A shivering fit came over Johanna. She lay working her tongue against the dry roof of her mouth, now and then uttering a number of disconnected words, and tossing to and fro upon the bed. Suddenly she raised herself in terror, her wide-open eyes fixed upon Pelle, but with no recognition in them. “Go away! I won’t!” she screamed, pushing him away. His deep voice calmed her, however, and she allowed herself to be laid down once more, and then lay still with closed eyes.
“Some one has been after her,” said Ellen, weeping. “What can it be?”
“It’s the old story,” Pelle whispered with emotion. “Morten says that it constantly reappears in her.—Take the children out into the garden, Ellen. I’ll stay here with her.”
Ellen went out with the little ones, who could hardly be persuaded to come out of their corner; but it was not long before their chattering voices could be heard out on the grass.
Pelle sat with his hand on Johanna’s forehead, staring straight before him. He had been rudely awakened to the horror of life once more. Convulsive tremors passed through her tortured brow. It was as if he held in his hand a fluttering soul that had been trodden in the mire beneath heavy heels—a poor crushed fledgeling that could neither fly nor die.
He was roused by the sound of a carriage driving quickly up to the garden gate, and went out to meet the men.
The doctor was very doubtful about Johanna’s condition. “I’m afraid that the fits will increase rather than decrease,” he said in a whisper. “It would be better if she were sent to the hospital as soon as she’s able to be moved.”
“Would it be better for her?” asked Ellen.
“No, not exactly for her, but—she’ll be a difficult patient, you know!”
“Then she shall remain here,” said Ellen; “she shall be well looked after.”
Lasse Frederik had to take his bicycle and ride to the chemist’s, and immediately after the doctor drove away.
They sat outside the garden door, so that they could hear any sound from the sick girl, and talked together in low tones. It was sad to see Morten; Johanna’s flight from him had wounded him deeply.
“She’s been strange ever since you came up and proposed that she should come out to you,” said Morten sadly. “She got it into her head that she was a burden to me and that I would like to get rid of her. Two or three days ago she got up while I was out, and began working in the house—I suppose as a return for my keeping her. She’s morbidly sensitive. When I distinctly forbade her she declared that she wouldn’t owe me anything and meant to go away. I knew that she might very likely do it in spite of her being ill, so I stayed at home. At midday to-day I just went down to fetch milk, and when I came up she was gone. It was a good thing she came out here; I think she’d do anything when once the idea’s taken her that she’s a burden.”