Part 15 (1/2)
”I should like to come myself, too; ... but still I must have some errand.”
Eli lay silent for a while, as if she was turning over something in her mind. ”I believe,” she said, ”mother has something to ask you about.” ...
They both felt the room was becoming very hot; he wiped his brow, and he heard her rise in the bed. No sound could be heard either in the room or down-stairs, save the ticking of the clock on the wall. There was no moon, and the darkness was deep; when he looked through the green window, it seemed to him as if he was looking into a wood; when he looked towards Eli he could see nothing, but his thoughts went over to her, and then his heart throbbed till he could himself hear its beating. Before his eyes flickered bright sparks; in his ears came a rus.h.i.+ng sound; still faster throbbed his heart: he felt he must rise or say something. But then she exclaimed,
”How I wish it were summer!”
”That it were summer?” And he heard again the sound of the cattle-bells, the horn from the mountains, and the singing from the valleys; and saw the fresh green foliage, the Swart-water glittering in the sunbeams, the houses rocking in it, and Eli coming out and sitting on the sh.o.r.e, just as she did that evening. ”If it were summer,” she said, ”and I were sitting on the hill, I think I could sing a song.”
He smiled gladly, and asked, ”What would it be about?”
”About something bright; about--well, I hardly know what myself.” ...
”Tell me, Eli!” He rose in glad excitement; but, on second thoughts, sat down again.
”No; not for all the world!” she said, laughing.
”I sang to you when you asked me.”
”Yes, I know you did; but I can't tell you this; no! no!”
”Eli, do you think I would laugh at the little verse you have made?”
”No, I don't think you would, Arne; but it isn't anything I've made myself.”
”Oh, it's by somebody else then?”
”Yes.”
”Then, you can surely say it to me.”
”No, no, I can't; don't ask me again, Arne!”
The last words were almost inaudible; it seemed as if she had hidden her head under the bedclothes.
”Eli, now you're not kind to me as I was to you,” he said, rising.
”But, Arne, there's a difference ... you don't understand me ... but it was ... I don't know ... another time ... don't be offended with me, Arne! don't go away from me!” She began to weep.
”Eli, what's the matter?” It came over him like suns.h.i.+ne. ”Are you ill?” Though he asked, he did not believe she was. She still wept; he felt he must draw nearer or go quite away. ”Eli.” He listened. ”Eli.”
”Yes.”
She checked her weeping. But he did not know what to say more, and was silent.
”What do you want?” she whispered, half turning towards him.
”It's something--”