She was glad of the change herself. Even if there had been any opportunity, she could not play; all desires had died long ago. But there was much of interest. All these crooked, broken-down moss-grown huts, cl.u.s.tered together on the downs under the high cliffs, each surrounded by its dust-heap and fish-refuse and implements, were to Ditte like so many different worlds; she would have liked to investigate them all.

It was her nature to take an interest in most things, though, unlike Kristian, she didn't care to roam about. He was never still for a moment; he had barely found out what was behind one hill, before he went on to the next. He always wanted to see beyond the horizon, and his father always said, he might travel round the whole world that way, for the horizon was always changing. Lars Peter often teased him about this; it became quite a fairy tale to the restless Kristian, who wanted to go over the top of every new hill he saw, until at last he fell down in the hamlet again--right down into Ditte's stew-pan. He had often been punished for his roaming--but to no good. Povl wanted to pick everything to pieces, to see what was inside, or was busy with hammer and nails. He was already nearly as clever with his hands as Kristian. Most of what he made went to pieces, but if a handle came off a brush, he would quickly mend it again. "He only pulls things to pieces so as to have something to mend again," said his father. Sister stood looking on with her big eyes.

Ditte was always doing something useful, otherwise she was not happy. With Granny's death, all her interest in the far-off had vanished; that there was something good in store for her she never doubted, it acted as a star and took away the bitterness of her gloomy childhood. She was not conscious of what it would be, but it was always there like a gleam of light. The good in store for her would surely find her. She stayed at home; the outside world had no attractions for her.

Her childhood had fallen in places where neighbors were few and far between. The more enjoyment it was to her now to have the society of others.

Ditte took a keen interest in her fellow-beings, and had not been many days in the hamlet before she knew all about most people's affairs--how married people lived together, and who were sweethearts. She could grasp the situation at a glance--and see all that lay behind it; she was quick to put two and two together. Her dull and toilsome life had developed that sense, as a reward for all she had gone through. There was some spite in it too--a feeling of vengeance against all who looked down on the rag and bone man, although they themselves had little to boast about.

The long, hunch-backed hut, one end of which the inn-keeper had let off to them, lay almost in the midst of the hamlet, just above the little bay. Two other families beside lived in the little hut, so they only had two small rooms and a kitchen to call their own, and Lars Peter had to sleep in the attic. It was only a hovel, "the workhouse" it was generally called, but it was the only place to be had, and they had to make the best of it, until Lars Peter could build something himself--and they might thank the inn-keeper that they had a roof above their heads. Ditte was not satisfied with the hut--the floors were rotten, and would not dry when she had washed them. It was no better than the Crow's Nest--and there was much less room. She looked forward to the new house that was to be built. It should be a real house, with a red roof glistening in the sun, and an iron sink that would not rot away.

But in spite of this she was quite happy. When she stood washing up inside the kitchen door, she could see the downs, and eagerly her eyes followed all who went to and fro. Her little brain wondered where they were going, and on what errand. And if she heard voices through the wall, or from the other end of the hut, she would stop in her work and listen breathlessly. It was all so exciting; the other families in the hut were always bustling and moving about--the old grandmother, who lay lame in bed on the other side of the wall, cursing existence, while the twins screamed at the top of their voices, and the Lord only knew where the daughter-in-law was, and Jacob the fisherman and his daughter in the other end of the hut.

Suddenly, as one stood thinking of nothing at all, the inn-keeper would come strolling over the downs, looking like a goblin, to visit the young wife next door; then the old grandmother thumped on the floor with her crutch, cursing everything and everybody.

There was much gossip in the hamlet--of sorrow and shame and crime; Ditte could follow the stories herself, often to the very end. She was quick to find the thread, even in the most difficult cases.

Her life was much happier now: there was little to do in the house, and no animals to look after, so she had more time of her own. Her schooldays were over, and she was soon to be confirmed. Even the nag, whom at first she had been able to keep her eye on from the kitchen window, needed no looking after now. The inn-keeper had forbidden them to let it feed on the downs, and had taken it on to his own farm. There it had been during the winter, and they only saw it when it was carting sea-weed or bringing a load of fish from the beach for the inn-keeper. It was not well-treated in its present home, and had all the hard tasks given it, so as to spare the inn-keeper's own animals. Tears came into Ditte's eyes when she thought of it. It became like a beast of burden in the fairy tale, and no-one there to defend it. It was long since it had pulled crusts of bread from her mouth with its soft muzzle.

Ditte lost her habit of stooping, and began to fill out as she grew up. She enjoyed the better life and the children's happiness--the one with the other added to her well-being. Her hair had grown, and allowed itself the luxury of curling over her forehead, and her chin was soft and round. No-one could say she was pretty, but her eyes were beautiful--always on the alert, watching for something useful to do. Her hands were red and rough--she had not yet learned how to take care of them.

Ditte had finished in the kitchen, and went into the living room.

She sat down on the bench under the window, and began patching the children's clothes; at the same time she could see what was happening on the beach and on the downs.

Down on the sh.o.r.e the children were digging with all their might, building sand-gardens and forts. To the right was a small hut, neat and well cared for, outside which Rasmus Olsen, the fisherman, stood shouting in through the window. His wife had turned him out--it always sounded so funny when he had words with his wife, he mumbled on loudly and monotonously as a preacher--it made one feel quite sleepy. There was not a sc.r.a.p of bad temper in him. Most likely his wife would come out soon, and she would give it him in another fashion.

They were always quarreling, those two--and always about the daughter. Both spoiled her, and each tried to get her over to their side--and came to blows over it. And Martha, the wretch, sided first with one and then with the other--whichever paid her best. She was a pretty girl, slim but strong enough to push a barrow full of fish or gear through the loose sand on the downs, but she was wild--and had plenty to say for herself. When she had had a sweetheart for a short time, she always ended by quarreling with him.

The two old people were deaf, and always came outside to quarrel--as if they needed air. They themselves thought they spoke in a low voice, all the time shouting so loudly that the whole hamlet knew what the trouble was about.

Ditte could see the sea from the window--it glittered beneath the blazing sun, pale blue and wonderful. It was just like a big being, softly caressing--and then suddenly it would flare up! The boats were on the beach, looking like cattle in their stalls, side by side. On the bench, two old fishermen sat smoking.

Now all the children from the hamlet came rushing up from the beach, like a swarm of frightened bees. They must have caught sight of the inn-keeper! He did not approve of children playing; they ought to be doing something useful. They fled as soon as he appeared, imagining that he had the evil eye. The swarm spread over the downs in all directions, and suddenly vanished, as if the earth had swallowed them.

Then he came tramping in his heavy leather boots. His long arms reached to his knees. When he went through the loose sand, his great bony hands on his thighs, he looked as if he were walking on all fours. His misshapen body was like a pair of bellows, his head resting between his broad shoulders, moved up and down like a buoy; every breath sounded like a steam-whistle, and could be heard from afar. Heavens, how ugly he looked! He was like a crouching goblin, who could make himself as big as he pleased, and see over all the huts in his search for food. The hard shut mouth was so big that it could easily swallow a child's head--and his eyes! Ditte shut her own, and shivered.

She quickly opened them, however; she must find out what his business was, taking care not to be seen herself.

The ogre, as the children called him, mainly because of his big mouth, came to a standstill at Rasmus Olsen's house. "Well, are you two quarreling again?" he shouted jovially. "What's wrong now--Martha, I suppose?"

Rasmus Olsen was silent, and shuffled off towards the beach. But his wife was not afraid, and turned her wrath on to the inn-keeper.

"What's it to do with you?" she cried. "Mind your own business!" The inn-keeper pa.s.sed on without taking any notice of her, and entered the house. Most likely he wanted to see Martha; she followed on his heels. "You can save yourself the trouble, there's nothing for you to pry into!" she screamed. Shortly afterwards he came out again, with the woman still scolding at his heels, and went across the downs.

The fisherman's wife stood looking round, then catching sight of Ditte, she came over. She had not finished yet, and needed some object to go on with. "Here he goes round prying, the beastly hunch-back!" she screamed, still beside herself with rage, "walking straight into other people's rooms as if they were his own. And that doddering old idiot daren't throw him out, but slinks off. Ay, they're fine men here on the downs; a woman has to manage it all, the food and the shame and everything! If only the boy had lived."

And throwing her ap.r.o.n over her head, she began to cry.

"Was he drowned?" asked Ditte sympathetically.

"I think of it all day long; I shall never forget him; there'll be no happiness in life for me. Maybe it's stupid to cry, but I can't help it--it's the mean way he met his death. If he had been struck down by illness, and the Lord had had a finger in it--'twould be quite another thing! But that he was strong and well--'twas his uncle wanted him to go out shooting wild duck. I tried to stop him, but the boy _would_ go, and there was no peace until he did. 'But, Mother,' he said, 'you know I can handle a gun; why, I shoot every day.' Then they went out in the boat with two guns, and not ten minutes afterwards he was back again, lying dead in a pool of blood.

That's why I can't bear to see wild ducks, or taste 'em either.

Whenever I sit by the window, I can see them bringing him in--there they are again. That's why my eyes are dimmed, I'm always crying: 'tis all over with me now."

The woman was overcome by grief. Her hands trembled, and moved aimlessly over the table and back again.

Ditte looked at her from a new point of view. "Hush, hush, don't cry any more," said she, putting her arms round her and joining in her tears. "Wait--I'll make a cup of coffee." And gradually she succeeded in comforting her.

"You've good hands," said the old woman, taking Ditte's hand gratefully. "They're rough and red because your heart's in the right place."

As they were having their coffee, Lars Peter returned. He had been to see the inn-keeper, to hear how the nag was being treated, and was out of humor. Ditte asked what was troubling him.

"Oh, it's the nag--they'll finish it soon," said he miserably.

The fisherman's wife looked at him kindly. "At least I can hear your voice, even though you're talking to some one else," said she. "Ay, he's taken your horse--and cart too! He can find a use for everything, honor and money--and food too! D'you go to the tap-room?"

"No, I haven't been there yet," said Lars Peter, "and I don't think to go there every day."

"No, that's just it: you're not a drinker, and such are treated worse than the others. He likes folks to spend their money in the tap-room more than in the store--that's his way. He wants your money, and there's no getting out of it."

"How did he come to lord it over the place? It hasn't always been like this," said Lars Peter.

"How--because the folk here are no good--at all events here in the hamlet. If we've no-one to rule us, then we run about whining like dogs without a master until we find some one to kick us. We lick his boots and choose him for our master, and then we're satisfied. In my childhood it was quite different here, everybody owned their own hut. But then he came and got hold of everything. There was an inn here of course, and when he found he couldn't get everything his own way, he started all these new ideas with costly fishing-nets and better ways and gear, and G.o.d knows what. He gave them new-fangled things--and grabbed the catch. The fishermen get much more now, but what's the good, when he takes it all! I'd like to know what made you settle down here?"

"Round about it was said that he was so good to you fisher-people, and as far as I could see there was no mistake about it either. But it looks rather different now a man's got into the thing."

"Heavens! _good_, you say! He helps and helps, until a man hasn't a shirt left to his back. Just you wait; you'll be drawn in too--and the girl as well if she's pretty enough for him. At present he's only taking what you've got. Afterwards he'll help you till you're so deep in debt that you'd like to hang yourself. Then he'll talk to you about G.o.d and Holy Scripture. For he can preach too--like the devil!"

Lars Peter stared hopelessly. "I've heard that he and his wife hold some kind of meetings, but we've never been; we don't care much for that sort of thing. Not that we're unbelievers, but so far we've found it best to mind our own affairs, and leave the Lord to look after His."

"We don't go either, but then Rasmus drinks--ay, ay, you'll go through it all yourself. And here am I sitting gossiping instead of getting home." She went home to get supper ready for the doddering idiot.

They sat silent for a few minutes. Then Ditte said: "If only we'd gone to some other place!"

"Oh, things are never as black as they're painted! And I don't feel inclined to leave my money and everything behind me," answered Lars Peter.

CHAPTER XI

GINGERBREAD HOUSE

Now that the children were surrounded by people, they felt as if they lived in an ant-hill. The day was full of happenings, all equally exciting--and the most exciting of it all was their fear of the "ogre." Suddenly, when they were playing hide-and-seek amongst the boats, or sat riding on the roof of the engine-house, he would appear, his long arms grasping the air, and if he caught hold of one of them, they would get something else to add to their fear. His breath smelt of raw meat, the children declared; they did not make him out better than he was. To run away from him, with their hearts thumping, gave zest to their existence.

And when they lay in bed at night listening, they heard sounds in the house, which did not come from any of their people. Then came steps in stocking-feet up in the attic, and they would look towards Ditte. Kristian knew what it meant, and they buried their heads underneath the bedclothes, whispering. It was Jacob, the fisherman, creeping about upstairs, listening to what they said. He always stole about, trying to find out from the talk a certain _word_ he could use to drive the devil out of the inn-keeper. The children worried over the question, because he had promised them sixpence if they could discover the word. And from the other side of the wall, they could hear the old grandmother's cough. She had dropsy, which made her fatter and fatter outside, but was hollow within. She coughed up her inside.

The son was on a long voyage, and seldom came home; but each time he returned, he found one of the children dead and his wife with a new baby to make up for it. She neglected her children, and in consequence they died. "Light come, light go!" said folk, and laughed. Now only the twins remained: there they lay in the big wooden cradle, screaming day and night, with a crust of bread as a comforter. The mother was never at home. Ditte looked after them, or they would have perished.

A short distance away on the downs, was a little house, quite different from the others. It was the most beautiful house the little ones had ever seen: the door and the window-panes were painted blue; the beams were not tarred as in the other huts, but painted brown; the bricks were red with a blue stripe. The ground round the house was neat: the sand was raked, and by the well it was dry and clean. A big elder--the only tree in the whole hamlet--grew beside the well. On the window-sill were plants, with red and blue flowers, and behind them sat an old woman peeping out. She wore a white cap, and the old man had snow-white hair. When the weather was fine he was always pottering round the house. And occasionally the old woman appeared at the door, admiring his handiwork. "How nice you've made everything look, little father!" said she. "Ay, it's all for you, little mother," he answered, and they laughed at each other. Then he took hold of her hand, and they tripped towards the elder tree and sat down in the shade; they were like a couple of children, but she soon wanted to go back to her window, and it was said that she had not gone beyond the well for many a year.