Norby put his pipe in his waistcoat pocket and went across with her to the little cottage. The two old farm men were sitting by the bed in the little room, looking straight before them, with their large coarse hands folded between their knees. The eyes of the one who had been engaged over and over again to the dairymaid were wet.
Norby, too, stood and looked at the old dead servant with trembling lips.
That afternoon he went up over the hills to the little cottage where Lars Kleven’s widow sat sorrowful. When he entered—he had to stoop under the ceiling—the old woman was sitting by her spinning-wheel. She rose in alarm, thinking, “He’s come to take the cottage from me after all.”
“How are you?” asked Norby, sitting down with his stick between his knees.
“Thank God, I can’t complain of my health,” she said timidly, “but I’m dreading the winter.”
“Well, the dairymaid’s leaving us now,” said the old man, “and her little room will be empty. If you can be satisfied with it, you can move into it for the rest of your days. I think they clean it to-day, so it’ll be ready to-morrow. And your cow and fowls—yes—you can bring them with you. There’s room enough.”
The old woman folded her hands and gazed at him in amazement for a little while, before she sank down and burst into tears. But at that Norby left; he did not like tears.
As he trudged homewards he had no feeling of having done anything good; he had only moved a thing into its proper place. It is true her husband had let himself be tempted by Wangen and his people, but he, poor fellow, lay in his grave now, and there was nothing more to be said about that.
On the hill he sat down and looked out over the valley, which lay bathed in the last gleams of sunshine, with long, blue shadows over the lake. He sat there for some time, his hands resting upon his stick.
He felt as if he had come into a haven after a long storm. They had been evil days and sleepless nights; but one could not expect to have things always go well. They had tried every possible way to injure him—lies and slander, newspaper vulgarity, riots at his farm, and—influencing Einar. Well, well, the boy should never hear the slightest allusion to that matter.