In God's Way: A Novel

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

He did not leave the day following, but put it off till the next day. He meant to go away for a few days, but would first take lodgings somewhere and move all his possessions. He went out in the afternoon and found rooms, but quite in another part of the town. Then he speculated a little as to what reasons he should give for his moving--particularly to Rendalen; he came to the conclusion that he would tell him the whole truth; to others he would merely say that he had been disturbed in various ways at his old lodgings, which was the truth. He went home again about five o'clock, and in through the bedroom door, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, went into the next room and lay down on the sofa, where he fell fast asleep--he needed the rest. At seven o'clock the servant came in and lit the stove without his noticing it. He woke up a little later and heard the fire crackling and saw the light; he understood from that, that it must be past seven o'clock. His thoughts flew at once to her who was so near in those other rooms. He had a secret hope that, when she knew he was going away, he would be allowed to hear her play once more. So far he had been disappointed in this; but he could not give up his belief that his departure would trouble her. He lay on the sofa listening. Could he go and say good-bye to her just as if nothing had happened? Should he light his lamp? Should he go out again? He raised himself up and stared at the fire in the stove. Then he heard a door in the passage open, and voices--a couple of women's voices, with a strong north-country accent; from that he concluded that some newly arrived relations had been calling and were being escorted to the door; he heard the aunt's slow, drawling voice; he heard, too, a man's voice--was it Ole Tuft? But he could not hear her voice, the voice he was listening for. There were good-byes all round and the door was shut; then came the aunt's voice again, then Ole Tuft's, it really was his voice--he had evidently arrived just as the others were leaving; they went into the aunt's room and shut the door after them, at the same time a door was shut a little further away. Again there was a ring; again a door opened and out came--both the children, shouting with joy; they had seized the occasion to try and run into Kallem, but they were not allowed, so there was a chase after them down the corridor amid much laughter; they were captured and a door shut upon them; at the same moment, the entrance door was opened; one of those north-country ladies had forgotten her galoshes, and now he could hear Ragni's voice offering to fetch a light, as it was quite dark; but the offer was refused in the usual singsong style. Her galoshes were close by the door; but she could not get them on easily, they were so new! At last! Now they were on! Again was heard "Good-bye, good-bye!" and then the answer, "Very welcome on Friday?" This last was Ragni's voice. Did he deceive himself--or was it not just like the voice of one who feels danger is near? It did not sound like her voice. Did she speak of him perhaps against her will? Up he jumped, and was at the door before she had shut the outer one. Should he? He listened for some sign. He did not hear her go; perhaps she was still standing outside. His heart beat fast and loud, but his hand felt softly for the door-handle--he opened it noiselessly. To him who had been staring at the fire in his stove, the passage seemed pitch-dark. He put out his hands to feel for the door and got hold of the latch; he groped his way still further, but no one was there. Could she have gone out with the last visitor? But no, he heard her say good-bye and remind the others about Friday. How was it he had not heard her go? He never heard the inner door open again. She must be in the passage.

His heart beat so that he could almost hear it; but he was impelled onward. Then his hand touched some clothes; he turned to ice! but he came to his senses directly, for the garments were cold and empty. Some one was heard coughing and spitting in one of the rooms, it was Kate; then the children were heard talking in the kitchen or dining-room. He stood still, like any criminal, when he heard these accustomed every-day sounds. He ought never to have embarked on this proceeding. He heard the aunt's droning questions and Ole's clear answers; that is to say, he heard their voices, but not what they said. Was Ragni in the passage? She might have been looking for something and have stopped in her fright at seeing him. If he went on, he might startle her so that she might rush up to any door and open it. There he would be then visible to all!

Still, she was too timid for that. He advanced a few steps. He was in slippers, so his steps were hardly audible; but he hoped that she was not there. The children were talking in the room at the end of the passage; he could hear them so distinctly now the nearer he came; he seemed to see them kneeling each on her chair and building houses at the table. He was ashamed of himself; what business had he there? But though he asked himself that question, he went on all the same; he went from one side to the other, touching first a cloak, then a shawl, then the panel of a door, then one of the coloured passage windows, which he could just distinguish. A carriage rattled past; soon after there came a sound of sleigh-bells dying away in the distance; in this kind of half-thaw both carriages and sledges were used. Something fell down in the kitchen; Kate began to cough again; how long time must seem to him! probably he never used lights? Surely the door between the children's room and the kitchen was open, for they ran in there to find out what had fallen down; he heard the north-country servant answer with lazy good-nature; it was a wooden dish that fell, it tumbled out of the rack. Still he went on. If Ragni were there she must be in the extreme corner. How frightened she must be by this time! What must she think of him? Were he to turn back now, he would look like an unsuccessful thief. It was a little lighter by the window, but no further; no light came either from under or over the doors, not even through the keyholes, or from the children's room. Could she be standing there? He fancied he must see her were she there.

Perhaps she had gone from the passage in to see her aunt? Close by his own door? Or she might have left the door of Kate's or the children's room open when she went out, and have shut it again just as he opened his. Could she be sitting there dreaming? He felt sure of it; but that was because he wished it to be so. But still he went forward. At last close up to the door he could hear the children in their room and the servant bustling about in the kitchen to the left. He turned round and felt much relieved. He walked back much faster, keeping his hands in front of him; suddenly he took hold of a warm, firm arm. He shivered and trembled, sparks seemed to flash from his eyes; he stopped abruptly. But the arm scarcely moved, so he regained courage. He let his arm glide slowly down from the arm and round the waist, which he cautiously encircled. It felt soft and pliable; she stood quite still but trembled a little. He gave a faint pressure. With his other hand he took hold of her hand and gently pressed it; it trembled too. He pressed it again--and step by step they moved slowly forward--without resistance, but still not quite willingly. He could just hear his own footsteps, but hers not at all; the children were talking quietly now. There was not a sound to be heard either in Kule's, or in the aunt's room; but in front of them was an open chink at his door. They arrived there; he pushed it open gently and would have led her in; but here she stopped and tried to draw away her hand. He heard her breathing and felt her breath, could just make out the pale face as he gently pushed her to the threshold, then over it, and closed the door behind them. Here he let go his hold of her so as to shut the door as quietly as possible. She stood with her back to him just as he left her; but with her face buried in her hands; when he came up to her she began to cry. He put his arm round her to draw her closer to him; and her crying turned to sobbing. She sobbed so bitterly and grievously that his blood was sobered and a fresh train of thought set in. Unresistingly she let him lead her to the sofa; she sobbed so despairingly that he felt he must have a light, as one would if anyone were taken ill. So he made haste to trim the lamp, remembered though that the blinds must first be pulled down, so he did that and then lit the lamp.

No one could weep like that who had not been for days and nights shut in with their grief. The very table she leaned on shook with her sobs.

Hundreds of times he had made fun of those lovers who in novels and plays go down upon their knees; but now he pushed the end of the table a little to one side and let himself sink on his knees before her like the humblest sinner. He was trying to see her face, but with both hands she held her handkerchief up before it. Her head, shoulders, and bosom heaved with her violent weeping, he felt each movement, and begged and implored her to forgive him! He had not been master of himself when he spoke those words to her that night on the ice. He loved her, they belonged to each other. "Oh, do not weep so!" he entreated, "I cannot bear it!" He took her hands in his and sat down on the sofa beside her, he laid her head on his shoulder and put his arms round her; he kissed her hair, he pressed her tear-stained cheek against his own; but she cried just as much in this position as in the former one. He wanted to give her some wine. No, ho no!--but it was really terrible this crying. Could it be because he had brought her in to his room? He had been longing so to see her that he could not resist it when he heard her in the passage. Surely she would not have him leave without saying good-by? Was he never to see her again? She shook her head, and disengaging herself from his grasp, laid her head down on the table and sobbed into her handkerchief, more piteously than ever. "Do you wish me to leave?" he asked; but she did not hear him. He allowed her to cry on; after some little time he bent down to her and said: "I will do all you wish me to do." Then she raised herself in all her tears from the table and threw herself in his arms. He folded both arms round her, and felt, as he held her in that close embrace, that she took it in a higher and nobler way than he did.

But someone was at the door and it was opened; it was the servant with his supper. In a great fright he took away his arms and stood up; but Ragni merely laid herself down on the table again and sobbed. Carefully the servant put down the tray on the vacant edge of the table, with equal care she moved the lamp a little and pushed the tray further in. She was red in the face and did not look at either of them; but she had the usual smile which seemed to say: I have been expecting this for long! And now Kallem fancied there was a quiet roguish delight in that smile, so very differently can one look at one and the same thing. She came in very quietly and went out equally so, and shut the door as gently as though he himself had done it.

"Good God! Ragni!" he exclaimed. She answered not a word, it seemed to her a trifling matter, engrossed as she was in her own grief. Again he took her and drew her close to him, then she said: "Oh, how unhappy I am!"--and that was really the only thing she said all the time she sat there. He could answer nothing but what would have sounded very stupid. He tried to say something and took refuge in caresses; but she got up and drew herself away--she wished to leave him. He felt he was not able to keep her any longer, but took her to the door. Before she opened it, she turned to him with a look of sorrowing devotion, like one in death-agony. He put out the lamp and she slipped out.

But just as she shut the door behind her, a faint ray of light fell on her, it came from the little recess that led into the aunt's room; at that very moment the door opened and her aunt stood before her--looking to Ragni's fevered imagination like a huge whale on two legs. Of course, the aunt had heard Ragni crying in her lodger's room, and had seen at a glance how to account for Ragni's strange manner the last few days. So she had kept guard outside her own door, and just as Ragni was leaving Kallem's room, she gave a push to her door, thereby causing the light to fall full on her. Her aunt put out her hand; that was as much as to say: "This way, my lady!" And Ragni obeyed, and her aunt let her pass in before her. She was not alone. There stood a sofa against the wall nearest to the room she had just quitted; a tall, fair man with a mild and gentle face rose up from the sofa-corner; it was Ole Tuft. It was he who had first heard her cry and had been outside their door. Ragni sank down onto a chair between the sofa and the door.

The next day she was in bed. But before Kallem went out he got a note from her in which she told him that her aunt had heard her crying in his room, and so had Tuft; he had also been at their door. There was nothing more in the note; but low down at the bottom of the page the almost illegible words: "Never more."