“She’s got that mischief in her back,” said the mother, stroking her thin, unlovely hair. “She got it always carrying the doctor’s little boy—he’s so tall and so heavy. But as long as the doctor says nothing, it can’t be anything dangerous. Yes, you did really leave home too early, my child; but, after all, you get good food and you learn to be smart. And capable, that she is; she looks after the doctor’s three children all by herself! The eldest is her own age, but she has to dress and undress her. Such grand children, they don’t even learn how to do things for themselves!”
Pelle stared at her curiously. He himself had put up with a good deal, but to cripple himself by dragging children about, who were perhaps stronger than himself—no, no one need expect that of him! “Why do you carry the over-fed brat?” he asked.
“They must have some one to look after them,” said the mother, “and their mother, who’s the nearest to them, she doesn’t feel inclined to do it. And they pay her for it.”
“If it was me, I’d let the brat fall,” said Pelle boldly.
The little girl just glanced at him with her dull eyes, and a feeble interest glimmered in them. But her face retained its frozen indifference, and it was impossible to say what she was thinking, so hard and experienced was her expression.
“You mustn’t teach her anything naughty,” said the mother; “she has enough to struggle against already; she’s got an obstinate nature. And now you must go to bed, Karen”—she caressed her once more— “Father can’t bear to see you when he’s had too much. He’s so fond of her,” she added helplessly.
Karen drew away from the caress without the slightest change of expression; silently she went up to the garret where she slept. Pelle had not heard her utter a sound.
“That’s how she is,” said the mother, shivering. “Never a word to say ‘good night’! Nothing makes any impression on her nowadays— neither good nor bad; she’s grown up too soon. And I have to manage so that father doesn’t see her when he’s merry. He goes on like a wild beast against himself and everybody else when it comes across his mind how she’s been put upon.” She looked nervously at the clock. “But go now—do listen! You’ll do me a great favor if you’ll go!” She was almost crying.
Morten stood up, hesitating, and the others followed his example. “Pull your collars up and run,” said the mother, and buttoned up their coats. The October gale was beating in gusts against the house, and the rain was lashing violently against the window-panes.
As they were saying good night a fresh noise was heard outside. The outer door banged against the wall, and they heard the storm burst in and fill the entry. “Ah, now it’s too late!” lamented the mother reproachfully. “Why didn’t you go sooner?” A monstrous breathing sounded outside, like the breathing of a gigantic beast, sniffing up and down at the crack of the door, and fumbling after the latch with its dripping paws. Jens wanted to run and open the door. “No, you mustn’t do that!” cried his mother despairingly, and she pushed the bolt. She stood there, rigid, her whole body trembling. Pelle too began to shiver; he had a feeling that the storm itself was lying there in the entry like a great unwieldy being, puffing and snorting in a kind of gross content, and licking itself dry while it waited for them.