for the children, a new shawl for mother—and perhaps love from Granny to Ditte, whispering it to her so that Sörine could not hear. His good humor was infectious; the children forgot their grievances, and even Sörine had to laugh whether she wanted to or not. And if the children were fond of him, so too were the animals. They would welcome him with their different cries and run to meet him; he could let the pig out and make it follow him in the funniest gallop round the field.
However late he was in returning, and however tired, he never went to bed without having first been the round to see that the animals wanted for nothing. Sörine easily forgot them and they were often hungry. Then the hens flew down from their perch on hearing his step, the pigs came out and grunted over their trough, and a soft back rubbed itself up against his legs—the cat.
Lars Peter brought joy with him home, and a happier man than he could hardly be found for miles. He loved his wife for what she was, more sharp than really clever. He admired her for her firmness, and thought her an exceedingly capable woman, and was truly thankful for the children she gave him, for those he was father to—and for Ditte. Perhaps if anything he cared most for her.
Such was Lars Peter's nature that he began where others ended. All his troubles had softened instead of hardening him; his mind involuntarily turned to what was neglected, perhaps it was because of this that people thought nothing throve for him.
His ground was sour and sandy, none but he would think of plowing it. No-one grudged him his wife, and most of the animals he had saved from being killed, on his trips round the farms. He could afford to be happy with his possessions, thinking they were better than what others had. He was jealous of no-one, and no exchange would tempt him.
On Sundays the horse had to rest, and it would not do either to go on his rounds that day. Therefore Lars Peter would creep up to the hayloft to have a sleep. He would sleep on until late in the afternoon, having had very little during the week, and Ditte had her work cut out to keep the little ones from him; they made as much noise as they possibly could, hoping to waken him so that he might play with them, but Ditte watched carefully, that he had his sleep in peace.
Twice a year they all drove to the market at Hilleröd, on top of the loaded cart. The children were put into the baskets which were stacked in the back of the cart, the brooms hung over the sides, under the seat were baskets of butter and eggs, and in front—under Lars' and Sörine's feet, were a couple of sheep tied up. These were the great events of the year, from which everything was dated.
[CHAPTER XVI]
Poor Granny
On rare occasions Ditte was permitted to go and stay with Granny for a few days. It was the father who managed this, and he arranged his round so that he could either bring or fetch her home.
Granny was always in bed when she arrived—she never got up now. "Why should I trudge on, when you're not here? If I stay in bed, then sometimes kind folks remember me and bring me a little food and clean up for me. Oh, dear! 'twould be much better to die; nobody wants me," she complained. But she got up all the same, and put on water for the coffee; Ditte cleaned the room, which was in a deplorable condition, and they enjoyed themselves together.
When the time was up and Ditte had to go, the old woman cried. Ditte stood outside listening to her wailings; she held on to the doorpost trying to pull herself together. She had to go home, and began running with closed eyes the first part of the way, until she could hear Granny's cries no longer, then——But she got more and more sick at heart, and knew no more, until she found herself with her arms round Granny's neck. "I'm allowed to stay until tomorrow," said she.
"You're not playing tricks, child?" said the old woman anxiously. "For then Sörine'll be angry. Ay, ay," said she shortly afterwards, "stay until tomorrow then. The Lord'll make it all right for you—for the sake of your good heart. We don't have much chance of seeing each other, we two."
The next day it was no better; Maren had not the strength to send the child away. There was so much to tell her, and what was one day after the accumulation of months of sorrow and longing? And Ditte listened seriously to all her woes; she understood now what sorrow and longing meant. "You've quite changed," said Granny. "I notice it from the way you listen to me. If only the time would pass quickly so that you might go out to service."
And one day it was all over; Lars Peter had come to fetch her. "You'd better come home now," said he, wrapping her up, "the little ones are crying for you."
"Ay, you're not to be feared," said old Maren. "But it seems like Sörine might be kinder to her."
"I think it's better now—and the little ones are fond of her. She's quite a little mother to them."
Yes, there were the children! Ditte's heart warmed at the thought of them. They had gained her affection in their own peculiar way; by adding burdens to her little life they had wound themselves round her heart.
"How's Povl?" asked she, when they had driven over the big hill, and Granny's hut was out of sight.
"Well, you know, he's always crying when you're not at home," said the father quietly.
Ditte knew this. He was cutting his teeth just now, and needed nursing, his cheeks were red with fever, and his mouth hot and swollen. He would hang on to his mother's skirt, only to be brushed impatiently aside, and would fall and hurt himself. Who then was there to take him on their knee and comfort him? It was like an accusation to Ditte's big heart; she was sorry she had deserted him, and longed to have him in her arms again. It hurt her back to carry him—yes, and the schoolmaster scolded her for stooping. "It's your own fault," the mother would say; "stop dragging that big child about! He can walk if he likes, he can." But when he was in pain and cried, Ditte knew all too well from her own experience the child's need of being held against a beating heart. She still had that longing herself, though a mother's care had never been offered her.
Sörine was cross when Lars Peter returned with Ditte, and ignored her for several days. But at last curiosity got the upper hand. "How's the old woman—is she worse?" asked she.
Ditte, who thought her mother asked out of sympathy, gave full details of the miserable condition that Granny was in. "She's always in bed, and only gets food when any one takes it to her."
"Then she can't last much longer," thought the mother.
At this Ditte began to cry. Then her mother scolded her:
"Stupid girl, there's nothing to cry for. Old folks can't live on forever, being a burden to others. And when Granny dies we'll get a new dwelling-house."
"No, 'cause Granny says, what comes from the house is to be divided equally. And the rest——" Ditte broke off suddenly.
"What rest?" Sörine bent forward with distended nostrils.
But Ditte closed her lips firmly. Granny had strictly forbidden her to mention the subject—and here she had almost let it out.
"Stupid girl! don't you suppose I know you're thinking of the two hundred crowns that was paid for you? What's to be done with it?"
Ditte looked with suspicion at her mother. "I'm to have it," she whispered.
"Then the old woman should let us keep it for you, instead of hanging on to it herself," said Sörine.
Ditte was terrified. That was exactly what Granny was afraid of, that Sörine should get hold of it. "Granny has hidden it safely," said she.
"Oh, has she, and where?—in the eiderdown of course!"
"No!" Ditte assured her, shaking her head vehemently. But any one could see that was where it was hidden.
"Oh, that's lucky, for that eiderdown I'm going to fetch some day. That you can tell Granny, with my love, next time you see her. Each of my sisters when they married was given an eiderdown, and I claim mine too."
"Granny only has one eiderdown!" Ditte protested—perhaps for the twentieth time.
"Then she'll just have to take one of her many under-quilts. She lies propped up nearly to the ceiling, with all those bedclothes."
Yes, Granny's bed was soft, Ditte knew that better than any one else. Granny's bedclothes were heavy, and yet warmer than anything else in the whole world, and there was a straw mat against the wall. It had been so cosy and comfortable sleeping with Granny.
Ditte was small for her age, all the hardships she had endured had stunted her growth. But her mind was above the average; she was thoughtful by nature, and her life had taught her not to shirk, but to take up her burden. She had none of the carelessness of childhood, but was full of forethought and troubles. She had to worry—for her little sisters and brothers the few days she was with Granny, and for Granny all the time she was not with her.
As a punishment, for having prolonged her visit to Granny without permission, Sörine for a long time refused to let her go again. Then Ditte went about thinking of the old woman, worrying herself into a morbid self-reproach; most of all at night, when she could not sleep for cold, would her sorrows overwhelm her, and she would bury her head in the eiderdown, so that her mother should not hear her sobs.
She would remember all the sweet ways of the old woman, and bitterly repent the tricks and mischief she had played upon her. This was her punishment; she had repaid Granny badly for all her care, and now she was alone and forsaken. She had never been really good to the old woman; she would willingly be so now—but it was too late! There were hundreds of ways of making Granny happy, and Ditte knew them all, but she had been a horrid, lazy girl. If she could only go back now, she certainly would see that Granny always had a lump of sugar for her second cup of coffee—instead of stealing it herself. And she would remember every evening to heat the stone, and put it at the foot of the bed, so Granny's feet should not be cold. "You've forgotten the stone again," said Granny almost every night, "my feet are like ice. And what are yours like? Why, they're quite cold, child." Then Granny would rub the child's feet until they were warm; but nothing was done to her own—it was all so hopeless to think of it now.
She thought, if she only promised to be better in the future, something must happen to take her back to Granny again. But nothing did happen! And one day she could stand it no longer, and set off running over the fields. Sörine wanted her brought home at once; but Lars Peter took it more calmly.
"Just wait a few days," said he, "'tis a long time since she's seen the old woman." And he arranged his round so that Ditte could spend a few days with her grandmother.
"Bring back the eiderdown with you," said Sörine. "It's cold now, and it'll be useful for the children."
"We'll see about it," answered Lars Peter. When she got a thing into her head, she would nag on and on about it, so that she would have driven most people mad. But Lars Peter did not belong to the family of Man; all her haggling had no effect on his good-natured stubbornness.
[CHAPTER XVII]
When The Cat's Away
Ditte was awakened by the sound of iron being struck, and opened her eyes. The smoking lamp stood on the table, and in front of the fire was her mother hammering a ring off the kettle with a poker. She was not yet dressed; the flames from the fire flickered over her untidy red hair and naked throat. Ditte hastily closed her eyes again, so that her mother should not discover that she was awake. The room was cold, and through the window-panes could be seen the darkness of the night.
Then her father came tramping in with the lantern, which he put out and hung it up behind the door. He was already dressed, and had been out doing his morning jobs. There was a smell of coffee in the room. "Ah!" said he, seating himself by the table. Ditte peeped out at him; when he was there, there was no fear of being turned out of bed.
"Oh, there you are, little wagtail," said he. "Go to sleep again, it's only five o'clock—-but maybe you're thinking of a cup of coffee in bed?"
Ditte glanced at her mother, who stood with her back to her. Then she nodded her head eagerly.
Lars Peter drank half of his coffee, put some more sugar in the cup, and handed it to the child.
Sörine was dressing by the fireplace. "Now keep quiet," said she, "while I tell you what to do. There's flour and milk for you to make pancakes for dinner; but don't dare to put an egg in."
"Good Lord, what's an egg or two," Lars Peter tried to say.
"You leave the housekeeping to me," answered Sörine, "and you'd better get up at once before we leave, and begin work."
"What's the good of that?" said Lars Peter again. "Leave the children in bed till it's daylight. I've fed the animals, and it's no good wasting oil."
This last appealed to Sörine. "Very well, then, but be careful with the fire—and don't use too much sugar."
Then they drove away. Lars Peter was going to the shore to fetch fish as usual, but would first drive Sörine into town, where she would dispose of the month's collection of butter and eggs, and buy in what could not be got from the grocer in the hamlet. Ditte listened to the cart until she dropped asleep again.
When it was daylight, she got up and lit the fire again. The others wanted to get up too, but by promising them coffee instead of their usual porridge and milk she kept them in bed until she had tidied up the room. They got permission to crawl over to their parents' bed, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves there, while Ditte put wet sand on the floor, and swept it. Kristian, who was now five years old, told stories in a deep voice of a dreadful cat that went about the fields eating up all the moo-cows; the two little ones lay across him, their eyes fixed on his lips, and breathless with excitement. They could see it quite plainly—the pussy-cat, the moo-cow and everything—and little Povl, out of sheer eagerness to hurry up the events, put his fat little hand right down Kristian's throat. Ditte went about her duties smiling in her old-fashioned way at their childish talk. She looked very mysterious as she gave them their coffee; and when the time came for them to be dressed, the surprise came out. "Oh, we're going to have our best clothes on—hip, hip, hooray!" shouted Kristian, beginning to jump up and down on the bed. Ditte smacked him, he was spoiling the bedclothes!
"If you'll be really good and not tell any one, I'll take you out for a drive," said Ditte, dressing them in their best clothes. These were of many colors, their mother having made them from odd scraps of material, taken from the rag and bone man's cart.
"Oh—to the market?" shouted Kristian, beginning to jump again.
"No, to the forest," said the little sister, stroking Ditte's cheeks beseechingly with her dirty little hands, which were blue with cold. She had seen it from afar, and longed to go there.
"Yes, to the forest. But you must be good; it's a long way."
"May we tell pussy?" Söster looked at Ditte with her big expressive eyes.
"Yes, and papa," Kristian joined in with.
"Yes, but not any one else," Ditte impressed upon them. "Now remember that!"
The two little ones were put into the wheelbarrow, and Kristian held on to the side, and thus they set off. There was snow everywhere, the bushes were weighted down with it, and on the cart track the ice cracked under the wheel. It was all so jolly, the black crows, the magpies which screamed at them from the thorn-bushes, and the rime which suddenly dropped from the trees, right on to their heads.
It was three miles to the forest, but Ditte was used to much longer distances, and counted this as nothing. Kristian and Söster took turns in walking, Povl wanted to walk in the snow too, but was told to stay where he was and be good.
All went well until they had got halfway. Then the little ones began to tire of it, asking impatiently for the forest. They were cold, and Ditte had to stop every other moment to rub their fingers. The sun had melted the snow, making it dirty and heavy under foot, and she herself was getting tired. She tried to cheer them up, and trailed on a little further; but outside the bailiff's farm they all came to a hopeless standstill. A big fierce dog thought their hesitation suspicious and barred their way.
Per Nielsen came out on the porch to see why the dog barked so furiously; he at once saw what had happened, and took the children indoors. It was dinner-time, the wife was in the kitchen frying bacon and apples together. It smelt delicious. She thawed their frozen fingers in cold water; when they were all right again, all three stood round the fire. Ditte tried to get them away, but they were hungry.
"You shall have some too," said the bailiff's wife, "but sit down on that bench and be good; you're in my way." They were each given a piece of cake, and then seated at the scoured table. They had never been out before, their eyes went greedily from one thing to another, as they were eating; on the walls hung copperware, which shone like the sun, and on the fire was a big bright copper kettle with a cover to the spout. It was like a huge hen sitting on eggs.
When they had finished their meal, Per Nielsen took them out and showed them the little pigs, lying like rolls of sausages round the mother. Then they went into the house again, and the wife gave them apples and cakes, but the best of all came last, when Per Nielsen harnessed the beautiful spring-cart to drive them home. The wheelbarrow was put in the back, so that too got a drive. The little ones laughed so much that it caught in their throats.
"Stupid children, coming out like that all alone," said the bailiff's wife, as she stood wrapping them up. "Fortunately 'twas more good luck than management that you came here." And they all agreed that the return to the Crow's Nest was much grander than the set-off.
The trip had been glorious, but now there was work to be done. The mother had not taken picnics into account, and had put a large bundle of rags out on the threshing-floor to be sorted, all the wool to be separated from the cotton. Kristian and Söster could give a helping hand if they liked; but they would not be serious today. They were excited by the trip, and threw the rags at each other's heads. "Now, you mustn't fight," repeated Ditte every minute, but it did no good.
When darkness fell, they had only half finished. Ditte fetched the little lamp, in which they used half oil and half petroleum, and went on working; she cried despairingly when she found that they could not finish by the time her parents would return. At the sight of her tears the children became serious, and for a while the work went on briskly. But soon they were on the floor again chasing each other; and by accident Kristian kicked the lamp, which fell down and broke. This put an end to their wildness; the darkness fixed them to the spot; they dared not move. "Ditte take me," came wailingly from each corner.
Ditte opened the trap-door. "Find your own way out!" said she harshly, fumbling about for Povl, who was sleeping on a bundle of rags; she was angry. "Now you shall go to bed for punishment," said she.
Kristian was sobbing all the time. "Don't let mother whip me, don't let her!" he said over and over again. He put his arms round Ditte's neck as if seeking refuge there. And this put an end to her anger.
When she had lit the lantern she helped them to undress. "Now if you'll be good and go straight to sleep, then Ditte will run to the store and buy a lamp." She dared not leave the children with the light burning, and put it out before she left. As a rule they were afraid of being left alone in the dark; but under the present conditions it was no good making a fuss.
Ditte had a sixpence! Granny had given it to her once in their well-to-do-days, and she had kept it faithfully through all temptations up to now. It was to have bought her so many beautiful things, and now it had to go—to save little Kristian from a whipping. Slowly she kneeled down in front of the hole at the foot of the wall where it was hidden, and took the stone away; it really hurt her to do it. Then she got up and ran off to the store as quickly as she could—before she could repent.
On her return the little ones were asleep. She lit the lantern and began to peel off the withered leaves from the birches which were to be made into brooms; she was tired after the long eventful day, but could not idle. The strong fragrance from the birches was penetrating, and she fell asleep over her work. Thus her parents found her.
Sörine's sharp eyes soon saw that everything was not as it should be. "Why've you got the lantern lit?" asked she, as she unbuttoned her coat.
Ditte had to own up, "but I've bought another!" she hastened to add.
"Oh—and where is it?" said the mother, looking round the room.
The next moment Sörine stood in the doorway. "Who gave you permission to get things on credit?" asked she.
"I bought it with my own money," Ditte whispered.
Own money—then began a cross-examination, which looked as if it would never end. Lars Peter had to interfere.
There was no fire in the room, so they went early to bed; Ditte had forgotten the fire. "She's had enough to do," said Lars Peter excusingly. And Sörine had nothing to say—she had no objection when it meant saving.
There was a hard frost. Ditte was cold and could not sleep, she lay gazing at her breath, which showed white, and listening to the crackling of the frost on the walls. Outside it was moonlight, and the beams shone coldly over the floor and the chair with the children's clothes. If she lifted her head, she could peep out through the cracks in the wall, catching glimpses of the white landscape; the cold blew in her face.
The room got colder and colder. She had to lie with one arm outstretched, holding the eiderdown over the others, and the cold nipped her shoulders. Söster began to be restless, she was the most thin-blooded of the three and felt the cold. It was an eiderdown which was little else than a thick cover, the feathers having disappeared, and those they got when killing poultry were too good to be used—the mother wanted them turned into money.
Now Povl began to whimper. Ditte took the children's clothes from the chair and spread them over the bed. From their parents' bed came the mother's voice. "You're to be quiet," said she. The father got up, fetched his driving-cape, and spread it over them; it was heavy with dust and dirt, but it warmed them!
"'Tis dreadful the way the wind blows through these walls," said he when again in bed; "the air's like ice in the room! I must try to get some planks to patch up the walls."
"You'd better be thinking of building; this rotten old case isn't worth patching up."
Lars Peter laughed: "Ay, that's all very well; but where's the money to come from?"
"We've got a little. And then the old woman'll die soon—I can feel it in my bones."
Ditte's heart began to jump—was Granny going to die? Her mother had said it so decidedly. She listened breathlessly to the conversation.
"And what of that?" she heard her father say, "that won't alter matters."
"I believe the old woman's got more than we think," answered Sörine in a low voice. "Are you asleep, Ditte?" she called out, raising herself on her elbow listening. Ditte lay perfectly still.
"Do you know?" Sörine began again, "I'm sure the old woman has sewn the money up in the quilt. That's why she won't part with it."
Lars Peter yawned loudly; "What money?" It could be gathered from the sound of his voice, that he wanted to sleep now.
"The two hundred crowns, of course."
"What's that to do with us?"
"Isn't she my mother? But the money'll go to the child, and aren't we the proper ones to look after it for her. If the old woman dies and there's an auction—there'll be good bids for it, and whoever buys the quilt'll get the two hundred crowns as well. You'd better go over and have a talk with her, and make her leave everything to us."
"Why not you?" said Lars Peter, and turned round towards the wall.
Then everything was quiet. Ditte lay in a heap, with hands pressed against mouth, and her little heart throbbing with fear; she almost screamed with anxiety. Perhaps Granny would die in the night! It was some time since she had visited her, and she had an overpowering longing for Granny.
She crept out of bed and put on her shoes.
Her mother raised herself; "Where're you going?"
"Just going outside," answered Ditte faintly.
"Put a skirt on, it's very cold," said Lars Peter—"we might just as well have kept the new piece of furniture in here," he growled shortly afterwards.
What a long time the child took—Lars Peter got up and peeped out. He caught sight of her far down the moonlit road. Hastily throwing on some clothes, he rushed after her. He could see her ahead, tearing off for all she was worth. He ran and shouted, ran and shouted, his heavy wooden shoes echoing on the road. But the distance between them only increased; at last she disappeared altogether from view. He stood a little longer shouting; his voice resounded in the stillness of the night; and then turned round and went home.
Ditte tore on through the moonlit country. The road was as hard as stone, and the ice cut through her cloth shoes; from bog and ditch came the sound, crack, crack, crack; and the sea boomed on the shore. But Ditte did not feel the cold, her heart was beating wildly. Granny's dying, Granny's dying! went continuously through her mind.
By midnight she had reached the end of her journey, she was almost dropping with fatigue. She stopped at the corner of the house to gain breath; from inside could be heard Granny's hacking cough. "I'm coming, Granny!" she cried, tapping on the window, sobbing with joy.
"How cold you are, child!" said the old woman, when they were both under the eiderdown. "Your feet are like lumps of ice—warm them on me." Ditte nestled in to her, and lay there quietly.
"Granny! mother knows you've hidden the money in the eiderdown," she said suddenly.
"I guessed that, my child. Feel!" The old woman guided Ditte's hand to her breast, where a little packet was hidden. "Here 'tis, Maren can take care of what's trusted to her. Ay, ay, 'tis [sad] to be like us two, no-one to care for us, and always in the way—to our own folks most of all. They can't make much use of you yet, and they're finished with me—I'm worn out. That's how it is."
Ditte listened to the old woman's talk. It hummed in her ears and gave her a feeling of security. She was now comfortable and warm, and soon fell asleep.
But old Maren for some time continued pouring out her grievances against existence.
[CHAPTER XVIII]
The Raven Flies By Night
It was a hard winter. All through December the snow swept the fields, drifting into the willows in front of the Crow's Nest, the only place in the neighborhood where a little shelter was to be found.
The lake was entirely frozen; one could walk across it from shore to shore. When there was a moon, the rag and bone man would go down and with his wooden shoe break the ice round the seagulls and wild ducks, which were frozen in the lake, and then carry them home under his snow-covered cape. He would put them on the peat beside the fireplace, where for days they stood on one leg gazing sickly into the embers, until Sörine at last took them into the kitchen and wrung their necks.
In spite of there being a fire day and night, the cold was felt intensely in the Crow's Nest; it was impossible to heat the room. Sörine, with the bread-knife, stuffed old rags into the cracks in the wall; but one day when doing this, a big piece of the wall collapsed. She filled up the hole with the eiderdown, and when Lars Peter came home at night, he patched it up and nailed planks across to keep it in place. The roof was not up too much either; the rats and house-martens had worked havoc in it, so that it was like a sieve, and the snow drifted into the loft. It was all bad.
Every day Sörine tried to rouse Lars Peter to do something.
But what could he do? "I can't work harder than I do, and steal I won't," said he.
"What do the others do, who live in a pretty and comfortable house?"
Yes, how did other people manage? Lars Peter could not imagine. He had never envied any one, nor drawn comparisons, so had never faced the question before.
"You toil and toil, but never get any further, that I can see," Sörine continued.
"Do you really mean that?" Lars Peter looked at her with surprise and sorrow.
"Yes, I do. What have you done? Aren't we just where we started?"
Lars Peter bent his head on hearing her hard words. But it was all quite true; except for strict necessities, they had never money to spare.
"There's so much wanted, and everything's so dear," said he excusingly. "There's no trade either! We must just have patience, till it comes round again."
"You with your patience and patience—maybe we can live on your being patient and content? D'you know why folk call this the Crow's Nest? Because nothing thrives for us, they say."
Lars Peter took his big hat from the nail behind the door and went out. He was depressed, and sought comfort with the animals; they and the children he understood, but grown-up people he could not. After all, there must be something lacking in him, since all thought him a peculiar fellow, just because he was happy and patient.
As soon as he had left the kitchen, the nag recognized his footstep, and welcomed him with a whinny. He went into the stall and stroked its back; it was like a wreck lying keel upwards. It certainly was a skeleton, and could not be called handsome. People smiled when they saw the two of them coming along the road—he knew it quite well! But they had shared bad and good together, and the nag was not particular; it took everything as it came, just as he did.
Lars Peter had never cared for other people's opinion; but now his existence was shaken, and it was necessary to defend himself and his own. In the stall beside the horse lay the cow. True enough, if taken to market now it would not fetch much; it was weak on its legs and preferred to lie down. But with spring, when it got out to grass, this would right itself. And it was a good cow for a small family like his; it did not give much milk at a time, but to make up for it gave milk all the year round. And rich milk too! When uncomplimentary remarks were made about it, Lars Peter would chaffingly declare that he could skim the milk three times, and then there was nothing but cream left. He was very fond of it, and more so for the good milk it had given the little ones.
One corner of the outhouse was boarded off for the pig. It too had heard him, and stood waiting for him to come and scratch its neck. It suffered from intestinal hernia; it had been given to Lars Peter by a farmer who wanted to get rid of it. It was not a pretty sight, but under the circumstances had thriven well, he thought, and would taste all right when salted. Perhaps it was this Sörine wanted?
The snow lay deep on the fields, but he recognized every landmark through the white covering. It was sandy soil, and yielded poor crops, yet for all that Lars Peter was fond of it. To him it was like a face with dear living features, and he would no more criticize it than he would his own mother. He stood at the door of the barn gazing lingeringly at his land. He was not happy—as he usually was on Sundays when he went about looking at his possessions. Today he could understand nothing!
Every day Sörine would return to the same subject, with some new proposal. They would buy her mother's house and move over there; the beams were of oak, and the hut would last for many years. Or they would take her as a pensioner, while there was time—in return for getting all she owned. Her thoughts were ever with her mother and her possessions. "Suppose she goes to some one else as a pensioner, and leaves everything to them! or fritters away Ditte's two hundred crowns!" said she. "She's in her second childhood!"
She was mad on the subject, but Lars Peter let her talk on.
"Isn't it true, Ditte, that Granny would be much better with us?" Sörine would continue. She quite expected the child to agree with her, crazy as she was over her grandmother.
"I don't know," answered Ditte sullenly. Her mother lately had done her best to get her over to her side, but Ditte was suspicious of her. She would love to be with Granny again, but not in that way. She would only be treated badly. Ditte had no faith in her mother's care. It was more for her own wicked ends than for daughterly love, Granny herself had said.
Sörine was beyond comprehension. One morning she would declare that before long they would hear sad news about Granny, because she had heard the raven screaming in the willows during the night. "I'd better go over and see her," said she.
"Ay, that's right, you go," answered Lars Peter. "I'll drive you over. After all, the nag and I have nothing to do."
But Sörine wouldn't hear of it. "You've your own work to do at home," said she. However, she did not get off that day—something or other prevented her. She had grown very restless.
The next morning she was unusually friendly to the children. "I'll tell you something, Granny will soon be coming here—I dreamed it last night," said she, as she helped Ditte to dress them. "She can have the alcove, and father and I'll move into the little room. And then you won't be cold any longer."
"But yesterday you said that Granny was going to die soon," objected Ditte.
"Ay, but that was only nonsense. Hurry up home from school. I've some shopping to do, and likely won't be home till late." She put sugar on the bread Ditte took to school, and sent her off in good time.
Ditte set out, with satchel hanging from her arm, and her hands rolled up in the ends of her muffler. The father had driven away early, and she followed the wheel-tracks for some distance, and amused herself by stepping in the old nag's footprints. Then the trail turned towards the sea.
She could not follow the lessons today, she was perplexed in mind. Her mother's friendliness had roused her suspicions. It was so contrary to the conviction which the child from long experience had formed as to her mother's disposition. Perhaps she was not such a bad mother when it came to the point. The sugar on the bread almost melted Ditte's heart.
But at the end of the school hour, a fearful anxiety overwhelmed her; her heart began to flutter like a captured bird, and she pressed her hand against her mouth, to keep herself from screaming aloud. When leaving the school, she started running towards the Naze. "That's the wrong way, Ditte!" shouted the girls she used to go home with. But she only ran on.
It was thick with snow, and the air was still and heavy-laden. It had been like twilight all day long. As she neared the hill above the hut on the Naze, darkness began to fall. She had run all the way and only stopped at the corner of the house, to get her breath. There was a humming in her ears, and through the hum she heard angry voices: Granny's crying, and her mother's hard and merciless.
She was about to tap on the window-pane, but hesitated, her mother's voice made her creep with fear. She shivered as she crept round the house towards the woodshed, opened the door, and stood in the kitchen, listening breathlessly. Her mother's voice drowned Granny's; it had often forced Ditte to her knees, but so frightful she had never heard it before. She was stiff with fear, and she had to squat on the ground, shivering with cold.
Through the keyhole she caught a glimpse of her mother's big body standing beside the alcove. She was bent over it, and from the movement of her back, it could be seen that she had got hold of the old woman. Granny was defending herself.
"Come out with it at once," Sörine shouted hoarsely. "Or I'll pull you out of bed."
"I'll call for some one," groaned Granny, hammering on the wall.
"Call for help if you like," ridiculed Sörine, "there's no-one to hear you. Maybe you've got it in the eiderdown, since you hold it so tightly."
"Oh, hold your mouth, you thief," moaned Granny. Suddenly there was a scream, Sörine must have got hold of the packet on the old woman's breast.
Ditte jumped in and lifted the latch. "Granny," she shrieked, but she was not heard in the fearful noise. They fought, Granny's screams were like those of a dying animal. "I'll make you shut up, you witch!" shouted Sörine, and the old woman's scream died away to an uncanny rattle; Ditte wanted to assist her grandmother, but could not move, and suddenly fell unconscious to the ground. When she came to herself again, she was lying face downwards on the floor; her forehead hurt. She stumbled to her feet. The door stood open, and her mother had gone. Large white flakes of snow came floating in, showing white in the darkness.
Ditte's first thought was that it would be cold for Granny. She closed the door and went towards the bed. Old Maren lay crouched together among the untidy bedclothes. "Granny," called Ditte and crying groped for the sunken face. "It's only me, dear little Granny."
She took the old woman's face entreatingly between her thin toil-worn hands, crying over it for a while; then undressed herself and crept into bed beside her. She had once heard Granny say about some one she had been called to: "There is nothing to be done for him, he's quite cold!" And she was obsessed with that thought, Granny must not be allowed to get cold, or she would have no Granny left. She crept close to the body, and worn out by tears and exhaustion soon fell asleep.
Towards morning she woke feeling cold; Granny was dead and cold. Suddenly she understood the awfulness of it all, and hurrying into her clothes, she fled.
She ran across the fields in the direction of home, but when she reached the road leading to the sea, she went along it to Per Nielsen's farm. There they picked her up, benumbed with misery. "Granny's dead!" she broke out over and over again, looking from one to the other with terror in her eyes. That was all they could get out of her. When they proposed taking her home to the Crow's Nest, she began to scream, so they put her to bed, to rest.
When she woke later in the day, Per Nielsen came in to her. "Well, I suppose you'd better be thinking of getting home," said he. "I'll go with you."
Ditte gazed at him with fear in her eyes.
"Are you afraid of your stepfather?" asked he. She did not answer. The wife came in.
"I don't know what we're to do," said he, "she's afraid to go home. The stepfather can't be very good to her."
Ditte turned sharply towards him. "I want to go home to Lars Peter," she said, sobbing.
[CHAPTER XIX]
Ill Luck Follows The Raven's Call
On receiving information of old Maren's death, four of her children assembled at the hut on the Naze, to look after their own interests, and watch that no-one ran off with anything. The other four on the other side of the globe, could of course not be there.
There was no money—not as much as a farthing was to be found, in spite of their searching, and the splitting up of the eiderdown—and the house was mortgaged up to the hilt. They then agreed to give Sörine and her husband what little there was, on condition that they provided the funeral. On this occasion, Sörine did not spare money, she wanted the funeral to be talked about. Old Maren was put into the ground with more grandeur than she had lived.
Ditte was at the funeral—naturally, as she was the only one who had ever cared for the dead woman. But in the churchyard she so lost control over herself, that Lars Peter had to take her aside, to prevent her disturbing the parson. She had such strong feelings, every one thought.
But in this respect Ditte changed entirely. After Granny's death, she seemed to quieten. She went about doing her work, was not particularly lively, but not depressed either. Lars Peter observed that she and her mother quarreled no longer. This was a pleasant step in the right direction!
Ditte resigned herself to her lot. It cost her an effort to remain under the same roof as her mother; she would rather have left home. But this would have reflected on her stepfather, and her sense of justice rebelled against this. Then too the thought of her little brothers and sisters kept her back; what would become of them if she left?
She remained—and took up a definite position towards her mother. Sörine was kind and considerate to her, so much so that it was almost painful, but Ditte pretended not to notice it. All advances from her mother glanced off her. She was stubborn and determined, carrying through what she set her mind on—the mother was nothing to her.
Sörine's eyes constantly followed her when unobserved—she was afraid of her. Had the child been in the hut when it happened, or had she only arrived later? Sörine was not sure whether she herself had overturned the chair that evening in the darkness? How much did Ditte know? That she knew something her mother could tell from her face. She would have given much to find out, and often touched upon the question—with her uncertain glance at the girl.
"'Tis terrible to think that Granny should die alone," she would say, hoping the child would give herself away. But Ditte was obstinately silent.
One day Sörine gave Lars Peter a great surprise, by putting a large sum of money on the table in front of him. "Will that build the house, d'you think?" asked she.
Lars Peter looked at her; he was astounded.
"I've saved it by selling eggs and butter and wool," said she; "and by starving you," she added with an uncertain smile. "I know that I've been stingy and a miser; but in the end it pays you as well."
It was so seldom she smiled. "How pretty it made her!" thought Lars Peter, looking lovingly at her. She had lately been happier and more even tempered—no doubt the prospect of getting a better home.
He counted the money—over three hundred crowns! "That's a step forward," said he. The next evening when returning home he had bricks on the cart; and every evening he continued bringing home materials for building.
People who passed the Crow's Nest saw the erection of beams and bricks shoot up, and rumors began to float round the neighborhood. It began with a whisper that the old woman had left more than had been spoken of. Then it was said that perhaps, after all, old Maren had not died a natural death. And some remembered having seen Sörine on her way from the Crow's Nest towards the hamlet, on the same afternoon as her mother's death; little by little more was added to this, until it was declared that Sörine had strangled her own mother. Ditte was probably—with the exception of the mother—the only one who knew the real facts, and nothing could be got out of her when it affected her family—least of all on an occasion like this. But it was strange that she should happen to arrive just at the critical moment; and still more remarkable that she should run to Per Nielsen's and not home with the news of her grandmother's death.
Neither Sörine herself nor Lars Peter heard a word of these rumors. Ditte heard it at school through the other children, but did not repeat it. When her mother was more than usually considerate, her hate would seethe up in her—"Devil!" it whispered inside her, and suddenly she would feel an overwhelming desire to shout to her father: "Mother stifled Granny with the eiderdown!" It was worst of all when hearing her speak lovingly about the old woman. But the thought of his grief stopped her. He went about now like a great child, seeing nothing, and was more than ever in love with Sörine; he was overjoyed by the change for the better. Ditte and the others loved him as never before.
When Sörine was too hard on the children, they would hide from her outside the house, and only appear when their father returned at night. But since Granny's death there had been no need for this. The mother was entirely changed; when her temper was about to flare up, an unseen hand seemed to hold it back.
But it happened at times that Ditte could not bear to stay in the same room with her mother, and then she would go back to her old way and hide herself.
One evening she lay crouching in the willows. Sörine came time after time to the door, calling her in a friendly voice, and at each call a feeling of disgust went through the girl. "Ugh!" said she; it made her almost sick. After having searched for her round the house, Sörine went slowly up to the road and back again, peering about all the time: passing so close to Ditte that her dress brushed her face: then she went in.
Ditte was cold, and tired of hiding, but in she would not go—not till her father came home. He might not return until late, or not at all. Ditte had experienced this before, but then there had been a reason for it. It was no whipping she expected now!
No, but how lovely it had been to walk in holding her father's hand. He asked no question now, but only looked at the mother accusingly, and could not do enough for one. Perhaps he would make an excuse for a trip over to ... no ... this ... Ditte began to cry. It was terrible that however much she mourned for Granny—suddenly she would find she had forgotten Granny was dead. "Granny's dead, dear little Granny's dead," she would repeat to herself, so that it should not happen again, but the next minute it was just the same. It was so disloyal!
Now that it was too late, she was sorry she had not gone in when her mother called. She drew her feet up under her dress and began pulling up the grass to keep herself awake. Hearing a sound from the distance she jumped up—wheels approaching! but alas, it was not the well-known rumbling of her father's cart.
The cart turned from the road down in the direction of the Crow's Nest. Two men got out and went into the house; both wore caps with gold braid on. Ditte crept down to the house, behind the willows; her heart was beating loudly. The next moment they reappeared with her mother between them; she was struggling and shrieking wildly. "Lars Peter!" she cried heartrendingly in the darkness; they had to use force to get her into the cart. Inside the house the children could be heard crying in fear.
This sound made Ditte forget everything else, and she rushed forward. One of the men caught her by the arm, but let her go at a sign from the other man. "D'you belong to the house?" asked he.
Ditte nodded.
"Then go in to the little ones and tell them not to be afraid.... Drive on!"
Quick as lightning, Sörine put both legs over the side of the cart, but the policemen held her back. "Ditte, help me!" she screamed, as the cart swung up the road and disappeared.
Lars Peter was about three miles from the Crow's Nest, turning into the road beside the grocer's, when a cart drove past; in the light from the shop windows he caught sight of gold-braided caps. "The police are busy tonight!" said he, and shrugged his shoulders. He proceeded up the road and began humming again, mechanically flicking the nag with the whip as usual. He sat bent forward, thinking of them all at home, of what Sörine would have for him tonight—he was starving with hunger—and of the children. It was a shame that he was so late—it was pleasant when they all four rushed to meet him. Perhaps, after all, they might not be in bed.
The children stood out on the road, all four of them, waiting for him; the little ones dared not stay in the house. He stood as though turned to stone, holding on to the cart for support, while Ditte with tears told what had happened; it looked as if the big strong man would collapse altogether. Then he pulled himself together and went into the house with them, comforting them all the time; the nag of its own accord followed with the cart.
He helped Ditte put the children to bed. "Can you look after the little ones tonight?" he asked, when they had finished. "I must drive to town and fetch mother—it's all a misunderstanding."
His voice sounded hollow.
Ditte nodded and followed him out to the cart.
He turned and set the horse in motion, but suddenly he stopped.
"You know all about it, better than any one else, Ditte," said he. "You can clear your mother." He waited quietly, without looking at her, and listened. There was no answer.
Then he turned the cart slowly round and began to unharness.