Thus the night passed. They talked themselves more and more together, and found their own confidence in one another. They both felt haunted by the dark, cold responsibility, and fled hand in hand towards the land of innocence.
[CHAPTER IV]
THE spring was early this year, and when Pastor Borring went up the avenue to Norby Farm at the beginning of May, the trees were in leaf, and a strong scent of leaves and grass filled the air. The priest carried a bag in his hand. He was going on a sick visit to Lars Kleven up on the hill.
Many of the young trees in the avenue were torn up or broken off, as if after a hurricane; but it was after the working men’s procession to Norby on the first of May.
When the priest came to the garden, he saw Norby inside the fence in a white working coat, busy with some trees. The priest stopped and fell into conversation with him.
“It looks dreadful after the demonstrators,” said he with a shake of the head. “Upon my word, it’s not only the consul’s standing drinks that has fooled them; there must have been some one or other who has dealt out mental strong drinks too.”
Norby looked surprised, but laughed as he leaned upon his spade. “The workmen?” he said. “They had nothing to do with the damage in the grounds. The wind did that one night.”
The priest looked a little sheepish, and soon went on his way. That Norby had a peculiar way of being proud! He was so terribly afraid that any one should pity him.
The path up the hill was muddy after the rain in the night, but the leaves of the trees and the green slopes were glistening in the sun. Brooks ran noisily towards the fjord, and in the fields round about men and horses were busy harrowing.