“She was betrothed yesterday,” said Ulla, “to the man of her heart. Rolf is such a young man—”
“Olaf knows Rolf,” observed Erica. “An unfortunate thing happened at the end of the day, Olaf. Nipen was insulted.” And she told the story of Oddo’s prank, and implored the doctor to say if anything could be done to avert bad consequences.
“No doubt,” replied Olaf. “Look here! This will preserve you from any particular evil that you dread.” And he took from the box he carried under his arm a round piece of white paper, with a hole in the middle, through which a string was to be passed, to tie the charm round the neck. Erica shook her head. Such a charm would be of no use, as she did not know under what particular shape of misfortune Nipen’s displeasure would show itself. Besides, she was certain that nothing would make Rolf wear a charm; and she disdained to use any security which he might not share. Olaf could not help her in any other way; but inquired with sympathy when the next festival would take place. Then, all might be repaired by handsome treatment of Nipen. Till then, he advised Erica to wear his charm, as her lover could not be the worse for her being so far safe. Erica blushed: she knew, but did not say, that harm would be done which no charm could repair if her lover saw her trying to save herself from dangers to which he remained exposed: and she did not know what their betrothment was worth, if it did not give them the privilege of suffering together. So she put back the charm into its place in the box, and, with a sigh, rose to return to the house.
In the porch she found Oddo, eating something which caused him to make faces. Though it was in the open air, there was a strong smell of camphor, and of something else less pleasant.
“What are you doing, Oddo?” asked Erica: the question which Oddo was asked every day of his life.
Oddo had observed Olaf’s practice among his patients of the household, and perceived that, for all complaints, of body or mind, he gave the two things camphor and asafoetida,—sometimes together, and sometimes separately; and always in corn-brandy. Oddo could not refrain from trying what these drugs were like; so he helped himself to some of each; and, as he could get no corn-brandy till dinner-time, he was eating the medicines without. Such was the cause of his wry faces. If he had been anything but a Norway boy, he would have been the invalid of the house to-day, from the quantity of rich cake he had eaten: but Oddo seemed to share the privilege, common to Norwegians, of being able to eat anything, in any quantity, without injury. His wry faces were from no indigestion, but from the savour of asafoetida, unrelieved by brandy.
Wooden dwellings resound so much as to be inconvenient for those who have secrets to tell. In the porch of Peder’s house, Oddo had heard all that passed within. It was good for him to have done so. He became more sensible of the pain he had given, and more anxious to repair it. “Dear Erica,” said he, “I want you to do a very kind thing for me. Do get leave for me to go with Rolf after the bears. If I get one stroke at them,—if I can but wound one of them, I shall have a paw for my share; and I will lay it out for Nipen. You will, will you not?”
“It must be as Erlingsen chooses, Oddo: but I fancy you will not be allowed to go just now. The bears will think the doctor’s physic-sledge is coming through the woods, and they will be shy. Do stand a little further off. I cannot think how it is that you are not choked.”
“Suppose you go for an airing,” said the doctor, who now joined them. “If you must not go in the way of the bears, there is a reindeer,—”
“O, where?” cried Oddo.