And Cordt went on ... in and out ... constantly longing to see the strong air of the old room color his son’s cheeks and rouse his will ... constantly trusting that, sooner or later, this would happen.
He never went up there since the day when he and his old servant had arranged the room as it used to be.
And Finn was glad of this. He was so afraid lest that should happen that a long time passed before he could suppress his terror when he heard any one coming. And, even when he had recovered his composure, he knew that it would happen sooner or later and that the day of its happening would be a gloomy one.
For he well understood the eternal loving question in Cordt’s eyes and it hurt him and frightened him. He dreaded the craving in his affection, which was greater than a father’s. It was like that of a sovereign for the heir who is to occupy the throne after him.
And Finn could not take the reins of empire in his slack hands or bear the pressure of the crown upon his head, which ached at the mere thought of it.
But Fru Adelheid often came; and they two were comfortable up there, in the old room.
She came with no craving; and, if she was doubtful and restless, as she often was since Finn had moved up into the old room, then she would be quite silent when the door closed behind her.
Silent like Finn ... and like the big chairs and the jar with the man writhing through thorns ... silent like the spinning-wheel, which had whirred merrily every evening for many a good year and stood as it was with thread upon its spindle.
He looked at her and smiled and nodded when she spoke. He himself talked ... for long at a time and then stopped, without its making any difference, and listened to the rippling of the fountain and the voices in the old room, which always talked to him and plainest when Fru Adelheid was with him.
He told her that, when she came, the room was no longer his own.