In the early eighties there was no one in the parish where the old
Ingmarsson family lived who would have thought of embracing any new
kind of faith or attending any new form of sacred service. That new
sects had sprung up, here and there, in other Dalecarlian parishes,
and that people went out into rivers and lakes to be immersed in
accordance with the new rites of the Baptists, was known; but folks
only laughed at it all and said: "That sort of thing may suit those
who live at Applebo and in Gagnef, but it can never touch our
parish."
The people of that parish clung to their old customs and habits,
one of which was a regular attendance at church on Sundays; every
one that could go went, even in the severest winter weather. Then,
of all times, it was almost a necessity; with the thermometer at
twenty below zero outside, it would have been beyond human
endurance to sit in the unheated church had it not been packed to
the doors with people.
It could not be said of the parishioners that they turned out in
such great numbers because they had a particularly brilliant pastor
or one who had any special gift for expounding the Scriptures. In
those days folks went to church to praise God and not to be
entertained by fine sermons. On the way home, when fighting against
the cutting wind on an open country road, one thought: "Our Lord
must have noticed that you were at church this cold morning." That
was the main thing. It was no fault of theirs if the preacher had
said nothing more than he had been heard to say every Sunday since
his appointment to the pastorate.
As a matter of fact, the majority seemed perfectly satisfied with
what they got. They knew that what the pastor read to them was the
Word of God, and therefore they found it altogether beautiful. Only
the schoolmaster and one or two of the more intelligent farmers
occasionally said among themselves: "The parson seems to have only
one sermon; he talks of nothing but God's wisdom and God's
government. All that is well enough so long as the Dissenters keep
away. But this stronghold is poorly defended and would fall at the
first attack."
Lay preachers generally passed by this parish. "What's the good of
going there?" they used to say. "Those people don't want to be
awakened." Not only the lay preachers, but even all the "awakened
souls" in the neighbouring parishes looked upon the Ingmarssons and
their fellow-parishioners as great sinners, and whenever they
caught the sound of the bells from their church they would say the
bells were tolling, "Sleep in your sins! Sleep in your sins!"
The whole congregation, old and young alike, were furious when they
learned that people spoke in that way of their bells. They knew
that their folks never forgot to repeat the Lord's Prayer whenever
the church bells rang, and that every evening, at the time of the
Angelus, the menfolk uncovered their heads, the women courtesied,
and everybody stood still about as long as it takes to say an Our
Father. All who have lived in that parish must acknowledge that God
never seemed so mighty and so honoured as on summer evenings, when
scythes were rested, and plows were stopped in the middle of a
furrow, and the seed wagon was halted in the midst of the loading,
simply at the stroke of a bell. It was as if they knew that our
Lord at that moment was hovering over the parish on an evening
cloud—great and powerful and good—breathing His blessing upon the
whole community.
None of your college-bred men had ever taught in that parish. The
schoolmaster was just a plain, old-fashioned farmer, who was
self-taught. He was a capable man who could manage a hundred
children single-handed. For thirty years and more he had been the
only teacher there, and was looked up to by everybody. The
schoolmaster seemed to feel that the spiritual welfare of the
entire congregation rested with him, and was therefore quite
concerned at their having called a parson who was no kind of a
preacher. However, he held his peace as long as it was only a
question of introducing a new form of baptism, and elsewhere at
that; but on learning that there had also been some changes in the
administration of the Holy Communion and that people were beginning
to gather in private homes to partake of the Sacrament, he could no
longer remain passive. Although a poor man himself, he managed to
persuade some of the leading citizens to raise the money to build a
mission house. "You know me," he said to them. "I only want to
preach in order to strengthen people in the old faith. What would
be the natural result if the lay preachers were to come upon us,
with their new baptism and their new Sacrament, if there were no
one to tell the people what was the true doctrine and what the
false?"
The schoolmaster was as well liked by the clergyman as by every one
else. He and the parson were frequently seen strolling together
along the road between the schoolhouse and the parsonage, back and
forth, back and forth, as if they had no end of things to say to
each other. The parson would often drop in at the schoolmaster's of
an evening to sit in the cozy kitchen by an open fire and chat with
the schoolmaster's wife, Mother Stina. At times he came night after
night. He had a dreary time of it at home; his wife was always
ailing, and there was neither order nor comfort in his house.
One winter's evening the schoolmaster and his wife were sitting by
the kitchen fire, talking in earnest whispers, while a little girl
of twelve played by herself in a corner of the room. The little
girl was their daughter, and her name was Gertrude. She was a fair
little lass, with flaxen hair and plump, rosy cheeks, but she did
not have that wise and prematurely old look which one so often sees
in the children of schoolmasters.
The corner in which she sat was her playground. There she had
gathered together a variety of things: bits of coloured glass,
broken teacups and saucers, pebbles from the banks of the river,
little square blocks of wood, and more rubbish of the same sort.
She had been let play in peace all the evening; neither her father
nor her mother had disturbed her. Busy as she was she did not want
to be reminded of lessons and chores. It didn't look as if there
were going to be any extra sums to do for father that night, she
thought.
She had a big work in hand, the little girl back there in her
corner. Nothing less than making a whole parish! She was going to
build up the entire district with both church and schoolhouse; the
river and the bridge were also to be included. Everything had to be
quite complete, of course.
She had already got a good part of it done. The whole wreath of
hills that went round the parish was made up of smaller and larger
stones. In all the crevices she had planted forests of little
spruce twigs, and with two jagged stones she had erected Klack
Mountain and Olaf's Peak on either side of the Dal River. The long
valley in between the mountains had been covered with mould taken
from one of her mother's flowerpots. So far everything was all
right, only she had not been able to make the galley blossom. But
she comforted herself by pretending it was early springtime, before
grass and grain had sprouted.
The broad, beautiful Dal River that flows through the valley she
had managed to lay out effectively with a long and narrow piece of
glass, and the floating bridge connecting both sides of the parish,
had been making on the water this long while. The more distant
farms and settlements were marked off by pieces of red brick.
Farthest north, amid fields and meadows, lay the Ingmar Farm. To
the east was the village of Kolasen, at the foot of the mountain.
At the extreme south, where the river, with rapids and falls,
leaves the valley and rushes under the mountain, was Bergsana
Foundry.
The entire landscape was now ready, with country roads laid out
along the river, sanded and gravelled. Groves had also been set
out, here and there, on the plains and near the cottages. The
little girl had only to cast a glance at her structure of glass and
stone and earth and twigs to see before her the whole parish. And
she thought it all very beautiful.
Time after time she raised her head to call her mother and show her
what she had done, then changed her mind. She had always found it
wiser not to call attention to herself. But the most difficult work
of all was yet to come: the building up of the town on both sides
of the river. It meant much shifting about of stones and bits of
glass. The sheriff's house wanted to crowd out the merchant's shop;
there was no room for the judge's house next door to the doctor's.
There were the church and the parsonage, the drug-store and post-office,
the peasant homesteads, with their barns and outhouses, the inn,
the hunter's lodge, the telegraph station. To remember everything
was no small task!
Finally, the whole town of white and red houses stood embedded in
green. Now there was only one thing left: she had worked hard to
get everything else done so as to begin on the schoolhouse. She
wanted plenty of space for the school, which was to be built on the
riverside, and must have a big yard, with a flagpole right in the
middle of the lawn.
She had saved all her best blocks for the schoolhouse. Now she
wondered how she had best go about it. She wanted it to be just
like their school, with a big classroom on the ground floor and
another upstairs; then there was the kitchen and also the big room
where she and her parents lived. But all that would take a good
while. "They won't leave me in peace long enough," she said to
herself.
Just then footsteps were heard in the entry; some one was stamping
off snow. In a twinkling she went ahead with her building. "Here
comes the parson to chat with father and mother," she thought. Now
she would have the whole evening to herself. And with renewed
courage she began to lay the foundation of a schoolhouse as big as
half the parish.
Her mother, who had also heard the steps in the hall, got up
quickly and drew an old armchair up to the fireplace. Then turning
to her husband, she said: "Shall you tell him about it to-night?"
"Yes," answered the schoolmaster, "as soon as I can get round to
it."
Presently the pastor came in, half frozen and glad to be in a warm
room where he could sit by an open fire. He was very talkative, as
usual. It would be hard to find a more likable man than the parson
when he came in of an evening to chat about all sorts of things,
big and little. He spoke with such ease and assurance of everything
pertaining to this world, that one could scarcely believe that he
and the dull preacher were one and the same person. But if you
happened to speak to him about spiritual things he grew red in the
face, began fishing for words, and never said anything that was
convincing, unless he chanced to mention that "God governs wisely."
When the parson had settled himself comfortably, the schoolmaster
suddenly turned to him and said in a cheery tone:
"Now I must tell you the news: I'm going to build a mission house."
The clergyman became as white as a sheet and sank back in his
chair.
"What are you saying, Storm?" he gasped. "Are they really thinking
of building a mission house here? Then what's to become of me and
the church? Are we to be dispensed with?"
"The church and the pastor will be needed just the same," returned
the schoolmaster with a confident air. "It is my purpose that the
mission house shall promote the welfare of the church. With so many
schisms cropping up all over the country, the church is sorely in
need of help."
"I thought you were my friend, Storm," said the parson, mournfully.
Only a few moments before he had come in confident and happy, and
now all at once his spirit was gone, and he looked as if he were
entirely done for.
The schoolmaster understood quite well why the pastor was so
distressed. He and every one else knew that at one time the
clergyman had been a man of rare promise; but in his student days
he had "gone the pace," so to speak, and, in consequence, had
suffered a stroke. After that he was never the same. Sometimes he
seemed to forget that he was only the ruin of a man; but when
reminded of it, a sense of deep despondency came over him. Now he
sat there as if paralyzed. It was a long time before any one
ventured to speak.
"You mustn't take it like that, Parson," the schoolmaster said at
last, trying to make his voice very soft and low.
"Hush, Storm! I know that I'm not a great preacher; still I
couldn't have believed it possible that you would wish to take the
living from me."
Storm made a gesture of protest, which said, in effect, that
anything of the sort had never entered his mind, but he had not the
courage to put it into words.
The schoolmaster was a man of sixty and, despite all the work and
responsibility which had fallen to his lot, he was still master of
his forces. There was a great contrast between him and the parson.
Storm was one of the biggest men in Dalecarlia. His head was
covered with a mass of black bushy hair, his skin was as dark as
bronze, and his features were strong and clear cut. He looked
singularly powerful beside the pastor, who was a little
narrow-chested, bald-headed man.
The schoolmaster's wife thought that her husband, as the stronger,
ought to give in, and motioned to him to drop the matter. Whatever
of regret he may have felt, there was nothing in his manner to
indicate that he had any idea of relinquishing his project.
Then the schoolmaster began to speak plainly and to the point. He
said he was certain that before long the heretics would invade
their parish; therefore, it was very necessary that they should
have a meeting place where one could talk to the people in a more
informal way than at a regular church service; where one might
choose one's own text, expound the whole Bible, and interpret its
most difficult passages to the people.
His wife again signed to him to keep still. She knew what the
clergyman was thinking while her husband talked. "So I haven't
taught them anything, and I haven't given them any sort of
protection against unbelief? I must be a poor specimen of a pastor
when the schoolmaster in my own parish thinks himself a better
preacher than I."
The schoolmaster, however, did not keep still, but went on talking
of all that must be done to protect the flock from the wolves.
"I haven't seen any wolves," said the pastor.
"But I know they are on their way."
"And you, Storm, are opening the door to them," declared the
minister, rising. The schoolmaster's talk had irritated him. The
blood mounted to his face, and he regained a little of his old
dignity.
"My dear Storm, let us drop the subject," he said. Then turning to
the housewife, he passed some pleasant remark about the last pretty
bride she had dressed. For Mother Stina dressed all the brides in
the parish.
Peasant woman though she was, she understood how it must hurt him
to be so cruelly reminded of his own impotence. She wept from
compassion, and could not answer him for the tears; so the pastor
had to do most of the talking.
Meanwhile, he kept thinking: "Oh, if I only had some of the power
and the capacity of my younger days, I would convince this peasant
at once of the wrong he is doing." With that he turned again to the
schoolmaster:
"Where did you get the money, Storm?" he asked.
"A company has been formed," Storm explained; then he mentioned the
names of several men who had pledged their support, just to show
the parson that they were the kind of people who would harm neither
the church nor its pastor.
"Is Ingmar Ingmarsson in it, too?" the parson exclaimed. The effect
of this was like a deathblow. "And to think that I was as sure of
Ingmar Ingmarsson as I had been of you, Storm!"
He said nothing more about this just then, but instead turned to
Mother Stina and talked to her. He must have seen that she was
crying, but acted as if he had not noticed it. In a little while he
again addressed the schoolmaster.
"Drop it, Storm!" he begged. "Drop it for my sake. You wouldn't
like it if somebody put up another school next to yours."
The schoolmaster sat gazing at the floor and reflected a moment.
Presently he said, almost reluctantly, "I can't, Parson."
For fully ten minutes there was a dead silence. Where upon the
pastor put on his overcoat and cap, and went toward the door.
The whole evening he had been trying to find words with which to
prove to Storm that he was not only doing harm to the pastor with
this undertaking, but he was undermining the parish. Although
thoughts and words kept crowding into his head, he could neither
arrange them into an orderly sequence nor give utterance to them,
because he was a broken man. Walking toward the door, he espied
Gertrude sitting in her corner playing with her blocks and bits of
glass. He stopped and looked at her. Evidently she had not heard a
word of the conversation, for her eyes sparkled with delight and
her cheeks were like fresh-blown roses.
The pastor was startled at the sight of all this innocent happiness
of the child in contrast to his own heart heaviness.
"What are you making?" he asked, and went up to her.
The little girl had got through with her parish long before that;
in fact, she had already pulled it down and started something new.
"If you had only come a minute sooner!" exclaimed the child. "I had
made such a beautiful parish, with both church and schoolhouse—"
"But where is it now?"
"Oh, I've destroyed the parish, and now I'm building a Jerusalem,
and—"
"What?" interrupted the parson. "Have you destroyed the parish in
order to build a Jerusalem?"
"Yes," said Gertrude, "and it was such a fine parish! But we read
about Jerusalem yesterday in school, and now I have pulled down the
parish to build a Jerusalem."
The preacher stood regarding the child. He put his hand to his
forehead and thought a moment, then he said: "It is surely someone
greater than you that speaks through your mouth."
The child's words seemed to him so extraordinarily prophetic that
he kept repeating them to himself, over and over. Gradually his
thoughts drifted back into their old groove, and he began to ponder
the ways of Providence and the means by which He works His will.
Presently he went back to the schoolmaster, his eyes shining with a
new light, and said in his usual cheery tone:
"I'm no longer angry at you, Storm. You are only doing what you
must do. All my life I have been pondering the ways of Providence,
and I can't seem to get any light on them. Nor do I understand this
thing, but I understand that you are doing what you needs must do."
The spring the mission house was built there was a great thaw, and
the Dal River rose to an alarming height. And what quantities of
water that spring brought! It came in showers from the skies; it
came rushing down in streams from the mountainsides, and it welled
out of the earth; water ran in every wheel rut and in every furrow.
All this water found its way to the river, which kept rising higher
and higher, and rolled onward with greater and greater force. It
did not present its usual shiny and placid appearance, but had
turned a dirty brown from all the muddy water that kept flowing in.
The surging stream, filled with logs and cakes of ice, looked
strangely weird and threatening.
At first the grown folks paid no special heed to the spring flood;
only the children ran down to the banks to watch the raging river
and all that it carried along.
But timber and ice floes were not the only things that went
floating by! Presently the stream came driving with washing piers
and bath houses, then with boats and wreckage of bridges.
"It will soon be taking our bridge, too!" the children exclaimed.
They felt a bit uneasy, but were glad at the same time that
something so extraordinary was likely to happen.
Suddenly a huge pine, root and branch, came sailing past, followed
by a white-stemmed aspen tree, its spreading branches thick with
buds which had swelled from being so long in the water. Close upon
the trees came a little hay shed, bottom upward; it was still full
of hay and straw, and floated on its roof like a boat on its keel.
But when things of that sort began to drift past, the grown-ups,
too, bestirred themselves. They realized now that the river had
overflowed its banks somewhere up north, and hurried down to the
shores with poles and boat hooks, to haul up on land buildings and
furniture.
At the northern end of the parish, where the houses were scattered
and people were scarce, Ingmar Ingmarsson alone was standing on the
bank, gazing out at the river. He was then almost sixty, and looked
even older. His face was weatherbeaten and furrowed, his figure
bent; he appeared to be as awkward and helpless as ever. He stood
leaning on a long, heavy boat hook, his dull, sleepy-looking eyes
fixed on the water. The river raged and foamed, arrogantly marching
past with all that it had matched from the shores. It was as if it
were deriding the peasant for his slowness. "Oh, you're not the one
to wrest from me any of the things I'm carrying away!" it seemed to
say.
Ingmar Ingmarsson made no attempt to rescue any of the floating
bridges or boat hulls that passed quite close to the bank. "All
that will be seen to down at the village," he thought. Not for a
second did his gaze wander from the river. He took note of
everything that drifted past. All at once he sighted something
bright and yellow floating on some loosely nailed boards quite a
distance up the river. "Ah, this is what I have been expecting all
along!" he said aloud. At first he could not quite make out what
the yellow was; but for one who knew how little children in
Dalecarlia are dressed it was easy to guess. "Those must be
youngsters who were out on a washing pier playing," he said, "and
hadn't the sense to get back on land before the river took them."
It was not long until the peasant saw that he had guessed rightly.
Now he could distinctly see three little children, in their yellow
homespun frocks and round yellow hats, being carried downstream on
a poorly constructed raft that was being slowly torn apart by the
swift current and the moving ice floes.
The children were still a long way off. Big Ingmar knew there was a
bend in the river where it touched his land. If God in His mercy
would only direct the raft with the children into this current, he
thought, he might be able to get them ashore.
He stood very still, watching the raft. All at once it seemed as if
some one had given it a push; it swung round and headed straight
for the shore. By that time the children were so close that he
could see their frightened little faces and hear their cries. But
they were still too far out to be reached by the boat hook, from
the bank at least; so he hurried down to the water's edge, and
waded into the river.
As he did so, he had a strange sort of feeling that some one was
calling to him to comeback. "You are no longer a young man, Ingmar;
this may prove a perilous business for you!" a voice said to him.
He reflected a moment, wondering whether he had the right to risk
his life. The wife, whom he had once fetched from the prison, had
died during the winter, and since her going his one longing had
been that he might soon follow. But, on the other hand, there was
his son who needed a father's care, for he was only a little lad
and could not look after the farm.
"In any case, it must be as God wills," he said.
Now Big Ingmar was no longer either awkward or slow. As he plunged
into the raging river, he planted his boat hook firmly into the
bottom, so as not to be carried away by the current, and he took
good care to dodge the floating ice and driftwood. When the raft
with the children was quite near, he pressed his feet down in the
river bed, thrust out his boat hook, and got a purchase on it.
"Hold on tight!" he shouted to the children, for just then the raft
made a sudden turn and all its planks creaked. But the wretched
structure held together, and Big Ingmar managed to pull it out of
the strongest current. That done, he let go of it, for he knew that
the raft would now drift shoreward by itself.
Touching bottom with his boat hook again, he turned to go back to
the bank. This time, however, he failed to notice a huge log that
was coming toward him with a rush. It caught him in the side just
below the armpit. It was a terrific blow, for the log was hurled
against him with a violent force that sent him staggering in the
water. Yet he kept a tight grip on the boat hook until he reached
the bank. When he again stood on firm ground, he hardly dared touch
his body, for he felt that his chest had been crushed. Then his
mouth suddenly filled with blood. "It's all up with you, Ingmar!"
he thought, and sank down on the bank, for he could not go a step
farther. The little children whom he had rescued gave the alarm,
and soon people came running down to the bank, and Big Ingmar was
carried home.
The pastor was called in, and he remained at the Ingmar Farm the
whole afternoon. On his way home, he stopped at the schoolmaster's.
He had experienced things in the course of the day which he felt
the need of telling to some one who would understand.
Storm and Mother Stina were deeply grieved, for they had already
heard that Ingmar Ingmarsson was dead. The clergyman, on the other
hand, looked almost radiant as he stepped into the schoolmaster's
kitchen.
Immediately Storm asked the pastor if he had been in time.
"Yes," he said, "but on this occasion I was not needed."
"Weren't you?" said Mother Stina.
"No," answered the pastor with a mysterious smile. "He would have
got on just as well without me. Sometimes it is very hard to sit by
a deathbed," he added.
"It is indeed," nodded the schoolmaster.
"Particularly when the one who is passing from among us happens to
be the best man in your parish."
"Just so."
"But things can also be quite different from what one had imagined."
For a moment the pastor sat quietly gazing into space; his eyes
looked clearer than usual behind the spectacles.
"Have you, Strong, or you, Mother Stina, ever heard of the
wonderful thing that once happened to Big Ingmar when he was a
young man?" he asked.
The schoolmaster said that he had heard many wonderful things about
him.
"Why, of course; but this is the most wonderful of all! I never
knew of it myself until to-day. Big Ingmar had a good friend who
has always lived in a little cabin on his estate," the pastor
continued.
"Yes, I know," said the schoolmaster. "He is also named Ingmar;
folks call him Strong Ingmar by way of distinction."
"True," said the pastor; "his father named him Ingmar in honour of
the master's family. One Saturday evening, at midsummer, when the
nights are almost as light as the days, Big Ingmar and his friend,
Strong Ingmar, after finishing their work, put on their Sunday
clothes and went down to the village in quest of amusement."
The pastor paused a moment, and pondered. "I can imagine that the
night must have been a beautiful one," he went on, "clear and
still—one of those nights when earth and sky seem to exchange
hues, the sky turning a bright green while the earth becomes veiled
in white mists, lending to everything a white or bluish tinge. When
Big Ingmar and Strong Ingmar were crossing the bridge to the
village, it was as if some one had told them to stop and look
upward. They did so. And they saw heaven open! The whole firmament
had been drawn back to right and left, like a pair of curtains, and
the two stood there, hand in hand, and beheld all the glories of
heaven. Have you ever heard anything like it, Mother Stina, or you,
Storm?" said the pastor in awed tones. "Only think of those two
standing on the bridge and seeing heaven open! But what they saw
they have never divulged to a soul. Sometimes they would tell a
child or a kinsman that they had once seen heaven open, but they
never spoke of it to outsiders. But the vision lived in their
memories as their greatest treasure, their Holy of Holies."
The pastor closed his eyes for a moment, and heaved a deep sigh. "I
have never before heard tell of such things." His voice shook a
little as he proceeded. "I only wish I had stood on the bridge with
Big Ingmar and Strong Ingmar, and seen heaven open!
"This morning, immediately after Big Ingmar had been carried home,
he requested that Strong Ingmar be sent for. At once a messenger
was dispatched to the croft to fetch him, only to find that Strong
Ingmar was not at home. He was in the forest somewhere, chopping
firewood, and was not easy to find. Messenger after messenger went
in search of him. In the meantime, Big Ingmar felt very anxious
lest he should not get to see his old friend again in this life.
First the doctor came, then I came, but Strong Ingmar they couldn't
seem to find. Big Ingmar took very little notice of us. He was
sinking fast. 'I shall soon be gone, Parson,' he said to me. 'I
only wish I might see Strong Ingmar before I go.' He was lying on
the broad bed in the little chamber off the living-room. His eyes
were wide open and he seemed to be looking all the while at
something that was far, far away, and which no one else saw. The
three little children he had rescued sat huddled at the foot of his
bed. Whenever his eyes wandered for an instant from that which he
saw in the distance, they rested upon the children, and then his
whole face was wreathed in smiles.
"At last they had succeeded in finding the crofter. Big Ingmar
glanced away from the children with a sigh of relief when he heard
Strong Ingmar's heavy step in the hallway. And when his friend came
over to the bedside, he took his hand and patted it gently, saying:
'Do you remember the time when you and I stood on the bridge and
saw heaven open?' 'As if I could ever forget that night when we two
had a vision of Paradise!' Strong Ingmar responded. Then Big Ingmar
turned toward him, his face beaming as if he had the most glorious
news to impart. 'Now I'm going there,' he said. Then the crofter
bent over him and looked straight into his eyes. 'I shall come
after,' he said. Big Ingmar nodded. 'But you know I cannot come
before your son returns from the pilgrimage.' 'Yes, yes, I know,'
Big Ingmar whispered. Then he drew in a few deep breaths and,
before we knew it, he was gone."
The schoolmaster and his wife thought, with the pastor, that it was
a beautiful death. All three of them sat profoundly silent for a
long while.
"But what could Strong Ingmar have meant," asked Mother Stina
abruptly, "when he spoke of the pilgrimage?"
The pastor looked up, somewhat perplexed. "I don't know," he
replied. "Big Ingmar died just after that was said, and I have not
had time to ponder it." He fell to thinking, then he spoke kind of
half to himself: "It was a strange sort of thing to say, you're
right about that, Mother Stina."
"You know, of course, that it has been said of Strong Ingmar that
he can see into the future?" she said reflectively.
The pastor sat stroking his forehead in an effort to collect his
thoughts. "The ways of Providence cannot be reasoned out by the
finite mind," he mused. "I cannot fathom them, yet seeking to know
them is the most satisfying thing in all the world."
Autumn had come and school was again open. One morning, when the
children were having their recess, the schoolmaster and Gertrude
went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, where Mother Stina
served them with coffee. Before they had finished their cups a
visitor arrived.
The caller was a young peasant named Halvor Halvorsson, who had
lately opened a shop in the village. He came from Tims Farm, and
was familiarly known as Tims Halvor. He was a tall, good-looking
chap who appeared to be somewhat dejected. Mother Stina asked him
also to have some coffee; so he sat down at the table, helped
himself, and began to talk to the schoolmaster.
Mother Stina sat by the window knitting; from where she was seated
she could look down the road. All at once she grew red in the face
and leaned forward to get a better view. Trying to appear
unconcerned, she said with feigned indifference: "The grand folk
seem to be out walking to-day."
Tims Halvor thought he detected a certain something in her tone
that sounded a bit peculiar, and he got up and looked out. He saw a
tall, stoop-shouldered woman and a half-grown boy coming toward the
schoolhouse.
"Unless my eyes deceive me, that's Karin, daughter of Ingmar!" said
Mother Stina.
"It's Karin all right," Tims Halvor confirmed. He said nothing
more, but turned away from the window and glanced around the room,
as if trying to discover some way of escape; but in a moment he
quietly went back to his seat.
The summer before, when Big Ingmar was still alive, Halvor had paid
court to Karin Ingmarsson. The courtship had been a long one, with
many ifs and buts on the part of her family. The old Ingmars were
not quite sure that he was good enough for Karin. It had not been
a question of money, for Halvor was well-to-do; his father,
however, had been addicted to drink, and who could say but that
this failing had been transmitted to the son. However, it was
finally decided that Halvor should have Karin. The wedding day was
fixed and they had asked to have the banns published. But before
the day set for the first reading Karin and Halvor made a journey
to Falun, to purchase the wedding ring and the prayerbook. They
were away for three days, and when they got back Karin told her
father that she could not marry Halvor. She had no fault to find
with him save that on one occasion he had taken a drop too much,
and she feared he might become like his father. Big Ingmar then
said that he would not try to influence her against her better
judgment, so Halvor was dismissed, and the engagement was off.
Halvor took it very much to heart. "You are heaping upon me shame
that will be hard to bear," he said. "What will people think if you
throw me over in this way? It isn't fair to treat a decent man like
that."
But Karin was not to be moved, and ever since Halvor had been
morose and unhappy. He could not forget the injustice that had been
done him by the Ingmarssons. And here sat Halvor, and there came
Karin! What would happen next? This much was certain: a
reconciliation was out of the question. Since the previous autumn
Karin had been married to one Elof Ersson. She and her husband
lived at the Ingmar Farm, which they had been running since the
death of Big Ingmar, in the spring. Big Ingmar had left five
daughters and one son, but the son was too young to take over the
property.
Meanwhile Karin had come in. She was only about two and twenty, but
was one of those women who never look real young. Most people
thought her exceedingly plain, for she favoured her father's family
and had their heavy eyelids, their sandy hair, and hard lines about
the mouth. But the schoolmaster and his wife were pleased to think
that she bore such a striking resemblance to the old Ingmars. When
Karin saw Halvor, her face did not change. She moved about, slowly
and quietly, and greeted each of them in turn; when she offered her
hand to Halvor, he put out his, and they barely touched each other
with the tips of their fingers. Karin always stooped a little and,
as she stood before Halvor, with head bowed, she seemed to be more
bent than usual, while Halvor looked taller and straighter than
ever.
"So Karin has really ventured out to-day?" said Mother Stina,
drawing up the pastor's chair for her.
"Yes," she answered. "It's easy walking now that the frost has set
in."
"There has been a hard frost during the night," the schoolmaster
put in.
This was followed by a dead silence, which lasted several minutes.
Presently Halvor got up, and the others started, as if suddenly
awakened from a sound sleep.
"I must get back to the shop," said Halvor.
"What's your hurry?" asked Mother Stina.
"I hope Halvor isn't going on my account," said Karin meekly.
As soon as Halvor was gone the tension was broken, and the
schoolmaster knew at once what to say. He looked at the lad Karin
had brought with her, and of whom no one had taken any notice
before. He was a little chap who could not have been much older
than Gertrude. He had a fair, soft baby face, yet there was
something about him that made him appear old for his years. It was
easy to tell to what family he belonged.
"I think Karin has brought us a new pupil," said Storm.
"This is my brother," Karin replied. "He is the present Ingmar
Ingmarsson."
"He's rather little for that name," Storm remarked.
"Yes, father died too soon!"
"He did indeed," said the schoolmaster and his wife, both in the
same breath.
"He has been attending the school in Falun," Karin explained.
"That's why he hasn't been here before."
"Aren't you going to let him go back this year, too?"
Karin dropped her eyes and a sigh escaped her. "He has the name of
being a good student," she said, evading his question.
"I'm only afraid that I can't teach him anything. He must know as
much as I do."
"Well, I guess the schoolmaster knows a good deal more than a
little chap like him." Then came another pause, after which Karin
continued: "This is not only the question of his attending school,
but I would also like to ask whether you and Mother Stina would let
the boy come here to live."
The schoolmaster and his wife looked at each other in astonishment,
but neither of them was prepared to answer.
"I fear our quarters are rather close," said Storm, presently.
"I thought that perhaps you might be willing to accept milk and
butter and eggs as part payment."
"As to that—"
"You would be doing me a great service," said the rich peasant
woman.
Mother Stina felt that Karin would never have made this singular
request had there not been some good reason for it; so she promptly
settled the matter.
"Karin need say no more. We will do all that we can for the
Ingmarssons."
"Thank you," said Karin.
The two women talked over what had best be done for Ingmar's
welfare. Meantime, Storm took the boy with him to the classroom,
and gave him a seat next to Gertrude. During the whole of the first
day Ingmar never said a word.
***
Tims Halvor did not go near the schoolhouse again for a week or
more; it was as if he were afraid of again meeting Karin there. But
one morning when it rained in torrents, and there was no likelihood
of any customers coming, he decided to run over and have a chat
with Mother Stina. He was hungry for a heart-to-heart talk with
some kindly and sympathetic person. He had been seized by a
terrible fit of the blues. "I'm no good, and no one has any respect
for me," he murmured, tormenting himself, as he had been in the
habit of doing ever since Karin had thrown him over.
He closed his shop, buttoned his storm coat, and went on his way to
the school, through wind and rain and slush. Halvor was happy to be
back once more in the friendly atmosphere of the schoolhouse, and
was still there when the recess bell rang, and Storm and the two
children came in for their coffee. All three went over to greet
him. He arose to shake hands with the schoolmaster, but when little
Ingmar put out his hand, Halvor was talking so earnestly to Mother
Stina that he seemed not to have noticed the boy. Ingmar remained
standing a moment, then he went up to the table and sat down. He
sighed several times, just as Karin had done the day she was there.
"Halvor has come to show us his new watch," said Mother Stina.
Whereupon Halvor took from his pocket a new silver watch, which he
showed to them. It was a pretty little timepiece, with a flower
design engraved on the case. The schoolmaster opened it, went into
the schoolroom for a magnifying glass, adjusted it to his eye, and
began examining the works. He seemed quite carried away as he
studied the delicate adjustment of the tiny wheels, and said he had
never seen finer workmanship. Finally he gave the watch back to
Halvor, who put it in his pocket, looking neither pleased nor
proud, as folks generally do when you praise their purchases.
Ingmar was silent during the meal, but when he had finished his
coffee, he asked Storm whether he really knew anything about
watches.
"Why, of course," returned the schoolmaster. "Don't you know that I
understand a little of everything?"
Ingmar then brought out a watch which he carried in his vest
pocket. It was a big, round, silver turnip that looked ugly and
clumsy as compared with Halvor's watch. The chain to which it was
attached was also a clumsy contrivance. The case was quite plain
and dented. It was not much of a watch: it had no crystal, and the
enamel on its face was cracked.
"It has stopped," said Storm, putting the watch to his ear.
"Yes, I kn-n-ow," stammered the boy. "I was just wondering if you
didn't think it could be mended."
Storm opened it and found that all the wheels were loose. "You must
have been hammering nails with this watch," he said. "I can't do
anything with it."
"Don't you think that Eric, the clockmaker, could fix it?"
"No, no more than I. You'd better send it to Falun and have new
works put in."
"I thought so," said Ingmar, and took the watch.
"For heaven's sake, what have you been doing with it?" the
schoolmaster exclaimed.
The boy swallowed hard. "It was father's watch," he explained, "and
it got damaged like that when father was struck by the whirling
log."
Now they all grew interested.
With an effort to control his feelings, Ingmar continued: "As you
know, it happened during Holy Week, when I was at home. I was the
first person to reach father when he lay on the bank. I found him
with the watch in his hand. 'Now it's all over with me, Ingmar,' he
said. 'I'm sorry the watch is broken, for I want you to give it,
with my greetings, to some one that I have wronged.' Then he told
me who was to have the watch, and bade me take it along to Falun
and have it repaired before presenting it. But I never went back to
Falun, and now I don't know what to do about it."
The schoolmaster was wondering whether he knew of any one who was
soon going to the city, when Mother Stina turned to the boy:
"Who was to have the watch, Ingmar?" she asked.
"I don't know as I ought to tell," the boy demurred.
"Wasn't it Tims Halvor, who is sitting here?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"Then give Halvor the watch just as it is," said Mother Stina.
"That will please him best."
Ingmar obediently rose, took out the watch and rubbed it in the
sleeve of his coat, to shine it up a bit. Then he went over to
Halvor.
"Father asked me to give you this with his compliments," he said,
holding out the watch.
All this while Halvor had sat there, silent and glum. And when the
boy went over to him, he put his hand up to his eyes, as if he did
not want to look at him. Ingmar stood a long time holding out the
watch; finally, he glanced appealingly at Mother Stina.
"Blessed are the peacemakers," she said.
Then Storm put in a word. "I don't thick you could ask for a better
amend, Halvor," he said. "I've always maintained that if Ingmar
Ingmarsson had lived he would have given you full justice long
before this."
The next they saw was Halvor reaching out for the watch, almost as
if against his will. But the moment he had got it into his hand, he
put it in the inside pocket of his vest.
"There's no fear of any one taking that watch from him," said the
schoolmaster with a laugh, as he saw Halvor carefully buttoning his
coat.
And Halvor laughed, too. Presently he got up, straightened himself,
and drew a deep breath. The colour came into his cheeks, and his
eyes shone with a new-found happiness.
"Now Halvor must feel like a new man," said the schoolmaster's
wife.
Then Halvor put his hand inside his overcoat and drew out his
brand-new watch. Crossing over to Ingmar, who was again seated at
the table, he said: "Since I have taken your father's watch from
you, you must accept this one from me."
He laid the watch on the table and went out, without even saying
good-bye. The rest of the day he tramped the roads and bypaths. A
couple of peasants who had come from a distance to trade with him
hung around outside the shop from noon till evening. But no Tims
Halvor appeared.
***
Elof Ersson, the husband of Karin Ingmarsson, was the son of a
cruel and avaricious peasant, who had always treated him harshly.
As a child he had been half starved, and even after he was grown up
his father kept him under his thumb. He had to toil and slave from
morning till night, and was never allowed any pleasures. He was not
even allowed to attend the country dances like other young folk,
and he got no rest from his work even on Sundays. Nor did Elof
become his own master when he married. He had to live at the Ingmar
Farm and be under the domination of his father-in-law; and also at
the Ingmar Farm hard work and frugality were the rule of the day.
As long as Ingmar Ingmarsson lived Elof seemed quite content with
his lot, toiling and slaving with never so much as a complaint.
Folks used to say that now the Ingmarssons had got a son-in-law
after their own hearts, for Elof Ersson did not know that there was
anything else in life than just toil and drudgery.
But as soon as Big Ingmar was dead and buried, Elof began to drink
and carouse. He made the acquaintance of all the rounders in the
parish, and invited them down to the Farm, and went with them to
dance halls and taverns. He quit work altogether, and drank himself
full every day. In the space of two short months he became a poor
drunken wretch.
The first time Karin saw him in a state of intoxication she was
horrified. "This is God's judgment upon me for my treatment of
Halvor," was the thought that came to her. To the husband she said
very little in the way of rebuke or warning. She soon perceived
that he was like a blasted tree, doomed to wither and decay, and
she could not hope for either help or protection from him.
But Karin's sisters were not so wise as she was. They resented his
escapades, blushed at his ribald songs and coarse jokes, by turns
threatening and admonishing him. And although their brother-in-law
was on the whole rather good-natured, he sometimes got into a rage
and had words with them. Then Karin's only thought was how she
should get her sisters away from the house, that they might escape
the misery in which she herself had to live. In the course of the
summer she managed to marry off the two older girls, and the two
younger ones she sent to America, where they had relatives who were
well-to-do.
All the sisters received their proportion of the inheritance, which
amounted to twenty thousand kroner each. The farm had been left to
Karin, with the understanding that young Ingmar was to take it over
when he became of age.
It seemed remarkable that Karin, who was so awkward and diffident,
should have been able to send so many birds from the nest, find
mates for them, and homes. She arranged it all herself, for she
could get no help whatever from her husband, who had now become
utterly worthless.
Her greatest concern, however, was the little brother—he who was
now Ingmar Ingmarsson. The boy exasperated Karin's husband even
more than the sisters had done. He did it by actions rather than
words. One time he poured out all the corn brandy Elof had brought
home; another time the brother-in-law caught him in the act of
diluting his liquor with water.
When autumn came Karin demanded that the boy be sent back to high
school that year, as in former years, but her husband, who was also
his guardian, would not hear of it.
"Ingmar shall be a farmer, like his father and me and my father,"
said Elof. "What business has he at high school? When the winter
comes, he and I will go into the forest to put up charcoal kilns.
That will be the best kind of schooling for him. When I was his
age, I spent a whole winter working at the kiln."
As Karin could not induce him to alter his mind, she had to make
the best of it and keep Ingmar at home for the time being.
Elof then tried to win the confidence of little Ingmar. Whenever he
went anywhere he always wanted the boy to accompany him. The lad
went, of course, but unwillingly. He did not like to go with him on
his sprees. Then Elof would coax the boy, and vow that he was not
going any farther than the church or the shop. But when once he got
Ingmar in the cart, he would drive off with him, down to the
smithies at Bergsana, or the tavern in Karmsund.
Karin was glad that her husband took the boy along; it was at least
a safeguard against Elof being left in a ditch by the roadside, or
driving the horse to death.
Once, when Elof came home at eight in the morning, Ingmar was
sitting beside him in the cart, fast asleep.
"Come out here and look after the boy!" Elof shouted to Karin, "and
carry him in. The poor brat's as full as a tick, and can't walk a
step."
Karin was so shocked that she almost collapsed. She was obliged to
sit down on the steps for a moment, to recover herself, before she
could lift the boy. The minute she took hold of him she discovered
that he was not really asleep, but stiff from the cold, and
unconscious. Taking the boy in her arms, she carried him into the
bedroom, locked the door after her, and tried to bring him to.
After a while she stepped into the living-room, where Elof sat
eating his breakfast. She walked straight up to him and put her
hand on his shoulder.
"You'd better lay in a good meal while you're about it," she said,
"for if you have made my brother drink himself to death, you'll
soon have to put up with poorer fare than you're getting on the
Ingmar Farm."
"How you talk! As if a little brandy could hurt him!"
"Mark what I say! If the boy dies, you'll get twenty years in
prison, Elof."
When Karin returned to the bedroom, the boy had come out of his
stupor, but was delirious and unable to move hand or foot. He
suffered agonies.
"Do you think I'm going to die, Karin?" he moaned.
"No, dear, of course not," Karin assured him.
"I didn't know what they were giving me."
"Thank God for that!" said Karin fervently.
"If I die, write to my sisters and tell them I didn't know it was
liquor," wailed the boy.
"Yes, dear," soothed Karin.
"Really and truly I didn't know—I swear it!"
All day Ingmar lay in a raging fever. "Please don't tell father
about it!" he raved.
"Father will never know of it," she said.
"But suppose I die, then father would surely find it out, and I
would be shamed before him."
"But it wasn't your fault, child."
"Maybe father will think that I shouldn't have taken what Elof
offered me? Don't you suppose the whole parish must know that I
have been full?" he asked. "What do the hired men say, and what
does old Lisa say, and Strong Ingmar?"
"They're not saying anything," Karin replied.
"You will have to tell them how it happened. We were at the tavern
in Karmsund, where Elof and some of his pals had been drinking the
whole night. I was sitting in a corner on a bench, half asleep,
when Elof came over and roused me. 'Wake up, Ingmar,' he said very
pleasantly, 'and I'll give you something that will make you warm.
Drink this,' he urged, holding a glass to my lips. 'It's only hot
water with a little sugar in it.' I was shivering with the cold
when I awoke and, as I drank the stuff, I only noticed that it was
hot and sweet. But he had gone and mixed something strong with it!
Oh, what will father say?"
Then Karin opened the door leading to the living-room, where Elof
still lingered over his meal. She felt that it would be well for
him to hear this.
"If only father were living, Karin, if only father were living!"
"What then, Ingmar?"
"Don't you think he'd kill him?"
Elof broke into a loud laugh, and when the boy heard him, he turned
so pale with fright that Karin promptly closed the door again.
It had this good effect upon Elof, at all events: he put up no
objection when Karin decided to take the boy to Storm's school.
***
Soon after Halvor had received the watch, his shop was always full
of people. Every farmer in the parish, when in town, would stop at
Halvor's shop in order to hear the story of Big Ingmar's watch. The
peasants in their long white fur coats stood hanging over the
counter by the hour, their solemn, furrowed faces turned toward
Halvor as he talked to them. Sometimes he would take out the watch,
and show them the dented case and the cracked face.
"So it was there the blow caught him," the peasants would say. And
they seemed to see before them what had happened when Big Ingmar
was hurt. "It is a great thing for you, Halvor, to have that
watch!"
When Halvor was showing the watch he would never let it out of his
hands, but would always keep a tight grip on the chain.
One day Halvor stood talking to a group of peasants, telling them
the usual story, and at the climax the watch was of course brought
out. As it was being passed from one to the other (he holding the
chain) there fell upon all a solemn hush. In the meantime Elof had
come into the shop, but as every one's attention was riveted upon
the watch, no one had remarked his presence. Elof had also heard
the story of his father-in-law's watch, and knew at once what was
going on. He did not begrudge Halvor his souvenir; he was simply
amused at the sight of him and the others standing there looking so
solemn over nothing but an old and battered silver watch.
Elof stole quietly up behind the men, reached over, and snatched
the watch from Halvor. It was only meant in fun. He had no thought
of taking the watch only from Halvor; he just wanted to tease him a
bit.
When Halvor tried to snatch it again, Elof stepped back and held it
up, as if he were holding out a lump of sugar to a dog. Then Halvor
vaulted the counter; and he looked so angry that Elof got
frightened and, instead of standing still and handing him back the
watch, he ran for the door.
Outside were some badly worn wooden steps; Elof's foot caught in a
hole, and down he went. Halvor fell upon him, seized the watch,
then gave him several hard kicks.
"You'd better quit kicking me, and find out what's wrong with my
back," said Elof.
Halvor stopped at once, but Elof made no move to raise himself.
"Help me up," he said.
"You can help yourself when you've slept off your jag."
"I'm not full," Elof protested. "The fact is, as I started to run
down the stairs I thought I saw Big Ingmar coming toward me, to
take the watch. That's how I got such an ugly fall."
Then Halvor bent down and gave the poor wretch a lift, for his back
was broken. He had to be put into a wagon and driven home. He would
never again have the use of his legs. From that time forth Elof was
confined to his bed, a helpless cripple. But he could talk, and all
day long he kept begging for brandy. The doctor had left strict
orders with Karin not to give him any spirits, lest he drink
himself to death. Then Elof tried to get what he wanted by
shrieking and making the most hideous noises, especially at night.
He behaved like a madman, and disturbed every one's rest.
That was Karin's most trying year. Her husband sometimes tormented
her until it seemed as though she could not stand it any longer.
The very air became polluted by his vile talk and profanity, so
that the home was like a hell. Karin begged the Storms to keep
little Ingmar with them also during the holidays; she did not want
her brother to be at home with her for a day, not even at
Christmas.
All the servants at the Ingmar Farm were distantly related to the
family, and had always lived on the place. But for the feeling that
they belonged to the Ingmarssons, they could not have gone on
serving under such conditions. There were precious few nights that
they were allowed to sleep in peace. Elof was constantly hitting
upon new ways of tormenting both the servants and Karin, to make
them give in to his demands.
In this misery Karin passed a winter and a summer and another
winter.
But Karin had a retreat to which she would flee at times in order
to be alone with her thoughts. Behind the hop garden there was a
narrow seat upon which she often sat, with her elbows on her knees
and her chin resting in her hands, staring straight ahead, yet
seeing nothing. Fronting her were great stretches of cornfields,
beyond which was the forest, and in the distance the range of hills
and Mount Klack.
One evening in April she sat on her bench, feeling tired and
listless, as one often does in the springtime when the snow turns
to slush and the ground is still unwashed by spring rains. The hops
lay sleeping under a cover of fir brush. Over against the hills
hung a thick mist, such as always accompanies a thaw. The birch
tops were beginning to turn brown, but all along the skirt of the
forest there was still a deep border of snow. Spring would soon
be there in earnest, and the thought of it made her feel even more
tired. She felt that she could never live through another summer
like the last one. She thought of all the work ahead of her—sowing
and haymaking; spring baking and spring cleaning; weaving and
sewing—and wondered how she would ever get through with it all.
"I might better be dead," she sighed. "I seem to be here for no
other purpose than to prevent Elof killing himself with drink."
Suddenly she looked up, as if she had heard some one calling her.
Leaning against the hedge, looking straight at her, stood Halvor
Halvorsson. She did not know just when he had come, but apparently
he had been standing there a good while.
"I thought I should find you over here," Halvor said.
"Oh, did you?"
"I remembered how in days gone by you used to step away, and come
here to sit and brood."
"I didn't have much to brood over at that time."
"Then your troubles were mostly imaginary."
Karin mused as she looked at Halvor: "He must be thinking what a
fool I was not to have married him, who is such a handsome and
dignified man. Now he's got me where he can crow over me, and he
has come only to laugh at me."
"I've been inside talking with Elof," Halvor enlightened. "It was
really him I wanted to see."
Karin made no reply, but sat there, frigid and unresponsive, her
eyes fixed on the ground and her hands crossed, prepared to meet
all the scorn she fancied Halvor would now heap upon her.
"I said to him," Halvor continued, "that I considered myself
largely to blame for his misfortune, since it was at my place that
he got hurt." He paused a moment, as if waiting for some expression
from her, either of approval or disapproval. But Karin was silent.
"So I have asked him to come and live with me for a while. It would
at least be a change, and he could see more people than he meets
here."
Then Karin raised her eyes, but otherwise remained as motionless as
before.
"We have arranged to have him sent to my place to-morrow morning. I
know he'll come, because he thinks he can get his liquor. But, of
course, you must know, Karin, that that's out of the question. No,
indeed! It's no more to be had with me than with you. I shall
expect him to-morrow. He is to occupy the little room off the shop,
and I've promised him that I'll let his door stand open, so that he
may see all persons who come and go."
At Halvor's first words Karin wondered whether this was not
something he had made up, but gradually it dawned on her that he
was in earnest.
As a matter of fact, Karin had always imagined that Halvor had
courted her only because of her money and good connections. It had
never occurred to her that he might have loved her for herself
alone. She probably knew she was not the kind of girl that men care
for. Nor had she herself been in love, either with Halvor or Elof.
But now that Halvor had come to her in her trouble, and wanted to
help her, she was completely overwhelmed by the bigness of the man.
She marvelled that he could be so kind. She felt that surely he
must like her a little, since he had come like that, to help her.
Karin's heart began to beat violently and anxiously. She awoke to
something she had never before experienced, and wondered what it
meant. Then all at once she realized that Halvor's kindness had
thawed her frozen heart, and that love was beginning to flame up in
her. Halvor went on unfolding his plan, fearing all the while that
she might oppose him. "It's hard for Elof, too," he pleaded. "He
needs a change of scene, and he won't make as much trouble for me
as he has made for you. It will be quite different when he's got a
man to reckon with."
Karin hardly knew what she should do. She felt that she could not
make a movement or say a word without letting Halvor see that she
was in love with him; yet she knew she would have to give him some
kind of an answer.
Presently Halvor stopped talking and simply looked at her.
Then Karin rose, involuntarily went up to him, and patted him on
the hand. "God bless you, Halvor!" she said in broken tones. "God
bless you!"
Despite all her precautions, Halvor must have divined something,
for he quickly grasped her hands and drew her to him.
"No! No!" she cried in alarm, freeing herself; then she hurried
away.
***
Elof had gone to live with Halvor. All summer he lay in the little
bedroom off the shop. Halvor was not troubled with the care of him
for a great while, for in the autumn he died.
Shortly after his death Mother Stina said to Halvor: "Now you must
promise me one thing: promise me that you will exercise patience as
regards Karin."
"Of course I'll have patience," Halvor returned, wonderingly.
"She's somebody worth winning, even if one has to wait seven long
years."
But it was not so easy for Halvor to have patience, for he soon
learned that this one and that one was paying court to Karin. This
began within a fortnight of Elof's funeral.
One Sunday afternoon Halvor sat on the steps in front of his shop,
watching the people coming and going. Presently it occurred to him
that an unusual number of fine rigs were moving in the direction of
the Ingmar Farm. In the first carriage sat an inspector from
Bergsana Foundry, in the second was the son of the proprietor of
the Karmsund Inn, and last came the Magistrate Berger Sven Persson,
who was the richest man in western Dalecarlia, and a sensible and
highly esteemed man, too. He was not young, to be sure; he had been
twice married, and was now a widower for the second time.
When Halvor saw Berger Sven Persson driving by, he could not
contain himself any longer. He jumped to his feet and started down
the road; in almost no time he was over the bridge and on the side
of the river where the Ingmar Farm lay.
"I'd like to know where all those carriages have gone to," he said
to himself. He followed the wheel ruts, half running, but all the
while becoming more and more determined. "I know this is stupid of
me," he thought, remembering Mother Stina's warning. "But I'm only
going as far as the gate, to see what they're up to down there."
In the best room at the Ingmars sat Berger Sven Persson and two
other men, drinking coffee. Ingmar Ingmarsson, who still lived at
the schoolhouse, was at home over Sunday. He sat at table with them
and acted as host, for Karin had excused herself, saying she had
some work to do in the kitchen, as the maids had gone down to the
mission house to hear the schoolmaster preach.
It was deadly dull in the parlour. All the men sat drinking their
coffee without exchanging a word. The suitors were practically
strangers to one another, and all three of them were watching for
an opportunity to slip into the kitchen for a private word with
Karin.
Presently the door opened and in stepped another caller, who was
received by Ingmar, and conducted to the table.
"This is Tims Halvor Halvorsson," said Ingmar, introducing the
newcomer to Berger Sven Persson.
Sven Persson did not rise, but greeted Halvor with a sweep of the
hand, saying, somewhat facetiously:
"It is a pleasure to meet so distinguished a personage."
Ingmar noisily drew up a chair for Halvor, so that he was spared
the embarrassment of replying.
From the moment Halvor entered the room, all the suitors became
chatty and began to talk big. Each in turn praised and championed
the others. It was as if they had all agreed among themselves to
stand together until Halvor was well out of the game.
"The magistrate is driving a fine horse to-day," the inspector
began.
Berger Sven Persson took up the fun by complimenting the inspector
on having shot a bear the winter before. Then the two turned to the
innkeeper's son, and said something in praise of a house his father
was building.
Finally all three of them bragged about the wealth of Bergen Sven
Persson. They waxed eloquent, and with every word they gave Halvor
to understand that he was too lowly a man to think of pitting
himself against them. And Halvor certainly did feel very
insignificant, and bitterly regretted having come.
Just then Karin came along with fresh coffee. At sight of Halvor
she brightened for an instant; then it occurred to her that his
calling on her so soon after her husband's death looked rather bad.
"If he is in such a hurry, people will surely say that he hadn't
given Elof proper care, and that he wanted him out of the way so he
could marry me." She would rather he had waited two or three years
before coming; that would have been long enough to make folks see
that he had not been impatient for Elof's departure. "Why need he
be in such haste?" she wondered. "Surely he must know that I don't
want anyone but him."
Every one had stopped talking the moment Karin appeared, wondering
how she and Halvor would greet each other. They barely touched
hands. .At which the magistrate expressed his delight by a short
whistle, while the inspector broke into a loud guffaw. Haldor
quietly turned to him. "What are you laughing at?" he said.
The inspector was at a loss for an answer. With Karin there he did
not wish to say anything that might give offence.
"He is thinking of a hound that raises a hare and allows some one
else to catch it," remarked the innkeeper's son, insinuatingly.
Karin turned blood red, but refilled the coffee cups. "Berger Sven
Persson and the rest of you will have to be satisfied with plain
coffee," she said. "We no longer serve spirits to any one on this
farm."
"Nor do I at my home," said the magistrate approvingly.
The inspector and the innkeeper's son kept quiet; they understood
that Sven Persson had scored heavily.
The magistrate straightway began to discourse on temperance and its
salutary effects. Karin listened to him with interest, and agreed
with all that he said. Seeing that this was the kind of talk that
would appeal to her, the magistrate began to spread himself, and
delivered long-winded harangue on the curse of liquor and
drunkenness. Karin recognized all her own thoughts on the subject,
and was glad to find that they were shared by so intelligent a man
as the magistrate.
In the middle of his monologue Berger Sven Persson glanced over at
Halvor, who sat at the table, looking glum and sulky, his coffee
cup untouched.
"It's pretty rough on him," thought Berger Sven Persson,
"particularly if there's any truth in what people say about his
having given Elof a little lift on his way into the next world.
Anyway, he did Karin a good service by relieving her of that
dreadful sot." And since the magistrate seemed to think that he had
as good as won the game, he felt rather friendly toward Halvor.
Raising his cup, he said: "Here's to you, Halvor! You certainly
did Karin a good turn when you took her drunken sot of a husband
off her hands."
Halvor did not respond to the toast. He sat looking the man
straight in the eyes, and wondered how he should take this.
The inspector again burst out laughing. "Yes, yes, a good turn," he
haw-hawed, "a real good turn."
"Yes, yes, a real good turn," echoed the innkeeper's son, with a
chuckle.
Before they were done laughing, Karin had vanished like a shadow
through the kitchen door; but she could hear from the kitchen all
that was said inside. She was both sorry and distressed over
Halvor's untimely visit. It would probably result in her never
being able to marry Halvor. It was plain that the gossips were
already spreading evil reports. "I can't bear the thought of
losing him," she sighed.
For a time no sound came from the sitting-room, but presently she
heard a noise as if a chair were being pushed back. Some one had
evidently risen.
"Are you going already, Halvor?" young Ingmar was heard to say.
"Yes," Halvor replied. "I can't stop any longer. Please say good-bye
to Karin for me."
"Why don't you go into the kitchen and say it for yourself?"
"No," Halvor was heard to answer, "we two have nothing more to say
to each other."
Karin's heart began to pump hard, and thoughts came rushing into
her head, as if on wings. Now Halvor was angry at her—and no
wonder! She had hardly dared even to shake hands with him, and when
the others had scoffed at him, she never opened her mouth in his
defence, but quietly sneaked away. Now he must think she did not
care for him, and was therefore going, never to return. She could
not understand why she should have treated him so shabbily—she who
was so fond of him. Then, all at once her father's old saying came
to her: "The Ingmarssons need have no fear of men; they have only
to walk in the ways of God."
Karin hastily opened the door, and stood facing Halvor before he
could manage to leave the room.
"Are you leaving so soon, Halvor?" she asked. "I thought you were
going to stay to supper."
Halvor stood staring at Karin. She seemed to be completely changed;
her cheeks were aglow, and there was something tender and appealing
about her which he had never seen before.
"I'm going, and I'm not coming back," said Halvor. He had not
caught her meaning, apparently.
"Do stay and finish your coffee," she urged. Then she took him by
the hand and led him back to the table. She turned both white and
red, and several times she all but lost her courage. Just the same
she braved it out, although there was nothing she feared so much as
scorn and contempt. "Now he will at least see that I'm willing to
stand by him," she thought. Turning toward her guests, she said:
"Berger Sven Persson and all of you! Halvor and I have not spoken
of this matter—as I have so recently become a widow—but now it
seems best that you should all know that I would rather marry
Halvor than any one else in the world." She paused to get control
of her voice, then concluded: "Folks may say what they like about
this, but Halvor and I have done nothing wrong."
When Karin had finished speaking, she drew nearer to Halvor, as if
seeking protection against all the cruel slander that would come
now.
The men were speechless, mostly from astonishment at Karin
Ingmarsson, who looked younger and more girlish than ever before in
her life.
Then Halvor said in a voice vibrant with feeling: "Karin, when I
received your father's watch, I felt that nothing greater could
have happened to me; but this thing which you have just done
transcends everything."
Whereupon Berger Sven Persson, who was in many ways an excellent
man, arose.
"Let us all congratulate Karin and Halvor," he said, graciously,
"for every one must know that he whom Karin, daughter of Ingmar,
has chosen is a man of sterling worth."
That an old country schoolmaster should sometimes be a little too
self-confident is not surprising: for well nigh a lifetime he has
imparted knowledge and given advice to his fellowmen. He sees that
all the peasants are living by what he has taught, and that not one
among them knows more than what he, their schoolmaster, has told
them. How can he help but regard all the people in the parish as
mere school children, however old they may have grown? It is only
natural that he should consider himself wiser than every one else.
It seems almost an impossibility for one of these regular old
school persons to treat any one as a grown-up, for he looks upon
each and every one as a child with dimpled cheeks and wide innocent
baby eyes.
One Sunday, in the winter, just after service, the pastor and the
schoolmaster stood talking together in the vestry; the conversation
had turned upon the Salvation Army.
"It's a singular idea to have hit upon," the pastor remarked. "I
never imagined that I should live to see anything of that sort!"
The schoolmaster glanced sharply at the pastor; he thought his
remark entirely irrelevant. Surely the pastor could never think
that such an absurd innovation would find its way into their
parish.
"I don't believe you are likely to see it, either," he said
emphatically.
The pastor, knowing that he himself was a weak and broken-down man,
let the schoolmaster have things pretty much his own way, but all
the same, he could not refrain from chaffing him a little,
occasionally.
"How can you feel so cocksure that we shall escape the Salvation
Army, Storm?" he said. "You see, when pastor and schoolmaster stand
together, there's no fear of any nuisance of that sort crowding in.
Yet I'm not altogether certain, Storm, that you do stand by me. You
preach to suit yourself in your Zion."
To this the schoolmaster did not reply at once. Presently he said,
quite meekly: "The pastor has never heard me preach."
The mission house was a veritable rock of offence. The clergyman
had never set foot in the place. And now that this mooted question
had come up, both men were sorry they had said anything to hurt
each other's feelings. "Perhaps I'm unjust to Storm," thought the
pastor. "During the four years that he has been holding his
afternoon Bible Talks, on Sundays, there has been a larger
attendance at the morning church services than ever before, and I
haven't seen the least sign of division in the church. Storm has
not destroyed the parish, as I feared he would. He is a faithful
friend and servant, and I mean to show him how much I appreciate
him."
The little misunderstanding of the forenoon resulted in the
pastor's attending the schoolmaster's meeting in the afternoon.
"I'll give Storm a pleasant surprise," he thought. "I will go to
hear him preach in his Zion."
On the way to the mission house the pastor's thoughts went back to
the time it was built. How full the air had been of prophecies, and
how firmly he had believed that God had intended it to be something
great! But nothing much had happened. "Our Lord must have changed
His mind," he thought, amused at his entertaining such queer ideas
regarding our Lord.
The schoolmaster's Zion was a large hall with light-coloured walls.
On either side hung wood engravings of Luther and Melanchton, in
fur-trimmed cloaks; along the borders, close to the ceiling, ran
highly illuminated Bible texts, embellished with flowers and
heavenly trumpets and bassoons. At the front of the room, above the
speaker's platform, hung an oleograph representing the Good
Shepherd.
The large bare room was full of people, which was all that seemed
necessary to create an atmosphere of impressive solemnity. Most of
the people were dressed in the picturesque peasant costume of the
parish, and the starched and flaring white headgear of the women
made the room look as if it were filled with large white-winged
birds.
Storm had already commenced his address, when he saw the pastor
come down the aisle, and take a seat in the front row.
"You're a wonderful man, Storm!" thought the school-master.
"Everything comes your way. Here's the pastor himself to do you
honour."
During the time that the schoolmaster had been holding meetings,
he had explained the Bible from cover to cover. That afternoon he
spoke of the Heavenly Jerusalem and everlasting bliss, as given in
the Book of the Revelation. He was so pleased at the parson having
come, that he kept thinking to himself: "For my part I shouldn't
ask for anything better than to stand on a platform through all
eternity, teaching good and obedient children; and if, on occasion,
our Lord Himself should drop in to hear me, as the pastor has done
to-day, no one in heaven would be more delighted than I."
The pastor became interested when the schoolmaster began to talk
about Jerusalem, and the strange misgivings which he had had long
ago flashed through his mind again. In the middle of the service
the door opened, and a number of people came in. There were about
twenty, and they stopped at the door so as not to disturb the
meeting. "Ah!" thought the parson. "I knew something was going to
happen."
Storm had no sooner said "Amen" than a voice, coming from some one
in the group down by the door, piped up: "I should very much like
to say a few words."
"That must be Hoek Matts Ericsson," thought the pastor, and others
with him. For no one else in the parish had such a sweet and
childlike treble.
The next moment a little meek-faced man made his way up to the
platform, followed by a score of men and women who seemed to be
there for the purpose of supporting and encouraging him.
The pastor, the schoolmaster, and the entire congregation sat in
suspense. "Hoek Matts has come to tell us of some awful calamity,"
they thought. "Either the king is dead, or war has been declared,
or perhaps some poor creature has fallen into the river and been
drowned." Still Hoek Matts did not look as if he had any bad news to
impart. He seemed to be in earnest and somewhat stirred, but at the
same time he looked so pleased that he could hardly keep from
smiling.
"I want to say to the schoolmaster and to the congregation," he
began, "that Sunday before last, while I was sitting at home with
my family, the Spirit descended upon me, and I began to preach. We
couldn't get down here to listen to Storm, on account of the ice
and sleet, and we sat longing to hear the Word of God. Then all at
once I had the feeling that I could speak myself. I've been
preaching now for two Sundays, and all my folks at home and our
neighbours, too, have told me that I ought to come down here and
let all the people hear me."
Hoek Matts also said he was astonished that the gift of speech
should have fallen upon so humble a man. "But the schoolmaster
himself is only a peasant," he added, with a little more
confidence.
After this preamble, Hoek Matts folded his hands and was ready to
begin preaching at once. But by that time the schoolmaster had
recovered from his first shock of surprise.
"Do you think of speaking here now, Hoek Matts—immediately?"
"Yes, that's my intention," the man replied. He grew as frightened
as a child when Storm glowered at him. "It was my purpose, of
course, to first ask leave of the schoolmaster and the rest," he
stammered.
"We're all through for the day," said Storm, conclusively.
Then the meek little man began to beg with tears in his voice:
"Won't you please let me say a few words? I only want to tell of
the things that have come to me when walking behind the plow and
when working by myself at the kiln; and now they want to come out."
But the schoolmaster, though he had had such a day of triumph
himself, felt no pity for the poor little man. "Matts Ericsson
comes here with his own peculiar notions, and claims that they are
messages from God," he declared rebukingly.
Hoek Matts dared not venture a protest, and the schoolmaster opened
the hymnbook.
"Let us all join in singing hymn one hundred and eighty-seven,"
he said. Whereupon he read out the hymn in stentorian tones, then
he began to sing at the top of his voice, "Are your windows open
toward Jerusalem."
Meanwhile, he thought: "It was well after all that the pastor
happened in to-day; now he can see that I know how to maintain
order in my Zion."
But no sooner was the hymn finished than a man jumped to his feet.
It was proud and dignified Ljung Bjoern Olafsson, who was married to
one of the Ingmar girls, and was the owner of a large farmstead in
the heart of the parish.
"We down at this end think that the schoolmaster might have
consulted our wishes before turning Matts Ericsson down," he
mildly protested.
"Oh, you think so, do you, Sonny?" The schoolmaster spoke in
just the kind of tone he would have used in reproving some young
whippersnapper. "Then let me tell you that no one but myself has
any say here, in this hall."
Ljung Bjoern turned blood red. He had not meant to provoke a quarrel
with Storm, but had simply wished to soften the blow for Hoek Matts,
who was an inoffensive man. Just the same, he could not help
feeling chagrined over the reply he had got; but before he could
think of a retort, one of the men who had come in with Hoek Matts
spoke up:
"Twice I have heard Hoek Matts preach, and must say that he is
wonderful. I believe that every one present would be helped by
hearing him."
The schoolmaster answered pleasantly enough, but in the old
admonishing tone of the classroom: "Surely you understand, Krister
Larsson, that I can't allow this. Were I to let Hoek Matts preach
to-day, then you, Krister, would want to preach next Sunday, and
Ljung Bjoern the Sunday after!"
At this several persons laughed; but Ljung Bjoern was ready with a
sharp rejoinder: "I see no reason why Krister and I shouldn't be
as well qualified to preach as the schoolmaster," he said.
Thereupon Tims Halvor arose and tried to quiet them and to prevent
possible strife. "Those of us who have furnished the money to build
and run this mission should be consulted before any new preacher is
allowed to speak."
By that time Krister Larsson had become aroused and was on his feet
again. "I recall to mind that when we built this hall we were all
agreed that it should be a free-for-all meetinghouse and not a
church where only one man is allowed to preach the Word."
When Krister had spoken every one seemed to breathe freer. Only one
short hour before it had not occurred to them that they could ever
wish to hear any speaker but the schoolmaster. Now they thought it
would be a treat to hear something different. "We'd like to hear
something new and to see a fresh face behind the rostrum," somebody
muttered.
In all likelihood there would have been no further disturbance if
only Bullet Gunner had remained away that day. He, too, was a
brother-in-law of Tims Halvor and a tall, gaunt-looking fellow,
with a swarthy skin and piercing eyes. Gunner, as well as every one
else, liked the schoolmaster, but what he liked even more was a
good scrap.
"There was a lot of talk about freedom while we were building this
house," said Gunner "but I haven't heard a liberal word since the
place was first opened."
The schoolmaster grew purple. Gunner's remark was the first
evidence of any actual hostility or revolt. "Let me remind you,
Bullet Gunner, that here you have heard the true freedom preached,
as Luther taught it; but here there has been no license to preach
the kind of new-fangled ideas that spring up one day and fall to
the ground the next."
"The schoolmaster would have us think that everything new is
worthless as soon as it touches upon doctrine," Gunner replied
soothingly and half regretfully. "He approves of our using new
methods of caring for our cattle, and wants us to adopt the latest
agricultural machinery; but we are not allowed to know anything
about the new implements with which God's acres are now being
tilled."
Storm began to think that Bullet Gunner's bark was worse than his
bite. "Is it your meaning," he said, adopting a facetious tone,
"that we should preach a different doctrine here from the
Lutheran?"
"It is not a question of a new doctrine," roared Gunner, "but as to
who shall preach; and, as far as I know, Matts Ericsson is as good
a Lutheran as either the schoolmaster or the parson."
For the moment the schoolmaster had forgotten about the parson; but
now he glanced down at him. The clergyman sat quietly musing, his
chin resting upon the knob of his cane. There was a curious gleam
in his eyes, which were fixed upon Storm, never leaving him for a
second.
"After all, perhaps it would have been just as well if the parson
hadn't come to-day," thought the schoolmaster. What was then taking
place reminded Storm of something he had experienced before. It
could be just like this in school sometimes, on a bright spring
morning, when a little bird perched itself outside the schoolroom
window and warbled lustily. Then all at once the children would
tease and beg to be excused from school; they abandoned their
studies and made so much fuss and noise that it was almost
impossible to bring them to order. Something of the same sort had
come over the congregation after Hoek Matts's arrival. However, the
schoolmaster meant to show the pastor and all of them that he was
man enough to quell the mutiny. "First, I will leave them alone and
let the ringleaders talk themselves hoarse," he thought, and went
and sat down on a chair behind the table on which the water bottle
stood.
Instantly there arose against him a perfect storm of protests; for
by that time every one had become inflated with the idea that they
were all of them just as good as the schoolmaster. "Why should he
alone be allowed to tell us what to believe and what not to
believe!" they shouted.
These ideas seemed to be new to most of them, yet from the talk it
became evident that they had been germinating in their minds ever
since the schoolmaster had built the mission house, and shown them
that a plain, ordinary man can preach the Word of God.
After a bit Storm remarked to himself: "The tempest of the children
must have spent itself by this. Now is the time to show them who is
master here." Whereupon he rose up, pounded the table with his
fist, and thundered: "Stop! What's the meaning of all this
racketing? I'm going now, and you must go, too, so that I may put
out the lights and lock up."
Some of them actually did get up, for they had all gone to Storm's
school, and knew that when their teacher rapped on the table it
meant that everybody had to mind. Yet the majority stoically kept
their seats.
"The schoolmaster forgets that now we are grown men," said one;
"but he still seems to think we should run just because he happens
to rap on the table!" said another.
They went right on talking about their wanting to hear some new
speakers, and which ones they should call in. They were already
quarrelling among themselves as to whether it should be the
Waldenstromites or colporteurs from the National Evangelical
Union.
The schoolmaster stood staring at the assemblage as if he were
looking at some weird monstrosity. For up to that time he had seen
only the child in each individual face. But now all the round baby
cheeks, the soft baby curls, and the mild baby eyes had vanished,
and he saw only a gathering of adults, with hard, set faces; he
felt that over such as these he had no control. He did not even
know what to say to them.
The tumult continued, growing louder and louder. The schoolmaster
kept still and let them rage. Bullet Gunner, Ljung Bjoern, and
Krister Larsson led the attack. Hoek Matts, who was the innocent
cause of all the trouble, rose to his feet time and again and
begged them to be quiet, but no one listened to him.
Once again the schoolmaster glanced down at the parson, who was
still quietly musing, the same gleam in his eyes, which were fixed
on the schoolmaster.
"He's probably thinking of that evening four years ago when I told
him I would build a mission," thought Storm. "He was right, too.
Everything has turned out just as he said it would: heresy, revolt,
and division. Perhaps we might have escaped all this if I hadn't
been so bent upon building my Zion."
The instant this became clear to the schoolmaster, his head went
up and his backbone straightened. He drew from his pocket a small
key of polished steel. It was the key to Zion! He held it toward
the light so that it could be seen from all parts of the hall.
"Now I'm going to lay this key upon the table," he said, "and I
shall never touch it again, for I see now that it has unlocked the
door to everything which I had hoped to shut out."
Whereupon the schoolmaster put the key down, took up his hat, and
walked straight over to the pastor.
"I want to thank you, Parson, for coming to hear me to-day," he
said; "for if you hadn't come to-day you never could have heard
me."
There were many who thought that Elof Ersson should have found no
peace in his grave for the shameful way in which he had dealt with
Karin and young Ingmar. He had deliberately made way with all of
his and Karin's money, so she would suffer hardship after his
death. And he left the farm so heavily mortgaged, that Karin would
have been forced to turn it over to the creditors, had not Halvor
been rich enough to buy in the property and pay off the debts.
Ingmar Ingmarsson's twenty thousand kroner, of which Elof had been
sole trustee, had entirely disappeared. Some people thought that
Elof had buried the money, others that he had given it away; in any
case, it was not to be found.
When Ingmar learned that he was penniless, he consulted Karin as to
what he should do. Ingmar told his sister that of all things he
would prefer to be a teacher, and begged her to let him remain with
the Storms until he was old enough to enter college. Down at the
village he would always be able to borrow books from the
schoolmaster or the pastor, he said, and, moreover, he could help
Storm at the school, by reading with the children; that would be
excellent practice.
Karin turned this over in her mind before answering. "I suppose you
wouldn't care to remain at home, since you can't become master
here?" she said.
When Storm's daughter heard that Ingmar was coming back, she pulled
a long face. It seemed to her that if they must have a boy living
with them, they might better have the judge's good-looking son,
Bertil, or there was jolly Gabriel, the son of Hoek Matts Ericsson.
Gertrude liked both Gabriel and Bertil, but as for Ingmar, she
couldn't exactly tell what her feelings were toward him. She liked
him because he helped her with her lessons and minded her like a
slave; but she could also become thoroughly put out with him
sometimes, because he was clumsy and tiresome and did not know how
to play. She had to admire his diligence and his aptitude for
learning, yet at times she fairly despised him for not being able
to show off what he could do.
Gertrude's head was always full of droll fancies and dreams, which
she confided to Ingmar. If the lad happened to be away for a few
days, she grew restless, and felt that she had no one to talk to;
but as soon as he got back she hardly knew what she had been
longing for.
The girl had never thought of Ingmar as a boy of means and good
family connections, but treated him rather as though he were a
little beneath her. Yet when she heard that Ingmar had become poor,
she wept for him, and when he told her that he would not try to get
back his property, but meant to earn his own living as a teacher,
she was so indignant she could hardly control herself.
The Lord only knows all she had dreamed that he would be some day!
The children at Storm's school were given very rigid training. They
were held strictly to their tasks, and only on rare occasions were
they allowed any amusements. However, all this was changed the
spring Storm gave up his preaching. Then Mother Stina said to him:
"Now, Storm, we must let the young folks be young. Remember that
you and I were young once. Why, when we were seventeen, we danced
many a night from sundown to sunup."
So, one Saturday night, when young Gabriel and Gunhild, the
councilman's daughter, paid a visit to the Storms, they actually
had a dance at the schoolhouse.
Gertrude was wild with delight at being allowed to dance, but
Ingmar would not join in. Instead, he took up a book, and went
and sat down on the sofa by the window. Time and again Gertrude
tried to make him lay down his book, but Ingmar, sulky and shy,
refused to budge. Mother Stina looked at him and shook her head.
"It's plain he comes of an old, old stock," she thought. "That kind
can never be really young."
The three who did dance had such a good time! They talked of going
to a regular dance the next Saturday evening, and asked the
schoolmaster and Mother Stina what they thought about it.
"If you will do your dancing at Strong Ingmar's, I give my
consent," said Mother Stina; "for there you will meet only
respectable folk."
Then Storm also made it conditional. "I can't allow Gertrude to go
to a dance unless Ingmar goes along to look after her," he said.
Whereupon all three rushed up to Ingmar and begged him to accompany
them.
"No!" he growled, without even glancing up from his book.
"It's no good asking him!" said Gertrude in a tone that made Ingmar
raise his eyes. Gertrude looked radiantly beautiful after the
dance. She smiled scornfully, and her eyes flashed as she turned
away. It was plainly to be seen how much she despised him for
sitting there so ugly and sulky, like some crotchety old man.
Ingmar had to alter his mind and say "yes"—there was no way out
of it.
A few evenings later while Gertrude and Mother Stina sat spinning
in the kitchen, the girl suddenly noticed that her mother was
getting uneasy. Every little while she would stop her spinning-wheel
and listen. "I can't imagine what that noise is," she said. "Do you
hear anything, Gertrude?"
"Yes, I do," replied the girl. "There must be some one upstairs in
the classroom."
"Who could be there at this hour?" Mother Stina flouted. "Only
listen to the rustling and the pattering from one end of the room
to the other!"
And there certainly was a rustling and a pattering and a bumping
about over their heads, that made both Gertrude and her mother
feel creepy.
"There must surely be some one up there," insisted Gertrude.
"There can't be," Mother Stina declared. "Let me tell you that this
thing has been going on every night since you danced here."
Gertrude perceived that her mother imagined the house had been
haunted since the night of the dance. If that idea were allowed to
become fixed in Mother Stina's mind, there would be no more dancing
for Gertrude.
"I'm going up there to see what it is," said the girl, rising; but
her mother caught hold of her skirt.
"I don't know whether I dare let you go," she said.
"Nonsense, mother! It's best to find out what this is."
"Then I'd better go with you," the mother decided.
They crept softly up the stairs. When they got to the door they
were afraid to open it. Mother Stina bent down and peeped through
the keyhole. Presently she gave a little chuckle.
"What pleases you, mother" asked Gertrude.
"See for yourself, only be very quiet!"
Then Gertrude put her eye to the keyhole. Inside, benches and desks
had been pushed against the wall, and in the centre of the
schoolroom, amid a cloud of dust, Ingmar Ingmarsson was whirling
round, with a chair in his arms.
"Has Ingmar gone mad!" exclaimed Gertrude.
"Ssh!" warned the mother, drawing her away from the door and down
the stairs. "He must be trying to teach himself to dance. I suppose
he wants to learn how, so he'll be able to dance at the party," she
added, with smirk. Then Mother Stina began to shake with laughter.
"He came near frightening the life out of me," she confessed.
"Thank God he can be young for once!" When she had got over her fit
of laughing, she said: "You're not to say a word about this to
anybody, do you hear!"
***
Saturday evening the four young people stood on the steps of the
schoolhouse, ready to start. Mother Stina looked them over
approvingly. The boys had on yellow buckskin breeches and green
homespun waistcoats, with bright red sleeves. Gunhild and Gertrude
wore stripe skirts bordered with red cloth, and white blouses, with
big puffed sleeves; flowered kerchiefs were crossed over their
bodices, and they had on aprons that were as flowered as their
kerchiefs.
As the four of them walked along in the twilight of a perfect
spring evening, nothing was said for quite a long time. Now and
then Gertrude would cast a side glance at Ingmar thinking of how
he had worked to learn to dance. Whatever the reason—whether it
was the memory of Ingmar's weird dancing, or the anticipation of
attending a regular dance—her thoughts became light and airy. She
managed to keep just a little behind the others, that she might
muse undisturbed. She had made up quite little story about how the
trees had come by their new leaves.
It happened in this way, she thought: the trees, after sleeping
peacefully and quietly the whole winter, suddenly began to dream.
They dreamt that summer had come. They seemed to see the fields
dressed in green grass and waving corn; the hawthorn shimmered with
new-blown roses; brooks and ponds were spread with the leaves of
the water-lily; the stones were hidden under the creeping tendrils
of the twin flower, and the forest carpet was thick with star
flowers. And amid all this that was clothed and decked out, the
trees saw themselves standing gaunt and naked. They began to feel
ashamed of their nakedness, as often happens in dreams.
In their confusion and embarrassment, the trees fancied that all
the rest were making fun of them. The bumblebees came buzzingly up
to mock at them, the magpies laughed them to scorn, while the other
birds sang taunting ditties.
"Where shall we find something to put on?" asked the trees in
despair; but they had not a leaf to their names on either twig or
branch, and their distress was so terrible that it awakened them.
And glancing about, drowsy like, their first thought was: "Thank
God it was only a dream! There is certainly no summer hereabout.
It's lucky for us that we haven't overslept."
But as they looked around more carefully, they noticed that the
streams were clear of ice, grass blades and crocuses beeped out
from their beds of soil, and under their own ark the sap was
running. "Spring is here at all events," said the trees, "so it
was well we awoke. We have slept long enough for this year; now
it's high time we were getting dressed."
So the birches hurriedly put on some sticky pale green leaves, and
the maples a few green flowers. The leaves of the alder came forth
in such a crinkly and unfinished state that they looked quite
malformed, but the slender leave: of the willow slipped out of
their buds smooth and shapely from the start.
Gertrude smiled to herself as she walked along and thought this
up. She only wished she had been alone with Ingmar so she could
have told it all to him.
They had a long way to go to get to the Ingmar Farm—more than an
hour's tramp. They followed the riverside; all the while Gertrude
kept walking a little behind the others. Her fancy had begun to
play around the red glow of the sunset, which flamed now above the
river, now above the strand. Gray alder and green birch were
enveloped by the shimmer, flashing red one instant, the next taking
on their natural hues.
Suddenly Ingmar stopped, and broke off in the middle of something
he was telling.
"What's the matter, Ingmar?" asked Gunhild.
Ingmar, pale as a ghost, stood gazing at something in front of him.
The others saw only a wide plain covered with grain fields and
encircled by a range of hills, and in the centre of the plain a big
farmstead. At that moment the glow of sunset rested upon the farm;
all the window pans glittered, and the old roofs and walls had a
bright red glimmer about them.
Gertrude promptly stepped up to the others, and after a quick
glance at Ingmar, she drew Gunhild and Gabriel aside.
"We mustn't question him about anything around here," she said
under her breath. "That place over yonder is the Ingmar Farm. The
sight of it has probably made him sad. He hasn't been at home in
two years—not since he lost all his money."
The road which they had taken was the one leading past the farm
and down to Strong Ingmar's cabin, at the edge of the forest.
Soon Ingmar came running after, calling, "Hadn't we better go this
way instead?" Then he led them in on a bypath that wound around the
edge of the forest, and by which they could reach the cabin without
having to cross the farm proper.
"You know Strong Ingmar, I suppose?" said Gabriel.
"Oh, yes," young Ingmar replied. "We used to be good friends in the
old days."
"Is it true that he understands magic?" asked Gunhild.
"Well—no!" Ingmar answered rather hesitatingly, as if half-believing
it himself.
"You may as well tell us what you know," persisted Gunhild.
"The schoolmaster says we mustn't believe in such things."
"The schoolmaster can't prevent a person seeing what he sees and
believing what he knows," Gabriel declared.
Ingmar wanted to tell them all about his home; memories of his
childhood came back to him at sight of the old place. "I can tell
you about something that I saw once," he said. "It happened one
winter when father and Strong Ingmar were up in the forest working
at the kiln. When Christmas came around, Strong Ingmar offered to
tend the kiln by himself, so that father could come home for the
holidays. The day before Christmas, mother sent me up to the forest
with a basket of good fare for Strong Ingmar. I started early, so
as to be there before the midday dinner hour. When I came up,
father and Strong Ingmar had just finished drawing a kiln, and all
the charcoal had been spread on the ground to cool. It was still
smoking and, where the coals lay thickest, it was ready to take
fire, which is something that must not happen. To prevent that is
the most important part of the entire process of charcoal making.
Therefore, father said as soon as he saw me: 'I'm afraid you'll
have to go home alone, little Ingmar. I can't leave Strong Ingmar
with all this work.' Strong Ingmar walked along the side of the
heap where the smoke rose thickest. 'You can go, Big Ingmar,' he
said. 'I've managed worse things than this.' In a little while the
smoke grew less. 'Now let's see what kind of a Christmas treat
Brita has sent me,' said Strong Ingmar, taking the basket from me.
'Come, let me show you what a fine house we've got here.' Then he
took me into the hut where he and father lived. At the back was a
rude stone, and the other walls were made up of branches of spruce
and blackthorn. 'Well, my lad, you never guessed that your father
had a royal castle like this in the forest, eh?' said Strong
Ingmar. 'Here are walls that keep out both storm and frost,' he
laughed, thrusting his arm clean through the spruce branches.
"Soon father came in laughing. He and the old man were black with
soot and reeking with the odour of sour charcoal smoke. But never
had I seen father so happy and full of fun. Neither of them could
stand upright in the hut, and the only furniture in the place were
two bunks made of spruce twigs and a couple of flat stones on which
they had built a fire; yet they were perfectly contented. They sat
down, side by side, on one of the bunks, and opened the basket. 'I
don't know whether you can have any of this,' said Strong Ingmar to
father, 'for it's my Christmas dinner, you know.' 'Seeing it's
Christmas Eve you must be a good to me,' said father. 'At a time
like this I suppose it would never do to let a poor old charcoal
burner starve,' Strong Ingmar then said.
"They carried on like that all the time they were eating. Mother
had sent a little brandy along with the food. I marvelled that
people could be so happy over food and drink. 'You'll have to tell
your mother that Big Ingmar has eaten up everything,' said the old
man, 'and that she will have to send more to-morrow.' 'So I see,'
said I.
"Just then I was startled by a crackling noise in the fireplace. It
sounded as if some one had cast a handful of pebbles on the stones.
Father did not notice it, but at once Strong Ingmar said: 'What, so
soon?' Yet he went on eating. Then there was more crackling; this
time it was much louder. Now it sounded as if a shovelful of stones
had been thrown on the fire. 'Well, well, is it so urgent!' Strong
Ingmar exclaimed. Then he went out. 'The charcoal must be afire!'
he shouted back. 'Just you sit still, Big Ingmar. I'll attend to
this myself.' Father and I sat very quiet.
"In a little while Strong Ingmar returned, and the fun began anew.
'I haven't had such a merry Christmas in years,' he laughed. He had
no sooner got the words out of his mouth than the crackling started
afresh. 'What, again? Well, I never!' and out he flew in a jiffy.
The charcoal was afire again. When the old man came back for the
second time, father said to him: 'I see now that you have such good
help up here that you can get along by yourself.' 'Yes, you can
safely go home and keep your Christmas, Big Ingmar, for here there
are those who will help me.' Then father and I went home, and
everything was all right. And never, either before or afterward,
was any kiln tended by Strong Ingmar known to get afire."
Gunhild thanked Ingmar for his story, but Gertrude walked on in
silence, as if she had become frightened. It was beginning to get
dark; everything that had looked so rosy a while ago was now either
blue or gray. Here and there in the forest could be seen a shiny
leaf that gleamed in the twilight like the red eye of a troll.
Gertrude was astonished at Ingmar having talked so much and so
long. He seemed like another person since coming in on home ground;
he carried his head higher than usual, and stepped with firmer
tread. Gertrude did not quite like this change in him; it made her
feel uneasy. All the same she spunked up, and began to tease Ingmar
about his going home to dance.
Then at last they came to a little gray hut. Candles were burning
inside, the windows being too small to let in much light. They
caught the sound of violin music and the clatter of dancing feet.
Still the girls paused, wonderingly. "Is it here?" they questioned.
"Can any one dance here? The place looks too small to hold even one
couple."
"Go along inside," said Gabriel; "the hut isn't as tiny as looks."
Outside the door, which was open, stood a group of boys and girls
who had danced themselves into a warm glow; the girls were fanning
themselves with their headshawls, and the boys had pulled off their
short black jackets in order to dance in their bright green red-sleeved
waistcoats.
The newcomers edged their way through the crowd by the door into
the hut. The first person they saw was Strong Ingmar—a little fat
man, with a big head and a long beard.
"He must be related to the elves and the trolls," thought Gertrude.
The old man was standing upon the hearth, playing his fiddle, so as
not to be in the way of the dancers.
The hut was larger than it had appeared from the outside, but it
looked poor and dilapidated. The bare pine walls were worm-eaten,
and the beams were blackened by smoke. There were no curtains at
the windows, and no cover on the table. It was evident that Strong
Ingmar lived by himself. His children had all left him and gone to
America, and the only pleasure the old man had in his loneliness
was to gather the young folks around him on a Saturday evening, and
let them dance to his fiddle.
It was dim in the hut, and suffocatingly close. Couple after couple
were whirling around in there. Gertrude could scarcely breathe, and
wanted to hurry out again, but it was an impossibility to get past
the tight wedge of humanity that blocked the doorway.
Strong Ingmar played with a sure stroke and in perfect time, but
the instant that young Ingmarsson came into the room he drew his
bow across the strings, making a rasping noise that brought all the
dancers to a stop. "It's nothing," he shouted. "Go on with the
dance!"
Ingmar placed his arm around Gertrude's waist to dance out the
figure. Gertrude seemed very much surprised at his wanting to
dance. But they could get nowhere, for the dancers followed each
other so closely that no one who had not been there at the start
could squeeze in between them.
The old man stopped short, rapped on the fender with his bow, and
said in a commanding voice: "Room must be made for Big Ingmar's son
when there's any dancing in my shack!"
With that every one turned to have a look at Ingmar, who became so
embarrassed that he could not stir. Gertrude had to take hold of
him and fairly drag him across the floor.
As soon as the dance was finished, the fiddler came down to greet
Ingmar. When he felt Ingmar's hand in his, the old man pretended to
be very much concerned, and instantly let go of it. "My goodness!"
he exclaimed, "be careful of those delicate schoolmaster hands! A
clumsy old fellow like me could easily crush them."
He took young Ingmar and his friends up to the table, driving away
several old women who were sitting there, looking on. Presently he
went over to the cupboard and brought out some bread and butter and
root beer.
"I don't, as a rule, offer refreshments at these affairs," he said.
"The others have to be content with just music and dancing, but
Ingmar Ingmarsson must have a bite to eat under my roof."
Drawing up a little three-legged stool, the old man sat down in
front of Ingmar, and looked sharply at him.
"So you're going to be a school-teacher, eh?" he queried.
Ingmar closed his eyes for a moment, and there was the shadow of a
smile on his lips, but all the same he answered rather mournfully:
"They have no use for me at home."
"No use for you?" cried the old man. "You don't know how soon you
may be needed on the farm. Elof lived only two years, and who knows
how long Halvor will hold out?"
"Halvor is a strong, hearty fellow," Ingmar reminded.
"You must know, of course, that Halvor will turn the farm over to
you as soon as you're able to buy it back."
"He'd be a fool to give up the Ingmar Farm now that it has fallen
into his hands."
During this colloquy Ingmar sat gripping the edge of the plain deal
table. Suddenly a noise was heard as of something cracking. Ingmar
had broken off a corner of the table. "If you become a school-teacher,
he'll never let you have the farm," the old man went on.
"You think not?"
"Think—think? Well it's plain how you have been brought up. Have
you ever driven a plow?"
"No."
"Or tended a kiln, or felled a huge pine?"
Ingmar sat there looking quite placid, but the table kept crumbling
under his fingers. Finally the old man began to take notice.
"See here, young man!" he said when he saw what was happening, "I
shall have to take you in hand once more." Then he picked up some
of the splinters of the table and tried to fit them into place.
"You rogue! You ought to be going around to fairs, showing your
tricks for money!" he laughed, and dealing Ingmar a hard whack on
the shoulder, he remarked: "Oh, you'd make a fine school-teacher,
you would!"
In a twinkling he was back at the fireplace, fiddling away. Now
there was a snap and a go to his performance. He beat time with his
foot and set the dancers whirling. "This is young Ingmar's polka,"
he called out. "Hoop-la! Now the whole house must dance for young
Ingmar!"
Two such pretty girls as Gertrude and Gunhild had to be in every
dance, of course. Ingmar did not do much dancing. He stood talking
most of the time with some of the older men at the farther end of
the room. Between dances the people crowded around him as if it did
them good just to look at him.
Gertrude thought Ingmar had entirely forgotten her, which made her
quite miserable. "Now he feels that he is the son of Big Ingmar,
and that I am only the school-master's Gertrude," she pouted. It
seemed strange to her that she should take this so to heart.
Between the dances some of the young folks went out for a breath of
air. The night had grown piercingly cold. It was quite dark, and as
no one wanted to go home, they all said: "We'd better wait a little
while; the moon will soon be out. Now it's too dark to start for home."
Once, when Ingmar and Gertrude happened to be standing outside the
door, the old man came and drew the boy away. "Come, let me show
you something," he said, and taking Ingmar by the hand, he led him
through a thicket a short distance away from the house. "Stand
still now and look down!" he said presently. Then Ingmar found
himself looking down a cleft, at the bottom of which something
white shimmered. "This must be Langfors Rapids," said young Ingmar.
"Right you are," nodded the old man. "Now what do you suppose a
waterfall like that can be used for, eh?"
"It might be used to run a mill," said Ingmar thoughtfully.
The old man laughed to himself. He patted Ingmar on the back, then
gave him a dig in the ribs that almost sent him into the rapids.
"But who's going to put up a mill here? Who's going to get rich,
and who's going to buy the Ingmar Farm, eh?" he chuckled.
"I'd just like to know," said Ingmar.
Then the old man began unfolding a big plan he had in mind: Ingmar
was to persuade Tims Halvor to put up a sawmill below the rapids,
and afterward lease it to him. For many years the old man's dream
had been to find a way by which Big Ingmar's son might come into
his own again. Ingmar stood quietly looking down at the foaming
rapids.
"Come, let's go back to the house and the dancing!" said the old
man, but as Ingmar did not stir he waited patiently. "If he's the
right sort, he won't reply to this today, nor yet to-morrow," he
remarked to himself. "An Ingmarsson has to have time to consider."
And as they stood there, all at once they heard a sharp and angry
bark that seemed to come from some dog running loose in the forest.
"Do you hear that, Ingmar?" asked the old man.
"Yes; that must be a dog on the rampage."
Then they heard the bark more distinctly; it seemed to be coming
nearer, as if the beast were heading straight for the hut. The old
man seized Ingmar by the wrist. "Come, boy!" he said. "Get into the
house as quick as you can!"
"What's the matter?" asked Ingmar, astonished.
"Get in, I tell you!"
As they made for the hut, the angry barking sounded as if it were
quite close to them.
"What kind of dog is it?" Ingmar asked, again and again.
"Get inside, only get inside!" cried the old man, fairly pushing
Ingmar into the narrow passageway. Before closing the outer door he
shouted: "If there are any of you outside, come in at once!" As he
stood holding the door open, people came running from all
directions. "In with you, in with you!" he shrieked at them, and
stamped impatiently.
Meanwhile the people in the hut were becoming alarmed. They all
wanted to know what was amiss. When the old man had made sure that
everybody was inside, he closed and bolted the door.
"Are you mad, to be running about when you hear the mountain dog!"
At that moment the barking was heard just outside the hut; it was
as if the mountain dog were chasing round and round the house,
emitting hideous yowls.
"Isn't it a real dog?" asked a young rustic.
"You can go out and call to it if you like, Nils Jansson."
Then all were silent, listening to the howling thing which
continued to go round and round without a stop. It sounded weird
and dreadful. They began to shudder and shake, and some turned as
white as death. No, indeed, this was no ordinary dog; anybody could
tell that! It was doubtless some demon let loose from hell, they
thought.
The little old man was the only one who moved about. First he
closed the flue, then he went around and snuffed out the candles.
"No, no!" cried the womenfolk, "don't put out the lights!"
"You must let me do what is best for all of us," said the old man.
One of the girls caught hold of his coat. "Is the mountain dog
dangerous?" she asked.
"No, not he, but what comes after."
"And what comes after?"
Again the old man listened. Presently he said: "Now we must all be
very still."
Instantly there was breathless silence. Once again the terrible
howling seemed to circle the hut, but it grew less distinct as it
went across the marsh and up the mountains on the other side of the
valley. Then came an ominous stillness. Presently some man, who
couldn't hold in any longer, said that the dog was gone.
Without a word Strong Ingmar raised his hand and dealt the man a
blow across the mouth.
From far away at the top of Mount Flack came a piercing sound; it
was like a howling wind, but it could also have been a blast from a
horn. Now and again prolonged blare could be heard, then roaring
and tramping and snorting.
All at once the thing came dashing down from the mountain with an
awful roar. They could tell when it had reached the foot of the
slope; they could tell when it swept the skirt of the forest; and
when it was directly above them. It was like the rolling of thunder
across the face of the earth; it was as if the whole mountain had
come tumbling into the valley. When it seemed to be almost upon
them, every head went down. "It will crush us," they all thought.
"It will surely crush us."
But what they felt was not so much the fear of death, as terror
lest it might be the prince of darkness himself coming, with all
his demons. What frightened them most were the shrieks and moans
that could be heard above the other noises. There were wails and
groans, laughter and bellowings, whines and hisses. When that which
they had supposed was a big thunderstorm was right upon them, it
seemed to be a mingling of groans and curses, of sobs and angry
cries, of the blast of horns, of crackling fire, of the plaints of
doomed spirits, of the mocking laughter of demons, of the flapping
of huge wings.
They thought all the furies of the infernal regions had been let
loose that night, and would overwhelm them. The ground trembled,
and the hut swayed as if it were going to topple over. It was as if
wild horses were prancing on the roof; as if howling ghosts rushed
past the door, and as if owls and bats were beating their wings
against the chimney.
While this was happening, some one put an arm around Gertrude's
waist and drew her to her knees. Then she heard Ingmar whisper: "We
must kneel down, Gertrude, and ask God to help us."
Only the moment before Gertrude had imagined she was dying, so
terrible was the fear that held her. "I don't mind having to die,"
she thought; "the awful part of it is that the powers of evil are
hovering over us."
But Gertrude had no sooner felt Ingmar's protecting arm around her
than her heart began to beat once more, and the feeling of numbness
in her limbs was gone. She snuggled close to him. She was not
frightened now. How wonderful! Ingmar must have felt afraid also,
yet he was able to impart to her a sense of security and
protection.
Finally the terrible noises died away; they heard only the faintest
echoes of them in the distance. They seemed to have followed in the
trail of the dog, down through the marsh and up into the mountain
passes beyond Olaf's Peak.
And yet the silence in Strong Ingmar's but was unbroken. No one
moved, no one spoke; at times it was as if fear had extinguished
all life there. Now and then through the stillness a deep sigh was
heard. No one moved for a long, long time. Some of the people were
standing up against the walls, others had sunk down on the benches,
but most of them were kneeling upon the floor in anxious prayer.
All were motionless, stunned by fear.
Thus hour after hour passed, and during that time there was many a
one in that room who ransacked his soul and resolved to live a new
life—nearer to God and farther away from His enemies, for each of
those present thought: "It is something that I have done which
has brought this upon us. This has happened because of my sins. I
could hear how the fiends kept calling to me and threatening me,
and shrieking my name, as they rushed by."
As for Gertrude, her only thought was: "I know now that I can never
live without Ingmar; I must always be near him because of that
feeling of confidence he gives one."
Then gradually the day began to break, the faint light of dawn came
stealing into the hut, revealing the many blanched faces. The
twitter of a bird was heard, then of another, and another. Strong
Ingmar's cow began to low for her breakfast, and his cat, who never
slept in the house on nights when there was dancing, came to the
door and mewed. But no one inside moved until the sun rolled up
from behind the eastern hills. Then, one by one, they stole out
without a word or even a good-bye.
Outside the house the departing guests beheld the signs of the
night's devastation. A huge pine, which had stood close to the
gate, had been torn up by the roots and thrown down; branches and
fence posts were littered over the ground; bats and owls had been
crushed against the side walls of the hut.
Along the broad roadway leading to the top of Mount Klack all the
trees had been blown down. No one could bear to look at this long,
so they all hurried on toward the village.
It was Sunday, and most people were still in their beds, but a few
persons were already out tending to their cattle. An old man had
just emerged from his house with his Sunday coat, to brush and air
it. From another house came father, mother, and children—all
dressed up for a holiday outing. It was a great relief to see
people quietly going about their business, unconscious of the awful
things that had happened in the forest during the night.
At last they came to the riverside, where the houses were less
scattered, and then to the village. They were glad to see the old
church and everything else. It was comforting to see that
everything down here looked natural: the sign-board in front of the
shop creaked on its hinges as usual; the post-office horn was in
its regular place; and the inn-keeper's dog lay sleeping, as
always, outside his kennel. It was also a gladsome surprise to them
to see a little bird-berry bush that had blossomed overnight, and
the green seats in the pastor's garden, which must have been put
out late in the evening. All this was decidedly reassuring. But
just the same no one ventured to speak until they had reached their
several homes.
When Gertrude stood on the steps of the schoolhouse, she said to
Ingmar: "I have danced my last dance, Ingmar."
"And I, too," Ingmar solemnly declared.
"And you'll become a clergyman, won't you, Ingmar? And if you can't
become a preacher, you must at least be a teacher. There is so much
evil in the world one has to fight against."
Ingmar looked straight at Gertrude. "What did those voices say to
you?" he asked.
"They said that I had been caught in the toils of sin, and that the
devil would come and take me, because I was so fond of dancing."
"Now I must tell you what I heard," said Ingmar. "It seemed to me
that all the old Ingmarssons were threatening and cursing me
because I wanted to be something more than a peasant, and to do
something besides just tilling the soil and working in the forest."
The night of the dance at Strong Ingmar's, Tims Halvor was away
from home, and his wife, Karin, slept alone in the little chamber
off the living-room. In the night Karin had a frightful dream. She
dreamt that Elof was alive and was holding a big revel. She could
hear him in the next room clinking glasses, laughing loudly, and
singing ribald songs. She thought, in the dream, that Elof and his
boon companions were getting noisier and noisier, and at last it
sounded as though they were trying to break up both tables and
chairs. Then Karin became so frightened that she awoke. But even
after she had awakened the noise continued. The earth shook, the
windows rattled, the tiles on the roof were loosened, and the old
pear trees at the gables lashed the house with their stout
branches. It was as if Judgment Day had come.
Just when the noise was at its height a window pane was sprung,
and the shattered glass fell jingling against the floor. A violent
gust of wind rushed through the room, and then Karin thought she
heard a laugh quite close to her ear—the same kind of laugh that
she had heard in the dream. She fancied she was about to die. Never
had she felt such a sense of terror; her heart stopped, and her
whole body became numb and cold as ice.
All at once the noise died down, and Karin, as it were, came back
to life. The raw night wind came sweeping into the room; so after a
little Karin decided to get up and stuff something into the broken
window pane. As she stepped out of the bed, her legs gave way, and
she found that she could not walk. She did not cry for help, but
quietly laid down again. "I'll surely be able to walk when I feel
more composed," she thought. In a few moments she made another
attempt. This time, too, her legs failed her, and she fell prone on
the floor beside the bed.
In the morning, when people were astir in the house, the doctor was
called in. He was at a loss to understand what had come over Karin.
She did not appear to be ill, nor was she paralyzed. He was of the
opinion that her trouble had been brought on by fright.
"You'll soon be all right again," he assured her. Karin listened to
the doctor, but said nothing. She felt certain that Elof had been
in the room during the night, and that he was the cause of her
trouble. She also had the feeling that she would never recover from
this shock.
All that morning she sat up in bed, and brooded. She tried to
reason out why God had let this trial come upon her. She examined
her conscience thoroughly, but could not discover that she had
committed any special sin that merited such a terrible punishment.
"God is unjust to me," she thought.
In the afternoon she was taken to Storm's mission house, where at
that time a lay preacher named Dagson led the meetings. She hoped
that he could tell her why she had been punished in this way.
Dagson was a popular speaker, and never had he had so many hearers
as on that afternoon. My, but what a gathering of people down at
the mission house! And no one talked of anything but what had
happened in the night at Strong Ingmar's hut. The whole community
was in a state of terror, and had turned out in full force, in
order to hear the Word of God preached with a force that would
annihilate their fears. Hardly a quarter of the people could get
inside; but windows and doors were wide open, and Dagson had such a
powerful voice that he could be heard even by those on the outside.
Of course he knew what had occurred, and what the people wanted to
hear. He opened his address with a terror-striking word picture of
hell and the prince of darkness. He reminded them of the evil one
who skulks about in the dark to capture souls, who lays the snares
of sin and sets the traps of vice. The people shuddered. They
seemed to see a world full of devils, tempting and enticing them to
destruction. Everything was a sin and a danger. They were wandering
among pitfalls, hunted and tormented like the wild beasts of the
forest. When Dagson talked in this strain, his voice pierced the
room like a blasting wind, and his words were like tongues of fire.
All who heard Dagson's sermon likened it to a roaring torrent of
flame. With all this talk about demons and fire and smoke, they had
the same feeling as when trapped in a burning forest—when the fire
creeps along the moss upon which you are treading, and smoke clouds
fill the air you breathe, and the heat singes your hair, while the
roar of the fire fills your ears, and flying sparks set fire to
your clothing.
Thus did Dagson drive the people through flame and smoke and
desolation. They had fire in front of them, fire behind them, and
fire to left and right of them, and saw only destruction ahead of
them. Yet, after taking them through all these horrors, he finally
led them to a green spot in the forest, where it was peaceful and
cool and safe. In the centre of a flowery meadow sat Jesus, with
His arms outstretched toward the fleeing and hunted men and women
who cast themselves at His feet. Now all danger was past, and they
suffered no further distress nor persecution.
Dagson spoke as he himself felt. If he could only lay himself down
at Jesus' feet, a sense of great peace and serenity would come to
him, and he had no more fear of the snares of the world.
After the service there was great emotional excitement. Many
persons rushed up to the speaker and thanked him, with tears
streaming down their faces. They told him that his words had
awakened them to a true faith in God. But all this time Karin sat
unmoved. When Dagson had finished speaking, she raised her heavy
eyelids and looked up at him, as if reproaching him for not having
given her anything. Just then some one outside cried in a voice
loud enough to be heard by the entire congregation:
"Woe, woe, woe to those who give stones for bread! Woe, woe, woe to
those who give stones for bread!"
Whereupon everybody rushed out, curious to see who it was that had
spoken those words, and Karin was left sitting there in her
helplessness. Presently members of her own household came back, and
told her that the person who had cried out like that was a tall,
dark stranger. He and a pretty, fair-haired woman had been seen
coming down the road, in a cart, during the service. They had
stopped to listen, and just as they were about to drive on, the man
had risen up and spoken. Some folks thought they knew the woman.
They said she was one of Strong Ingmar's daughters—one of those
who had gone to America and married there. The man was evidently
her husband. Of course it is not so easy to recognize a person whom
one has known as a young girl in the ordinary peasant costume, when
she comes back a grown woman dressed up in city clothes.
Karin and the stranger were evidently of the same mind regarding
Dagson. Karin never went to the mission house again. But later in
the summer, when a Baptist layman came to the parish, baptizing and
exhorting, she went to hear him, and when the Salvation Army began
to hold meetings in the village, she also attended one of these.
The parish was in the throes of a great religious upheaval. At all
the meetings there were awakenings and conversions. The people
seemed to find what they had been seeking. Yet among all those whom
Karin had heard preach, not one could give her any consolation.
***
A blacksmith named Birger Larsson had a smithy close by the
highroad. His shop was small and dark, with a low door, and an
aperture in place of a window. Birger Larsson made common knives,
mended locks, put tires on wheels and on sled runners. When there
was nothing else to be done, he forged nails.
One evening, in the summer, there was a rush of work at the smithy.
At one anvil stood Birger Larsson flattening the heads of nails;
his eldest son was at another anvil forging iron rods and cutting
off pins. A second son was blowing the bellows, a third carried
coal to the forge, turned the iron, and, when at white heat,
brought it to the smiths. The fourth son, who was not more than
seven years old, gathered up the finished nails and threw them into
a trough filled with water, afterward bunching and tying them.
While they were all hard at work a stranger came up and stationed
himself in the doorway. He was a tall, swarthy-looking man, and he
had to bend almost double to look in. Birger Larsson glanced up
from his work to see what the man wanted.
"I hope you don't mind my looking in, although I have no special
errand here," said the stranger. "I was a blacksmith myself in my
younger days, and can never pass by a smithy without first stopping
to glance in at the work."
Birger Larsson noticed that the man had large, sinewy hands—regular
blacksmith's hands. He at once began to question him as to who he
was and whence he came. The man answered pleasantly, but without
disclosing his identity. Birger thought him clever and likable,
and after showing him around the shop, he went outside with him
and began to brag about his sons. He had seen hard times, he said,
before the boys were big enough to help with the work; but now
that all of them were able to lend a hand, everything went well.
"In a few years I expect to be a rich man," he declared.
The stranger smiled a little at that and said he was pleased to
hear that Birger's sons were so helpful to him. Placing his heavy
hand on Birger's shoulder, and looking him square in the eyes, he
said: "Since you have had such good aid from your sons in a
material way, I suppose you also let them help you in the things
that pertain to the spirit?" Birger stared stupidly. "I see that
this is a new thought to you," the stranger added. "Ponder it till
we meet again." Then he went on his way smiling, and Birger
Larsson, scratching his head, returned to his work. But the
stranger's query haunted his mind for several days. "I wonder what
made him say that?" he mused. "There must be something back of it
all that I don't understand."
***
The day after the stranger had talked with Birger Larsson an
extraordinary thing took place at Tims Halvor's old shop, which
since his marriage to Karin had been turned over to his
brother-in-law, Bullet Gunner. Gunner was away at the time, and, in
his absence, Brita Ingmarsson tended the shop. Brita was named
after her mother, Big Ingmar's handsome wife, whose good looks she
had inherited. Moreover, she had the distinction of being the
prettiest girl ever born and reared on the Ingmar Farm. Although
she bore no outward resemblance to the old Ingmars, she was,
nevertheless, quite as conscientious and upright as any of them.
When Gunner was absent Brita always ran the business in her own
way. Whenever old Corporal Felt would come stumbling in, tipsy and
shaky, and ask for a bottle of beer, Brita would give him a blunt
"No," and when poor Kolbjoern's Lena came and wanted to buy a fine
brooch, Brita sent her home with several pounds of rye meal. The
peasant woman who dropped in to buy some light flimsy fabric was
told to go home and weave suitable and durable cloth on her own
loom. And no children dared come into the shop to spend their poor
coppers for candy and raisins when Brita was in charge there.
That day Brita had not many customers. So for hours and hours she
sat quite alone, staring into vacancy, despair burning in her eyes.
By and by she got up and took out a rope; then she moved a little
stepladder from the shop into the back room. After that she made a
loop in one end of the rope, and fastened the other end to a hook
in the ceiling. Just as she was about to slip her head into the
noose, she happened to look down.
At that moment the door opened and in walked a tall, dark man. He
had evidently entered the shop without her having heard him, and on
finding no one in attendance, had stepped behind the counter and
opened the door to the next room.
Brita quietly came down from the ladder. The man did not speak, but
withdrew into the shop, Brita slowly following him. She had never
seen the man before. She noticed that he had black curly hair,
throat whiskers, keen eyes, and big, sinewy hands. He was well
dressed, but his bearing was that of a labourer. After seating
himself on a rickety chair near the door, he began to stare hard at
Brita.
By that time Brita was again standing behind the counter. She did
not ask him what he wanted; she only wished he would go away. The
man just stared and stared, never once taking his eyes off her.
Brita felt that she was being held by his gaze, and could not move.
Presently she grew impatient, and said, in her mind: "What's the
use of your sitting there watching me? Can't you understand that
I'm going to do what I want to do, anyhow, as soon as I'm left
alone? If this were only something that could be helped," Brita
argued mentally, "I wouldn't mind your hindering me, but it can't
be remedied now."
All the while the man sat gazing intently at her.
"Let me say to you that we Ingmars are not fitted to be
shopkeepers," Brita continued in her thoughts. "You don't know
how happy we were, Gunner and I, till he took up with this
business. Folks certainly warned me against marrying him; they
didn't like him, on account of his black hair, his piercing eyes,
and his sharp tongue. But we two were fond of each other, you see,
and there was never a cross word between us till Gunner took over
the shop. But since then all has not been well. I want him to
conduct the business in my way. I can't abide his selling wine and
beer to drunkards, and it seems to me that he ought to encourage
people in buying only such things as are useful and necessary; but
Gunner thinks this a ridiculous notion. Neither of us will give in
to the other, so we are forever wrangling, and now he doesn't care
for me any more."
She gave the man a savage look, amazed at his not yielding to her
mute entreaties.
"Surely you must understand that I cannot go on living under the
shame of knowing that he lets the bailiff serve executions upon
poor people and take from them their only cow or a couple of sheep!
Can't you see that this thing will never come right? Why don't you
go, and let me put an end to it all!"
Brita, under the man's gaze, gradually became quieter in her mind,
and in a little while she began to cry softly. She was touched by
his sitting there and protecting her against herself.
As soon as the man saw that Brita was weeping, he rose and went
toward the door. When he was on the doorstep, he turned and again
looked straight into her eyes, and said in a deep voice: "Do
thyself no harm, for the time is nearing when thou shalt live in
righteousness."
Then he went his way. She could hear his heavy footsteps as he
walked, down the road. Brita ran into the little room, took down
the rope, and carried the stepladder back into the shop. Then she
dropped down on a box, where she sat quietly musing for two full
hours. She felt, somehow, that for a long time she had wandered in
a darkness so thick that she could not see her hand before her. She
had lost her way and knew not whither she had strayed, and with
every step she had been afraid of sinking into a quagmire or
stumbling headlong into an abyss. Now some one had called to her
not to go any farther, but to sit down and wait for the break of
day. She was glad that she would not have to continue her perilous
wanderings; now she sat quietly waiting for the dawn.
***
Strong Ingmar had a daughter who was called Anna Lisa. She had
lived in Chicago for a number of years, and had married there a
Swede named John Hellgum, who was the leader of a little band of
religionists with a faith and doctrine of their own. The day after
the memorable dance night at Strong Ingmar's, Anna Lisa and her
husband had come home to pay a visit to her old father.
Hellgum passed his time taking long walks about the parish. He
struck up an acquaintance with all whom he met on the way. He
talked with them at first of commonplace things; but just before
parting with a person, he would always place his large hand upon
his or her shoulder, and speak a few words of comfort or warning.
Strong Ingmar saw very little of his son-in-law, for that summer
the old man and young Ingmar, who had now gone back to the Ingmar
Farm to live, were hard at work daytimes putting up a sawmill below
the rapids. It was a proud day for Strong Ingmar when the sawmill
was ready and the first log had been turned into white planks by
the buzzing saws.
One evening on his way home from work, the old man met Anna Lisa on
the road. She looked frightened, and wanted to run away. Strong
Ingmar, seeing this, quickened his pace, thinking all was not well
at home. When he reached his but he stopped short, frowning. As far
back as he could remember, a certain rosebush had been growing
outside the door. It had been the apple of his eye. He had never
allowed any one to pluck a rose or a leaf from that bush. Strong
Ingmar had always guarded the bush very tenderly, because he
believed it sheltered elves and fairies. But now it had been cut
down. Of course it was his son-in-law, the preacher, who had done
this, as the sight of the bush had always been an eyesore to him.
Strong Ingmar had his axe with him, and his grip on the handle
tightened as he entered the hut. Inside sat Hellgum with an open
Bible before him. He raised his eyes and gave the old man a
piercing look, then went on with his reading; this time aloud:
"Even as ye think, we will be as the heathen, as the families of
the countries, to serve wood and stone, it shall not be at all as
ye think. As I live, saith the Lord God, surely with a mighty hand,
and with stretched-out arm, and with fury poured out, will I rule
over you—"
Without a word Strong Ingmar turned and walked out of the house.
That night he slept in the barn. The following day he and Ingmar
Ingmarsson set out for the forest to burn charcoal and fell timber.
They were to be gone the whole winter.
On two or three occasions Hellgum had spoken at prayer meetings and
outlined his teaching, which he maintained was the only true
Christianity. But Hellgum, who was not as eloquent a speaker as
Dagson, had made no converts. Those who had met him outside and had
only heard him say a few telling words, expected great things from
him; but when he tried to deliver a lengthy address he became
heavy, prosy, and tiresome.
***
Toward the close of summer Karin became utterly despondent over her
condition. She rarely spoke. All day long she sat motionless in her
chair. She went to hear no more preachers, but stayed at home,
brooding over her misfortune. Once in a while she would repeat to
Halvor her father's old saying about the Ingmars not having
anything to fear so long as they walked in the ways of God. Now she
had come to the conclusion that there was no truth even in that.
Halvor, not knowing what to do, on one occasion suggested that she
talk with the newest preacher, but Karin declared that she would
never again look to a parson for help.
One Sunday, toward the end of August, Karin sat at the window in
the living-room. A Sabbath stillness rested over the farm, and she
could hardly keep awake. Her head kept sinking nearer and nearer
her breast, and presently she dropped into a doze.
She was suddenly awakened by the sound of a voice just outside her
window. She could not see who the speaker was, but the voice was
strong and deep. A more beautiful voice she had never heard.
"I know, Halvor, that it doesn't seem reasonable to you that a
poor, uneducated blacksmith should have found the truth, when so
many learned men have failed," said the voice.
"I don't see how you can be so sure of that," Halvor questioned.
"It's Hellgum talking to Halvor," thought Karin, trying to close
the window, which she was unable to reach.
"It has been said, as you know," Hellgum went on, "that if somebody
strikes us on one cheek we must turn the other cheek also, and that
we should not resist evil, and other things of the same sort; all
of which none of us can live up to. Why, people would rob you of
your house and home, they'd steal your potatoes and carry off your
grain, if you failed to protect what was yours. I guess they'd take
the whole Ingmar Farm from you."
"Maybe you're right," Halvor admitted.
"Well, then, I suppose Christ didn't mean anything when He said all
that; He was just talking into the air, eh?"
"I don't know what you're driving at!" said Halvor.
"Now here's something to set you thinking," Hellgum continued. "We
are supposed to be very far advanced in our Christianity. There's
no one nowadays who steals, no one who commits murder or wrongs the
widow and the fatherless, and of course no one hates or persecutes
his neighbour any more, and it wouldn't occur to any of us, who
have such a good religion, to do any wrong!"
"There are many things that aren't just as they ought to be,"
drawled Halvor. He sounded sleepy, and anything but interested.
"Now if you had a threshing machine that wouldn't work, you'd find
out what was wrong with it. You wouldn't give yourself any rest
till you had discovered wherein it was faulty. But when you see
that it is simply impossible to get people to lead a Christian
life, shouldn't you try to find out whether there is anything the
matter with Christianity itself?"
"I can't believe there are any flaws in the teachings of Jesus,"
said Halvor.
"No, they were unquestionably sound from the start; but it may be
that they have become a little rusty, as it were, from neglect. In
any perfect mechanism, if a cog happens to slip—only one tiny
little cog—instantly the whole machinery stops!"
He paused a moment as if searching for words and proofs.
"Now let me tell you what happened to me a few years ago," he
resumed. "I then tried for the first time in my life to really live
by the teachings. Do you know what the result was? I was at that
time working in a factory. When my fellow-workmen found out what
manner of man I was, they let me do a good share of their work in
addition to my own. In thanks they took the job away from me by
conniving to throw the blame on me for a theft committed by one of
them. I was arrested, of course, and sent to the penitentiary."
"One doesn't ordinarily run across such bad people," returned
Halvor indifferently.
"Then said I to myself: It wouldn't be very hard to be a Christian
if one were only alone on this earth, and there were no fellow
humans to be reckoned with. I must confess that I really enjoyed
being in prison, for there I was allowed to lead a righteous life,
undisturbed and unmolested. But after a time I began to think that
this trying to be good in solitude was about as effective as the
automatic turning of a mill when there's no corn in the grinder.
Inasmuch as God had seen fit to place so many people in the world,"
I reasoned, "it must have been done with the idea that they should
be a help and a comfort to one another, and not a menace. It
occurred tome, finally, that Satan must have taken something away
from the Bible, so that Christianity should go to smash."
"But surely he never had the power to do that," said Halvor.
"Yes; he has taken out this precept: Ye who would lead a Christian
life must seek help among your fellowmen."
Halvor did not venture a reply, but Karin nodded approvingly. She
had listened very carefully, and had not missed a word.
"As soon as I was released from prison," Hellgum continued, "I went
to see an old friend, and asked him to help me lead a righteous
life. And, mind, when we were two about it, at once it became
easier. Soon a third party joined with us, then a fourth, and it
became easier and easier. Now there are thirty of us who live
together in a house in Chicago. All our interests are common
interests; we share and share alike. We watch over each other's
lives, and the way of righteousness lies before us, smooth and
even. We are able to deal with one another in a Christly manner,
for one brother does not abuse the kindness of another, nor trample
him down in his humility."
As Halvor remained silent, Hellgum spoke on convincingly: "You
know, of course, that he who wishes to do something big always
allies himself with others who help him. Now you couldn't run this
farm by yourself. If you wanted to start a factory, you'd have to
organize a company to cooeperate with you, and if you wanted to
build a railway, just think how many helpers you'd have to take on!
"But the most difficult work in the world is to live a Christian
life; yet that you would accomplish single-handed and without the
support of others. Or maybe you don't even try to do so, since you
know beforehand that it can't be done. But we—I and those who have
joined me back there in Chicago—have found a way. Our little
community is in truth the New Jerusalem come down from Heaven. You
may know it by these signs: the gifts of the Spirit which descended
upon the early Christians, have also fallen upon us. There are some
among us who hear the Voice of God, others who prophesy, and
others, again, who heal the sick—"
"Can you heal the sick?" Halvor broke in eagerly.
"Yes," answered Hellgum. "I can heal those who have faith in me."
"It's rather hard to believe something different from what one was
taught as a child," said Halvor thoughtfully.
"Nevertheless, I feel certain, Halvor, that very soon you will give
your full support to the upbuilding of the New Jerusalem," Hellgum
declared.
Then came a moment of silence, after which Karin heard Hellgum say
good-bye.
Presently Halvor went into the house. On seeing Karin seated by the
open window, he remarked: "You must have heard all that Hellgum
said."
"Yes," she replied.
"Did you hear him say that he could heal any one who had faith in
him?"
Karin reddened a little. She had liked what Hellgum said better
than anything she had heard that summer. There was something sound
and practical about his teaching which appealed to her common
sense. Here were works and service and no mere emotionalism, which
meant nothing to her. However, she would not admit this, for she
had made up her mind to have no further dealings with preachers. So
she said to Halvor: "My father's faith is good enough for me."
***
A fortnight later Karin was again seated in the living-room. Autumn
had just set in; the wind howled round the house and a fire
crackled on the hearth. There was nobody in the room but herself
and her baby daughter, who was almost a year old and had just
learned to walk. The child was sitting on the floor at her mother's
feet, playing.
As Karin sat watching the child, the door opened, and in came a
tall, dark man, with keen eyes and large sinewy hands. Before Karin
had heard him say a word, she guessed that it was Hellgum.
After passing the time of day, the man asked after Halvor. He
learned that Karin's husband had gone to a town meeting, and was
expected home shortly. Hellgum sat down. Now and then he
glanced over at Karin, and after a little he said:
"I've been told that you are ill."
"I have not been able to walk for the past six months," Karin
replied.
"I have been thinking of coming here to pray for you," volunteered
the preacher.
Karin closed her eyes and retired within herself.
"You have perhaps heard that by the Grace of God I am able to
heal the sick?"
The woman opened her eyes and sent him a look of distrust. "I'm
much obliged to you for thinking of me," she said, "but it isn't
likely that you can help me, as I'm not the kind that changes faith
easily."
"Possibly God will help you, anyhow, since you have always tried to
live an upright life."
"I'm afraid I don't stand well enough in the sight of God to expect
help from Him in this matter."
In a little while Hellgum asked her if she had looked within to get
at the cause of this affliction. "Has Mother Karin ever asked
herself why this affliction has been visited upon her?"
Karin made no reply; again she seemed to retire within herself.
"Something tells me that God has done this that His Name might be
glorified," said Hellgum.
At that Karin grew angry and two bright red spots appeared in her
cheeks. She thought it very presumptuous in Hellgum to think this
illness had come upon her simply to give him an opportunity to
perform a miracle.
Presently the preacher got up and went over to Karin. Placing his
heavy hand on her head, he asked: "Do you want me to pray for you?"
Karin immediately felt a current of life and health shoot through
her body, but she was so offended at the man for his obtrusiveness
that she pushed away his hand and raised her own as if to strike
him. Her indignation was beyond words.
Hellgum withdrew toward the door. "One should not reject the help
which God sends, but accept it thankfully."
"That's true," Karin returned. "Whatever God sends one is obliged
to accept."
"Mark well what I say to you! This day shall salvation come unto
this house," the man proclaimed.
Karin did not answer.
"Think of me when you receive the help!" he said. The next instant
he was gone.
Karin sat bolt upright in her chair, the red spots still burning in
her cheeks. "Am I to have no peace even in my own house?" she
muttered. "It's singular how many there are nowadays who think
themselves sent of God."
Suddenly Karin's little girl got up and toddled toward the
fireplace. The bright blaze had attracted the child, who, shrieking
with delight, was making for it as fast as her tiny feet could
carry her.
Karin called to her to come back, but the child paid no heed to
her; at that moment she was trying to clamber up into the
fireplace. After tumbling down a couple of times, she finally
managed to get upon the hearth, where the fire blazed.
"God help me! God help me!" cried Karin. Then she began to shout
for help, although she knew there was no one near.
The little girl bent laughingly over the fire. Suddenly a burning
ember rolled out and fell on her little yellow frock. Instantly
Karin sprang to her feet, rushed over to the fireplace, and
snatched the child in her arms. Not until she had brushed away all
the sparks from the child's dress, and had made sure that her baby
was unharmed, did she realize what had happened to herself. She was
actually on her feet; she had been walking again, and would always
be able to walk!
Karin experienced the greatest mental shake-up she had ever felt in
her life, and at the same time the greatest sense of happiness. She
had the feeling that she was under God's special care and
protection, and that God Himself had sent a holy man to her house
to strengthen her and to heal her.
***
That autumn Hellgum often stood on the little porch of Strong
Ingmar's cottage, looking out across the landscape. The country
round about was growing more beautiful every day: the ground was
now a golden brown, and all the leafy trees had turned either a
bright red or a bright yellow. Here and there loomed stretches of
woodland that shimmered in the breeze like a billowy sea of gold.
Against the shadowy background of the fir-clad hills could be seen
splashes of yellow; they were the leaf trees that had strayed in
among the pines and spruces and taken root there.
As an humble gray hut, when ablaze, gives out light and brilliancy,
thus did this humble Swedish landscape flame into a marvel of
splendour. Everything was so wondrously golden, exactly as one
might imagine that a landscape on the surface of the sun would
look.
Hellgum was thinking, as he viewed this scene, that a time was
coming when God would let the land reflect the brightness of His
Glory, and when the seeds of Truth which had been sawn during the
summer would yield golden harvests of righteousness.
Then, to and behold, one evening Tims Halvor came over to the croft
and invited Hellgum and his wife to come with him to the Ingmar
Farm!
On arriving they found everything in holiday order; around the
house all the old dry birch leaves had been cleared away; farm
implements and carts, which at other times were scattered about the
yard, had now been put out of sight.
"They must be having a number of visitors here," thought Anna Lisa.
Just then Halvor opened the front door, and they stepped inside.
The living-room was full of people who were seated upon benches all
along the walls, solemnly expectant. Hellgum noticed that they were
the leading people of the parish. The first persons he recognized
were Ljung Bjoern Olofsson and his wife, Martha Ingmarsson; also
Bullet Gunner and his wife. Then he saw Krister Larsson and Israel
Tomasson with their wives, all of whom were members of the Ingmar
family. Presently he saw Hoek Matts Ericsson and his son Gabriel,
the councillor's daughter Gunhild, and several persons besides.
Altogether there were about twenty people present.
When Hellgum and Anna Lisa had gone round and shaken hands with
every one, Tims Halvor said:
"We who are assembled here have been thinking over the things
Hellgum has said to us during the summer. Most of us belong to an
old family whose wish it has ever been to walk in the ways of God.
If Hellgum can help us do this, we are ready to follow him."
The next day the news spread like wildfire throughout the parish
that a new religious sect had sprung up on the Ingmar Farm, which
was supposed to embody the only correct and true principles of
Christianity.
In the spring, soon after the snow had disappeared, young Ingmar
and Strong Ingmar returned to the village to start the sawmill.
They had been up in the forest the whole winter cutting timber and
making charcoal. And when Ingmar got back to the lowlands he fell
like a bear that had just crawled out from its lair. He could
hardly accustom himself to the glaring sunlight of an open sky, and
blinked as if the light hurt him. The roaring of the rapids and the
sound of human voices seemed almost intolerable to him, and all the
noises on the farm were a veritable torture to his ears. At the
same time he was glad; heaven knows he did not show it, either in
speech or manner, but that spring he felt as young as the fresh
shoots on the birches.
Oh, but it seemed good to him to sleep once more in a comfortable
bed, and to eat properly cooked food! And then to be at home with
Karin, who looked after his comfort as tenderly as a mother! She
had ordered new clothes for him; and she had a way of coming in
from the kitchen and handing him some dainty or other, as if he
were still a little boy. And what wonderful things had happened at
home while he was up in the forest! Ingmar had heard only a few
vague rumours about Hellgum's teachings; but now Karin and Halvor
told him of the great happiness that had come to them, and of how
they and their friends were trying to help one another to walk in
the ways of God.
"We are sure you will want to join us," said Karin.
Ingmar replied that maybe he would, but that he must think it over
first.
"All winter I longed for you to come home and share our bliss," the
sister went on, "for now we no longer live upon earth, but in 'The
New Jerusalem which is come down from Heaven!'"
Ingmar said he was glad to hear that Hellgum was still in the
neighbourhood. The summer before the preacher had often dropped in
at the mill to chat with Ingmar, and the two had become good
friends. Ingmar thought him the finest chap he had ever met. Never
had he come across any one who was so much of a man, so firm in his
convictions, and so sure of himself. Sometimes, when there had been
a great rush of work at the mill, Hellgum had pulled off his coat
and given them a lift. Ingmar had been amazed at the man's
cleverness; he had never seen any one who was so quick at his work.
Just then Hellgum happened to be away for a few days, but was
Expected back shortly.
"Once you've talked with Hellgum, I think that you will join us,"
Karin said. Ingmar thought so, too, although he felt a little
reluctant about accepting anything which had not been approved by
his father.
"But wasn't it father himself who taught us that we must always
walk in the ways of God?" argued Karin.
Everything seemed to be so bright and so promising! Ingmar had
never dreamed that it would be so delightful to get back among
people once more. There was only one thing wanting: no one ever
spoke of the schoolmaster and his wife, or of Gertrude, which was
most disquieting to him. He had not seen Gertrude for a whole year.
In the summer he had never been without news of her; for then
hardly a day went by that some one did not speak of the Storms. He
thought that perhaps this silence regarding his old friends was
accidental. When one feels timid about asking questions, and when
no one voluntarily speaks of that which one longs above everything
to hear about, it is mighty provoking, to say the least.
But if young Ingmar seemed to be happy and content, the same could
not be said of Strong Ingmar. The old man had of late become sullen
and taciturn and difficult to get on with.
"I believe you are homesick for the forest," Ingmar said to him one
afternoon as they sat on separate logs eating their sandwiches.
"God knows I am!" the old man burst forth. "I only wish I had never
come back at all!"
"Why, what's gone wrong at home?"
"How can you ask! You must know as well as I that Hellgum has been
raising the deuce around here."
Ingmar answered that, on the contrary, he had heard that Hellgum
had become a big man.
"Yes, he has grown so big and strong that he's been able to upset
the whole parish," Strong Ingmar sneered.
It seemed strange to Ingmar that the old man never evinced a
particle of affection for any of his own kin. He cared for nobody
and for nothing save the Ingmarssons and the Ingmar Farm. Therefore
Ingmar felt that he must stand up for the son-in-law.
"I think his doctrine a good one," he said.
"Oh, you do, do you?" snapped the old man; and he gave him a
withering look. "Do you think Big Ingmar would have thought so?"
Ingmar replied that his father would have upheld any one who worked
for righteousness.
"It's your belief, then, that Big Ingmar would have approved of
calling all persons who do not belong to Hellgum's band devils and
anti-Christs, and that he would have refused to associate with his
old friends because they held to their old faith?"
"I hardly think that such people as Hellgum and Halvor and Karin
would behave in that way," said Ingmar.
"Just you try to oppose them once, and you'll soon hear what they
think of you!"
Ingmar cut off a big corner of his sandwich and stuffed his mouth
full, so he would not have to talk. It irritated him to see Strong
Ingmar in such bad humour.
"Heigho, hum! It's a queer world," sighed the old man. "Here you
sit, the son of Big Ingmar, with nothing to say, while my Anna Lisa
and her husband are living on the fat of your land. The best people
in the parish bow and scrape to them, and every day they're being
feted, here, there, and everywhere."
Ingmar kept on munching and swallowing. There was nothing he could
say. Strong Ingmar, however, went at him again.
"Yes, it's a fine doctrine that Hellgum is spreading! That's why
half the parish has gone over to him. No one has ever had such
absolute influence over the people, not even Strong Ingmar himself.
He separates children from their parents by preaching that those
who are of his fold must not live among sinners. Hellgum need only
beckon, and brother leaves brother, friend leaves friend, and the
lover deserts his betrothed. He has used his power to create strife
and dissension in every household. Of course, Big Ingmar would have
been pleased to death with that sort of thing! Doubtless he would
have backed Hellgum up in all this! I can just picture him doing
it!"
Ingmar looked up and down; he wanted to get away. He knew, to be
sure, that the old man had been drawing heavily on his imagination,
but all the same this talk depressed him.
"I don't deny that Hellgum has done wonders," he modified. "The way
in which he manages to hold his people together, and the way he can
get those who formerly would have nothing to do with each other to
live on friendly terms, is certainly remarkable. And look how he
takes from the rich to give to the poor, and how he makes each
person protect the other's welfare. I'm only sorry for those on the
outside, who are called children of the devil and are not allowed
in the game. But, of course, you don't feel that way."
Ingmar was thoroughly put out with the old man for speaking so
disparagingly of Hellgum.
"There used to be such peace and harmony in this parish!" the old
man rattled on. "But that's all past and gone. In Big Ingmar's time
we lived in such unity that we had the name of being the friendliest
people in all Dalecarlia. Now there are angels bucking against
devils, and sheep against goats."
"If we could only get the saws going," thought Ingmar, "I wouldn't
have to hear any more of this talk!"
"It won't be long either till it's all over between you and me,"
Strong Ingmar continued. "For if you join Hellgum's angels it
isn't likely that they will let you associate with me."
With an oath Ingmar jumped to his feet. "If you go on talking in
this strain it may turn out just as you say," he warned. "You may
as well understand, once for all, that it is of no use your trying
to turn me against my own people, or against Hellgum, who is the
grandest man I know."
That silenced the old man. In a little while he left his work,
saying that he was going down to the village to see his friend
Corporal Felt. He had not talked with a sensible person for a long
time, he declared.
Ingmar was glad to have him go. Naturally, when a person has been
away from home for a long time he does not care to be told
unpleasant things, but wants every one around him to be bright and
cheerful.
At five the next morning Ingmar got down to the mill, but Strong
Ingmar was there ahead of him.
"To-day you can see Hellgum," the old man began. "He and Anna Lisa
got back late last night. I think they must have hurried home from
their round of feasts in order to convert you."
"So you're at it again!" scowled Ingmar. The old man's words had
been ringing in his ears all night, and he could not help wondering
who was in the right. But now he did not want to listen to any more
talk against his relatives. The old man held his peace for a time;
presently he began to chuckle.
"What are you laughing at?" Ingmar demanded, his hand on the sluice
gate ready to set the sawmill going.
"I was just thinking of the schoolmaster's Gertrude."
"What about her?"
"They said down at the village yesterday that she was the only
person who had any influence over Hellgum—"
"What's Gertrude got to do with Hellgum?"
Ingmar, meanwhile, had not opened the sluice gate, for with the
saws going he could not have heard a word. The old man eyed him
questioningly. Ingmar smiled a little. "You always manage somehow
to have your own way," he said.
"It was that silly goose, Gunhild, Councillor Clementsson's
daughter, who—"
"She's no silly goose!" Ingmar broke in.
"Oh, call it anything you like, but she happened to be at the
Ingmar Farm when this new sect was founded. As soon as she got
home, she informed her parents that she had accepted the only true
faith, and that she would there fore have to leave them and make
her home at the Ingmar Farm. Her parents asked her, of course, why
she wanted to leave home. So she'd be able to lead a righteous
life, she up and told them. But they seemed to think that could be
done just as effectively at home with them. Oh, no, that wouldn't
be possible, she declared, unless one could live with those who
were of the same faith. Her father then asked her if all of them
were going to live on the Ingmar Farm. No, only herself; the others
had true Christians in their own homes. Now Clementsson is a pretty
good sort, as you know, and both he and his wife tried to reason
with Gunhild in all kindness, but she stood firm. At last her
father became so exasperated that he just took her and locked her
up in her room, telling her she'd have to stay there till this
crazy fit had passed."
"I thought you were going to tell me about Gertrude," Ingmar
reminded him.
"I'll get round to her by and by, if you'll only have patience. I
may as well tell you at once that early the next morning, while
Gertrude and Mother Stina were sitting in the kitchen spinning,
Mrs. Clementsson called to see them. When they saw her they became
alarmed. She, who was usually so happy and light of heart, now
looked as if she'd been crying her eyes out. 'What's the matter?
What has happened? And why do you look so forlorn?' they asked.
Then Mother Clementsson answered that when one has lost one's
dearest treasure, one can't very well look cheerful. I'd like to
give them a good beating!" said the old man.
"Who?" asked Ingmar.
"Why, Hellgum and Anna Lisa. They marched themselves down to
Clementsson's in the night and kidnapped Gunhild."
A cry of amazement escaped Ingmar.
"I'm beginning to think my Anna Lisa is married to a brigand!" said
the old man. "In the middle of the night they came and tapped on
Gunhild's window, and asked her why she wasn't at the Ingmar Farm.
She told them about her parents having locked her in. "'Twas Satan
who made 'em do it,' said Hellgum. All this her father and mother
overheard."
"Did they really?"
"Yes, they slept in the next room, and the door between was partly
open; so they heard all that Hellgum said to entice their daughter."
"But they could have sent him away."
"They felt that Gunhild should decide for herself. How could they
think she would want to leave them, after all they had done for
her? They lay there expecting her to say that she would never
desert her old parents."
"Did she go?"
"Yes, Hellgum wouldn't budge till the girl went along with them.
When Clementsson and his wife realized that she couldn't resist
Hellgum, they let her go. Some folks are like that, you see. In the
morning the mother regretted it, and begged the father to drive
down to the Ingmar Farm and get their daughter. 'No indeed!' he
said, 'I'll do nothing of the sort, and what's more, I never want
to set eyes on her again unless she comes home of her own accord.'
Then Mrs. Clementsson hurried down to the school to see if Gertrude
wouldn't go and talk to Gunhild."
"Did Gertrude go?"
"Yes; she tried to reason with Gunhild, but Gunhild wouldn't
listen."
"I have not seen Gunhild at our house," said Ingmar thoughtfully.
"No, for now she is back with her parents. It seems that when
Gertrude left Gunhild she met Hellgum. 'There stands the one who is
to blame for all this,' she thought, and then she went straight up
to him, and gave him a tongue lashing. She wouldn't have minded
striking him."
"Oh, Gertrude can talk all right," said Ingmar approvingly.
"She told Hellgum that he had behaved like a heathen warrior and
not as a Christian preacher, in skulking about like that in the
night and abducting a young girl."
"What did Hellgum say to that?"
"He stood quietly listening for a while; then he said as meek as
you please that she was right, he had acted in haste. And in the
afternoon he took Gunhild back to her parents and made everything
right again."
Ingmar glanced up at the old man with a smile. "Gertrude is
splendid," he said, "and Hellgum is a fine fellow, even if he is a
little eccentric."
"So that's the way you take it, eh? I thought you would wonder why
Hellgum had given in like that to Gertrude."
Ingmar did not reply to this.
After a moment's reflection the old man began again. "There are
many in the village who want to know on which side you stand."
"I don't see as it matters which party I belong to."
"Let me remind you of one thing," said the old man: "In this parish
we are accustomed to having somebody that we can look up to as a
leader. But now that Big Ingmar is gone, and the schoolmaster has
lost his power over the people, while the pastor, as you know, was
never any good at ruling, they run after Hellgum, and they're going
to follow him just as long as you choose to remain in the
background."
Ingmar's hands dropped; he looked quite worn out. "But I don't know
who is in the right," he protested.
"The people are looking to you for deliverance from Hellgum. You
may be sure that we were spared a lot of unpleasantness by being
away from home all winter. It must have been something dreadful in
the beginning, before people had got used to this converting craze
and to being called devils and hellhounds. But the worst of all was
when the converted children started in to preach!"
"You don't mean to tell me that even the children preached," said
Ingmar doubtingly.
"Oh, yes!" the old man returned. "Hellgum told them that they
should serve the Lord instead of playing, so they started in to
convert their elders. They lay in ambush along the roadside, and
pounced upon innocent passers-by with such ravings as these:
'Aren't you going to begin the fight against the devil? Shall you
continue to live in sin?'"
Young Ingmar did not want to believe what Strong Ingmar was
recounting. "Old man Felt must have put all that into your head,"
he concluded.
"By the way, this was what I wanted to tell you," said Strong
Ingmar: "Felt is done for, too! When I think that all this mischief
has been hatched on the Ingmar Farm, I feel ashamed to look people
in the face."
"Have they wronged Felt in any way?" asked Ingmar.
"It was the work of those youngsters, drat them! One evening, when
they had nothing else to do, they took it into their heads to go
and convert Felt, for of course they had heard that he was a great
sinner."
"But in the old days all the children were as afraid of Felt as
they were of witches and trolls," Ingmar reminded.
"Oh, these youngsters were scared, too, but they must have had
their hearts set upon doing something very heroic. So one evening,
as Felt sat stirring his evening porridge, they stormed his cabin.
When they opened the door and saw the old Corporal, with his
bristling moustaches, his broken nose, and his game eye, sitting
before the fire, they were terribly frightened, and two of the
littlest ones ran away. The dozen or so that went in knelt in a
circle around the old man, and began to sing and pray."
"And didn't he drive them out?" asked Ingmar.
"If only he had!" sighed the old man. "I don't know what had come
over the Corporal. The poor wretch must have been sitting there
brooding over the loneliness and desolation of his old age. And
then I suppose it was because those who had come to him were
children. The fact that children had always been afraid of him must
have been a source of grief to the old man; and when he saw all
those baby faces, with their upturned eyes filled with shining
tears, he was powerless. The children were only waiting for him to
rush at them and strike them. Although they kept right on singing
and praying, they were ready to cut and run the instant he made a
move. Presently a pair of them noticed that Felt's face was
beginning to twitch. 'Now he'll go for us,' they thought, getting
up to flee. But the old man blinked his one good eye, and a tear
rolled down his cheek. 'Hallelujah!' the youngsters shouted, and
now, as I've already told you, it's all up with Felt. Now he does
nothing but run about to meetings, and fasts and prays, and fancies
he hears the voice of God."
"I don't see anything hurtful in all that," said Ingmar. "Felt was
killing himself with drink when the Hellgumists took him into
camp."
"Well, you've got so many friends to lose that a little thing like
this wouldn't matter to you. No doubt you would have liked it if
the children had succeeded in converting the schoolmaster."
"I can't imagine those poor little kids trying to tackle Storm!"
Ingmar was dumfounded. What Strong Ingmar had said about the parish
being turned upside down must be true after all, he thought.
"But they did, though," Strong Ingmar replied. "One evening, as
Storm was sitting in the classroom writing, a score of them came
in and began preaching to him."
"And what did Storm do?" asked Ingmar, unable to keep from laughing.
"He was so astounded at first that he couldn't say or do a thing.
But, as luck would have it, Hellgum had arrived a few moments
before and was in the kitchen talking with Gertrude."
"Was Hellgum with Gertrude?"
"Yes; Hellgum and Gertrude have been friends ever since the day
that he acted upon her advice in the little matter with Gunhild.
When Gertrude heard the racket in the schoolroom, she said: 'You're
just in time to see something new, Hellgum. It would seem that
henceforth the children are to instruct the schoolmaster.' Then
Hellgum laughed, for he comprehended that this sort of thing was
ludicrous. He promptly drove the children out, and abolished the
nuisance."
Ingmar noticed that the old man was eying him in a peculiar way;
it was as if a hunter were looking at a wounded bear and wondering
whether he should give it another shot.
"I don't know what you expect of me," said Ingmar.
"What could I expect of you, who are only a boy! Why, you haven't a
penny to your name. All you've got in the world are your two empty
hands."
"I verily believe you want me to throttle Hellgum!"
"They said down at the village that this would soon blow over if
you could only induce Hellgum to leave these parts."
"Whenever a new religious sect springs up there's always strife and
dissension," said Ingmar. "So this is nothing out of the common."
"All the same, this will be a good way for you to show people what
sort of stuff you're made of," the old man persisted.
Ingmar turned away and set the saws going. He would have liked
above everything to ask how Gertrude was getting along, and whether
she had already joined the Hellgumists; but he was too proud to
betray his fears.
At eight o'clock he went home to his breakfast. As usual, the table
was heaped with tempting dishes, and both Halvor and Karin were
especially nice to him. Seeing them so kind and gentle, he could
not believe a word of Strong Ingmar's chatter. He felt light of
heart once more, and positive that the old man had exaggerated. In
a little while his anxiety about Gertrude returned, with a force so
overwhelming that it took away his appetite, and he could not touch
his food. Suddenly he turned to Karin and said abruptly:
"Have you seen anything of the Storms lately?"
"No!" replied Karin stiffly. "I don't care to associate with such
ungodly people."
Here was an answer that set Ingmar thinking. He wondered whether he
had better speak or be silent. If he were to speak it might end in
a break with his family; at the same time he did not want them to
think that he up held them in matters that were altogether wrong.
"I have never seen any signs of ungodliness about the schoolmaster's
folks," he retorted. "And yet I have lived with them for four
years."
The very thought that had occurred to Ingmar the moment before, now
came to Karin. She, too, wondered whether she should or should not
speak. But she felt that she would have to hold to the truth, even
if it hurt Ingmar; therefore she said that if people would not
hearken to the voice of God, one could not help but think them
ungodly.
Then Halvor joined in. "The question of the children is a vital
one," he said. "They should be given the right kind of training."
"Storm has trained the entire parish, and you, too, Halvor," Ingmar
reminded him.
"But he has not taught us how to live rightly," said Karin.
"It seems to me that you have always tried to do that, Karin."
"Let me tell you how it was to live by the old teaching. It was
like trying to walk upon a round beam: one minute you were up, the
next you were down. But when I let my fellow-Christians take me by
the hand and support me, I can tread the straight and narrow path
of Righteousness without stumbling."
"I dare say," Ingmar smiled; "but that's too easy."
"Even so, it's quite difficult enough, but no longer impossible."
"But what about the Storms?"
"Those who belong with us took their children out of the school.
You see we didn't want the children to absorb any of the old
teaching."
"What did the schoolmaster say to that?"
"He said it was against the law to take children away from school,
and promptly sent a constable over to Israel Tomasson's and Krister
Larsson's to fetch their children."
"And now you are not on friendly terms with the Storms?"
"We simply keep to ourselves."
"You seem to be at odds with every one."
"We only keep away from those who would tempt us to sin."
As the three went on talking, they lowered their voices. They were
all very fearful of every word they let drop, for they felt that
the conversation had taken a painful turn.
"But I can give you greetings from Gertrude," said Karin, trying to
assume a more cheerful tone. "Hellgum had many talks with her last
winter; he says that she expects to join us this evening."
Ingmar's lips began to quiver. It was as if he had been going about
blindfolded all day, expecting to be shot, and now the shot had
come; the bullet had pierced his heart.
"So she wants to become one of you!" he murmured faintly. "Many
things can happen here while one is up in the dark forest." Ingmar
seemed to think that all this time Hellgum had been ingratiating
himself with Gertrude, and had laid snares to catch her. "But
what's to become of me?" he asked suddenly. And there was a
strange, helpless appeal in his voice.
"You must embrace our faith," said Halvor decisively. "Hellgum is
back now, and if he talks to you once, you'll soon become
converted."
"But maybe I don't care to be converted!"
Halvor and Karin stared at Ingmar in speechless amazement.
"Maybe I don't want any faith but my father's."
"Don't say anything until you have had a talk with Hellgum," begged
Karin.
"But if I don't join you I suppose you won't want me to remain
under your roof?" said Ingmar, rising. As they did not reply, it
seemed to him that all at once he had been cut off from everything.
Then he pulled himself together and looked more determined. "Now I
want to know what you're going to do about the sawmill!" he
demanded, thinking it was best to have this matter settled once for
all.
Halvor and Karin exchanged glances; both were afraid of committing
themselves.
"You know, Ingmar, that there is no one in the world who is more
dear to us than you," said Halvor.
"Yes, yes; but what about the sawmill?" Ingmar insisted.
"The principal thing is to get all your timber sawed."
At Halvor's evasive reply, Ingmar drew his own conclusions. "Maybe
Hellgum wants to run the sawmill, too?"
Karin and Halvor were perplexed at Ingmar's show of temper; since
telling him that about Gertrude, they could not seem to get
anywhere near him.
"Let Hellgum talk to you," pleaded Karin.
"Oh, I'll let him talk to me," said Ingmar, "but first I'd like to
know just where I stand."
"Surely, Ingmar, you must know that we wish you well!"
"But Hellgum is to run the sawmill?"
"We must find some suitable employment for Hellgum so that he may
remain in his own country. We have been thinking that possibly you
and he might become business partners, provided you accept the only
true faith. Hellgum is a good worker." This from Halvor.
"Since when have you been afraid to speak plainly, Halvor?" said
Ingmar. "All I want to know is whether Hellgum is to have the
sawmill."
"He is to have it if you resist God," Halvor declared.
"I'm obliged to you for telling me what a good stroke of business
it would be for me to adopt your faith."
"You know well enough it wasn't meant in that way," said Karin
reprovingly.
"I understand quite well what you mean," returned Ingmar. "I'm to
lose Gertrude and the sawmill and the old home unless I go over to
the Hellgumists." Then Ingmar turned suddenly and walked out of the
house.
Once outside, the thought came to him that he might as well end
this suspense, and find out at once where he stood with Gertrude.
So he went straight down to the school-house. When Ingmar opened
the gate a mild spring rain was falling. In the schoolmaster's
beautiful garden all things had started sprouting and budding. The
ground was turning green so rapidly that one could almost see the
grass growing. Gertrude was standing on the steps watching the
rain, and two large bird-cherry bushes, thick with newly sprung
leaves, spread their branches over her. Ingmar paused a moment,
astonished at finding everything down here so lovely and peaceful.
He was already beginning to feel less disquieted. Gertrude had not
yet seen him. He closed the gate very gently, then went toward her.
When he was quite close he stopped and gazed at her in rapt wonder.
When he had last seen her she was hardly more than a child, but in
one short year she had developed into a dignified and beautiful
young lady. She was now tall and slender and quite grown up, her
head was finely poised on a graceful neck; her skin was soft and
fair, shading into a fresh pink about the cheeks; her eyes were
deep and thoughtful, and her mouth, around which mischief and
merriment had once played, now expressed seriousness and wistful
longing.
On seeing Gertrude so changed, a sense of supreme happiness came to
Ingmar. A peaceful stillness pervaded his whole being; it was as
though he were in the presence of something great and holy. It was
all so beautiful that he wanted to go down on his knees and thank
God.
But when Gertrude saw Ingmar she suddenly stiffened, her eyebrows
contracted, and between her eyes there appeared the shadow of a
wrinkle. He saw at once that she did not like his being there, and
it cut him to the quick. "They want to take her from me," he
thought; "they have already taken her from me." The feeling of
Sabbath peace vanished, and the old fear and anxiety returned.
Waving all ceremony, he asked Gertrude if it was true that she
intended to join Hellgum and his followers. She answered that it
was. Then Ingmar asked her if she had considered that the
Hellgumists would not allow her to associate with persons who did
not think as they did. Gertrude quietly answered that she had
carefully considered this matter.
"Have you the consent of your father and mother?" asked Ingmar.
"No," she replied; "they know nothing as yet."
"But, Gertrude—"
"Hush, Ingmar! I must do this to find peace. God compels me."
"No," he cried, "not God, but—"
Gertrude suddenly turned toward him.
Then Ingmar told her that he would never join the Hellgumists. "If
you go over to them, that will part us for ever."
Gertrude looked at him as much as to say that she did not see how
this could affect her.
"Don't do it, Gertrude!" he implored.
"You mustn't think that I'm acting heedlessly, for I have given
this matter very serious thought."
"Then think it over once more before you act."
Gertrude turned from him impatiently.
"You should also think it over for Hellgum's sake," said Ingmar
with rising anger, seizing her by the arm.
She shook off his hand. "Are you out of your senses, Ingmar?" she
gasped.
"Yes," he answered; "these doings of Hellgum are driving me mad.
They must be stopped!"
"What must be stopped?"
"You'll find out before long."
Gertrude shrugged her shoulders.
"Good-bye, Gertrude!" he said in a choking voice. "And remember
what I tell you. You will never join the Hellgumists!"
"What do you intend to do, Ingmar?" asked the girl, for she was
beginning to feel uneasy.
"Good-bye, Gertrude, and think of what I have said!" Ingmar shouted
back, for by that time he was halfway down the gravel walk.
Then he went on his way. "If I were only as wise as my father!" he
mused. "But what can I do? I'm about to lose all that is dearest to
me, and I see no way of preventing it." There was one thing,
however, of which Ingmar was certain: if all this misery was to be
forced upon him, Hellgum should not escape with his skin.
He went down to Strong Ingmar's but in the hope of meeting the
preacher. When he got to the door, he caught the sound of loud and
angry voices. There seemed to be a number of visitors inside, so he
turned back at once. As he walked away he heard a man say in angry
tones: "We are three brothers who have come a long way to call you
to account, John Hellgum, for what has befallen our younger
brother. Two years ago he went over to America, where he joined
your community. The other day we received a letter telling us that
he had gone out of his mind, brooding over your teaching."
Then Ingmar hurried away. Apparently there were others besides
himself who had cause for complaint against Hellgum, and they were
all of them equally helpless.
He went down to the sawmill, which had already been set going by
Strong Ingmar. Above the buzzing noise of the saws and the roar
of the rapids he heard a shriek; but he paid no special heed to it.
He had no thought for anything save his strong hatred of Hellgum.
He was going over in his mind all that this man had robbed him of:
Gertrude and Karin, his home and his business.
Again he seemed to hear a cry. It occurred to him that possibly a
quarrel had arisen between Hellgum and the strangers. "There would
be no harm done if they were to beat the life out of him," he
thought.
Then he heard a loud shout for help. Ingmar dropped his work and
went rushing up the hill. The nearer he approached the hut the
plainer he heard Hellgum's cries of distress, and when he finally
reached the cabin it seemed as if the very earth around it shook
from the scuffling and struggling inside.
He cautiously opened the door and tiptoed in. Over against the wall
stood Hellgum defending himself with an axe. The three strangers—
all of them big, powerful men—were attacking him with clubs.
They carried no guns, so it was evident that they had come simply
to give Hellgum a sound thrashing. But because he had put up a good
fight, they were so enraged that they went at him with intent to
kill. They hardly noticed Ingmar; they regarded him as nothing but
a lank gawk of a boy who had just happened in.
For a moment Ingmar stood quietly looking on. To him it was like
a dream, wherein the thing one desires most suddenly appears
without one's knowing whence or how it came about. Now and again
Hellgum cried for help.
"Surely you can't think I'm such a fool as to help you!" Ingmar
said in his mind.
Suddenly one of the men dealt Hellgum a terrific blow on the head
that made him let go his hold on the axe and fall to the floor.
Then the others threw down their clubs, drew their knives, and cast
themselves upon him. Instantly a thought flashed across Ingmar's
mind. There was an old saying about the folk of his family, to the
effect that every one of them was destined at some time or other
during his lifetime to commit a dastardly and wrong deed. Was it
his turn now, he wondered?
All at once one of the assailants felt himself in the grip of a
pair of strong arms that lifted him off his feet and threw him
bodily out of the house; the second one had hardly time to think of
rising before the same thing happened to him; and the third, who
had managed to scramble to his feet, got a blow that sent him
headlong after the others.
After Ingmar had thrown them all out, he went and stood in the
doorway. "Don't you want to come back?" he challenged laughingly.
He would not have minded their attacking him; testing his strength
was good sport.
The three brothers seemed quite ready to renew the fight, when one
of them shouted that they had better take to their heels he had
seen a figure coming along the path behind the elms. They were
furiously disappointed at not having finished Hellgum, and, as they
turned to go, one of them ran back, pounced upon Ingmar, and
stabbed him in the neck.
"That's for meddling with our affair!" he shouted.
Ingmar sank down, and the man ran off, with a taunting laugh.
A few minutes later Karin came along and found Ingmar sitting on
the doorstep with a wound in his neck, and inside she discovered
Hellgum, who by that time had got to his feet again and was now
leaning against the wall, axe in hand and his face covered with
blood. Karin had not seen the fleeing men; she supposed that
Ingmar was the one who had attacked Hellgum and wounded him. She
was so horrified that her knees shook. "No, no!" she thought, "it
can't be possible that any one in our family is a murderer." Then
she recalled the story of her mother. "That accounts for it," she
muttered, and hurried past Ingmar over to Hellgum.
"Ingmar first!" cried Hellgum.
"The murderer should not be helped before his victim," said Karin.
"Ingmar first! Ingmar first!" Hellgum kept shouting. He was so
excited that he raised his axe against her. "He has fought the
would-be murderers and saved my life!" he said.
When Karin finally understood, and turned to help Ingmar, he was
gone. She saw him stagger across the yard, and ran after him,
calling, "Ingmar! Ingmar!"
Ingmar went on without even turning his head. But she soon caught
up with him. Placing her hand on his arm, she said:
"Stop, Ingmar, and let me bind up your wound!"
He shook off her hand and went ahead like a blind man, following
neither road nor bypath. The blood from his open wound trickled
down underneath his clothes into one of his shoes. With every step
that he made, blood was pressed out of the shoe, leaving a red
track on the ground.
Karin followed him, wringing her hands. "Stop, Ingmar, stop!"
she implored. "Where are you going? Stop, I say!"
Ingmar wandered on, straight into the wood, where there was no
one to succor him. Karin kept her eyes fixed on his shoe, which
was oozing blood. Every second the footprints were becoming
redder and redder.
"He's going into the forest to lie down and bleed to death!"
thought Karin. "God bless you, Ingmar, for helping Hellgum!" she
said gently. "It took a man's courage to do that, and a man's
strength, too!"
Ingmar tramped straight ahead, paying no heed whatever to his
sister. Then Karin ran past him and planted herself in his way. He
stepped aside without so much as glancing at her. "Go and help
Hellgum!" he muttered.
"Let me explain, Ingmar! Halvor and I were very sorry for what
we said to you this morning, and I was just on' my way to Hellgum
to let him know that, whichever way it turned out, you were to keep
the sawmill."
"Now you can give it to Hellgum," was Ingmar's answer. He walked
on, stumbling over stones and tree stumps.
Karin kept close behind, trying her best to conciliate him. "Can't
you forgive me for my mistake of a moment in thinking you had
fought with Hellgum? I could hardly have thought differently."
"You were very ready to believe your own brother a murderer,"
Ingmar retorted, without giving her a look. He still walked on.
When the grass blades he had trampled down came up again, blood
dripped from them. It was only after Karin had noticed the peculiar
way in which Ingmar had spoken Hellgum's name, that she began to
realize how he hated the preacher. At the same time she saw what a
big thing he had done.
"Every one will be singing your praises for what you did to-day,
Ingmar; it will be known far and wide," she said. "You don't want
to die and miss all the honours, do you?"
Ingmar laughed scornfully. Then he turned toward her a face that
was pale and haggard. "Why don't you go home, Karin?" he said. "I
know well enough whom you would prefer to help." His steps became
more and more uncertain, and now, where he had walked, there was a
continuous streak of blood on the ground.
Karin was about beside herself at the sight of all this blood. The
great love which she had always felt or Ingmar kindled with new
ardour. Now she was proud of her brother, and thought him a stout
branch of the good old family tree.
"Oh, Ingmar!" she cried, "you'll have to answer before God and your
fellowmen if you go on spilling your life's blood in this way. You
know, if there is anything I can do to make you want to live, you
have only to speak."
Ingmar halted, and put his arm around the stem of a tree to hold
himself up. Then, with a cynical laugh, he said: "Perhaps you'll
send Hellgum back to America?"
Karin stood looking down at the pool of blood that was forming
around Ingmar's left foot, pondering over the thing her brother
wanted her to do. Could it be that he expected her to leave the
beautiful Garden of Paradise where she had lived all winter, and go
back to the wretched world of sin she had come out of?
Ingmar turned round squarely; his face was waxen, the skin across
his temples was tightly drawn, and his nose was like that of a dead
person; but his under lip protruded with a determination that he
had never before shown, and the set look about the mouth was
sharply defined. It was not likely that he would modify his demand.
"I don't think that Hellgum and I can live in the same parish," he
said, "but it's plain enough that I must make way for him."
"No," cried Karin quickly, "if you will only let me care for you,
so that your life may be spared to us, I promise you that I will
see that Hellgum goes away. God will surely find us another
shepherd," thought Karin, "but for the time being it seems best to
let Ingmar have his way."
After she had staunched the wound, she helped Ingmar home and put
him to bed. He was not badly wounded. All he needed was to rest
quietly for a few days. He lay abed in a room upstairs, and Karin
tended him and watched over him like a baby.
The first day Ingmar was delirious, and lived over all that had
happened to him in the morning. Karin soon discovered that Hellgum
and the sawmill were not the only things that had caused him
anxiety. By evening his mind was clear and tranquil; then Karin
said to him: "There is some one who wishes to speak to you."
Ingmar replied that he felt too tired to talk to any one.
"But I think this will do you good."
Directly afterward Gertrude came into the room. She looked quite
solemn and troubled. Ingmar had been fond of Gertrude even in the
old days, when she was full of fun, and provoking. But at that time
something within him had always fought against his love. But now
Gertrude had passed through a trying year of longing and unrest,
which had wrought such a wonderful change in her that Ingmar felt
an uncontrollable longing to win her. When Gertrude came over to
the bed, Ingmar put his hand up to his eyes.
"Don't you want to see me?" she asked.
Ingmar shook his head. He was like a wilful child.
"I only want to say a few words to you," said Gertrude.
"I suppose you've come to tell me that you have joined the
Hellgumists?"
Then Gertrude knelt down beside the bed and lifted his hand from
his eyes. "There is something which you don't know, Ingmar," she
whispered.
He looked inquiringly at her, but did not speak. Gertrude blushed
and hesitated. Finally she said:
"Last year, just as you were leaving us, I had begun to care for
you in the right way."
Ingmar coloured to the roots of his hair, and a look of joy came
into his eyes; but immediately he became grave and distrustful
again.
"I have missed you so, Ingmar!" she murmured.
He smiled doubtingly, but patted her hand a little as thanks for
her wanting to be kind to him.
"And you never once came back to see me," she said reproachfully.
"It was as if I no longer existed for you."
"I didn't want to see you again until I was a well-to-do man and
could propose to you," said Ingmar, as if this were a self-evident
matter.
"But I thought you had forgotten me!" Gertrude's eyes filled up.
"You don't know what a terrible year it has been. Hellgum has been
very kind, and has tried to comfort me. He said my heart would be
at rest if I would give it wholly to God."
Ingmar now looked at her with a newborn hope in his gaze.
"I was so frightened when you came this morning," she confessed, "I
felt that I couldn't resist you, and that the old struggle would
begin anew."
Ingmar's face was beaming.
"But this evening, when I heard about your having helped the one
man whom you hated, I couldn't hold out any longer." Gertrude grew
scarlet. "I felt somehow that I had not the strength to do a thing
that would part me from you." Then she bowed her head over Ingmar's
hand, and kissed it.
And it seemed to Ingmar as if great bells were ringing in a holy
day. Within reigned Sabbath peace and stillness, while love, honey
sweet, rested upon his lips, filling his whole being with a
blissful solace.