“They often do that in inflammation of the lungs. Just you go back and take it quietly. He’s so young and strong, he’ll get over it all right.”
Ingeborg went quietly out, and the old man began to pace the floor again. There was no use in fetching the doctor again; the complaint must take its course. But the old man felt he must be here because he could not sleep, and because the women wanted to have him at hand.
“Oh dear!” he thought. “I do hope Einar will pull through!” But the terrible thing was that sometimes he caught himself wishing that he would not pull through. Thoughts such as these buzzed about like stinging wasps on the surface of his mind. He was sometimes frightened, and sometimes would have liked to have given himself a thrashing; but the wasps came again. So low had he been dragged down in this confounded matter with Wangen.
Why of course he forgave the boy! He would never refer to the matter again, if the boy recovered. But—but—this illness had followed so close upon his anger; and it would take something to sweep away every little sting.
He paused again at the window, and looked out into the bright night. The wind was rising now towards morning, and began to raise snow-clouds away over the hills.
Oh, how pleasant life would be, when this nasty case was done with, and he could be the old Norby once more! Here he lived on his farm, and only wanted to be left in peace; but was he allowed to? No; they dragged him into this foolery with Wangen—wanted him to support such swindles as these brickfields; and when he wanted to get out of it, they threatened him with imprisonment. Then they suborned witnesses. And then they set the son up against his father. And why was Einar ill? If they hadn’t persuaded him to come to this inquiry he would have been in town now reading his books, instead of going down there on a winter’s day without his overcoat, and getting inflammation of the lungs. Supposing he died! It would be the fault of those who had persuaded him; and they would be sure to exult if Norby lost this son too, for they had succeeded in causing him to lose his eldest. His lips began to quiver as he stood in the moonlight. Would they succeed? Would they have that pleasure? And he turned suddenly, and walked towards the door. “I’ll go for the doctor all the same,” he thought; but then he remembered that the doctor had promised to come early in the morning, and he turned back to the window, and stood gazing out at the red and black banks of cloud in the north.
Supposing Einar died and went over there. There he would stand for ever, always looking at him as he had done down at the court-house, when he dug his stick into a snow-drift. “I want to follow my own conscience.” Would he not hear those words night and day, and see that form, as long as ever he lived? Always this accusation from the dead. He might travel all over the world and collect evidence and declarations to disprove it, but it would be of no use.
The old man pressed his lips together again. No, the boy must be kept alive. Better that he should go to the trial and give evidence against him, than die and witness against him everlastingly.
The wind was rising. It howled round the corners of the house and in the roof, and up under the icicle-fringed eaves. In the east a grey band of light began to show above the hills, but the moon still spread her silvery veil over land and water.