"What about Lise, that was sent to prison?" asks Inger.
"For never a thing. She was as innocent as a flower," answers Oline. "And she's in Bergen now; lives in a town and wears a hat—but what about you?"
"What about Nils—what did they say of him?"
"Oh, I'll not lower myself…. But there's one of yours now lying buried out there in the woods—what did you do to it, eh?"
"Now …! One-two-three—out you go!" shrieks Inger again, and makes a rush at Oline.
But Oline does not move, does not even rise to her feet. Her stolid indifference paralyses Inger, who draws back, muttering: "Wait till I get that knife."
"Don't trouble," says Oline. "I'm going. But as for you, turning your own kin out of doors one-two-three…. Nay, I'll say no more."
"Get out of this, that's all you need to do!"
But Oline is not gone yet. The two of them fall to again with words and abuse, a long bout of it again, and when the clock strikes half of the hour, Oline laughs scornfully, making Inger wilder than ever. At last both calm down a little, and Oline makes ready to go. "I've a long road before me," says she, "and it's late enough to be starting. It wouldn't ha' been amiss to have had a bite with me on the way…."
Inger makes no answer. She has come to her senses again now, and pours out water in a basin for Oline to wash. "There—if you want to tidy yourself," she says. Oline too thinks it as well to make herself as decent as may be, but cannot see where the blood is, and washes the wrong places. Inger looks on for a while, and then points with her finger.
"There—wash there too, over your eye. No, not that, the other one; can't you see where I'm pointing?"
"How can I see which one you're pointing at," answers Oline.
"And there's more there, by your mouth. Are you afraid of water?—it won't bite you!"
In the end, Inger washes the patient herself, and throws her a towel.
"What I was going to say," says Oline, wiping herself, and quite peaceable now. "About Isak and the children—how will they get over this?"
"Does he know?" asks Inger.
"Know? He came and saw it."
"What did he say?"
"What could he say? He was speechless, same as me."
Silence.
"It's all your fault," wails Inger, beginning to cry.
"My fault? I wish I may never have more to answer for!"
"I'll ask Os-Anders, anyhow, be sure of that."
"Ay, do."
They talk it all over quietly, and Oline seems less revengeful now. An able politician, is Oline, and quick to find expedients; she speaks now as if in sympathy—what a terrible thing it will be for Isak and the children when it is found out!
"Yes," says Inger, crying again. "I've thought and thought of that night and day." Oline thinks she might be able to help, and be a saviour to them in distress. She could come and stay on the place to look after things, while Inger is in prison.
Inger stops crying; stops suddenly as if to listen and take thought. "No, you don't care for the children."
"Don't care for them, don't I? How could you say such a thing?"
"Ah, I know…."
"Why, if there's one thing in the world I do feel and care for, 'tis children."
"Ay, for your own," says Inger. "But how would you be with mine? And when I think how you sent that hare for nothing else but to ruin me altogether—oh, you're no better than a heap of wickedness!"
"Am I?" says Oline. "Is it me you mean?"
"Yes, 'tis you I mean," says Inger, crying; "you've been a wicked wretch, you have, and I'll not trust you. And you'd steal all the wool, too, if you did come. And all the cheeses that'd go to your people instead of mine…."
"Oh, you wicked creature to think of such a thing!" answers Oline.
Inger cries, and wipes her eyes, saying a word or so between. Oline does not try to force her. If Inger does not care about the idea, 'tis all the same to her. She can go and stay with her son Nils, as she has always done. But now that Inger is to be sent away to prison, it will be a hard time for Isak and the innocent children; Oline could stay on the place and give an eye to things. "You can think it over," says Oline.
Inger has lost the day. She cries and shakes her head and looks down. She goes out as if walking in her sleep, and makes up a parcel of food for Oline to take with her. "'Tis more than's worth your while," says Oline.
"You can't go all that way without a bite to eat," says Inger.
When Oline has gone, Inger steals out, looks round, and listens. No, no sound from the quarry. She goes nearer, and hears the children playing with little stones. Isak is sitting down, holding the crowbar between his knees, and resting on it like a staff. There he sits.
Inger steals away into the edge of the wood. There was a spot where she had set a little cross in the ground; the cross is thrown down now, and where it stood the turf has been lifted, and the ground turned over. She stoops down and pats the earth together again with her hands. And there she sits.
She had come out of curiosity, to see how far the little grave had been disturbed by Oline; she stays there now because the cattle have not yet come in for the night. Sits there crying, shaking her head, and looking down.
Chapter VII
And the days pass.
A blessed time for the soil, with sun and showers of rain; the crops are looking well. The haymaking is nearly over now, and they have got in a grand lot of hay; almost more than they can find room for. Some is stowed away under overhanging rocks, in the stable, under the flooring of the house itself; the shed at the side is emptied of everything to make room for more hay. Inger herself works early and late, a faithful helper and support. Isak takes advantage of every fall of rain to put in a spell of roofing on the new barn, and get the south wall at least fully done; once that is ready, they can stuff in as much hay as they please. The work is going forward; they will manage, never fear!
And their great sorrow and disaster—ay, it was there, the thing was done, and what it brought must come. Good things mostly leave no trace, but something always comes of evil. Isak took the matter sensibly from the first. He made no great words about it, but asked his wife simply: "How did you come to do it?" Inger made no answer to that. And a little after, he spoke again: "Strangled it—was that what you did?"
"Yes," said Inger.
"You shouldn't have done that."
"No," she agreed.
"And I can't make out how you ever could bring yourself to do it."
"She was all the same as myself," said Inger.
"How d'you mean?"
"Her mouth."
Isak thought over that for some time. "Ay, well," said he.
And nothing more was said about it at the time; the days went on, peacefully as ever; there was all the mass of hay to be got in, and a rare heavy crop all round, so that by degrees the thing slipped into the background of their minds. But it hung over them, and over the place, none the less. They could not hope that Oline would keep the secret; it was too much to expect. And even if Oline said nothing, others would speak; dumb witnesses would find a tongue; the walls of the house, the trees around the little grave in the wood. Os-Anders the Lapp would throw out hints; Inger herself would betray it, sleeping or waking. They