After that day there came a time full of hopeless struggles, speechless despair, and tenderest but joyless love. Ragni had various matters "to arrange," which she quietly set about doing; she had a good deal too to write, and whenever she was able she was thus occupied. She wrote, then scratched out; the whole thing, notwithstanding all her work, proved to be a very short affair. But as long as she was taken up with what she had set herself to get done, she really seemed tolerably well; Kallem was quite surprised.

He himself had lost all courage. He saw the worst before him. As long as he could he shrank from examining her expectoration; ... he knew beforehand that he would find tubercular bacilli there--that enemy, to fight against which he had spent both fortune and life. And now it had conquered him in his own house. But one day he was obliged to do it--and with the expected result. He did not pace up and down the laboratory, neither did he weep nor wring his hands. He only tried whether it were possible to think without her; but it ended always by his thinking of her only. From the hour they first met--all her little ways, the most trifling proofs of her charm and talents, her failings and her silent poetical love, he lived all over again in equal joy and grief; it was all just as dear to him, and just as impossible to part with; countless incidents full of humour, warmth, fear, sense of beauty, devotion; they all followed him about like so many eyes. Where could he go to, what more could he possibly find to do? She was with him in all his work. Her portrait, taken in the third year of her stay in America, was standing on the edge of the stove; it had been sent to him originally that he might see what effect the progress of her intellectual development had produced in her face and eyes, a joyful confirmation of all he had predicted when he sent her over there. Now, as always, the eyes of the portrait seemed to seek his; during that time of waiting, their smile had cheered and encouraged him; what had it not been for him--that portrait? And now there came pouring in on him all the recollections of their first meeting, the first words, first shy strangeness, the first full and entire recognition, the first embrace.

Only to remind him that now all must cease. All, too, that he had thought of and done in his life together with her; the delight in it, his capabilities, his faith. What in all the world had happened? He was bound to speak to her about it; was there anything she wished to hide from him? Some imprudence which she dare not confess? What could it be?

But he must be very careful about it.

Then one day when he came home she was not downstairs. He went up to her and found her lying down. She stretched out her hand--how thin it had become! and fastened her large eyes on him with a faint, half-veiled expression: "I lay down for a little," she whispered; "only for an hour or two." She did not look so very ill; perhaps because she was in bed. He sat down beside the bed and took both her long thin hands between his.

"There is something in all this," he ventured to say, "which has not been confided to me. Once I was entirely on a wrong scent, but latterly, too, it has been more hurried than I could understand, for this reason, that I have not been watchful enough. There is something at the bottom of all this, some great, may be oft-repeated imprudence which I have not been counting on. Darling, tell it me now; I shall have no peace until you do."

"I will tell you. I have just been thinking about it now. Down-stairs in my writing-table you will find some papers in the first drawer to the left; they are all for you. You must read them when--" she broke off abruptly. "By and by," she added and pressed his hand gently.

"Then I am not to hear about it now?"

"Yes, what you are asking about? Oh, yes. I only had not got so far."

She asked him to help her change her position; he did so. "Yes, you shall hear it now. It is for your sake I kept it secret," her eyes filled--"my own"--again a gentle pressure of the hand and a smile. He dried her tears with his handkerchief, letting it slip in under his own spectacles as well. She lay gazing at him but did not speak; had she forgotten or had she changed her mind? He bent down over her:

"Well--?" he asked, "you will not tell me?"

"Oh, yes, the top paper in the drawer, in Karl's handwriting; you may read that at once. But not the others."

"Does Karl's letter contain it?"

She nodded slightly, it was barely visible; then she closed her eyes.

"The key?" he whispered.

"It is in the drawer," she answered, without opening her eyes and let his hand go.

He went down-stairs, opened the drawer, and took out the letter we know of, and sat down to read it properly.

His horror! And his indignation--and his helplessness! Why had he not known of this in time? He paced up and down the room, raging, he sat down again like one paralysed; he made plans and rejected them; he would have gone to every soul in the place and told them they lied. He would force his way into the meeting-house one fine day when it was crowded, climb to the pulpit and accuse them of the most cowardly, treacherous murder ... then he suddenly remembered that even if Ragni had been perfectly well, that would have been enough to kill her.

He himself lived only to do the best he could for all people; and amongst them all there was not one honest or grateful enough, or even indignant enough to tell him that he ought to defend his own and his wife's good name and the honour of his marriage! What apathy and indifference! What free and open scope for malice and for unjust judging of others in this "Christian" community! Now he understood his sister--she had believed this slander? It was especially to talk to him about this that she had waited for him that evening when he--! And in her indignation at this, which she so fully and firmly believed to be true (for what will not people believe about a free-thinker) she continued to bring "the whale" right down upon them! Everyone believed it, everyone condemned her without hesitation. No one stood up for her, not a soul came to the rescue.

This was what Ragni had had to suffer for being so kind to Karl! It had been all the more unselfish of her because at first it had cost her a struggle, and indeed later on it had often been an effort, too; it was only now that he knew it. In all his life he had never met with any one as good as she was. To think that her tender-hearted disposition should thus be ...! The wretches, the false guardians of salvation, psalm-singing egotists, heartless prayer-makers! He read Karl's letter over again; he felt so heartily sorry for him. Poor, poor fellow. His love for her was quite a natural thing; what good honest man would not adore anyone who had been wronged so unjustly for his sake? The lad's grat.i.tude and admiration would necessarily turn to love. As soon as Karl came home, he would have him over--that he would! And he should stay, too, till she drew her last breath! And he, and none other, would Kallem have to walk with him ... On that terrible day after her coffin!

He flung himself on the sofa and cried aloud.

Perchance he had been too much taken up with his own work; he ought to have a.s.sociated more with people, and taken her more about with him; then this would never have happened. None who had really felt a lasting impression of her goodness and pure soul would have dared ... though indeed who can tell? Such creatures of habit, blinded by their dogmas, cannot see.

In came Sigrid running, her mistress was very ill, had a terrible fit of coughing. He crossed the rooms, the pa.s.sage, and was up the stairs in nine or ten bounds; the attack was over when he got there; but she lay bathed in perspiration, so weak and exhausted that she was on the point of fainting. What she had brought up in coughing was of a greenish colour and streaked with blood--well did he know the look of it. He accounted for this, thinking that he had stayed away too long, her excitement had increased, she had grown too warm, had probably thrown off the clothes and then ... She lay there with eyes closed and he tried what he could to make her sleep. After that she never left her room again.

From her he went straight down to his writing-table and despatched a letter to Dr. Meek, telling him what had happened, and without entering into further details, he wrote: "If Karl has come, I suppose we shall soon see him here? Now I know everything!"

He went out to fetch a woman to sit up at night, but went up to her again the moment he got back; she seemed to be easier and was asleep, and when at last she did awake, her eyes fell first on him. He waited on her, giving her something to drink, and all the questions he so plainly read in her eyes, he answered by kissing her poor thin hand, for his lips quivered and his gla.s.ses were bedewed with tears.

But they talked about other things--how that her sister would not be able to come, and that he had himself been to fetch Sissel Aune to help to nurse Ragni; she was the best person he knew of for that sort of thing, and then she was truly devoted to them. Ragni nodded her consent. They never wearied of gazing at each other, as those do who cannot be satisfied. And they both thought of that which they now both knew--the cause of her lying there ill. "Poor Karl!" whispered she.

He answered: "Poor Karl!"

He felt obliged to get up, pretended he had forgotten something down-stairs; he could always make an excuse.

Had he but been able to talk to her! But he dared not, and he could not find time to be alone. He attended to all his hospital work, and received those of his patients who came to him; but he gave up everything else so as to sit with her!

How terrible it seemed to him that he should have given both his work and his fortune to these people, and they repaid him by murdering his life's joy! What kind of measure did people mete with, if they could not understand merely by looking at her, that she was the purest, the most refined little person amongst them all--to him it was inexplicable; their blindness seemed so revolting. All those he knew were, for the most part, plain middle-cla.s.s people, comfortable and fond of their homes in daily life, none of them particularly bright, of course; they were all church-going people, a few attended the meeting house too, Pastor Tuft's body-guard. Among the latter he had come across several good, prudent sort of people. And yet so pitiless in their judgment, so cruelly loving--all of them murderers without stain or blemish.

And there was none he could go to and take by the throat, exclaim: "You have done this; you are answerable to me for this!" Meek and lovable accomplices! There was one who stood apart from the others--Josephine.

Josephine had not invented this; that was not her way. But she would believe what was invented when it concerned anyone she disliked. With icy-cold silence she would allow other people to keep their false, wicked belief in the slander, or she would let it go on increasing. How indignant he felt in his heart toward her! Although she was certainly not the originator of the report--he had to repeat that constantly, she would hardly sully her lips with such slander, she was too grand for that--still Josephine was the most to blame for this murder! He was convinced that however little of a Christian she was in herself, her love of Christian dogmas had been offended by the little creature's want of faith, and by such a very faulty person daring to come and reject their faith. Thence her excessive "spirit of justice" which killed with so sure and well-meaning a blow.

But there was this much likeness between them, that he, too, was filled with the greatest desire of vengeance. He, too, called it "justice;"

and he had no idea that he was lying. When he was with Ragni he never had those feelings; her mere presence always did him good. He became deeply agitated if he did feel like that when with her, would well-nigh crush her hand, stroke her forehead and gazing into her eyes, watch her and wait on her till he felt he must go; otherwise he would have knelt down beside her and given way completely.

Good, helpful Sissel Aune was sitting there now, her dark eyes watching over her with prudent calmness, or turning sometimes, full of sympathy, to him. She represented all those whom he had helped and who would have helped him had they been allowed. Aase or Soren Pedersen came creeping to the kitchen every morning to hear how she was, and as the news spread, there came others, all quietly sympathetic. Poor Sigrid could not go up much to her mistress on account of her crying. But would go all the same when such things as this happened--for instance when Fru Baier the colonel's wife brought a lovely flower in a pot which she had cherished and nurtured through the winter, and which she carried under her cloak to protect from the severe cold; it was to be taken up to Fru Kallem and put where she could see it. A servant girl, whose child Kallem had attended in a severe illness (the same girl who had seen Kristen Larssen's ghost) had also a flower in a pot, a single one, and when she heard of Fru Baier's gift she brought hers, too. The pot it was in was very common, but what did that matter? Without such tokens of sympathy Kallem could never have borne up.

One day when he had been over to the hospital where there was something going on he came back home so deep in thought that he did not notice there were strange travelling wraps hanging in the pa.s.sage. He opened the door into the room before taking off his own things; and there close by the windows next the veranda stood Otto and Karl Meek. Karl was the first to turn round; and he came and threw himself in Kallem's arms. He looked ill, and his manner was restless and confused. His long hair was in disorder, his oval face, large in itself, seemed to have grown larger; his eyes had a burning, languishing look in them, the like of which Kallem had never seen. They never left his own eyes. They besought his indulgence; they told a tale of bitter sorrow, and followed him about wherever he went. Karl could not control his feelings, and, as Kallem was obliged to talk to his father, Karl began looking about him, went up to the piano, stroked the tables with his hands, fingered the flowers and turned over the music--then went out to the dining-room, into the office, stayed there a little by himself, and from there out to the kitchen to Sigrid, and there he stayed. Kallem looked round after him repeatedly; Dr. Meek noticed it, and said:

"All we Meeks have strong feelings. We have tried to tame them; but Karl cannot control his; they are only pent in to burst forth with greater violence."

When Karl came back, he had been crying bitterly; Kallem did not wish him to go up to Ragni; at all events he must wait until he was calmer.

Karl himself said he would be calm the moment he went up to her; he implored to be allowed to see her; but to no avail. He did not see her the whole of that day, and, as the evening was always her worst time, she was never even told that he was there.

The next morning, when she had been tidied for the day, Kallem let her know that Dr. Otto Meek had come to town, and had called yesterday to ask after her.

"And Karl too?" she asked.

"Yes, Karl was with him." She lay quiet for a little without saying anything.

"I ought to be able to hear if anyone were to play down-stairs."

"Yes, if we open the room door; but would it be wise?" The pa.s.sage was warm and shut in by doors, the up-stairs rooms were always aired by means of it; so in that respect there was nothing to be afraid of. "But you think you can bear the music?"

"Yes, I long for music," she answered.

Sissel Aune looked at the doctor; she evidently thought it was not wise. "May Karl not come up to see you?"

Ragni lay folding the corner of the sheet with the one hand, in the other she held her handkerchief; she did not answer; clearly she had no wish to see him.

"But you will see Dr. Meek?"

"Must I?"

Kallem wished him to see her. Dr. Meek came later in the day and Kallem told him all. Karl begged most humbly to be allowed to stand in the doorway behind the others. He promised not to say a word, or make a movement, and to go away directly. Kallem felt so sorry for him that he could not deny his request. He went in first and announced Dr. Meek, who then followed him in. Dr. Meek's broad back quite hid Karl, who placed himself in the door. Ragni lay with her face turned from the light, therefore toward the door. She did not see Karl, but he caught a glimpse of her thin, hollow-cheeked face, of her feverish cheeks and dry lips; her eyes in their glistening brightness, seemed pleading for help. The consuming thirst that tortured her day and night made Sissel come forward from the other side and stand half in front of her, propping her up as she gave her something to drink.

Meek asked her a few questions, but she answered him absently and glanced fearfully and timidly from side to side; did she guess that Karl was there? Afterwards she moved a little and Sissel slipped back to her place; then she might have seen Karl, but he was gone.

Later on they found him sitting crouching in the down-stairs room, in the greatest despair, but he asked if he might stay there and have his former room again;--even if he were not allowed to see her again, he could not keep away. Kallem did not dare to refuse him; and his father, too, seemed to wish it. There was something about him that made them both feel anxious.

The next morning Karl played the piano for her; the door down-stairs was open and her door was ajar; the music sounded m.u.f.fled, but very sweet. He had improved much in his playing; she did not know the piece he played, but it pleased her; she sent a greeting down to him, and that she was very grateful to him for it. By-and-by he played something else, and the following morning he did the same. The result was that she sent for him to come up to her. Karl promised to be quiet, oh so very quiet, and only to stay there a moment. In the pa.s.sage he already began to walk on tip-toe and glided in, mastering his emotion. But as soon as he was under the influence of her eyes, as in olden days, he could feel that she was afraid of him and would rather he went away.