She spoke in a tone as if she had been lying reproaching herself the whole night.
Peter felt uncomfortable. Did people not sleep in this house of a night. He did not particularly like to see Hedvig. Brundin’s shadow hung over her still. She was like a ghost from the time of his great fear. And then she was religious. She had a sort of secret understanding with the gods of which Peter in his innermost heart was still rather frightened. Yes, however one approached her, one seemed to be burnt up. But all the same Peter managed the business splendidly. He resembled a man playing ball with a live coal which is still too hot to hold for long in his hand. Though frightened himself he directed her fear into a channel where there might slumber things of use to Peter Selamb.
“I woke up and felt so anxious about father,” he muttered. “I felt as if something was going to happen to him.”
“Do you think I am not listening?” Hedvig said, shrugging her shoulders.
“We have not always been as we ought to be to poor father,” sighed Peter.
Hedvig’s beautiful face hardened and she assumed the expression of an injured martyr.
“Don’t I wear myself out for him? Haven’t I nursed him day and night since he has been confined to his bed?”
Peter was not so convinced that her nursing was so tender. When he thought of lying ill and being washed by Hedvig’s hands he felt cold shivers down his back. But he took care not to show it.
“Yes, Hedvig, you are a real saint. But Laura and Stellan, who never come to see father—and I who—yes, we shall get our punishment.”
Over Hedvig’s face there spread a glimmer of satisfaction.