The mocking voice had at last forced Einar’s courage up; and when he finally determined to go home, he felt as if he had burnt his ships behind him. He would put this matter right, and first of all he would try to bring his father to reason; but all the time he felt as if he were going up for an examination.
When he saw the old brown horse, the familiar double sledge and fur rug, a warm feeling seemed to come to him from home; and as he sat beside his sister, driving homewards amid the jingle of the sledge-bells, he was imperceptibly filled with the childlike happiness of going home. But these were the feelings that Einar had had to overcome before he came to his determination; and he was therefore on guard against them, for on this occasion they were a danger.
Ingeborg had met him at Christmas with the same horse, and this brought a host of bright, pleasant recollections into his mind. He thought of the ball they had given, remembered the doctor’s daughter, who looked so pretty that evening, saw her eyes. His father and mother had done everything to make them enjoy themselves. And now? Now he had a feeling that he was coming home as a traitor in disguise.
“Why have you come so suddenly?” asked Ingeborg.
“To be here at the inquiry,” he answered. “I want to see how it will turn out.”
“Oh, you can be quite sure that father’s all right,” she said with warm conviction. Einar found himself wishing it might be so, and had to say hastily to himself: “Take care that your good feelings don’t weaken your purpose.”
“Poor father,” said Ingeborg. “You can’t think what stories people are telling about him now. That Wangen must be a dreadful man!”
Her eyes shone with confidence in her father, and Einar felt the infection.
“How are they all at home?” he asked, in order to change the subject.