Part 10 (1/2)
”Can't it gallop at all?” asked she, propping herself up between his knees.
”Rather, just you wait and see!” answered Lars Peter Hansen proudly.
He pulled in the reins, but the nag only stopped, turned round, and looked at him with astonishment. For each lash of the whip, it threw up its tail and sawed the air with its head. Ditte's little body tingled with enjoyment.
”'Tisn't in the mood today,” said Lars Peter Hansen, when he had at last got it into its old trot again. ”It thinks it's a fraud to expect it to gallop, when it's been taking such long paces all the time.”
”Did it say that?” asked Ditte, her eyes traveling from the one to the other.
”That's what it's supposed to mean. It's not far wrong.”
Long paces it certainly did take--about that there was no mistake--but never two of equal length, and the cart was rolling in a zigzag all the time. What a funny horse it was. It looked as if it was made of odd parts, so bony and misshapen was it. No two parts matched, and its limbs groaned and creaked with every movement.
They drove past the big estate, where the squire lived, over the common, and still further out into the country which Granny had never seen before.
”But you can't see it now either,” corrected Ditte pedantically.
”Oh, you always want to split hairs, 'course I can see it! When I hear you two speak, I see everything quite plainly. 'Tis a gift of G.o.d, to live through all this in my old days. But I smell something sweet, what is it?”
”Maybe 'tis the fresh water, Granny,” said Lars Peter. ”Two or three miles down to the left is the big lake. Granny has a sharp nose for anything that's wet.” He chuckled over his little joke.
”'Tis water folks can drink without harm,” said Maren thoughtfully; ”Soren's told me about it. We were going to take a trip down there fis.h.i.+ng for eels, but we never did. Ay, they say 'tis a pretty sight over the water to see the glare of the fires on the summer nights.”
In between Lars Peter told them about conditions in his home. It was not exactly the wedding they were going to, for they had married about nine months ago--secretly. ”'Twas done in a hurry,” he apologetically explained, ”or you two would have been there.”
Maren became silent; she had looked forward to being present at the wedding of one of her girls at least, and nothing had come of it.
Otherwise, it was a lovely trip.
”Have you any little ones then?” she asked shortly after.
”A boy,” answered Lars Peter, ”a proper little monkey--the image of his mother!” He was quite enthusiastic at the thought of the child.
”Sorine's expecting another one soon,” he added quietly.
”You're getting on,” said Maren. ”How is she?”
”Not quite so well this time. 'Tis the heartburn, she says.”
”Then 'twill be a long-haired girl,” Maren declared definitely. ”And well on the way she must be, for the hair to stick in the mother's throat.”
It was a beautiful September day. Everything smelt of mold, and the air was full of moisture, which could be seen as crystal drops over the sunlit land; a blue haze hung between the trees sinking to rest in the undergrowth, so that meadow and moor looked like a glimmering white sea.
Ditte marveled at the endlessness of the world. Constantly something new could be seen: forests, villages, churches; only the end of the world, which she expected every moment to see and put an end to everything, failed to appear. To the south some towers shone in the sun; it was a king's palace, said her father--her little heart mounted to her throat when he said that. And still further ahead----
”What's that I smell now?” Granny suddenly said, sniffing the air.
”'Tis salt! We must be near the sea.”
”Not just what one would call near, 'tis over seven miles away. Can you really smell the sea?”
Ay, ay, no-one need tell Maren that they neared the sea; she had spent all her life near it and ought to know. ”And what sea is that?” asked she.