"You either keep silent too much, or you talk too much," said his wife.
During Eli's illness Baard would often sit and talk with Arne, and one day he told him how he had been driven to attack Nils, and then how he had courted and won Birgit.
"She was very melancholy at first," said Baard, "and I had nothing to say; and then she got into bustling, domineering ways, and I had nothing to say to that. But one day of real happiness I've not had the twenty years we've been married."
When Eli was getting better, her mother came down one evening and asked Arne, in her daughter's name, to go up and sing to her. Eli had heard him singing. Arne was confused, but gave in and went upstairs.
The room was in darkness, and he had not seen Eli since the day she had fallen ill, and he had helped to carry her to her room. Arne sat down in a chair at the foot of the bed. When people talk in the dark they are generally more truthful than when they see one another's faces.
Eli made Arne sing to her, first a hymn, and then a song of his own. For some time there was silence between them, and then Eli said, "I wonder, Arne, that you, who have so much that is beautiful within, should want to go away. You must not go away."
"There are times when I seem not to want to so much," he answered.
Presently Arne could hear her weeping, and he felt that he must move--either forward or back.
"Eli!"
"Yes." Both voices were at a whisper.
"Give me your hand."
She made no answer. He listened, quickly, closely, stretched out his own hand, and grasped a warm little hand that lay bare.
There was a step on the stairs; they let go of one another, and Birgit entered with a light. "You've been sitting too long in the dark," she said, putting the candle on the table. But neither Eli nor Arne could bear the light; she turned to the pillow, and he shaded his face with his hands.
"Ah, yes; it's a bit dazzling at first," said the mother, "but the feeling soon passes away."
Next day Arne heard that Eli was better and going to come down for a time after dinner. He at once put his tools together, and bade farewell to the farm. And when Eli came downstairs he was gone.
IV.--After Many Years
It was springtime when Margit went up to the parsonage. There was something heavy on her heart. Letters had come from Kristen for Arne, and she had been afraid to give them to her son lest he should go away and join his friend. Kristen had even sent money, and this Margit had given to Arne, pretending it had been left him by his grandmother. All this Margit poured out to the old pastor, and also her fears that Arne would go travelling.
"Ah!" he said, smiling, "if only there was some little lassie who could get hold of him. Eli Böen, eh? And if he could manage so that they could meet sometimes at the parsonage."
Margit looked up anxiously.
"Well, we'll see what we can do," he went on; "for, to tell you the truth, my wife and daughter have long been of the same mind."
Then came the summer, and one day, when the heavens were clear, Arne walked out and threw himself down on the grass. He meant to go to the parsonage and borrow a newspaper. He had not been to Böen since that night in the sick-room, and now he glanced towards the house, and then turned away his eyes. Presently he heard someone singing his song, the song he had lost the very day he made it.
Fain would I know what the world may be
Over the mountains high.
Mine eyes can nought but the white snow see,
And up the steep sides the dark fir-tree,
That climbs as if yearning to know.
Say, tree, dost thou venture to go?
There were eight verses, and Arne stood listening till the last word had died away. He must see who it was, and presently above him he caught sight of Eli.
The sunlight was falling straight on her, and it seemed to Arne, as he looked at her, that he had never seen or dreamt of anything more beautiful in his life. He watched her get up, without letting himself be seen, and presently she was gone. Arne no longer wanted to go to the parsonage, but he went and sat where she had sat, and his breast was full of gentle feelings.
Eli often went to the parsonage, and one Sunday evening Margit found her there, and persuaded the girl to walk back to Kampen with her. Eli entered the house only when she heard that Arne was not at home. It was the first time she had visited the homestead. Margit took her all over the house, and showed her Arne's room, and opened a little chest full of silk kerchiefs and ribbons.
"He bought something each time he's been to the town," Margit remarked.
Eli would have given anything to go away, but she dared not speak.
In a special compartment in the chest she had seen a buckle, a pair of gold rings, and a hymn-book bound with silver clasps, and wrought on the clasps was:
"Eli Baardsdatter Böen."
The mother put back the things, closed the box, and clasped the girl to her heart; for Eli was weeping.
When they were downstairs again, they heard a man's step in the passage, and Arne entered, and saw Eli.
"You here?" he said, and blushed a fiery red. Then he put his arms around her, and she leant her head on his breast. He whispered something in her ear, and for a long while they stood in silence, her arms around his neck.
As they walked home together in the fair summer evening, they could utter but few words in their strange, new Happiness. Nature interpreted their hearts to one another, and on his way back from that first summer-night's walk, Arne made many new songs.
It was harvest time when the marriage of Eli with Arne was celebrated. The Black Water was full of boats taking people to Böen.
All the doors were open at the house. Eli was in her room with Mathilde and the pastor's wife. Arne was downstairs looking out from the window.
Presently Baard and Birgit, both dressed, for church, met on the stairs, and went up together to a garret where they were alone. Baard had something to say, but it was hard to say it.
"Birgit," he began, "you've been thinking, as I've been, I daresay. He stood between us two, I know, and it's gone on a long time. To-day a son of his has come into our house, and to him we've given our only daughter.... Birgit, can't we, too, join our hearts to-day?"
His voice trembled, but no answer came.
They heard Eli outside, calling gently: "Aren't you coming, mother?"
"Yes, I'm coming now, dear!" said Birgit, in a choking voice. She walked across the room to Baard, took his hand in hers, and broke into violent sobs. The two hands clung tight and it was hand in hand they opened the door and went downstairs. And when the bridal train streamed down to the landing stage, and Arne gave his hand to Eli, Baard, against all custom, took Birgit's hand in his own and followed them calmly, happily, smilingly.
In the boat his eyes rested on the bridal pair and on his wife. "Ah!" he said to himself, "no one would have thought such a thing possible twenty years ago."
In God's Way
"In God's Way" belongs to the second group of Björnson's novels, of which the first group is represented by early peasant tales like "Arne." In this later category the stories are of a more or less didactic nature. Although "In God's Way" lacks something of the freshness and beauty that distinguished "Arne," it is, nevertheless a powerful and vivid picture of Norwegian religious life; and it is, of all Björnson's books, the one by which he is most widely known outside his native country. In this story Björnson has been influenced by the social dramas of his compatriot, Ibsen; but it may be questioned whether he has not brought to his task a higher inspiration and a stronger faith in humanity than the famous dramatist possessed. Published in 1889, the main theme of "In God's Way" was undoubtedly suggested by the religious excitement which then prevailed in Norway.