To Einar this illness was a black darkness that separated him from something that had happened long ago, and about which he could not now think. As he emerged from this darkness, too, it struck him how comfortable he was lying there. He was a child once more, wrapped in the clothes his mother put upon him, and eating what she gave him with her own hand; he showed temper, and was exacting, and she scolded him; she washed him, and warmed his night-shirt for him at the stove, as in days gone by.
A recovery from such an illness is like being born into the world again. Worn out as one is, every little trouble brings the tears to one’s eyes, just as they make the baby scream; and waiting for mother when she is away too long is unbearable torture.
As his strength returned, Einar noticed that his father never came to see him; and at the same time he understood that this was something he ought not to mention. It was also something that he ought not to think about; for there was so much besides that went with it, and that should not be allowed to come near him now.
One day Ingeborg came up with some hot water in a bath, saying she thought it was about time he had his feet washed; and as he put out his clammy feet, and enjoyed the wet sponge and her gentle touch, the tears came again to his eyes. “Oh, how good it is to be at home now!” he thought.
He remembered that during his first attacks of fever, he had felt horror at being tended by those whom he had betrayed; but that must have been part of the illness. During the feverish attacks, he had also seen Wangen standing in the room and saying: “I shall be sent to prison, and it is your fault.” And Einar had screamed with terror; but that too had been part of his illness, and he had now recovered from it. Yes, it was a strange thing to be ill.
While his sister dried his feet with a warm bath-towel, he looked up at the ceiling, and thought: “Thank goodness that I was prevented from doing these people any harm!”
As the days passed, and he gradually became able once more to retain difficult thoughts, he felt a certain fear as to how it would be when he went downstairs and met his father. He supposed he would have to ask his forgiveness; but that, too, caused him a strange pain. Thoughts came to him. “I have abandoned a sacred purpose; and just because I am lying here and receiving all this affection, I am becoming more and more powerless to take it up again. I was to save an innocent man from punishment, and I was to stand a test of character. But I broke down. I took flight! And now I am lying and thanking God for it!”
“Mother!” he cried involuntarily; and if she were not in the room, he would be seized with an uncomfortable fear until she came back and he knew her to be near him.
“How pale and thin you are, mother! How often you must have sat up at night!”