"Very well," said the priest a little uncertainly, as he paused.
Old Lars smiled with content at finding that every prospect had brightened so wonderfully, both for time and eternity; and he settled himself deeper into his pillow. He then wanted to raise his head as if to spit, but could not; the tobacco stuck in his throat, and he coughed; and the cough became a dying rattle, and after a moment that too ceased.
His wife stood some time gazing at him, and then went resolutely up and closed his eyes. She then turned to the priest. "Thank God!" she said with emotion. "Now I know that Lars died saved."
On his way homewards with his bag in his hand the priest stopped on the hill, and sitting down on a stone, rested his chin in his hand, and looked out over the parish.
Whenever Pastor Borring had imparted forgiveness of sins he was always unhappy; for in the first place he did not feel that God had charged him with the forgiveness of sins, and in the second he did not believe in the notion of forgiveness. And yet in the course of time he had laid his hand in church upon the heads of thousands, and lied this dangerous comfort into their souls.
And now he was sitting here, unhappy once more. He had never felt more distinctly than now how altogether meaningless it was to pardon, to forgive. If God forgave Lars Kleven, was He also to pardon on Wangen's behalf? Wangen would perhaps be unjustly condemned, in spite of the pardon. And Wangen's family, who were the sufferers?
No, a wicked action is a thing that is set in motion, and perhaps never stops. It appears in consequences and the consequences of those consequences; it spreads like an infectious disease, and no one knows when or how it will cease. Even if it is lost to sight, it still goes on its way. Who will pardon here? God? Is it His duty to pardon it on the behalf of innocent persons?
Thus thought Pastor Borring as he sat. On his way home he felt saddened and ashamed, as he so often did during the performance of an act from which he did not feel strong enough to free himself.
But what was he to do now? The confessions of a dying man are sacred.
FRU WANGEN had been impatient for the demonstration to take place. The means that she had despised in her husband, she herself now felt a sudden desire to resort to, like a person in despair, who gropes about for anything he can lay hands on.