The church at Kulleby was no dear, old-fashioned Swedish church, with its low white stone walls and its high black roof. The bell had no quaintly-formed tower of its own outside and quite separate from the sacred edifice, like an ecclesiastical functionary whose own soul has never entered into the Holy of holies. No; the parish of Kulleby had its pride in a great new wooden sanctuary, with nothing about its exterior, from foundation to belfry, that might not be seen in any Protestant land whatever. Crowning the top of a green hill that rose in the midst of a wide stretch of rolling meadows stood the simple building. To it came on Sunday the rustics of the parish as regularly as they went to their week-daywork. Only here and there in the unfenced churchyard rose a low mound to indicate where, as it were, a chance seed had been dropped into "God's acre."
It was Sunday morning. At eight o'clock the bell had sounded out over the green slopes, and even late sleepers were called to put on their best garments, whether church-goers or not church-goers, in honour of the holy day or holiday, as it might happen to be kept in their home. Then came the second ringing, when prudent, far-away worshippers took psalm-book and pocket-handkerchief in hand and started demurely, at a Sunday pace, for the house of God. At a quarter to ten the clergyman had been seen in the dim distance, and the fact was announced by "priest-ringing." At ten came the "assembly-ringing," when talkers in the churchyard must break off in the midst of a half-made bargain, or check the but half-expressed sympathy with the joy or sorrow of some fellow-rustic with whom there had been a confidential chat.
Within, the church was all white, with here and there a gilded line like a bright, holy purpose running through a simple everyday life. There was a fresh, pure air about the place, as if even angels might have gathered there in their fair garments. Theworshippers, however, on the women's side were all in black—black dresses, and black kerchiefs over the heads, like solemn, mourning penitents rather than followers of the Psalmist who could say, "I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the Lord." There were two exceptions to this sombre rule.
The seats facing each other on opposite sides of the chancel were unoccupied, save by a tall young woman and a little girl, who now hurriedly took their places, and in a formal, perfunctory manner put down their heads for a supposed private prayer for a blessing on this opportunity of public worship. They very soon rose up mechanically, and looked about them with the curious eyes of strangers.
The little girl, nipped, and it seemed almost blasted, by gales of prosperity, showed a fair, round face, full and soft, and satisfied with its worldly portion. The mouth, although it looked as if it had tasted the good things of life, was sweet and loving. Her companion was tall and strongly built, and somewhat gaily dressed in garments made in every particular according to the latest fashion. Two long ostrich feathers lazily lolled on the broad brim of her hat, as much at home as if they had never known anyother abode; and her new kid gloves fitted her large hands to perfection—a fact of which it was plain she was conscious.
The clergyman was coming in, with the long black folds which were his authorized substitute for a gown hanging from the nape of his neck to the floor. In one hand he carried in full sight a white handkerchief, held in one corner like a drooping banner of peace.
There was suddenly a counter object of attention for the gay worshippers in the side pew. A little woman in black came hurrying up the aisle and entered the seat before them. She put down on the narrow shelf her prayer-book and a tumbled red handkerchief, and then bowed her head. Suddenly, in the midst of her devotions, she hastily withdrew the offending radical handkerchief, and substituted in its place a heavy linen one, so closely pressed, as if by mangling, that it lay by the psalm-book as uncompromisingly stiff as itself.
A smile passed over the features of the little girl, and she looked up into the face of her companion for sympathy. Instead of the responsive glance she expected, she saw an expression of pain which she was puzzled to understand.
The service went on. The sermon was long and tiresome, to judge from the impulsive movement of relief on the part of the little girl when all was at last over. She was well satisfied when her companion went down the aisle at an unusually rapid pace. The rustics generally lingered to hear when there was to be an auction, what letters were to be distributed, and other announcements by which a scattered congregation, rarely meeting through the week, might be made aware of matters secular and parochial which it was important for them to know.
The butterfly worshippers had, as it were, flown away when the mass of the congregation streamed out from the door. Long, narrow black lines stretched off in every direction as over the well-trodden paths the cottagers plodded away to their homes after this the periodical great event, recreation, and social gathering of their hard-working lives.
Alone the little woman in black took her way. Her goal was on the long rocky ridge that bounded the eastern horizon like a transplanted bit of the Jura. There was no path for her to follow, but she made her way over the meadows with the sure instinct of the swallow winging its flight to its winter home. He who careth for the birds wouldsurely care for her. It was plain she was one of the humble of the earth in every sense of the word. Her black head kerchief was old and worn, and her clumsily-fitting, coarse cloth "sacque" stood out below her waist as if it were of sheet iron, while her spare skirts fell below it like a drooping flower-bell from its open calyx above. She was not thinking of her clothes. Her heart was warbling a song of thanksgiving.
Monday morning had come, with work for the workers and pleasure for the pleasure-seekers. The curate at Kulleby was one of the workers, and yet Monday, instead of Sunday, was really his day of rest. His last sermon having been delivered, fairly given over to his hearers to be digested, the new one was not to be begun before Tuesday. There must be one day in the week in which to draw a free breath before the real labour of his life was to be recommenced. The introduction to the discourse once mastered, as the first link, he added day by day to the lengthening chain—a perpetual wearying weight to him, and, it might be supposed, to become so for his hearers.
This would be a mistake. Had the curate preached in Hebrew or Greek, the reverent faces would have been respectfully turned towards him, with the honestconviction that somehow or other the listeners were undergoing a helpful and uplifting process through what the curate was pleased to say to them. He was reverenced and beloved, as he well deserved to be, and was to his people the bearer of good tidings—the messenger of peace.Hewas the message to them, through what he was and what he was striving to be, and not through those painfully-produced sermons.
Now for the morning he had dropped the pastor, and was simply the family father.
The humble home of the curate was separated from the public road by a great grass plot, through which a wide walk went straight, without a curve or a compromise, from the gate to the foot of the high wooden steps that led to the ever-open door.
The Saturday evening rake-marks were on the loose sand of the path, for the family had on Sunday, though in their holiday garments, used the side gate that led to the entrance at the back of the house. The garden was large and well cared for. Now the weekly weeding was going on, the father sitting like a general at a distance from the battle, but in constant communication with the soldiers in full fight in the cause of order, fruitfulness, and prosperity. The four small boys who were working so busily werenot under strict military discipline, for free conversation was allowed so long as the hands continued as busy as the tongues.
The curate sat on a roughly-made but comfortable garden sofa, and was knitting on a strong stocking in sweet composure. A gay-coloured parallelogram stared out from the grass beside him; for there, covered with a patchwork quilt, lay, in a great basket, the baby, the little girl, the pride of the household, fast asleep. So the curate could not be said to be exactly idle, though he was taking a delicious morning rest. His wife meanwhile—a large-hearted, practical woman—was making all things comfortable in the house, with the help of her efficientaide-de-camp, an orphan girl snatched from the influences of the poorhouse. Where a specially strong arm was required, the curate himself was at all times to be relied upon. He was not only a hewer of wood, but often a bearer of wood as well as of water. He was, too, an embodied guild of all mechanical trades, and might have been warranted to use skilfully at a pinch any tools whatever.
The curate gave a start as the click of the front gate was heard, and almost impatiently wondered who could be coming.
A tall young woman walked rapidly along the rake-marked walk, and dotted it at regular intervals with the distinct portrait of the soles of her strong and well-made boots.
She went up the steps decidedly, and entered the house without knocking, as any ordinary visitor might have done. In a moment more she appeared in the garden, with the curate's wife at her side. He stood up and bowed awkwardly, and then looked inquiringly at the new-comer. He recognized at once in her the stranger who had sat near the chancel the day before, though her dress was somewhat different from her Sunday attire. She wore a black sailor hat, from which she had that morning removed the uplifted wings that threatened to take the whole head-gear upward, and had left only the broad, bright band that wound round it. She wore a short, dark travelling dress that well displayed her new boots. The visitor did not wait for the curate to speak, but said quickly, "I will only detain you a moment. Can you tell me where widow Marget Erikson lives, the old woman who sat in front, on the side benches, in the church yesterday?"
"Marget Erikson? Her I know very well, but it is not so easy to tell where she lives," answered thecurate, with at the same time an inquiring glance at the stranger. A look of intelligence came into his face, and he said: "It is not—it cannot be! no," and he turned to the group of small boys, now all standing, some of them weeds in hand, wonderingly regarding the stranger. "Here, Kael," said the father, singling out a fair-haired, intelligent-looking little fellow, "you can show the young lady the way to widow Marget Erikson's." Again there was a scrutinizing, questioning look on the part of the pastor.
A slight flush tinged the cheek of the stranger. She was turning away with her guide, when the boy said hastily, "Where's the basket, mamma?"
"There'll be no basket to-day," she answered, almost with a smile. "You can take Marget this instead from me," and she picked from her favourite bush a large, half-open rosebud, with a long stem and rich, shining leaves.
The boy could hardly understand the love-prompted courtesy that would not send to the widow what might to a stranger seem like alms, but which really was but the sharing of what one poor Christian had with a poorer.
The guide trotted off with his bare feet across the meadow, where a little path showed that he was notthe first to find a direct way from the parsonage to the widow's cottage.
"Well, wife? well, Anna?" said the pastor, and looked inquiringly into the face of his best-beloved, as he generally did when he was in doubt or difficulty. It was a face that any one might have been pleased to look upon. It had in it the bright cheeriness of a child, and at the same time dignity and a wisdom in this world's matters, as well as "the wisdom that cometh from above." He received no answer, and so said himself: "She was in church yesterday when you were at little Fia's death-bed. I could hardly help thinking of you and the child when I was in the midst of my sermon. The miller told me afterwards that 'miss' and the little girl were with Possessionaten something, a traveller who had stopped at the inn by the cross-road."
There was a sudden end put to the conversation by a loud cry from the baby, which swept all other expressions from the face of the pastor's wife, where at once mother love was triumphant.
Across meadows, over ditches, and at last up rather a steep ascent wound the way to Widow Erikson's cottage. The path had grown rough and narrow, but the barefooted boy went over it as lightly and as unharmed as if he had been a happy bird. The boots, however, of his companion seemed a tight fit for climbing, and at last a straggling bramble that crossed the way turned up two little black points, like doors, to show the way to the untanned leather behind the bright polish. The traveller stopped, and smoothed them down in vain with her finger; the mischief was done. "This is an ugly, disagreeable path," she exclaimed, "and a long one too."
"Maybe," said the boy; "but summer and winter Widow Erikson comes down here all alone. I don'tbelieve she'd miss the service if you'd give her a bucket of red apples." The boy had evidently named his ultimatum in the way of temptation. "There's the cottage," he added, pointing to a small, reddish-brown building far up the ascent.
"Give me the flower," said the stranger; "I will tell her who sent it. You go back now. You've shown me the way; I don't need you any longer. Thanks! Thank your mother too. Here!" and she laid in the boy's hand a bit of silver that made his face shine. He bowed in his best style, which did not disturb his backbone, but brought his chin down till it touched his breast. He had taken off his cap for the performance, and his white hair fluttered in the breeze as he watched his late companion making her way up to the cottage alone. All was right, he was sure, and down he ran as fast as his feet could carry him. The precious silver was stored in the depths of his pocket, and with it he bought in imagination all sorts of treasures before he reached home to tell the success of his errand.
The traveller moved slowly as the path grew more steep, and finally walked doubtfully on as she approached the cottage. There were three or four low steps leading to the door, and there some kind of an animalseemed making a vain attempt to go up. As the stranger drew nearer she saw that a small woman with a short, dark skirt was bowed over, evidently washing the steps, with her back towards the path and her unexpected guest. A noise near her made the figure stand upright and turn its face towards the new-comer. One sight of the visitor prompted a series of bobbing courtesies, a wondering look in the old sun-browned face, and a folding back into a triangular form of the wet sackcloth apron, which was truly not in a presentable condition. The old woman was the first to speak. "Good-day, miss—good-day!" and then there was a look of astonished inquiry.
"The pastor's wife sent you this," said the girl, holding out the beautiful rosebud she had taken from the boy.
"So like her!" said the old woman, lovingly. "She's just like that herself! God bless her! Thank her for me, please—thank her for me!" and the thin, work-distorted, wrinkled hand was hastily wiped on the apron, and then stretched out to take that of the stranger for the usual expression of gratitude. "Thankyou, miss, for bringing it," continued the old woman, with another questioning look at her guest."Do you know her—do you know the curate's wife? It's likely you don't live hereabouts." The cut of the stranger's clothes was not in vogue at Kulleby.
"Don't you know me?" said the young woman, in a low voice.
"No, miss!" was the answer, with another courtesy.
"Don't you know me, mother?" was the question that followed, while the fair face flushed with the effort those words had cost the speaker.
"It can't be my Karin!" was the exclamation. There was another period of courtesying, and a long look of almost unbelieving surprise. There was no move to take this changed daughter by the hand, nor was there any such action on the part of the girl.
"I was stopping at the inn with Possessionaten Bilberg and his little daughter, the one I have taken care of so long. I found out you were in this neighbourhood, and so I got some one to show me the way to where you were living." She did not say that she had seen her mother at church, nor would she have liked to own, even to herself, that she was now repulsed by the appearance and manners of one to whom she was bound by the strongest of ties.
"Come in," said the old woman, courtesying as to a stranger. "It's a poor place, but you are welcome."
A poor place it was indeed, and Karin with her belongings looked there like a transplanted flower from a far country. They who had once been so near to each other seemed now to have almost no common ground on which to meet.
"I did not know how you had it, mother," said Karin at last. She had been silenced by her first view of the poor room.
"It is worse than it was in Norrland, when you went away, so long ago. Your brother Erik came home, and was wild-like, as he always was. He pulled himself down, and was sick a long while, and then he died. There was the funeral, and the doctor, and all that; and there was not much left, for of course I couldn't do a turn of work while I was nursing him."
"Just like him, to take all you had!" said the daughter, indignant.
The old woman did not seem to notice the angry exclamation. A sudden light made beautiful the old face as she said: "He came round at the last, and almost like an angel. It did me good to hear him talk. I didn't mind anything when he had come round. I am sure he went to heaven when he died. He was my only boy, and I loved him!" she continued, as if she were speaking to a stranger; and then suddenly remembering who her visitor was, she added: "You would not have known him for the same. 'Tell Karin,' he said to me—'tell her she must forgive me. Tell her to remember she'll need to have her sins forgiven some time. There's only one way.' He said so!" and there was another courtesy of apology that she was talking so to that strange young lady who said she was her daughter.
"Oh dear!" said Karin, looking at her watch, "I must go now. Possessionaten and his little girl were out for a drive, and I did not leave any word at the inn where I was going. I will come soon again. Don't feel hard to me about Erik or anything. Remember I did not know how you had it. They wrote me there was a cottage somewhere you could live in free, and I thought you were getting on pretty well."
"Yes, I have the cottage free. The curate's wife comes from the north. He married up there, and they came to visit her folks. She heard about me, for she was there when Erik died. She knew about this cottage, and nothing would do but I must come down with them; and so I did. You can't think how kind they have been to me. I've done a power of knitting since I have been here. She sees that somebody buys my stockings. But you must go. Come again," said the old woman, in strange confusion between her daughter that was ten years ago and this strange young lady who had condescended to look in upon her.
They parted without even a shake of the hand. The old woman stood at the door and watched the tall girl hurrying down the path, and felt almost as if she had been in a troubled dream.
Possessionaten Bilberg was subject to transient indispositions on Sunday morning. The symptoms that had prevented his being at the church service the day before seemed to have disappeared entirely on Monday. He came home from his drive with his daughter in unusually good spirits; and as for little Elsa, she was quite delighted. She had had a nice play with some charming children, and there was a baby in the house, which she had really been allowed to carry in her own willing arms. Karin's overshadowed countenance passed unnoticed in the general stir that followed the return of the father and daughter. They had been invited to spend several days at the hospitable country home where they had been so warmly welcomed. It had been urged that while Elsa was happy with playmates of her ownage, Possessionaten could see many things in the neighbourhood that might be suggestive to him, interested as he was in agriculture and manufactures. Planning and packing took all the afternoon, and towards evening the carriage was at the door, and Elsa and her father were to take their departure.
"I was afraid you would be lonely, Karin, and sorry we are going away; but you don't seem to mind it at all," said the little girl, in an injured tone.
"So you want me to be sorrowful," answered Karin, trying to be playful.
"No, no! but I thought you would miss me, and I was glad when papa said you could keep on sleeping in my nice room, and be as comfortable as anybody."
There was a little condescension in the tone, though it was affectionate; but Karin did not notice it, for she was accustomed to Elsa's airs and graces. Karin really drew a sigh of relief when the carriage drove away and she was left to herself. It was not a pleasant evening that she spent, filled with the thronging reminiscences of the past and a full realization of her own shortcomings. To-morrow she would make another visit to her mother, and try to be more frank and affectionate.
The morning came, and Karin was busy clearing all traces of a traveller's comfort from the capacious bag that Elsa had been allowed to give her for the journey. It really would hold a great deal, and filled it was to the uttermost at the country shop to which Karin easily found her way; tea, sugar, and tempting articles of diet, which she hoped her mother would enjoy. It was heavy, but Karin rather liked to feel the pain in her arm, from bearing her unusual burden. She easily found her way along the upward path, and exhilarated by the exercise and the pleasure she was about to give, she entered the cottage in a very cheerful frame of mind. All was silent within.
In the box sofa-bed of the single room there was some one lying, pale and still. "She is dead!" was the first wild thought of distress; but a sweet, broken voice murmured something about Erik and heaven. It was plain that the old woman was wandering in mind, and lost in visions of the past.
Karin unpacked her basket in a hurry. There were the preparations of the night before for the fire and the boiling of the water for the morning meal, to be simple indeed. Yet there was a packed basket, "the basket" no doubt from the parsonage. She did not unpack it, though it seemed filled with food.She made some tea in haste, and took it with a biscuit to her mother's side. She put the cup on a chair near her, and sitting down on the edge of the bed, she lifted up the old woman, passing one strong arm about the little body. There was gentleness and kindness in the touch. The old head was voluntarily drooped caressingly against the breast of her daughter; there was a long sigh, and Karin knew she was motherless. Repentant, sorrowing tears flowed fast. There was no opportunity left for reparation in this world. That loving last movement towards her was the only pleasant thought on which Karin could dwell.
How still it was in the cottage! The birches without scarcely quivered in the soft summer air, and not even the twitter of a bird was to be heard.
Karin had just gently laid the old head on the pillow, when a form, almost to her as of an angel, suddenly appeared at the door. It was the pastor's wife, her face beaming with the tender interest she was feeling for the lone dweller in the cottage. She understood the whole as she saw Karin's streaming tears, and the changed old face beside her.
"My mother is dead!" said Karin simply, but in a broken voice.
"I am glad she saw her good daughter before she died," said the pastor's wife comfortingly.
"I am no good daughter!" exclaimed Karin bitterly. It was a relief to confess her selfishness, her forgetfulness of her mother, in the midst of her own comfortable surroundings, and her cold willingness to believe that all was well with that old woman, who she had supposed was still in the far north.
The pastor's wife listened in silence. She had no words of comfort to say. Here was a case beyond her treatment. She did not kneel, but she clasped her hands and sat quite still, while she laid Karin's sorrow and penitence before the dear Lord Jesus, so ready to forgive, and to heal the broken, repentant heart. When she had closed the prayer with a fervent "Amen!" which seemed to be the sealing of her petitions to the One strong to save, she turned to Karin and said, "I will go down and send a person to watch her, and then you must go with me to our home; for I have heard that you were left at the inn. You cannot be there now." She felt that it would be best for Karin to be for a time alone. She had brought her to the heavenly Presence, and she left her there to commune with the pitiful Father in heaven.
There was a new, low mound in the churchyard. Kind young hands from the curate's had covered it with evergreen boughs, and sprinkled among them bright flowers, so that it seemed but a slight swell in the green sweep around it dotted with daisies.
Karin had begun a new phase in her life. She had something to love and respect which had no taint of this present world and the worldliness reigning therein. She had entered humbly and heartily into the simple life at the curate's home, where she had been so lovingly welcomed.
That thin man, with the angular, loosely-built figure, with a speaking expression of poverty about it; that man whose shabby Sunday coat had not a button-hole that did not publicly tell of privately-donerepairs by his wife's untailor-like hand; that man whose very hair was scanty, and was changing colour—she looked up to him as if he had been a prince. And so he was; for he had a Father who was King over all the nations of the earth, who loved him as a son, and received from that son the happy, truthful affection of a true child.
That woman who went about in the simplest of garments, and shunned no form of labour that made the home more comfortable or attractive, had become to Karin a model of all that was pure and lovely and lovable. The baby, who fell much to her care, seemed to have a healing influence on her wounded, humbled, penitent heart. It had for her its artless smile, and its little arms went out to her as trustfully as if she had never strayed from the narrow path. Karin had a new standard in life, a new picture of what she wished to be, a new way of estimating her fellow-creatures.
Karin was glad that circumstances made it necessary for her to lay down in the depths of her capacious trunk the gay garments that had been her pride. There had been no dressmaking, no consulting of milliner ormodiste. Like most Swedish girls, she had a black dress; she had but to put a crapeband over her sailor-hat, and let the short crape veil fall over her solemnized face, and her mourning suit was for the present complete.
This time, this precious time, went away all too rapidly, but it swept from Karin the impressions of years, and strengthened in her, day by day, the new purposes and the new hopes that had sprung up in the midst of her humiliation and distress.
From the cottage in the woods the daughter had but taken away her mother's "psalm-book" in its close-fitting black cotton case, her worn Bible, and the carefully-folded white handkerchief that lay under them. In the corner of the handkerchief a large K had been embroidered by unskilful hands. Karin knew it as one of her own early trophies, that had been given to her mother in pride when she had received it as a reward for skill shown in the sewing-class at school. This little remembrance of her had been treasured and prized while she was living in selfish forgetfulness of the poor old woman far away. Repentant tears had fallen on the humble memento.
On the morning of the day when Possessionaten Bilberg and his daughter were expected, the curate's wife went with Karin to the inn.
The parting between them was full of gratefulexpression on the one side, and of tender interest and kind advice on the other. They were never to meet again on earth, but they had a common Father in heaven above, in whose presence they trusted one day to be united.
Karin was, of course, on the steps of the inn to receive her charge. It was not unusual for Karin to wear sometimes a black dress, and Elsa, in her pleasure at the meeting and her eagerness to tell her late experiences, did not notice anything particularly serious in the face of the maid. When, however, they were alone together, she looked up suddenly, and saw that Karin's eyes were full of tears as she was struggling to speak of what had befallen her.
"What is it? what is the matter?" asked Elsa affrightedly.
"My mother is dead! I have lost my mother!" said Karin simply.
Elsa cast her arms around Karin's neck in an unusual fit of demonstrative affection, and wept with her. "O Karin, what will you do? How you must have loved her! How sorry you must be! I have thought a great deal about a mother since I have been away. I have always missed something, and felt that I was different from otherlittle girls, but I did not really understand what it was. I have had everything I wanted, and papa has been so kind, and you too, Karin, but there was something. Where I have been the children did so love their mamma, and she made it so charming for them, and she had such a sweet way with them;" and here the little girl sobbed, more, it must be owned, from thinking of what she had missed in her life than from sympathy for Karin, and yet they were drawn nearer together than ever before.
The stir of the arrival of Possessionaten Bilberg and his daughter had passed away from about the inn, and stillness reigned around on every side, on the wide meadows in front, and on the long, low, rocky ridge beyond them. Possessionaten Bilberg was smoking a cigar in the wide porch, and quietly thinking. Elsa had flown down to tell him of Karin's trouble, and now he greeted the trusted maid almost with respect as she came to him to ask some questions about their approaching departure.
He got up stiffly and took Karin by the hand, as he said simply, "I am sorry to hear that you have had trouble. Your mother was old, I daresay," he added, as he dropped her hand.
"Yes, old and feeble," was the reply.
Karin waited a moment, and then began to speak of the journey.
"Yes; it will be this evening," he said, and his face wore a most peculiar expression, as if some struggle was going on within him.
At last he began: "I have had time to see more of Elsa than usual, and when she was with young companions. There is something about her as if her pleasure were the most important thing to everybody, and she rather thought nobody was quite equal to herself."
It is possible that these peculiarities had become Elsa's by inheritance, as her father was not without his own tendencies in that direction—a fact of which he was naturally unconscious.
He went on: "You have been a good girl, Karin, and I am pleased with you. Elsa needs now some one who has a right to take her more steadily in hand."
There was a pause, and the tears sprang to Karin's eyes. Was she to be dismissed, when she felt almost as much at home in her master's house as his daughter herself?
"Yes, you have been a good girl, Karin, and you deserve your reward. You never ought to leave myhome. What Elsa needs, though, is a mother's care. She needs one who with a mother's name will have a strong right to her respect and her affection."
He paused a moment. Karin, not knowing what else to do, dropped a courtesy, and waited for him to go on. He got up, blushed, took a few steps on the piazza, and then turned and said abruptly: "I am going to be married, and I want you to tell Elsa about it. Tell her that it is the lady whom the children called 'aunty' there in the country—their mother's sister. She is willing to marry me. I never thought to get such a good wife." And Possessionaten Bilberg looked humble, for perhaps the first time in his life.
"She is not like me in many things," he continued, as if pleased with his subject. "She is pious—something I don't quite understand, but it makes me sure she will be a good mother to Elsa. I really believe she would hardly have taken me if she had not longed to get my child under her care," said Possessionaten, with another unwonted attack of humility. "Please tell Elsa at once," he said, and sat down again, to indicate that the interview was over.
In a few moments Elsa came flying along the piazza, and surprised her father by taking a seaton his knee and putting her arms round his neck. "Papa! papa!" she said, "how could you think of doing anything that would please me so much?"
"Your own mother loved her, Elsa, and so I am sure she is the right kind of a woman, and that you will be happy together."
Possessionaten had spoken in a matter-of-fact sort of way, and Elsa went upstairs in a less ecstatic mood than when she came down, and told Karin calmly that her father seemed pleased that she liked having a new mother.
Christmas Eve had come. There had been joy in the curate's home—carols and prayer around the lighted tree, the distribution of simple gifts, and the consumption of any amount of rice porridge. Even the grave pastor had grown playful as the evening went on. This had prompted one of the boys to exclaim that he was the very best father in the world—a comprehensive assertion that was approved by all parties present. The power to cast off care and even serious thought for a time, and frolic with children, was one of the secrets of the curate's personal power. In his sacred capacity he was above and apart from all; as a father or a friend he was near and familiarly dear to all, even to the youngest in his household and the humblest of his people.
Now he gave a start, and there was a look of astonishment all round the family as there was the sound of heavy cart-wheels grinding along over the sand under the parsonage windows.
In another moment there was a steady tramping on the side steps, then through the passage to the dining-room, where the family were assembled.
Four strong men were bearing a huge box, and now entered, much embarrassed at being unable to take off their caps in the presence of the pastor, but their deep voices pronounced a "Good Yule!" and their thick, soft caps went off in a hurry when they had deposited their heavy burden. "We were to open it, pastor," they said, and they forthwith produced their tools from the slouching pockets of their strong coats. The pastor's wife disappeared instantly, thinking, as usual, of others more than of herself; for she, too, would have liked a peep into the box when the thick boards had been thrown up and the packed stores were first visible. She had, however, what pleased her better—some hot coffee, a cake of saffron bread, and the remains of the porridge on the table in the kitchen when the last nail had been drawn out. The men disappeared, grinning with satisfaction; while the wondering children superintended, with occasional wild dances and leaps of delight, the unfolding of the secrets of the wonderful box.
A prosperous "possessionat" who had learned that the chief joy of possession is the power of giving had sent household stores on a munificent scale. A happy wife, accustomed to see her own husband always dressed as for a holiday, having a full remembrance of the pastor's outer man, and of his wife's forgetfulness of herself, had sent for him a full black suit, and for his wife a handsome dark dress, as well as a warm fur cape. A little girl, who had learned to remember that there were other people beside herself to be thought of in the world, had selected books and toys for the children. The orphan girl had not been forgotten. She looked with astonishment at the substantial winter coat that had been marked with her name, and wondered who could have thought ofher. There was still a beautiful, closely-woven white basket, with a firm handle, at one side of the box. It was lifted out and opened. There were all sorts of things—potted, canned, dried, and preserved, to make, with good bread and butter, a nice evening meal for an unexpected guest; a most welcome present in a family where hospitality never failed, and yet the larder was often scantily provided. At the bottom of the basket lay a card, on which was written, "From a humble friend, in remembrance of 'the basket.'"
The tears rushed to the eyes of the curate and his wife, and their hands met, while their thoughts were with the little old cottage saint now in heaven, and a prayer was sent up for the daughter that she might continue to walk in the ways of peace.
"O mamma, what a good basket to keep all your mending in!" said one of the boys.
"Just what I will do," said the mother; "I shall like to have it always near me."
"Do put on your new suit, papa," urged the children. He vanished into his room close at hand, and soon reappeared transformed into a new and complete edition of his old self, as it were, in a fine fresh binding.
The suit was not a perfect fit, but hung less loosely about him than his wonted best garments, made long, long ago.
The pastor playfully walked up and down the room with a consequential air, to the great amusement of the children. "You will wear your new suit to-morrow!" they exclaimed, one after another, as in the refrain of a song.
"On New-Year's Day, perhaps," said the father. "For to-morrow I like my old suit best; for we are to remember then how the loving Lord of all humbled Himself to be the Babe of Bethlehem."
There were a few words of prayer and thanksgiving, and then the family, with a kiss all round, parted for the night.
Perchance the angels who sang again the Christmas song, "On earth peace, good will toward men," lingered over the curate's home with a kindred feeling for him; for was he not, too, a messenger, sent "to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation"?
Tall, handsome, and young; that one saw at a single glance. The age of the lad it was not easy to determine. The mind wavered between sixteen and nineteen, but sixteen it really was. It was no true Swedish face, yet such faces are often found among the fair children of the North. The boy had a clear, dark complexion, and his waving hair was intensely black. His nose was decided, but there was a weakness about the small mouth that seemed quite inconsistent with the fiery glance of the full brown eyes.
It was late, yet he was sitting looking steadily before him, while his thoughts were evidently wandering. "Sothey want me to promise, andsothey wantme to live?" he said at last. "I cannot make promises I do not mean to keep. I can do many things, but I cannot take a false position as to what I intend to be." He stood up and straightened his whole person with an admiring self-respect as he spoke.
Hewould not be compelled by public opinion to do that for which he was not inclined! He was old enough to choose for himself, and choose he would! He would not be confirmed! He would not assume obligations contrary to his wishes, and make professions he did not honestly mean! There seemed to him to be in this something noble, something determined, something manly, and he pleasantly reflected upon his righteous independence.
The confirmation was appointed for the morrow. He had seen the slender, swift horse that was to be his—a gift from his father. He knew a gold watch was lying in his mother's drawer, to be one of his many presents to commemorate the important occasion. The guests were invited for the splendid dinner his parents were to give in his honour. He would be expected to appear in one of the stylish new suits provided for him as now a fully-grown young gentleman. He would be toasted, complimented, and, in short, the hero of the day in that beautiful home.He knew that his mother had retired early. She was doubtless praying for him then, and would be on the morrow. She, at least, would expect him to keep his promises. She should know that he would not disgrace her by a false oath.
His pocket-book was well filled by a munificent present from his grand-uncle in America. He could go where he pleased. He took out a small, light trunk from one of his closets, and it was soon packed with his new garments and a few specially dear personal valuables. There were no books but the pocket Bible, in which his mother had so lately written his name. For her sake he would take it with him, and for her sake he would open it at least for five minutes every day.
Stealthily he crept down the staircase and through the broad halls, dropped from a low window, and was soon in the open air. There was a light still in the stable-boy's room, and he would so have help for the harnessing of the horse, and an opportunity to leave a parting message for his mother.
He moved slowly and silently. He looked in through the small panes, and could see the boy bending over a book. He tapped gently. There was a start, and the door was opened in a moment.
"I am going to town, Lars," he said, "and I want your help. Get up the spring wagon as soon as you can."
The stable-boy looked suspiciously at his young master, and at the small trunk he had set down beside him. "Where is Master Alf going?" asked the boy anxiously. "Anything dreadful happened? Won't you be here for the confirmation?"
"No; it's that that sends me away," was the answer. "I can't even seem to make promises I don't intend to keep. I mean to be an honourable gentleman, and I shall not begin that way. Come, hurry!"
"But stop, Master Alf! Why don't you make the promises and try to keep them?" said the stable-boy.
"I suppose that is what you mean to do—eh?" said the young gentleman scornfully.
"It would be my duty any way to live right," was the answer. "I can't see that the promises make any difference. I ought to live right, I know, and I mean to try. It won't be easy. That's all I understand about it." The round, dull face of the boy expressed clear determination, and he looked his young master full in the eyes as he spoke. "Perhaps you'vemade up your mind to go wrong!" he added, with a doubtful look at his companion.
"Do as I bid you, and get up the horse at once!" said Alf, in a commanding tone. "Tell my mother what I have said to you, and tell her, too, I have taken with me the Bible she gave me, and I'll read in it a bit every day for her sake.Ibelieve in keeping promises. As for you, you'll find the team at the usual stable; you must go in early to-morrow for it."
"Where are you going, Master Alf?" urged the boy. "I'm afraid it's clean out to the bad!"
"That's none of your business! You don't know how a gentleman feels about a promise," was the answer.
"My father is here for the confirmation. He talked to me about that matter last night," persisted Lars. "He said when people were married they promised they would be good to each other, but that was their duty any way, if they were man and wife, promise or no promise. About confirmation, he said that was a good old custom that it was well to follow, but any way when boys get to our age they've got to make up their minds what sort of men they mean to be, and start clear and determined on the right track, orelse they'll be sure, as the world is, to go to the bad. He said, too, we'd better be in a hurry, and have that fixed, for there was no saying how long even young folks would live. Young folks might be broken off right sudden, like a green branch in a high wind. I do wish you, Master Alf, could hear my father talk about this thing."
"I've heard you talk; that's quite enough of the family for me!" said Alf impatiently. "Attend to your business at once, will you, or I shall have to harness the horse myself."
"Iwishmy father was here, I do!" murmured Lars to himself, as he most unwillingly obeyed.
"That's for your sermon," said Alf, as he took the reins in his hand, and tossed a bit of silver to the serious, stolid-faced boy who was looking so sorrowfully at him.
As Alf said his last words to Lars, he wished in his heart that he had the stable-boy's full, simple determination to do right whatever it might cost him. The veil of self-contentment had fallen from Alf's eyes. His motives for what he was now doing stood out plainly before him. It was true that he did not wish to pledge himself openly to a life he did not intend to lead, but it was also true that it had longbeen his cherished wish to be free from the restraints of home, and able to yield to any and all the temptations that assailed him. He was voluntarily giving himself up to an evil, reckless life, and he knew it.
The slender birches were sunning their mottled stems in the warm spring air; the evergreen woods rose dark and mysterious; while the glad little spruces that skirted the thickets were nourishing soft buds on every twig, little caring that they would in time be as gloomy and solemn as the grand old veterans of the forest behind them.
Sweden once more! All seemed unchanged after thirty years, save the emigrant and whatever specially concerned him. The familiar homes far back from the road, he remembered them well. His own home, he knew, had been ravaged by fire, and scarcely a vestige of it remained. His parents were no more. He could not, if he had wished it, shed penitent tears over their graves; for their bones were mouldering in a far-away ancestral vault, with no kindly grass tomantle them, and no glad wild flowers to whisper of a coming resurrection. The possessions that should have been his had been willed away to strangers. The once well-known family name was now rarely heard in the neighbourhood, and then only sorrowfully whispered as connected with the sad and almost forgotten past.
It was Sunday morning. The church bell had rung out its peals the appointed number of times, and now all was silent, for the rustic worshippers were gathered within the sacred walls.
The congregation were all seated, and the Confession was being repeated, when a tall, slender man, with peculiarly broad shoulders and a peculiarly small waist, came with an ungainly gait up the aisle, holding in his hand a limp felt hat as if it were glued fast to his long, thin fingers.
He stopped a moment, as if mechanically, before a full pew, and then stood doubtfully in the aisle.
A little chubby girl perched just behind him had not been too devout to observe the proceedings of the stranger. She unhooked the door of the seat in which she was established alone with her mother. The slight click attracted, as she had hoped, the attention of the new worshipper. She whispered toher bowed mother, "He has no place to sit; may I let him in to us?" The head was slightly nodded in reply; the door was gently pushed open; and the stranger sat down in the offered place. His dark face was thin, and wrinkled too much apparently for his years. His thick black hair and beard were irregularly streaked in locks with white, rather than grey with the usual even sprinkling brought about by age alone; and his forehead threatened to stretch backward far beyond the usual frontal bounds. He apparently took no part in the service. His eyes seemed looking far away from priest and altar, and his ears were dead to the words that fell upon them.
Above the chancel there had been a painting representing the Lord's Supper, not copied even second or third hand from Leonardo's masterpiece, but from the work of some far more humble artist. The cracks that had crept across the cloth of the holy table and scarred the faces of the disciples were no longer to be seen. The disciples, whose identity had so occupied the minds of the little church-goers and been the subject of week-day discussions, were now hidden with the whole scene from the eyes of all beholders. A red curtain veiled the long-valued painting in its disfigured old age. Against this glowing background was suspended a huge golden cross of the simplest construction. It was, in fact, the work of the carpenter of the neighbourhood, and was gilded by the hand of the pastor's wife, who had solemnly thought to herself as she wielded the brush, "We must look to the cross before we may draw near to the holy supper."
Some idea like this flitted through the mind of the stranger, though he did not appear like a devout worshipper. His whole bearing gave quite another impression. Even when, during prayers later on, he held up his hat before his face, as is supposed to be a devout attitude in some Christian lands, the little girl fancied she could see him peeping here and there round the church, as if he were taking an inventory of its specialties. It was but a simple country church, with square pillars of masonry supporting the galleries, from whence light wooden columns rose to the vaulted roof. Indeed, in the old-fashioned building the rural seemed to have been the only style of architecture attempted. The whole interior had been thoroughly whitewashed, however it had fared with the hearts of the worshippers.
During the sermon the stranger was evidently lost in his own meditations. As soon as the service wasover, he followed the clergyman down the aisle to the sacristy, on one side of the main door.
The reverend gentleman was in the midst of disrobing, when the dark-faced man hastily entered and said abruptly, "Will you kindly look over this paper, which must be my only credential with you? I belong to this parish, and should be glad to have the privileges of membership when broken down and needing a home."
The pastor glanced at the paper. It was a simple certificate, from a well-known dignitary high in authority in the land, requesting that the bearer, without being subject to further investigation, should have his right acknowledged as a member of the parish to which he now made application. The pastor could treat him accordingly, only showing the paper in case any difficulty arising from this arrangement should make such publicity necessary.
The paper was properly signed, witnessed, and sealed. The pastor put it in his pocket, looked wonderingly at the applicant, and said, "The poorhouse is but a mean place, with accommodation for a few persons, and the present occupants are of the humblest sort. There are now living there an old woman, formerly a servant in respectable families,who has a room to herself; a half-mad fellow, who will not speak when spoken to unless he can hit on some way of answering in rhyme. He, of course, has a room to himself. There is, besides, a large room with sleeping-places for two persons. One of these places is occupied by an old man who has been a hard drinker; you would have to share the room with him. Would you be contented with that arrangement?"
"Contented and grateful," said the stranger. His name was given as "A. Johanson," and was so registered in the pastor's note-book. Particular directions were then kindly lavished on the stranger as to how he was to reach his future home.
A peculiar smile stole over the face of the listener. He took politely the permit which ensured his admittance at the last refuge of the unfortunate, and then, with a bow and a slight waving of the limp hat, he disappeared.
The poorhouse was not an imposing structure, but it could boast of antiquity, as it had been built long, long ago for the purpose for which it was now used.
It was not difficult for Johanson to locate the poorhouse poet. His room, like the other two, opened directly on the vestibule. On his own door he had been allowed to paint his name and publish his chosen occupation:—