Pelle the Conqueror, Martin Andersen Nexø [best fantasy books to read .TXT] 📗

He whistled as the work progressed rapidly under his hands. The window stood open so that the night air might escape; hoar frost lay on the roofs, and the stars twinkled overhead in the cold heavens. But Pelle was not cold! He had just awakened the “Family” and could hear them moving about in their room. People were beginning to tumble out into the gangway, still drunken with sleep. Pelle was whistling a march. On the previous evening he had sent off the last instalment of his debt to Sort, and at the same time had written definitely to Father Lasse that he was to come. And now the day was dawning!

Marie came and reached him his coffee through the door. “Good morning!” she cried merrily, through the crack of the door. “We’re going to have fine weather today, Pelle!” She was not quite dressed yet and would not let herself be seen. The boys nodded good morning as they ran out. Karl had his coat and waistcoat under his arm. These articles of clothing he always used to put on as he ran down the stairs.

When it was daylight Marie came in to set the room in order. She conversed with him as she scrubbed.

“Look here, Marie!” cried Pelle suddenly. “Ellen came here yesterday and asked you to bring me a message when I came home. You didn’t do it.”

Marie’s face became set, but she did not reply.

“It was only by pure chance that I met her yesterday, otherwise we should have missed one another.”

“Then I must have forgotten it,” said Marie morosely.

“Why, of course you forgot it. But that’s the second time this week. You must be in love!” he added, smiling.

Marie turned her back on him. “I’ve got nothing to do with her⁠—I don’t owe her anything!” suddenly she cried defiantly. “And I’m not going to clean your room any longer, either⁠—let her do it⁠—so there!” She seized her pail and scrubbing-brush and ran into her own room. After a time he heard her voice from within the room; at first he thought she was singing a tune to herself, but then he heard sobs.

He hurried into the room; she was lying on the bed, weeping, biting the pillow and striking at it angrily with her roughened hands. Her thin body burned as if with fever.

“You are ill, Marie dear,” said Pelle anxiously, laying his hand on her forehead. “You ought to go to bed and take something to make you sweat. I’ll warm it up for you.”

She was really ill; her eyes were dry and burning, and her hands were cold and clammy. But she would agree to nothing. “Go away!” she said angrily, “and attend to your own work! Leave me alone!” She had turned her back on him and nudged him away defiantly with her shoulder. “You’d best go in and cuddle Ellen!” she cried suddenly, with a malicious laugh.

“Why are you like this, Marie?” said Pelle, distressed. “You are quite naughty!”

She buried her face in the bed and would neither look at him nor answer him. So he went back to his work.

After a time she came into his room again and resumed her work of cleaning. She banged the things about; pulling down some work of his that he had set to dry by the stove, and giving him a malicious sidelong look. Then a cup containing paste fell to the ground and was broken. “She did that on purpose,” he thought unhappily, and he put the paste into an empty box. She stood watching him with a piercing, malicious gaze.

He turned to his work again, and made as though nothing had happened. Suddenly he felt her thin arms about his neck. “Forgive me!” she said, weeping, and she hid her face against his shoulder.

“Come, come, nothing very dreadful has happened! The silly old cup!” he said consolingly, as he stroked her head. “You couldn’t help it!”

But at that she broke down altogether, and it seemed as though her crying would destroy her meager body. “Yes, I did it on purpose!” she bellowed. “And I threw down the boots on purpose, and yesterday I didn’t give you the message on purpose. I would have liked to hurt you still more, I’m so bad, bad, bad! Why doesn’t someone give me a good beating? If you’d only once be properly angry with me!”

She was quite beside herself and did not know what she was saying.

“Now listen to me at once⁠—you’ve got to be sensible!” said Pelle decidedly, “for this sort of thing is not amusing. I was pleased to think I was going to be at home today, so as to work beside you, and then you go and have an attack just like a fine lady!”

She overcame her weeping by a tremendous effort, and went back to her room, gently sobbing. She returned at once with a cracked cup for the paste and a small tin box with a slit in the lid. This was her money-box.

“Take it,” she said, pushing the box onto his lap. “Then you can buy yourself lasts and needn’t go asking the small employers for work. There’s work enough here in the ‘Ark.’ ”

“But, Marie⁠—that’s your rent!” said Pelle, aghast.

“What does that matter? I can easily get the money together again by the first.”

Oh, she could easily do that! Pelle laughed, a bewildered laugh. How cheerfully she threw her money about, the money that cost her thirty days of painful thought and saving, in order to have it ready each month!

“What do you think Peter and Karl would say to your chucking your money about like that? Put the box away again safely⁠—and be quick about it!”

“Oh, take it!” she cried persistently, thrusting the box upon him again. “Yes⁠—or I’ll throw it out of the window!” She quickly opened one of the sashes. Pelle stood up.

“It’s true I still owe you for the last washing,” he said, offering to