Percy looked quite frightened.
“Dear, dear, surely I have not hurt you, Sister, in any way. I didn’t mean to at all.” Then he added with a pale, little smile: “I must talk about art, you see, otherwise my temperature will rise....”
She did not give an answering smile.
She continued all along to be stiff, silent and suspicious. In his weakness and helplessness he suffered at first from this lack of sympathy. If he had been an artist he would perhaps have felt a genuine hatred for her. But he was only a dilettante and an amateur, so he not only suffered it, but even began to be attracted by the gloomy and rigid creature as he might have been by some old sombre family treasure which had been hidden from the world in some dusty and sunless corner. Yes, exactly like some gloomy treasure which dumbly reminds us of the dreams and passions of a bygone age. And which is not for sale amongst the rubbish of today.
Thus far had Percy come after a week’s dilettante analysis of Hedvig’s personality. By this time he had entirely ceased to speak about art. But one evening when she stood by the window staring out on the hard and wind-swept autumn sky the expression on her face suddenly brought an idea into his head:
“Sister Hedvig,” he exclaimed, “won’t you read to me a little out of the Old Testament?”
And he rang for a footman and sent him for a new illustrated edition de luxe bible from the library.
But Hedvig refused at first. She was afraid of the echo from the luxurious rooms with their works of art just outside. She was afraid of his vain and scoffing secret thoughts. But Percy was persistent. He told her about his childhood when his mother would sometimes read aloud to him out of the school bible in the evenings. It sounded almost as if in his strange way he took the scriptures seriously. And at last to her own surprise Hedvig gave in. His face lit up:
“Take Deborah’s song,” he begged, as keen as any child to hear its favourite story.
And Hedvig read in a low voice of Deborah who led the chiefs of Israel, whose soul went forth in strength. But there was something too mournful and cold in her voice. Percy’s sensitive ear suspected old Kristin’s influence, the deep-rooted fatalism of the people. He was however afraid of hurting her and let her finish the chapter.