There was no answer from Sörine.
When ready to leave, he bent over Ditte, who lay like a little mother with the children in her arms. "That's a good little girl, you've given us," said he, straightening himself.
"She tells lies," answered Sörine from beside the fireplace.
"Then it's because she's had to. My family's not thought much of, Sörine—and maybe they don't deserve it either. But never a hand was laid on us children, I'll tell you. I remember plainly my father's death-bed, how he looked at his hands, and said: 'These have dealt with much, but never has the rag and bone man's hands been turned against the helpless!' I'd like to say that when my time comes, and I'd advise you to think of it too."
Then he drove away. Sörine put the lantern in the window, to act as a guide to him, and crept back to bed, but could not sleep. For the first time Lars Peter had given her something to think of. She had found that in him which she had never expected, something strange which warned her to be careful. A decent soul, she had always taken him for—just as the others. And how awful he could be in his rage—it made her flesh creep, when thinking of it. She certainly would be careful not to come up against him again.
[CHAPTER XV]
Rain And Sunshine
On the days when Ditte did not go to school, there were thousands of things for her to do. She had to look after the little ones, care for the sheep and hens too, and gather nettles in a sack for the pigs. At times Lars Peter came home early, having been unlucky in selling his fish. Then she would sit up with her parents until one or two o'clock in the night, cleaning the fish, to prevent it spoiling. Sörine was one of those people who fuss about without doing much. She could not bear the child resting for a moment, and drove her from one task to another. Often when Ditte went to bed, she was so tired that she could not sleep. Sörine had the miserable habit of making the day unhappy for the children. She was rough with them should they get in her way; and always left children's tears like streams of water behind her. When Ditte went to gather sticks, or pick berries, she always dragged the little ones with her, so as not to leave them to their mother's tender mercy. There were days when Sörine was not quite so bad—she was never quite happy and kind, but at other times she was almost mad with anger, and the only thing to do was to keep out of her way. Then they would all hide, and only appear when their father came home.
Sörine was careful not to strike Ditte, and sent her off to school in good time—she had no wish to see Lars Peter again as he was that evening. But she had no love for the child, she wanted to get on in life; it was her ambition to build a new dwelling-house, get more land and animals—and be on the same footing with the other women on the small farms round about. The child was a blot on her. Whenever she looked at Ditte, she would think: Because of that brat, all the other women look down on me!