VI

Ingrid and Anna Stina were walking through the dark forest. They had

been walking for four days, and had slept three nights in the Säter

huts. Ingrid was weak and weary; her face was transparently pale; her

eyes were sunken, and shone feverishly. Old Anna Stina now and then

secretly cast an anxious look at her, and prayed to God that He would

sustain her so that she might not die by the wayside. Now and then the

old woman could not help looking behind her with uneasiness. She had an

uncomfortable feeling that the old man with his scythe came stealthily

after them through the forest to reclaim the young girl who, both by the

word of God and the casting of earth upon her, had been consecrated to

him.

Old Anna Stina was little and broad, with a large, square face, which

was so intelligent that it was almost good-looking. She was not

superstitious--she lived quite alone in the midst of the forest without

being afraid either of witches or evil spirits--but as she walked there

by the side of Ingrid she felt as distinctly as if someone had told her

that she was walking beside a being who did not belong to this world.

She had had that sensation ever since she had found Ingrid lying in her

house that Monday morning.

Anna Stina had not returned home on the Sunday evening, for down at the

Parsonage the Pastor's wife had been taken very ill, and Anna Stina, who

was accustomed to nurse sick people, had stayed to sit up with her. The

whole night she had heard the Pastor's wife raving about Ingrid's having

appeared to her; but that the old woman had not believed. And when she

returned home the next day and found Ingrid, the old woman would at once

have gone down to the Parsonage again to tell them that it was not a

ghost they had seen; but when she had suggested this to Ingrid, it had

affected her so much that she dared not do it. It was as if the little

life which burnt in her would be extinguished, just as the flame of a

candle is put out by too strong a draught. She could have died as easily

as a little bird in its cage. Death was prowling around her. There was

nothing to be done but to nurse her very tenderly and deal very gently

with her if her life was to be preserved.

The old woman hardly knew what to think of Ingrid. Perhaps she was a

ghost; there seemed to be so little life in her. She quite gave up

trying to talk her to reason. There was nothing else for it but giving

in to her wishes that no one should hear anything about her being alive.

And then the old woman tried to arrange everything as wisely as

possible. She had a sister who was housekeeper on a large estate in

Dalarne, and she made up her mind to take Ingrid to her, and persuade

her sister, Stafva, to give the girl a situation at the Manor House.

Ingrid would have to be content with being simply a servant. There was

nothing else for it.

They were now on their way to the Manor House. Anna Stina knew the

country so well that they were not obliged to go by the highroad, but

could follow the lonely forest paths. But they had also undergone much

hardship. Their shoes were worn and in pieces, their skirts soiled and

frayed at the bottom, and a branch had torn a long rent in Ingrid's

sleeve.

On the evening of the fourth day they came to a hill from which they

could look down into a deep valley. In the valley was a lake, and near

the edge of the lake was a high, rocky island, upon which stood a large

white building. When Anna Stina saw the house, she said it was called

Munkhyttan, and that it was there her sister lived.

They made themselves as tidy as they could on the hillside. They

arranged the handkerchiefs which they wore on their heads, dried their

shoes with moss, and washed themselves in a forest stream, and Anna

Stina tried to make a fold in Ingrid's sleeve so that the rent could not

be seen.

The old woman sighed when she looked at Ingrid, and quite lost courage.

It was not only that she looked so strange in the clothes she had

borrowed from Anna Stina, and which did not at all fit her, but her

sister Stafva would never take her into her service, she looked so

wretched and pitiful. It was like engaging a breath of wind. The girl

could be of no more use than a sick butterfly.

As soon as they were ready, they went down the hill to the lake. It was

only a short distance. Then they came to the land belonging to the Manor

House.

Was that a country house?

There were large neglected fields, upon which the forest encroached more

and more. There was a bridge leading on to the island, so shaky that

they hardly thought it would keep together until they were safely over.

There was an avenue leading from the bridge to the main building,

covered with grass, like a meadow, and a tree which had been blown down

had been left lying across the road.

The island was pretty enough, so pretty that a castle might very well

have been built there. But nothing but weeds grew in the garden, and in

the large park the trees were choking each other, and black snakes

glided over the green, wet walks.

Anna Stina felt uneasy when she saw how neglected everything was, and

went along mumbling to herself: 'What does all this mean? Is Stafva

dead? How can she stand everything looking like this? Things were very

different thirty years ago, when I was last here. What in the world can

be the matter with Stafva?' She could not imagine that there could be

such neglect in any place where Stafva lived.

Ingrid walked behind her, slowly and reluctantly. The moment she put her

foot on the bridge she felt that there were not two walking there, but

three. Someone had come to meet her there, and had turned back to

accompany her. Ingrid heard no footsteps, but he who accompanied them

appeared indistinctly by her side. She could see there was someone.

She became terribly afraid. She was just going to beg Anna Stina to turn

back and tell her that everything seemed so strange here that she dare

not go any further. But before she had time to say anything, the

stranger came quite close to her, and she recognised him. Before, she

only saw him indistinctly; now she saw him so clearly that she could see

it was the student.

It no longer seemed weird and ghost-like that he walked there. It was

only strangely delightful that he came to receive her. It was as if it

were he who had brought her there, and would, by coming to welcome her,

show that it was.

He walked with her over the bridge, through the avenue, quite up to the

main building.

She could not help turning her head every moment to the left. It was

there she saw his face, quite close to her cheek. It was really not a

face that she saw, only an unspeakably beautiful smile that drew

tenderly near her. But if she turned her head quite round to see it

properly, it was no longer there. No, there was nothing one could see

distinctly. But as soon as she looked straight before her, it was there

again, quite close to her.

Her invisible companion did not speak to her, he only smiled. But that

was enough for her. It was more than enough to show her that there was

one in the world who kept near her with tender love.

She felt his presence as something so real, that she firmly believed he

protected her and watched over her. And before this happy consciousness

vanished all the despair which her adopted mother's hard words had

called forth.

Ingrid felt herself again given back to life. She had the right to live,

as there was one who loved her.

And this was why she entered the kitchen at Munkhyttan with a faint

blush on her cheeks, and with radiant eyes, fragile, weak, and

transparent, but sweet as a newly-opened rose.

She still went about as if in a dream, and did not know much about where

she was; but what surprised her so much that it nearly awakened her was

to see a new Anna Stina standing by the fireplace. She stood there,

little and broad, with a large, square face, exactly like the other. But

why was she so fine, with a white cap with strings tied in a large bow

under her chin, and with a black bombazine dress? Ingrid's head was so

confused, that it was some time before it occurred to her that this must

be Miss Stafva.

She felt that Anna Stina looked uneasily at her, and she tried to pull

herself together and say 'Good-day.' But the only thing her mind could

grasp was the thought that he had come to her.

Inside the kitchen there was a small room, with blue-checked covering on

the furniture. They were taken into that room, and Miss Stafva gave them

coffee and something to eat.

Anna Stina at once began to talk about their errand. She spoke for a

long time; said that she knew her sister stood so high in her

ladyship's favour that she left it to her to engage the servants. Miss

Stafva said nothing, but she gave a look at Ingrid as much as to say

that it would hardly have been left with her if she had chosen servants

like her.

Anna Stina praised Ingrid, and said she was a good girl. She had

hitherto served in a parsonage, but now that she was grown up she wanted

really to learn something, and that was why Anna Stina had brought her

to one who could teach her more than any other person she knew.

Miss Stafva did not reply to this remark either. But her glance plainly

showed that she was surprised that anyone who had had a situation in a

parsonage had no clothes of her own, but was obliged to borrow old Anna

Stina's.

Then old Anna Stina began to tell how she lived quite alone in the

forest, deserted by all her relatives. And this young girl had come

running up the hill many an evening and many an early morning to see

her. She had therefore thought and hoped that she could now help her to

get a good situation.

Miss Stafva said it was a pity that they had gone such a long way to

find a place. If she were a clever girl, she could surely get a

situation in some good family in their own neighbourhood.

Anna Stina could now clearly see that Ingrid's prospects were not good,

and therefore she began in a more solemn vein:

'Here you have lived, Stafva, and had a good, comfortable home all your

life, and I have had to fight my way in great poverty. But I have never

asked you for anything before to-day. And now you will send me away

like a beggar, to whom one gives a meal and nothing more.'

Miss Stafva smiled a little; then she said:

'Sister Anna Stina, you are not telling me the truth. I, too, come from

Raglanda, and I should like to know at what peasant's house in that

parish grow such eyes and such a face.'

And she pointed at Ingrid, and continued:

'I can quite understand, Anna Stina, that you would like to help one who

looks like that. But I do not understand how you can think that your

sister Stafva has not more sense than to believe the stories you choose

to tell her.'

Anna Stina was so frightened that she could not say a word, but Ingrid

made up her mind to confide in Miss Stafva, and began at once to tell

her whole story in her soft, beautiful voice.

And Ingrid had hardly told of how she had been lying in the grave, and

that a Dalar man had come and saved her, before old Miss Stafva grew red

and quickly bent down to hide it. It was only a second, but there must

have been some cause for it, for from that moment she looked so kind.

She soon began to ask full particulars about it; more especially she

wanted to know about the crazy man, whether Ingrid had not been afraid

of him. Oh no, he did no harm. He was not mad, Ingrid said; he could

both buy and sell. He was only frightened of some things.

Ingrid thought the hardest of all was to tell what she had heard her

adopted mother say. But she told everything, although there were tears

in her voice.

Then Miss Stafva went up to her, drew back the handkerchief from her

head, and looked into her eyes. Then she patted her lightly on the

cheek.

'Never mind that, little miss,' she said. 'There is no need for me to

know about that. Now sister and Miss Ingrid must excuse me,' she said

soon after, 'but I must take up her ladyship's coffee. I shall soon be

down again, and you can tell me more.'

When she returned, she said she had told her ladyship about the young

girl who had lain in the grave, and now her mistress wanted to see her.

They were taken upstairs, and shown into her ladyship's boudoir.

Anna Stina remained standing at the door of the fine room. But Ingrid

was not shy; she went straight up to the old lady and put out her hand.

She had often been shy with others who looked much less aristocratic;

but here, in this house, she did not feel embarrassed. She only felt so

wonderfully happy that she had come there.

'So it is you, my child, who have been buried,' said her ladyship,

nodding friendlily to her. 'Do you mind telling me your story, my child?

I sit here quite alone, and never hear anything, you know.'

Then Ingrid began again to tell her story. But she had not got very far

before she was interrupted. Her ladyship did exactly the same as Miss

Stafva had done. She rose, pushed the handkerchief back from Ingrid's

forehead and looked into her eyes.

'Yes,' her ladyship said to herself, 'that I can understand. I can

understand that he must obey those eyes.'

For the first time in her life Ingrid was praised for her courage. Her

ladyship thought she had been very brave to place herself in the hands

of a crazy fellow.

She _was_ afraid, she said, but she was still more afraid of people

seeing her in that state. And he did no harm; he was almost quite right,

and then he was so good.

Her ladyship wanted to know his name, but Ingrid did not know it. She

had never heard of any other name but the Goat. Her ladyship asked

several times how he managed when he came to do business. Had she not

laughed at him, and did she not think that he looked terrible--the Goat?

It sounded so strange when her ladyship said 'the Goat.' There was so

much bitterness in her voice when she said it, and yet she said it over

and over again.

No; Ingrid did not think so, and she never laughed at unfortunate

people. The old lady looked more gentle than her words sounded.

'It appears you know how to manage mad people, my child,' she said.

'That is a great gift. Most people are afraid of such poor creatures.'

She listened to all Ingrid had to say, and sat meditating. 'As you have

not any home, my child,' she said, 'will you not stay here with me? You

see, I am an old woman living here by myself, and you can keep me

company, and I shall take care that you have everything you want. What

do you say to it, my child? There will come a time, I suppose,'

continued her ladyship, 'when we shall have to inform your parents that

you are still living; but for the present everything shall remain as it

is, so that you can have time to rest both body and mind. And you shall

call me "Aunt"; but what shall I call you?'

'Ingrid--Ingrid Berg.'

'Ingrid,' said her ladyship thoughtfully. 'I would rather have called

you something else. As soon as you entered the room with those star-like

eyes, I thought you ought to be called Mignon.'

When it dawned upon the young girl that here she would really find a

home, she felt more sure than ever that she had been brought here in

some supernatural manner, and she whispered her thanks to her invisible

protector before she thanked her ladyship, Miss Stafva, and Anna Stina.

* * * * *

Ingrid slept in a four-poster, on luxurious featherbeds three feet high,

and had hem-stitched sheets, and silken quilts embroidered with Swedish

crowns and French lilies. The bed was so broad that she could lie as she

liked either way, and so high that she must mount two steps to get into

it. At the top sat a Cupid holding the brightly-coloured hangings, and

on the posts sat other Cupids, which held them up in festoons.

In the same room where the bed stood was an old curved chest of drawers

inlaid with olive-wood, and from it Ingrid might take as much

sweetly-scented linen as she liked. There was also a wardrobe containing

many gay and pretty silk and muslin gowns that only hung there and

waited until it pleased her to put them on.

When she awoke in the morning there stood by her bedside a tray with a

silver coffee-set and old Indian china. And every morning she set her

small white teeth in fine white bread and delicious almond-cakes; every

day she was dressed in a fine muslin gown with a lace fichu. Her hair

was dressed high at the back, but round her forehead there was a row of

little light curls.

On the wall between the windows hung a mirror, with a narrow glass in a

broad frame, where she could see herself, and nod to her picture, and

ask:

'Is it you? Is it really you? How have you come here?'

In the daytime, when Ingrid had left the chamber with the four-poster,

she sat in the drawing-room and embroidered or painted on silk, and when

she was tired of that, she played a little on the guitar and sang, or

talked with the old lady, who taught her French, and amused herself by

training her to be a fine lady.

But she had come to an enchanted castle--she could not get away from

that idea. She had had that feeling the first moment, and it was always

coming back again. No one arrived at the house, no one left it. In this

big house only two or three rooms were kept in order; in the others no

one ever went. No one walked in the garden, no one looked after it.

There was only one man-servant, and an old man who cut the firewood. And

Miss Stafva had only two servants, who helped her in the kitchen and in

the dairy.

But there was always dainty food on the table, and her ladyship and

Ingrid were always waited upon and dressed like fine ladies of rank.

If nothing thrived on the old estate, there was, at any rate, fertile

soil for dreams, and even if they did not nurse and cultivate flowers

there, Ingrid was not the one to neglect her dream-roses. They grew up

around her whenever she was alone. It seemed to her then as if red

dream-roses formed a canopy over her.

Round the island where the trees bent low over the water, and sent long

branches in between the reeds, and where shrubs and lofty trees grew

luxuriantly, was a pathway where Ingrid often walked. It looked so

strange to see so many letters carved on the trees, to see the old seats

and summer-houses; to see the old tumble-down pavilions, which were so

worm-eaten that she dared not go into them; to think that real people

had walked here, that here they had lived, and longed, and loved, and

that this had not always been an enchanted castle.

Down here she felt even more the witchery of the place. Here the face

with the smile came to her. Here she could thank him, the student,

because he had brought her to a home where she was so happy, where they

loved her, and made her forget how hardly others had treated her. If it

had not been he who had arranged all this for her, she could not

possibly have been allowed to remain here; it was quite impossible.

She knew that it must be he. She had never before had such wild fancies.

She had always been thinking of him, but she had never felt that he was

so near her that he took care of her. The only thing she longed for was

that he himself should come, for of course he would come some day. It

was impossible that he should not come. In these avenues he had left

behind part of his soul.

* * * * *

Summer went, and autumn; Christmas was drawing near.

'Miss Ingrid,' said the old housekeeper one day, in a rather mysterious

manner, 'I think I ought to tell you that the young master who owns

Munkhyttan is coming home for Christmas. In any case, he generally

comes,' she added, with a sigh.

'And her ladyship, who has never even mentioned that she has a son,'

said Ingrid.

But she was not really surprised. She might just as well have answered

that she had known it all along.

'No one has spoken to you about him, Miss Ingrid,' said the housekeeper,

'for her ladyship has forbidden us to speak about him.'

And then Miss Stafva would not say any more.

Neither did Ingrid want to ask any more. Now she was afraid of hearing

something definite. She had raised her expectations so high that she was

herself afraid they would fail. The truth might be well worth hearing,

but it might also be bitter, and destroy all her beautiful dreams. But

from that day he was with her night and day. She had hardly time to

speak to others. She must always be with him.

One day she saw that they had cleared the snow away from the avenue. She

grew almost frightened. Was he coming now?

The next day her ladyship sat from early morning in the window looking

down the avenue. Ingrid had gone further into the room. She was so

restless that she could not remain at the window.

'Do you know whom I am expecting to-day, Ingrid?'

The young girl nodded; she dared not depend upon her voice to answer.

'Has Miss Stafva told you that my son is peculiar?'

Ingrid shook her head.

'He is very peculiar--he--I cannot speak about it. I cannot--you must

see for yourself.'

It sounded heartrending. Ingrid grew very uneasy. What was there with

this house that made everything so strange? Was it something terrible

that she did not know about? Was her ladyship not on good terms with her

son? What was it, what was it?

The one moment in an ecstasy of joy, the next in a fever of uncertainty,

she was obliged to call forth the long row of visions in order again to

feel that it must be he who came. She could not at all say why she so

firmly believed that he must be the son just of this house. He might,

for the matter of that, be quite another person. Oh, how hard it was

that she had never heard his name!

It was a long day. They sat waiting in silence until evening came.

The man came driving a cartload of Christmas logs, and the horse

remained in the yard whilst the wood was unloaded.

'Ingrid,' said her ladyship in a commanding and hasty tone, 'run down

to Anders and tell him that he must be quick and get the horse into the

stable. Quick--quick!'

Ingrid ran down the stairs and on to the veranda; but when she came out

she forgot to call to the man. Just behind the cart she saw a tall man

in a sheepskin coat, and with a large pack on his back. It was not

necessary for her to see him standing curtsying and curtsying to

recognise him. But, but----She put her hand to her head and drew a deep

breath. How would all these things ever become clear to her? Was it for

that fellow's sake her ladyship had sent her down? And the man, why did

he pull the horse away in such great haste? And why did he take off his

cap and salute? What had that crazy man to do with the people of this

house?

All at once the truth flashed upon Ingrid so crushingly and

overwhelmingly that she could have screamed. It was not her beloved who

had watched over her; it was this crazy man. She had been allowed to

remain here because she had spoken kindly of him, because his mother

wanted to carry on the good work which he had commenced.

The Goat--that was the young master.

But to her no one came. No one had brought her here; no one had expected

her. It was all dreams, fancies, illusions! Oh, how hard it was! If she

had only never expected him!

But at night, when Ingrid lay in the big bed with the brightly-coloured

hangings, she dreamt over and over again that she saw the student come

home. 'It was not you who came,' she said. 'Yes, of course it was I,'

he replied. And in her dreams she believed him.

* * * * *

One day, the week after Christmas, Ingrid sat at the window in the

boudoir embroidering. Her ladyship sat on the sofa knitting, as she

always did now. There was silence in the room.

Young Hede had been at home for a week. During all that time Ingrid had

never seen him. In his home, too, he lived like a peasant, slept in the

men-servants' quarters, and had his meals in the kitchen. He never went

to see his mother.

Ingrid knew that both her ladyship and Miss Stafva expected that she

should do something for Hede, that at the least she would try and

persuade him to remain at home. And it grieved her that it was

impossible for her to do what they wished. She was in despair about

herself and about the utter weakness that had come over her since her

expectations had been so shattered.

To-day Miss Stafva had just come in to say that Hede was getting his

pack ready to start. He was not even staying as long as he generally did

at Christmas, she said with a reproachful look at Ingrid.

Ingrid understood all they had expected from her, but she could do

nothing. She sewed and sewed without saying anything.

Miss Stafva went away, and there was again silence in the room. Ingrid

quite forgot that she was not alone; a feeling of drowsiness suddenly

came over her, whilst all her sad thoughts wove themselves into a

strange fancy.

She thought she was walking up and down the whole of the large house.

She went through a number of rooms and salons; she saw them before her

with gray covers over the furniture. The paintings and the chandeliers

were covered with gauze, and on the floors was a layer of thick dust,

which whirled about when she went through the rooms. But at last she

came to a room where she had never been before; it was quite a small

chamber, where both walls and ceiling were black. But when she came to

look more closely at them, she saw that the chamber was neither painted

black, nor covered with black material, but it was so dark on account of

the walls and the ceiling being completely covered with bats. The whole

room was nothing but a huge nest for bats. In one of the windows a pane

was broken, so one could understand how the bats had got in in such

incredible numbers that they covered the whole room. They hung there in

their undisturbed winter sleep; not one moved when she entered. But she

was seized by such terror at this sight that she began to shiver and

shake all over. It was dreadful to see the quantity of bats she so

distinctly saw hanging there. They all had black wings wrapped around

them like cloaks; they all hung from the walls by a single long claw in

undisturbable sleep. She saw it all so distinctly that she wondered if

Miss Stafva knew that the bats had taken possession of a whole room. In

her thoughts she then went to Miss Stafva and asked her whether she had

been into that room and seen all the bats.

'Of course I have seen them,' said Miss Stafva. 'It is their own room. I

suppose you know, Miss Ingrid, that there is not a single old country

house in all Sweden where they have not to give up a room to the bats?'

'I have never heard that before,' Ingrid said.

'When you have lived as long in the world as I have, Miss Ingrid, you

will find out that I am speaking the truth,' said Miss Stafva.

'I cannot understand that people will put up with such a thing,' Ingrid

said.

'We are obliged to,' said Miss Stafva. 'Those bats are Mistress Sorrow's

birds, and she has commanded us to receive them.'

Ingrid saw that Miss Stafva did not wish to say anything more about that

matter, and she began to sew again; but she could not help speculating

over who that Mistress Sorrow could be who had so much power here that

she could compel Miss Stafva to give up a whole room to the bats.

Just as she was thinking about all this, she saw a black sledge, drawn

by black horses, pull up outside the veranda. She saw Miss Stafva come

out and make a low curtsy. An old lady in a long black velvet cloak,

with many small capes on the shoulders, alighted from the sledge. She

was bent, and had difficulty in walking. She could hardly lift her feet

sufficiently to walk up the steps.

'Ingrid,' said her ladyship, looking up from her knitting, 'I think I

heard Mistress Sorrow arrive. It must have been her jingle I heard. Have

you noticed that she never has sledge-bells on her horses, but only

quite a small jingle? But one can hear it--one can hear it! Go down

into the hall, Ingrid, and bid Mistress Sorrow welcome.'

When Ingrid came down into the front hall, Mistress Sorrow stood talking

with Miss Stafva on the veranda. They did not notice her.

Ingrid saw with surprise that the round-backed old lady had something

hidden under all her capes which looked like crape; it was put well up

and carefully hidden. Ingrid had to look very closely before she

discovered that they were two large bat's wings which she tried to hide.

The young girl grew still more curious and tried to see her face, but

she stood and looked into the yard, so it was impossible. So much,

however, Ingrid did see when she put out her hand to the

housekeeper--that one of her fingers was much longer than the others,

and at the end of it was a large, crooked claw.

'I suppose everything is as usual here?' she said.

'Yes, honoured Mistress Sorrow,' said Miss Stafva.

'You have not planted any flowers, nor pruned any trees? You have not

mended the bridge, nor weeded the avenue?'

'No, honoured mistress.'

'This is quite as it should be,' said the honoured mistress. 'I suppose

you have not had the audacity to search for the vein of ore, or to cut

down the forest which is encroaching on the fields?'

'No, honoured mistress.'

'Or to clean the wells?'

'No, nor to clean the wells.'

'This is a nice place,' said Mistress Sorrow; 'I always like being here.

In a few years things will be in such a state that my birds can live all

over the house. You are really very good to my birds, Miss Stafva.'

At this praise the housekeeper made a deep curtsy.

'How are things otherwise at the house?' said Mistress Sorrow. 'What

sort of a Christmas have you had?'

'We have kept Christmas as we always do,' said Miss Stafva. 'Her

ladyship sits knitting in her room day after day, thinks of nothing but

her son, and does not even know that it is a festival. Christmas Eve we

allowed to pass like any other day--no presents and no candles.'

'No Christmas tree, no Christmas fare?'

'Nor any going to church; not so much as a candle in the windows on

Christmas morning.'

'Why should her ladyship honour God's Son when God will not heal her

son?' said Mistress Sorrow.

'No, why should she?'

'He is at home at present, I suppose? Perhaps he is better now?'

'No, he is no better. He is as much afraid of things as ever.'

'Does he still behave like a peasant? Does he never go into the rooms?'

'We cannot get him to go into the rooms; he is afraid of her ladyship,

as the honoured mistress knows.'

'He has his meals in the kitchen, and sleeps in the men-servants'

room?'

'Yes, he does.'

'And you have no idea how to cure him?'

'We know nothing, we understand nothing.'

Mistress Sorrow was silent for a moment; when she spoke again there was

a hard, sharp ring in her voice:

'This is all right as far as it goes, Miss Stafva; but I am not quite

satisfied with you, all the same.'

The same moment she turned round and looked sharply at Ingrid.

Ingrid shuddered. Mistress Sorrow had a little, wrinkled face, the under

part of which was so doubled up that one could hardly see the lower jaw.

She had teeth like a saw, and thick hair on the upper lip. Her eyebrows

were one single tuft of hair, and her skin was quite brown.

Ingrid thought Miss Stafva could not see what she saw: Mistress Sorrow

was not a human being; she was only an animal.

Mistress Sorrow opened her mouth and showed her glittering teeth when

she looked at Ingrid.

'When this girl came here,' she said to Miss Stafva, 'you thought she

had been sent by God. You thought you could see from her eyes that she

had been sent by Our Lord to save him. She knew how to manage mad

people. Well, how has it worked?'

'It has not worked at all. She has not done anything.'

'No, I have seen to that,' said Mistress Sorrow. 'It was my doing that

you did not tell her why she was allowed to stay here. Had she known

that, she would not have indulged in such rosy dreams about seeing her

beloved. If she had not had such expectations, she would not have had

such a bitter disappointment. Had disappointment not paralyzed her, she

could perhaps have done something for this mad fellow. But now she has

not even been to see him. She hates him because he is not the one she

expected him to be. That is my doing, Miss Stafva, my doing.'

'Yes; the honoured mistress knows her business,' said Miss Stafva.

Mistress Sorrow took her lace handkerchief and dried her red-rimmed

eyes. It looked as if it were meant for an expression of joy.

'You need not make yourself out to be any better than you are, Miss

Stafva,' she said. 'I know you do not like my having taken that room for

my birds. You do not like the thought of my having the whole house soon.

I know that. You and your mistress had intended to cheat me. But it is

all over now.'

'Yes,' said Miss Stafva, 'the honoured mistress can be quite easy. It is

all over. The young master is leaving to-day. He has packed up his pack,

and then we always know he is about to leave. Everything her ladyship

and I have been dreaming about the whole autumn is over. Nothing has

been done. We thought she might at least have persuaded him to remain at

home, but in spite of all we have done for her, she has not done

anything for us.'

'No, she has only been a poor help, I know that,' said Mistress Sorrow.

'But, all the same, she must be sent away now. That was really what I

wanted to see her ladyship about.'

Mistress Sorrow began to drag herself up the steps on her tottering

legs. At every step she raised her wings a little, as if they should

help her. She would, no doubt, much rather have flown.

Ingrid went behind her. She felt strangely attracted and fascinated. If

Mistress Sorrow had been the most beautiful woman in the world, she

could not have felt a greater inclination to follow her.

When she went into the boudoir she saw Mistress Sorrow sitting on the

sofa by the side of her ladyship, whispering confidentially with her, as

if they were old friends.

'You must be able to see that you cannot keep her with you,' said

Mistress Sorrow impressively. 'You, who cannot bear to see a flower

growing in your garden, can surely not stand having a young girl about

in the house. It always brings a certain amount of brightness and life,

and that would not suit you.'

'No; that is just what I have been sitting and thinking about.'

'Get her a situation as lady's companion somewhere or other, but don't

keep her here.'

She rose to say good-bye.

'That was all I wanted to see you about,' she said. 'But how are you

yourself?'

'Knives and scissors cut my heart all day long,' said her ladyship. 'I

only live in him as long as he is at home. It is worse than usual, much

worse this time. I cannot bear it much longer.' . . .

Ingrid started; it was her ladyship's bell that rang. She had been

dreaming so vividly that she was quite surprised to see that her

ladyship was alone, and that the black sledge was not waiting before the

door.

Her ladyship had rung for Miss Stafva, but she did not come. She asked

Ingrid to go down to her room and call her.

Ingrid went, but the little blue-checked room was empty. The young girl

was going into the kitchen to ask for the housekeeper, but before she

had time to open the door she heard Hede talking. She stopped outside;

she could not persuade herself to go in and see him.

She tried, however, to argue with herself. It was not his fault that he

was not the one she had been expecting. She must try to do something for

him; she must persuade him to remain at home. Before, she had not had

such a feeling against him. He was not so very bad.

She bent down and peeped through the keyhole. It was the same here as at

other places. The servants tried to lead him on in order to amuse

themselves by his strange talk. They asked him whom he was going to

marry. Hede smiled; he liked to be asked about that kind of thing.

'She is called Grave-Lily--don't you know that?' he said.

The servant said she did not know that she had such a fine name.

'But where does she live?'

'Neither has she home nor has she farm,' Hede said. 'She lives in my

pack.'

The servant said that was a queer home, and asked about her parents.

'Neither has she father nor has she mother,' Hede said. 'She is as fine

as a flower; she has grown up in a garden.'

He said all this with a certain amount of clearness, but when he wanted

to describe how beautiful his sweetheart was he could not get on at all.

He said a number of words, but they were strangely mixed together. One

could not follow his thoughts, but evidently he himself derived much

pleasure from what he said. He sat smiling and happy.

Ingrid hurried away. She could not bear it any longer. She could not do

anything for him. She was afraid of him. She disliked him. But she had

not got further than the stairs before her conscience pricked her. Here

she had received so much kindness, and she would not make any return.

In order to master her dislike she tried in her own mind to think of

Hede as a gentleman. She wondered how he had looked when he wore good

clothes, and had his hair brushed back. She closed her eyes for a moment

and thought. No, it was impossible, she could not imagine him as being

any different from what he was. The same moment she saw the outlines of

a beloved face by her side. It appeared at her left side wonderfully

distinct. This time the face did not smile. The lips trembled as if in

pain, and unspeakable suffering was written in sharp lines round the

mouth.

Ingrid stopped half-way up the stairs and looked at it. There it was,

light and fleeting, as impossible to grasp and hold fast as a sun-spot

reflected by the prism of a chandelier, but just as visible, just as

real. She thought of her recent dream, but this was different--this was

reality.

When she had looked a little at the face, the lips began to move; they

spoke, but she could not hear a sound. Then she tried to see what they

said, tried to read the words from the lips, as deaf people do, and she

succeeded.

'Do not let me go,' the lips said; 'do not let me go.'

And the anguish with which it was said! If a fellow-creature had been

lying at her feet begging for life, it could not have affected her more.

She was so overcome that she shook. It was more heart-rending than

anything she had ever heard in her whole life. Never had she thought

that anyone could beg in such fearful anguish. Again and again the lips

begged, 'Do not let me go!' And for every time the anguish was greater.

Ingrid did not understand it, but remained standing, filled with

unspeakable pity. It seemed to her that more than life itself must be at

stake for one who begged like this, that his very soul must be at stake.

The lips did not move any more; they stood half open in dull despair.

When they assumed this expression she uttered a cry and stumbled. She

recognised the face of the crazy fellow as she had just seen it.

'No, no, no!' she said. 'It cannot be so! It must not! it cannot! It is

not possible that it is he!'

The same moment the face vanished. She must have sat for a whole hour on

the cold staircase, crying in helpless despair. But at last hope sprang

up in her, strong and fair. She again took courage to raise her head.

All that had happened seemed to show that she should save him. It was

for that she had come here. She should have the great, great happiness

of saving him.

* * * * *

In the little boudoir her ladyship was talking to Miss Stafva. It

sounded so pitiful to hear her asking the housekeeper to persuade her

son to remain a few days longer. Miss Stafva tried to appear hard and

severe.

'Of course, I can ask him,' she said; 'but your ladyship knows that no

one can make him stay longer than he wants.'

'We have money enough, you know. There is not the slightest necessity

for him to go. Can you not tell him that?' said her ladyship.

At the same moment Ingrid came in. The door opened noiselessly. She

glided through the room with light, airy steps; her eyes were radiant,

as if she beheld something beautiful afar off.

When her ladyship saw her she frowned a little. She also felt an

inclination to be cruel, to give pain.

'Ingrid,' she said, 'come here; I must speak with you about your

future.'

The young girl had fetched her guitar and was about to leave the room.

She turned round to her ladyship.

'My future?' she said, putting her hand to her forehead. 'My future is

already decided, you know,' she continued, with the smile of a martyr;

and without saying any more she left the room.

Her ladyship and Stafva looked in surprise at each other. They began to

discuss where they should send the young girl. But when Miss Stafva came

down to her room she found Ingrid sitting there, singing some little

songs and playing on the guitar, and Hede sat opposite her, listening,

his face all sunshine.

* * * * *

Ever since Ingrid had recognised the student in the poor crazy fellow,

she had no other thought but that of trying to cure him; but this was a

difficult task, and she had no idea whatever as to how she should set

about it. To begin with, she only thought of how she could persuade him

to remain at Munkhyttan; and this was easy enough. Only for the sake of

hearing her play the violin or the guitar a little every day he would

now sit patiently from morning till evening in Miss Stafva's room

waiting for her.

She thought it would be a great thing if she could get him to go into

the other rooms, but that she could not. She tried keeping in her room,

and said she would not play any more for him if he did not come to her.

But after she had remained there two days, he began to pack up his pack

to go away, and then she was obliged to give in.

He showed great preference for her, and distinctly showed that he liked

her better than others; but she did not make him less frightened. She

begged him to leave off his sheepskin coat, and wear an ordinary coat.

He consented at once, but the next day he had it on again. Then she hid

it from him; but he then appeared in the man-servant's skin coat. So

then they would rather let him keep his own. He was still as frightened

as ever, and took great care no one came too near him. Even Ingrid was

not allowed to sit quite close to him.

One day she said to him that now he must promise her something: he must

give over curtsying to the cat. She would not ask him to do anything so

difficult as give up curtsying to horses and dogs, but surely he could

not be afraid of a little cat.

Yes, he said; the cat was a goat.

'It can't be a goat,' she said; 'it has no horns, you know.'

He was pleased to hear that. It seemed as if at last he had found

something by which he could distinguish a goat from other animals.

The next day he met Miss Stafva's cat.

'That goat has no horns,' he said; and laughed quite proudly.

He went past it, and sat down on the sofa to listen to Ingrid playing.

But after he had sat a little while he grew restless, and he rose, went

up to the cat, and curtsied.

Ingrid was in despair. She took him by his arm and shook him. He ran

straight out of the room, and did not appear until the next day.

'Child, child,' said her ladyship, 'you do exactly as I did; you try the

same as I did. It will end by your frightening him so that he dare not

see you any more. It is better to leave him in peace. We are satisfied

with things as they are if he will only remain at home.'

There was nothing else for Ingrid to do but wring her hands in sorrow

that such a fine, lovable fellow should be concealed in this crazy man.

Ingrid thought again and again, had she really only come here to play

her grandfather's tunes to him? Should they go on like that all through

life? Would it never be otherwise?

She also told him many stories, and in the midst of a story his face

would lighten up, and he would say something wonderfully subtle and

beautiful. A sane person would never have thought of anything like it.

And no more was needed to make her courage rise, and then she began

again with these endless experiments.

* * * * *

It was late one afternoon, and the moon was just about to rise. White

snow lay on the ground, and bright gray ice covered the lake. The trees

were blackish-brown, and the sky was a flaming red after the sunset.

Ingrid was on her way to the lake to skate. She went along a narrow path

where the snow was quite trodden down. Gunnar Hede went behind her.

There was something cowed in his bearing that made one think of a dog

following its master.

Ingrid looked tired; there was no brightness in her eyes, and her

complexion was gray.

As she walked along she wondered whether the day, which was now so

nearly over, was content with itself--if it were from joy it had

lighted the great flaming red sunset far away in the west.

She knew she could light no bonfire over this day, nor over any other

day. In the whole month that had passed since she recognised Gunnar Hede

she had gained nothing.

And to-day a great fear had come upon her. It seemed to her as if she

might perhaps lose her love over all this. She was nearly forgetting the

student, only for thinking of the poor fellow. All that was bright and

beautiful and youthful vanished from her love. Nothing was left but

dull, heavy earnest.

She was quite in despair as she walked towards the lake. She felt she

did not know what ought to be done--felt that she must give it all up.

Oh, God, to have him walking behind her apparently strong and hale, and

yet so helplessly, incurably sick!

They had reached the lake, and she was putting on her skates. She also

wanted him to skate, and helped him to put on his skates; but he fell as

soon as he got on to the ice. He scrambled to the bank and sat down on a

stone, and she skated away from him.

Just opposite the stone upon which Gunnar Hede was sitting was an islet

overgrown with birches and poplars, and behind it the radiant evening

sky, which was still flaming red. And the fine, light, leafless tops of

the trees stood against the glorious sky with such beauty that it was

impossible not to notice it.

Is it not a fact that one always recognises a place by a single feature?

One does not exactly know how even the most familiar spot looks from

all sides. And Munkhyttan one always knew by the little islet. If one

had not seen the place for many years, one would know it again by this

islet, where the dark tree-tops were lifted towards the sunset.

Hede sat quite still, and looked at the islet and at the branches of the

trees and at the gray ice which surrounded it.

This was the view he knew best of all; there was nothing on the whole

estate he knew so well, for it was always this islet that attracted the

eye. And soon he was sitting looking at the islet without thinking about

it, just as one does with things one knows so well. He sat for a long

time gazing. Nothing disturbed him, not a human being, not a gust of

wind, no strange object. He could not see Ingrid; she had skated far

away on the ice.

A rest and peace fell upon Gunnar Hede such as one only feels in home

surroundings. Security and peace came to him from the little islet; it

quieted the everlasting unrest that tormented him.

Hede always imagined he was amongst enemies, and always thought of

defending himself. For many years he had not felt that peace which made

it possible for him to forget himself. But now it came upon him.

Whilst Gunnar Hede was sitting thus and not thinking of anything, he

happened mechanically to make a movement as one may do when one finds

one's self in accustomed circumstances. As he sat there with the shining

ice before him and with skates on his feet, he got up and skated on to

the lake, and he thought as little of what he was doing as one thinks of

how one is holding fork or spoon when eating.

He glided over the ice; it was glorious skating. He was a long way off

the shore before he realized what he was doing.

'Splendid ice!' he thought. 'I wonder why I did not come down earlier in

the day. It is a good thing I was more here yesterday,' he said. 'I will

really not waste a single day during the rest of my vacation.'

No doubt it was because Gunnar Hede happened to do something he was in

the habit of doing before he was ill that his old self awakened within

him.

Thoughts and associations connected with his former life began to force

themselves upon his consciousness, and at the same time all the thoughts

connected with his illness sank into oblivion.

It had been his habit when skating to take a wide turn on the lake in

order to see beyond a certain point. He did so now without thinking, but

when he had turned the point he knew he had skated there to see if there

was a light in his mother's window.

'She thinks it is time I was coming home, but she must wait a little;

the ice is too good.'

But it was mostly vague sensations of pleasure over the exercise and the

beautiful evening that were awakened within him. A moonlight evening

like this was just the time for skating; he was so fond of this peaceful

transition from day to night. It was still light, but the stillness of

night was already there, the best both of day and of night.

There was another skater on the ice; it was a young girl. He was not

sure if he knew her, but he skated towards her to find out. No; it was

no one he knew, but he could not help making a remark when he passed her

about the splendid ice.

The stranger was probably a young girl from the town. She was evidently

not accustomed to be addressed in this unceremonious manner; she looked

quite frightened when he spoke to her. He certainly was queerly dressed;

he was dressed quite like a peasant.

Well, he did not want to frighten her away. He turned off and skated

further up the lake; the ice was big enough for them both.

But Ingrid had nearly screamed with astonishment. He had come towards

her skating elegantly, with his arms crossed, the brim of his hat turned

up, and his hair thrown back, so that it did not fall over his ears.

He had spoken with the voice of a gentleman, almost without the

slightest Dalar accent. She did not stop to think about it. She skated

quickly towards the shore. She came breathless into the kitchen. She did

not know how to say it shortly and quickly enough.

'Miss Stafva, the young master has come home!'

The kitchen was empty; neither the housekeeper nor the servants were

there. Nor was there anybody in the housekeeper's room. Ingrid rushed

through the whole house, went into rooms where no one ever went. The

whole time she cried out, 'Miss Stafva, Miss Stafva! the young master

has come home!'

She was quite beside herself, and went on calling out, even when she

stood on the landing upstairs, surrounded by the servants, Miss Stafva,

and her ladyship herself. She said it over and over again. She was too

much excited to stop. They all understood what she meant. They stood

there quite as much overcome as she was.

Ingrid turned restlessly from the one to the other. She ought to give

explanations and orders, but about what? That she could so lose her

presence of mind! She looked wildly questioning at her ladyship.

'What was it I wanted?'

The old lady gave some orders in a low, trembling voice. She almost

whispered.

'Light the candles and make a fire in the young master's room. Lay out

the young master's clothes.'

It was neither the place nor the time for Miss Stafva to be important.

But there was all the same a certain superior ring in her voice as she

answered:

'There is always a fire in the young master's room. The young master's

clothes are always in readiness for him.'

'Ingrid had better go up to her room,' said her ladyship.

The young girl did just the opposite. She went into the drawing-room,

placed herself at the window, sobbed and shook, but did not herself

know that she was not still. She impatiently dried the tears from her

eyes, so that she could see over the snowfield in front of the house. If

only she did not cry, there was nothing she could miss seeing in the

clear moonlight. At last he came.

'There he is! there he is!' she cried to her ladyship. 'He walks

quickly! he runs! Do come and see!'

Her ladyship sat quite still before the fire. She did not move. She

strained her ears to hear, just as much as the other strained her eyes

to see. She asked Ingrid to be quiet, so that she could hear how he

walked. Ah, yes, she would be quiet. Her ladyship should hear how he

walked. She grasped the window-sill, as if that could help her.

'You _shall_ be quiet,' she whispered, 'so that her ladyship can hear

how he walks.'

Her ladyship sat bending forward, listening with all her soul. Did she

already hear his steps in the court-yard? She probably thought he would

go towards the kitchen. Did she hear that it was the front steps that

creaked? Did she hear that it was the door to the front hall that

opened? Did she hear how quickly he came up the stairs, two or three

steps at a time? Had his mother heard that? It was not the dragging step

of a peasant, as it had been when he left the house.

It was almost more than they could bear, to hear him coming towards the

door of the drawing-room. Had he come in then, they would no doubt both

have screamed. But he turned down the corridor to his own rooms.

Her ladyship fell back in her chair, and her eyes closed. Ingrid thought

her ladyship would have liked to die at that moment. Without opening her

eyes, she put out her hand. Ingrid went softly up and took it; the old

lady drew her towards her.

'Mignon, Mignon,' she said; 'that was the right name after all. But,'

she continued, 'we must not cry. We must not speak about it. Take a

stool and come and sit down by the fire. We must be calm, my little

friend. Let us speak about something else. We must be perfectly calm

when he comes in.'

Half an hour afterwards Hede came in; the tea was on the table, and the

chandelier was lighted. He had dressed; every trace of the peasant had

disappeared. Ingrid and her ladyship pressed each other's hands.

They had been sitting trying to imagine how he would look when he came

in. It was impossible to say what he might say or do, said her ladyship.

One never had known what he might do. But in any case they would both be

quite calm. A feeling of great happiness had come over her, and that had

quieted her. She was resting, free from all sorrow, in the arms of

angels carrying her upwards, upwards.

But when Hede came in, there was no sign of confusion about him.

'I have only come to tell you,' he said, 'that I have got such a

headache, that I shall have to go to bed at once. I felt it already when

I was on the ice.'

Her ladyship made no reply. Everything was so simple; she had never

thought it would be like that. It took her a few moments to realize that

he did not know anything about his illness, that he was living somewhere

in the past.

'But perhaps I can first drink a cup of tea,' he said, looking a little

surprised at their silence.

Her ladyship went to the tea-tray. He looked at her.

'Have you been crying, mother? You are so quiet.'

'We have been sitting talking about a sad story, I and my young friend

here,' said her ladyship, pointing to Ingrid.

'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'I did not see you had visitors.'

The young girl came forward towards the light, beautiful as one would be

who knew that the gates of heaven the next moment would open before her.

He bowed a little stiffly. He evidently did not know who she was. Her

ladyship introduced them to each other. He looked curiously at Ingrid.

'I think I saw Miss Berg on the ice,' he said.

He knew nothing about her--had never spoken to her before.

* * * * *

A short, happy time followed. Gunnar Hede was certainly not quite

himself; but those around him were happy in the belief that he soon

would be. His memory was partly gone. He knew nothing about certain

periods of his life; he could not play the violin; he had almost

forgotten all he knew; and his power of thinking was weak; and he

preferred neither to read nor to write. But still he was very much

better. He was not frightened; he was fond of his mother; he had again

assumed the manners and habits of a gentleman. One can easily understand

that her ladyship and all her household were delighted.

Hede was in the best of spirits--bright and joyous all day long. He

never speculated over anything, put to one side everything he could not

understand, never spoke about anything that necessitated mental

exertion, but talked merrily and cheerfully. He was most happy when he

was engaged in bodily exercise. He took Ingrid out with him sledging and

skating. He did not talk much to her, but she was happy to be with him.

He was kind to Ingrid, as he was to everyone else, but not in the least

in love with her. He often wondered about his _fiancée_--wondered why

she never wrote. But after a short time that trouble, too, left him. He

always put away from him anything that worried him.

Ingrid thought that he would never get really well by doing like this.

He must some time be made to think--to face his own thoughts, which he

was afraid of doing now. But she dared not compel him to do this, and

there was no one else who dared. If he began to care for her a little,

perhaps she might dare. She thought all they now wanted, every one of

them, was a little happiness.

* * * * *

It was just at that time that a little child died at the Parsonage at

Raglanda where Ingrid had been brought up; and the grave-digger was

about to dig the grave.

The man dug the grave quite close to the spot where the previous summer

he had dug the grave for Ingrid. And when he had got a few feet into the

ground he happened to lay bare a corner of her coffin. The grave-digger

could not help smiling a little to himself. Of course he had heard that

the dead girl lying in this coffin had appeared. She was supposed to

have unscrewed her coffin-lid on the very day of her funeral, risen from

the grave, and appeared at the Parsonage. The Pastor's wife was not so

much liked but that people in the parish rather enjoyed telling this

story about her. The grave-digger thought that people should only know

how securely the dead were lying in the ground, and how fast the

coffin-lids. . . .

He interrupted himself in the midst of this thought. On the corner of

the coffin which was exposed the lid was not quite straight, and one of

the screws was not quite fast. He did not say anything, he did not think

anything, but stopped digging and whistled the whole reveille of the

Vermland Regiment--for he was an old soldier. Then he thought he had

better examine the thing properly. It would never do for a grave-digger

to have thoughts about the dead which might come and trouble him during

the dark autumn nights. He hastily removed some more earth. Then he

began to hammer on the coffin with his shovel. The coffin answered quite

distinctly that it was empty--empty.

Half an hour after the grave-digger was at the Parsonage. There was no

end to the questionings and surmises. So much they were all agreed

upon--that the young girl had been in the Dalar man's pack. But what had

become of her afterwards?

Anna Stina stood at the oven in the Parsonage and looked after the

baking, for of course there was baking to be done for the new funeral.

She stood for a long time listening to all this talk without saying a

word. All she took care of was that the cakes were not burnt. She put

sheet-tins in and took sheet-tins out, and it was dangerous to approach

her as she stood there with the long baker's shovel. But suddenly she

took off her kitchen-apron, wiped the worst of the sweat and the soot

from her face, and was talking with the Pastor in his study almost

before she knew how it had come about.

After this it was not so very wonderful that one day in March the

Pastor's little red-painted sledge, ornamented with green tulips, and

drawn by the Pastor's little red horse, pulled up at Munkhyttan. Ingrid

was of course obliged to go back with the Pastor home to her mother. The

Pastor had come to fetch her. He did not say much about their being glad

that she was alive, but one could see how happy he was. He had never

been able to forgive himself that they had not been more kind to their

adopted daughter. And now he was radiant at the thought that he was

allowed to make a new beginning and make everything good for her this

time.

They did not speak a word about the reason why she had run away. It was

of no use bringing that up again so long after. But Ingrid understood

that the Pastor's wife had had a hard time, and had suffered many pangs

of conscience, and that they wanted to have her back again in order to

be good to her. She felt that she was almost obliged to go back to the

Parsonage to show that she had no ill-feeling against her adopted

parents.

They all thought it was the most natural thing that she should go to the

Parsonage for a week or two. And why should she not? She could not make

the excuse that they needed her at Munkhyttan. She could surely be away

for some weeks without it doing Gunnar Hede any harm. She felt it was

hard, but it was best she should go away, as they all thought it was the

right thing.

Perhaps she had hoped they would ask her not to go away. She took her

seat in the sledge with the feeling that her ladyship or Miss Stafva

would surely come and lift her out of it, and carry her into the house

again. It was impossible to realize that she was actually driving down

the avenue, that she was turning into the forest, and that Munkhyttan

was disappearing behind her.

But supposing it was from pure goodness that they let her go? They

thought, perhaps, that youth, with its craving for pleasure, wanted to

get away from the loneliness of Munkhyttan. They thought, perhaps, she

was tired of being the keeper of a crazy man. She raised her hand, and

was on the point of seizing the reins and turning the horse. Now that

she was several miles from the house it struck her that that was why

they had let her go. She would have liked so much to have gone back and

asked them.

In her utter loneliness she felt as if she were groping about in the

wild forest. There was not a single human being who answered her or

advised her. She received just as much answer from fir and pine, and

squirrel and owl, as she did from any human being.

It was really a matter of utter indifference to her how they treated her

at the Parsonage. They were very kind to her, as far as she knew, but it

really did not matter. If she had come to a palace full of everything

one could most desire, that would likewise have been the same to her. No

bed is soft enough to give rest unto one whose heart is full of longing.

In the beginning she had asked them every day, as modestly as she could,

if they would not let her go home, now that she had had the great

happiness of seeing her mother and her brothers and sisters. But the

roads were really too bad. She must stay with them until the frost had

disappeared. It was not a matter of life and death, they supposed, to go

back to that place.

Ingrid could not understand why it annoyed people when she said she

wanted to go back to Munkhyttan. But this seemed to be the case with her

father and her mother and everybody else in the parish. One had no

right, it appeared, to long for any other place in the world, when one

was at Raglanda.

She soon saw it was best not to speak about her going away. There were

so many difficulties in the way whenever she spoke about it. It was not

enough that the roads were still in the same bad condition; they

surrounded her with walls and ramparts and moats. She would knit and

weave, and plant out in the forcing-frames. And surely she would not go

away until after the large birthday party at the Dean's? And she could

not think of leaving till after Karin Landberg's wedding.

There was nothing for her to do but to lift her hands in supplication to

the spring, and beg it to make haste with its work, beg for sunshine and

warmth, beg the gentle sun to do its very best for the great border

forest, send small piercing rays between the fir-trees, and melt the

snow beneath them. Dear, dear sun! It did not matter if the snow were

not melted in the valley, if only the snow would vanish from the

mountains, if only the forest paths became passable, if only the Säter

girls were able to go to their huts, if only the bogs became dry, if

only it became possible to go by the forest road, which was half the

distance of the highroad.

Ingrid knew one who would not wait for carriage, or ask for money to

drive, if only the road through the forest became passable. She knew one

who would leave the Parsonage some moonlight night, and who would do it

without asking a single person's permission.

She thought she had waited for the spring before. That everybody does.

But now Ingrid knew that she had never before longed for it. Oh no, no!

She had never before known what it was to long. Before she had waited

for green leaves and anemones, and the song of the thrush and the

cuckoo. But that was childishness--nothing more. They did not long for

the spring who only thought of what was beautiful. One should take the

first bit of earth that peeped through the snow, and kiss it. One should

pluck the first coarse leaf of the nettle simply to burn into one that

now the spring had come.

Everybody was very good to her. But although they did not say anything,

they seemed to think that she was always thinking of leaving them.

'I can't understand why you want to go back to that place and look after

that crazy fellow,' said Karin Landberg one day. It seemed as if she

could read Ingrid's thoughts.

'Oh, she has given up thinking of that now,' said the Pastor's wife,

before the young girl had time to answer.

When Karin was gone the Pastor's wife said:

'People wonder that you want to leave us.'

Ingrid was silent.

'They say that when Hede began to improve perhaps you fell in love with

him.'

'Oh no! Not after he had begun to improve,' Ingrid said, feeling almost

inclined to laugh.

'In any case, he is not the sort of person one could marry,' said her

adopted mother. 'Father and I have been speaking about it, and we think

it is best that you should remain with us.'

'It is very good of you that you want to keep me,' Ingrid said. And she

was touched that now they wanted to be so kind to her.

They did not believe her, however obedient she was. She could not

understand what little bird it was that told them about her longing.

Now her adopted mother had told her that she must not go back to

Munkhyttan. But even then she could not leave the matter alone.

'If they really wanted you,' she said, 'they would write for you.'

Ingrid again felt inclined to laugh. That would be the strangest thing

of all, should there be a letter from the enchanted castle. She would

like to know if her adopted mother thought that the King of the Mountain

wrote for the maiden who had been swallowed by the mountain to come back

when she had gone to see her mother?

But if her adopted mother had known how many messages she had received

she would probably have been even more uneasy. There came messages to

her in her dreams by nights, and there came messages to her in her

visions by day. He let Ingrid know that he was in need of her. He was so

ill--so ill!

She knew that he was nearly going out of his mind again, and that she

must go to him. If anyone had told her this, she would simply have

answered that she knew it.

The large star-like eyes looked further and further away. Those who saw

that look would never believe that she meant to stay quietly and

patiently at home.

It is not very difficult either to see whether a person is content or

full of longing. One only needs to see a little gleam of happiness in

the eyes when he or she comes in from work and sits down by the fire.

But in Ingrid's eyes there was no gleam of happiness, except when she

saw the mountain stream come down through the forest, broad and strong.

It was that that should prepare the way for her.

It happened one day that Ingrid was sitting alone with Karin Landberg,

and she began to tell her about her life at Munkhyttan. Karin was quite

shocked. How could Ingrid stand such a life?

Karin Landberg was to be married very soon. And she was now at that

stage when she could speak of nothing but her lover. She knew nothing

but what he had taught her, and she could do nothing without first

consulting him.

It occurred to her that Oluf had said something about Gunnar Hede which

would help to frighten Ingrid if she had begun to like that crazy

fellow. And then she began to tell her how mad he had really been. For

Oluf had told her that when he was at the fair last autumn some

gentlemen had said that they did not think the Goat was mad at all. He

only pretended to be in order to attract customers. But Oluf had

maintained that he was mad, and in order to prove it went to the market

and bought a wretched little goat. And then it was plain enough to see

that he was mad. Oluf had only put the goat in front of him on the

counter where his knives and things lay, and he had run away and left

both his pack and his wares, and they had all laughed so awfully when

they saw how frightened he was. And it was impossible that Ingrid could

care for anyone who had been so crazy.

It was, no doubt, unwise of Karin Landberg that she did not look at

Ingrid whilst she told this story. If she had seen how she frowned, she

would perhaps have taken warning.

'And you will marry anyone who could do such a thing!' Ingrid said. 'I

think it would be better to marry the Goat himself.'

This Ingrid said in downright earnest, and it seemed so strange to Karin

that she, who was always so gentle, should have said anything so unkind,

that it quite worried her. For several days she was quite unhappy,

because she feared Oluf was not what she would like him to be. It simply

embittered Karin's life until she made up her mind to tell Oluf

everything; but he was so nice and good, that he quite reassured her.

It is not an easy task to wait for the spring in Vermland. One can have

sun and warmth in the evening, and the next morning find the ground

white with snow. Gooseberry-bushes and lawns may be green, but the trees

of the birch-forest are bare, and seem as if they will never spring out.

At Whitsuntide there was spring in the air, but Ingrid's prayers had

been of no avail. Not a single Säter girl had taken up her abode in the

forest, not a fen was dry; it was impossible to go through the forest.

On Whit-Sunday Ingrid and her adopted mother went to church. As it was

such a great festival, they had driven to church. In olden days Ingrid

had very much enjoyed driving up to the church in full gallop, whilst

people along the roadside politely took off their hats, and those who

were standing on the road rushed to the side as if they were quite

frightened. But at the present moment she could not enjoy anything.

'Longing takes the fragrance from the rose, and the light from the full

moon,' says an old proverb.

But Ingrid was glad for what she heard in church. It did her good to

hear how the disciples were comforted in their longing. She was glad

that Jesus thought of comforting those who longed so greatly for Him.

Whilst Ingrid and the rest of the congregation were in church a tall

Dalar man came walking down the road. He wore a sheepskin coat, and had

a large pack on his back, like one who cannot tell winter from summer,

or Sunday from any other day. He did not go into the church, but stole

timidly past the horses that were tied to the railings, and went into

the churchyard.

He sat down on a grave and thought of all the dead who were still

sleeping, and of one of the dead who had awakened to life again. He was

still sitting there when the people left the church. Karin Landberg's

Oluf was one of the first to leave the church, and when he happened to

look across the churchyard he discovered the Dalar man. It is hard to

say whether it was curiosity or some other motive that prompted him, but

he went up to talk to him. He wanted to see if it were possible that he

who was supposed to have been cured had become mad again.

And it was possible. He told him at once that he sat there waiting for

her who was called Grave-Lily. She was to come and play to him. She

played so beautifully that the sun and the stars danced.

Then Karin Landberg's Oluf told him that she for whom he was waiting was

standing outside the church. If he stood up, he could see her. She

would, no doubt, be glad to see him.

The Pastor's wife and Ingrid were just getting into the carriage, when a

tall Dalar man came running up to them. He came at a great pace in spite

of all the horses he must curtsy to, and he beckoned eagerly to the

young girl.

As soon as Ingrid saw him she stood quite still. She could not have told

whether she was most glad to see him again or most grieved that he had

again gone out of his mind; she only forgot everything else in the

world.

Her eyes began to sparkle. In that moment she saw nothing of the poor

wretched man. She only felt that she was once again near the beautiful

soul of the man for whom she had longed so terribly.

There were a great many people about, and they could not help looking at

her. They could not take their eyes from her face. She did not move; she

stood waiting for him. But those who saw how radiant she was with

happiness must have thought that she was waiting for some great and

noble man, instead of a poor, half-witted fellow.

They said afterwards that it almost seemed as if there were some

affinity between his soul and hers--some secret affinity which lay so

deeply hidden beneath their consciousness that no human being could

understand it.

But when Hede was only a step or two from Ingrid her adopted mother took

her resolutely round the waist and lifted her into the carriage. She

would not have a scene between the two just outside the church, with so

many people present. And as soon as they were in the carriage the man

sent his horses off at full gallop.

A wild, terrified cry was heard as they drove away. The Pastor's wife

thanked God that she had got the young girl into the carriage.

It was still early in the afternoon when a peasant came to the Parsonage

to speak with the Pastor. He came to speak about the crazy Dalar man. He

had now gone quite raving mad, and they had been obliged to bind him.

What did the Pastor advise them to do? What should they do with him?

The Pastor could give them no other advice but to take him home. He told

the peasant who he was, and where he lived.

Later on in the evening he told Ingrid everything. It was best to tell

her the truth, and trust to her own common-sense.

But when night came it became clear to her that she had not time to wait

for the spring. The poor girl set out for Munkhyttan by the highroad.

She would no doubt be able to get there by that road, although she knew

that it was twice as long as the way through the forest.

* * * * *

It was Whit-Monday, late in the afternoon. Ingrid walked along the

highroad. There was a wide expanse of country, with low mountains and

small patches of birch forest between the fields. The mountain-ash and

the bird-cherry were in bloom; the light, sticky leaves of the aspen

were just out. The ditches were full of clear, rippling water which made

the stones at the bottom glisten and sparkle.

Ingrid walked sorrowfully along, thinking of him whose mind had again

given way, wondering whether she could do anything for him, whether it

was of any use that she had left her home in this manner.

She was tired and hungry; her shoes had begun to go to pieces. Perhaps

it would be better for her to turn back. She could never get to

Munkhyttan.

The further she walked, the more sorrowful she became. She could not

help thinking that it could be of no use her coming now that he had gone

quite out of his mind. There was no doubt it was too late now; it was

quite hopeless to do anything for him.

But as soon as she thought of turning back she saw Gunnar Hede's face

close to her cheek, as she had so often seen it before. It gave her new

courage; she felt as if he were calling for her. She again felt hopeful

and confident of being able to help him.

Just as Ingrid raised her head, looking a little less downcast, a queer

little procession came towards her.

There was a little horse, drawing a little cart; a fat woman sat in the

cart, and a tall, thin man, with long, thin moustaches walked by the

side of it.

In the country, where no one understood anything about art, Mr. and

Mrs. Blomgren always went in for looking like ordinary people. The

little cart in which they travelled about was well covered over, and no

one could suspect that it only contained fireworks and conjuring

apparatus and marionettes.

No one could suspect that the fat woman who sat on the top of the load,

looking like a well-to-do shopkeeper's wife, was formerly Miss Viola,

who once sprang through the air, or that the man who walked by her side,

and looked like a pensioned soldier, was the same Mr. Blomgren who

occasionally, to break the monotony of the journey, took it into his

head to turn a somersault over the horse, and play the ventriloquist

with thrushes and siskins that sang in the trees by the roadside, so

that he made them quite mad.

The horse was very small, and had formerly drawn a roundabout, and

therefore it would never go unless it heard music. On that account Mrs.

Blomgren generally sat playing the Jews'-harp, but as soon as they met

anyone, she put it in her pocket, so that no one should discover they

were artists, for whom country people have no respect whatever. Owing to

this they did not travel very fast, but they were not in any hurry

either.

The blind man, who played the violin, had to walk some little distance

behind the others in order not to betray the fact of his belonging to

the company. The blind man was led by a little dog; he was not allowed

to have a child to lead him, for that would always have reminded Mr.

and Mrs. Blomgren of a little girl who was called Ingrid. That would

have been too sad.

And now they were all in the country on account of the spring. For

however much money Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren were making in the towns, they

felt they _must_ be in the country at that time of the year, for Mr. and

Mrs. Blomgren were artists.

They did not recognise Ingrid, and she went past them without taking any

notice of them, for she was in a hurry; she was afraid of their

detaining her. But directly afterwards she felt that it was heartless

and unkind of her, and turned back.

If Ingrid could have felt glad about anything, she would have been glad

by seeing the old people's joy at meeting her. You may be sure they had

plenty to talk about. The little horse turned its head time after time

to see what was wrong with the roundabout.

Strangely enough, it was Ingrid who talked the most. The two old people

saw at once that she had been crying, and they were so concerned that

she was obliged to tell them everything that had happened to her.

But it was a relief to Ingrid to speak. The old people had their own way

of taking things; they clapped their hands when she told them how she

had got out of the grave and how she had frightened the Pastor's wife.

They caressed her and praised her because she had run away from the

Parsonage. For them nothing was dull or sad, but everything was bright

and hopeful. They simply had no standard by which to measure reality,

and therefore its hardness could not affect them. They compared

everything they heard with the pieces from marionette theatres and

pantomimes. Of course, one also put a little sorrow and misery into the

pantomime, but that was only done to heighten the effect. And, of

course, everything would end well. In the pantomimes it always ended

well.

There was something infectious in all this hopefulness. Ingrid knew they

did not at all understand how great her trouble was, but it was cheering

all the same to listen to them.

But they were also of real help to Ingrid. They told her that they had

had dinner a short time since at the inn at Torsäker, and just as they

were getting up from the table some peasants came driving up with a man

who was mad. Mrs. Blomgren could not bear to see mad people, and wanted

to go away at once, and Mr. Blomgren had consented. But supposing it was

Ingrid's madman! And they had hardly said the words before Ingrid said

that it was very likely, and wanted to set off at once.

Mr. Blomgren then asked his wife in his own ceremonious manner if they

were not in the country solely on account of the spring, and if it were

not just the same where they went. And old Mrs. Blomgren asked him

equally ceremoniously in her turn if he thought she would leave her

beloved Ingrid before she had reached the harbour of her happiness.

Then the old roundabout horse was turned, and conversation grew more

difficult, because they again had to play on the Jews'-harp. As soon as

Mrs. Blomgren wished to say anything, she was obliged to hand the

instrument to Mr. Blomgren, and when Mr. Blomgren wanted to speak, he

gave it back again to his wife. And the little horse stood still every

time the instrument passed from mouth to mouth.

The whole time they did their best to comfort Ingrid. They related all

the fairy tales they had seen represented at the dolls' theatre. They

comforted her with the 'Enchanted Princess,' they comforted her with

'Cinderella,' they comforted her with all the fairy tales under the sun.

Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren watched Ingrid when they saw that her eyes grew

brighter. 'Artist's eyes,' they said, nodding contentedly to each other.

'What did we say? Artist's eyes!'

In some incomprehensible manner they had got the idea that Ingrid had

become one of them, an artist. They thought she was playing a part in a

drama. It was a triumph for them in their old age.

On they went as fast as they could. The old couple were only afraid that

the madman would not be at the inn any longer. But he was there, and the

worst of it was, no one knew how to get him away.

The two peasants from Raglanda who had brought him had taken him to one

of the rooms and locked him in whilst they were waiting for fresh

horses. When they left him his arms had been tied behind him, but he had

somehow managed to free his hands from the cord, and when they came to

fetch him he was free, and, beside himself with rage, had seized a

chair, with which he threatened to strike anyone who approached him.

They could do nothing but beat a hasty retreat and lock the door. The

peasants now only waited for the landlord and his men to return and help

them to bind him again.

All the hope which Ingrid's old friends had reawakened within her was,

however, not quenched. She quite saw that Gunnar Hede was worse than he

had ever been before, but that was what she had expected. She still

hoped. It was not their fairy tales, it was their great love that had

given her new hope.

She asked the men to let her go to the madman. She said she knew him,

and he would not do her any harm; but the peasants said they were not

mad. The man in the room would kill anybody who went in.

Ingrid sat down to think. She thought how strange it was that she should

meet Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren just to-day. Surely that meant something. She

would never have met them if it had not been for some purpose. And

Ingrid thought of how Hede had regained his senses the last time. Could

she not again make him do something which would remind him of olden

days, and drive away his mad thoughts? She thought and thought.

* * * * *

Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren sat on a seat outside the inn, looking more

unhappy than one would have thought was possible. They were not far from

crying.

Ingrid, their 'child,' came up to them with a smile--such a smile as

only she could have--and stroked their old, wrinkled cheeks, and said

it would please her so much if they would let her see a performance like

those she used to see every day in the olden time. It would be such a

comfort to her.

At first they said no, for they were not at all in proper artist humour,

but when she had expended a few smiles upon them they could not resist

her. They went to their cart and unpacked their costumes.

When they were ready they called for the blind man, and Ingrid selected

the place where the performance was to be held. She would not let them

perform in the yard, but took them into the garden belonging to the inn,

for there was a garden belonging to this inn. It was mostly full of beds

for vegetables which had not yet come up, but here and there was an

apple-tree in bloom. And Ingrid said she would like them to perform

under one of the apple-trees in bloom.

Some lads and servant-girls came running when they heard the violin, so

there was a small audience. But it was hard work for Mr. and Mrs.

Blomgren to perform. Ingrid had asked too much of them; they were really

much too sad.

And it was very unfortunate that Ingrid had taken them out into the

garden. She had evidently not remembered that the rooms in the inn faced

this way. Mrs. Blomgren was very nearly running away when she heard a

window in one of the rooms quickly opened. Supposing the madman had

heard the music, and supposing he jumped out of the window and came to

them?

But Mrs. Blomgren was somewhat reassured when she saw who had opened

the window. It was a young gentleman with a pleasant face. He was in

shirt-sleeves, but otherwise very decently dressed. His eye was quiet,

his lips smiled, and he stroked his hair back from his forehead with his

hand.

Mr. Blomgren was working, and was so taken up with the performance that

he did not notice anything. Mrs. Blomgren, who had nothing else to do

but kiss her hands in all directions, had time to observe everything.

It was astonishing how radiant Ingrid suddenly looked. Her eyes shone as

never before, and her face was so white that light seemed to come from

it. And all this radiancy was directed towards the man in the window.

He did not hesitate long. He stood up on the window-sill and jumped down

to them, and he went up to the blind man and asked him to lend him his

violin. Ingrid at once took the violin from the blind man and gave it to

him.

'Play the waltz from "Freischütz,"' she said.

Then the man began to play, and Ingrid smiled, but she looked so

unearthly that Mrs. Blomgren almost thought that she would dissolve into

a sunbeam, and fly away from them. But as soon as Mrs. Blomgren heard

the man play she knew him again.

'Is that how it is?' she said to herself. 'Is it he? That was why she

wanted to see two old people perform.'

* * * * *

Gunnar Hede, who had been walking up and down his room in such a rage

that he felt inclined to kill someone, had suddenly heard a blind man

playing outside his window, and that had taken him back to an incident

in his former life.

He could not at first understand where his own violin was, but then he

remembered that Alin had taken it away with him, and now the only thing

left for him to do was to try and borrow the blind man's violin to play

himself quiet again; he was so excited. And as soon as he had got the

violin in his hand he began to play. It never occurred to him that he

could not play. He had no idea that for several years he had only been

able to play some poor little tunes.

He thought all the time he was in Upsala, outside the house with the

Virginia-creepers, and he expected the acrobats would begin to dance as

they had done last time. He endeavoured to play with more life to make

them do so, but his fingers were stiff and awkward; the bow would not

properly obey them. He exerted himself so much that the perspiration

stood on his forehead.

At last, however, he got hold of the right tune--the same they had

danced to the last time. He played it so enticingly, so temptingly, that

it ought to have melted their hearts. But the old acrobats did not begin

to dance. It was a long time since they had met the student at Upsala;

they did not remember how enthusiastic they were then. They had no idea

what he expected them to do.

Gunnar Hede looked at Ingrid for an explanation why they did not dance.

When he looked at her there was such an unearthly radiance in her eyes

that in his astonishment he gave up playing. He stood a moment looking

round the small crowd. They all looked at him with such strange, uneasy

glances. It was impossible to play with people staring at him so. He

simply went away from them. There were some apple-pears in bloom at the

other end of the garden, so he went there.

He saw now that nothing fitted in with the ideas he had just had that

Alin had locked him in, and that he was at Upsala. The garden was too

large, and the house was not covered with red creepers. No, it could not

be Upsala. But he did not mind very much where he was. It seemed to him

as if he had not played for centuries, and now he had got hold of a

violin. Now he would play. He placed the violin against his cheek, and

began. But again he was stopped by the stiffness in his fingers. He

could only play the very simplest things.

'I shall have to begin at the beginning,' he said.

And he smiled and played a little minuet. It was the first thing he had

learnt. His father had played it to him, and he had afterwards played it

from ear. He saw all at once the whole scene before him, and he heard

the words:

'The little Prince should learn to dance, but he broke his little leg.'

Then he tried to play several other small dances. They were some he had

played as a school boy. They had asked him to play at the

dancing-lessons at the young ladies' boarding-school. He could see the

girls dance and swing about, and could hear the dancing-mistress beat

the time with her foot.

Then he grew bolder. He played first violin in one of Mozart's

quartettes. When he learnt that, he was in the Sixth Form at the Latin

school at Falun. Some old gentlemen had practised this quartette for a

concert, but the first violin had been taken ill, and he was asked to

take his part, young as he was. He remembered how proud he had been.

Gunnar Hede only thought of getting his fingers into practice when he

played these childish exercises. But he soon noticed that something

strange was happening to him. He had a distinct sensation that in his

brain there was some great darkness that hid his past. As soon as he

tried to remember anything, it was as if he were trying to find

something in a dark room; but when he played, some of the darkness

vanished. Without his having thought of it, the darkness had vanished so

much that he could now remember his childhood and school life.

Then he made up his mind to let himself be led by the violin; perhaps it

could drive away all the darkness. And so it did, for every piece he

played the darkness vanished a little. The violin led him through the

one year after the other, awoke in him memories of studies, friends and

pleasures. The darkness stood like a wall before him, but when he

advanced against it, armed with the violin, it vanished step by step.

Now and then he looked round to see whether it closed again behind him.

But behind him was bright day.

The violin came to a series of duets for piano and violin. He only

played a bar or two of each. But a large portion of the darkness

vanished; he remembered his _fiancée_ and his engagement. He would like

to have dwelt a little over this, but there was still much darkness left

to be played away. He had no time.

He glided into a hymn. He had heard it once when he was unhappy. He

remembered he was sitting in a village church when he heard it. But why

had he been unhappy? Because he went about the country selling goods

like a poor pedlar. It was a hard life. It was sad to think about it.

The bow went over the strings like a whirlwind, and again cut through a

large portion of the darkness. Now he saw the Fifty-Mile Forest, the

snow-covered animals, the weird shapes, the drifts made of them. He

remembered the journey to see his _fiancée_, remembered that she had

broken the engagement. All this became clear to him at one time.

He really felt neither sorrow nor joy over anything he remembered. The

most important thing was that he did remember. This of itself was an

unspeakable pleasure. But all at once the bow stopped, as if of its own

accord. It would not lead him any further. And yet there was more--much

more--that he must remember. The darkness still stood like a solid wall

before him.

He compelled the bow to go on. And it played two quite common tunes, the

poorest he had ever heard. How could his bow have learned such tunes?

The darkness did not vanish in the least for these tunes. They really

taught him nothing; but from them came a terror which he could not

remember having ever felt before--an inconceivable, awful fear, the mad

terror of a doomed soul.

He stopped playing; he could not bear it. What was there in these

tunes--what was there? The darkness did not vanish for them, and the

awful thing was, that it seemed to him that when he did not advance

against the darkness with the violin and drive it before him, it came

gliding towards him to overwhelm him.

He had been standing playing, with his eyes half closed; now he opened

them and looked into the world of reality. He saw Ingrid, who had been

standing listening to him the whole time. He asked her, not expecting an

answer, but simply to keep back the darkness for a moment:

'When did I last play this tune?'

But Ingrid stood trembling. She had made up her mind, whatever happened,

now he should hear the truth. Afraid she was, but at the same time full

of courage, and quite decided as to what she meant to do. He should not

again escape her, not be allowed to slip away from her. But in spite of

her courage she did not dare to tell him straight out that these were

the tunes he had played whilst he was out of his mind; she evaded the

question.

'That was what you used to play at Munkhyttan last winter,' she said.

Hede felt as if he were surrounded by nothing but mysteries. Why did

this young girl say '_du_' to him? She was not a peasant girl.[A] Her

hair was dressed like other young ladies', on the top of the head and

in small curls. Her dress was home-woven, but she wore a lace collar.

She had small hands and a refined face. This face, with the large,

dreamy eyes, could not belong to a peasant girl. Hede's memory could not

tell him anything about her. Why did she, then, say '_du_' to him? How

did she know that he had played these tunes at home?

[A] The peasants in the Dalar district used formerly to address

everybody by the pronoun _du_ (thou), even when speaking to the King;

this custom is now, however, not so general.--I.B.

'What is your name?' he said. 'Who are you?'

'I am Ingrid, whom you saw at Upsala many years ago, and whom you

comforted because she could not learn to dance on the tight-rope.'

This went back to the time he could partly remember. Now he did remember

her.

'How tall and pretty you have grown, Ingrid!' he said. 'And how fine you

have become! What a beautiful brooch you have!'

He had been looking at her brooch for some time. He thought he knew it;

it was like a brooch of enamel and pearls his mother used to wear. The

young girl answered at once.

'Your mother gave it to me. You must have seen it before.'

Gunnar Hede put down the violin and went up to Ingrid. He asked her

almost violently:

'How is it possible--how can you wear her brooch? How is it that I don't

know anything about your knowing my mother?'

Ingrid was frightened. She grew almost gray with terror. She knew

already what the next question would be.

'I know nothing, Ingrid. I don't know why I am here. I don't know why

you are here. Why don't I know all this?'

'Oh, don't ask me!'

She went back a step or two, and stretched out her hands as if to

protect herself.

'Won't you tell me?'

'Don't ask! don't ask!'

He seized her roughly by the wrist to compel her to tell the truth.

'Tell me! I am in my full senses! Why is there so much I can't

remember?'

She saw something wild and threatening in his eyes. She knew now that

she would be obliged to tell him. But she felt as if it were impossible

to tell a man that he had been mad. It was much more difficult than she

had thought. It was impossible--impossible!

'Tell me!' he repeated.

But she could hear from his voice that he would not hear it. He was

almost ready to kill her if she told him. Then she summoned up all her

love, and looked straight into Gunnar Hede's eyes, and said:

'You have not been quite right.'

'Not for a long time?'

'I don't quite know--not for three or four years.'

'Have I been out of my mind?'

'No, no! You have bought and sold and gone to the fairs.'

'In what way have I been mad?'

'You were frightened.'

'Of whom was I frightened?'

'Of animals.'

'Of goats, perhaps?'

'Yes, mostly of goats.'

He had stood clutching her by the wrist the whole time. He now flung her

hand away from him--simply flung it. He turned away from Ingrid in a

rage, as if she had maliciously told him an infamous lie.

But this feeling gave way for something else which excited him still

more. He saw before his eyes, as distinctly as if it had been a picture,

a tall Dalar man, weighed down by a huge pack. He was going into a

peasant's house, but a wretched little dog came rushing at him. He

stopped and curtsied and curtsied, and did not dare to go in until a man

came out of the house, laughing, and drove the dog away.

When he saw this he again felt that terrible fear. In this anguish the

vision disappeared, but then he heard voices. They shouted and shrieked

around him. They laughed. Derision was showered upon him. Worst and

loudest were the shrill voices of children. One word, one name came over

and over again: it was shouted, shrieked, whispered, wheezed into his

ear--'The Goat! the Goat!' And that all meant him, Gunnar Hede. All that

he had lived in. He felt in full consciousness the same unspeakable fear

he had suffered whilst out of his mind. But now it was not fear for

anything outside himself--now he was afraid of himself.

'It was I! it was I!' he said, wringing his hands. The next moment he

was kneeling against a low seat. He laid his head down and cried, cried:

'It was I!' He moaned and sobbed. 'It was I!' How could he have courage

to bear this thought--a madman, scorned and laughed at by all? 'Ah! let

me go mad again!' he said, hitting the seat with his fist. 'This is more

than a human being can bear.'

He held his breath a moment. The darkness came towards him as the

saviour he invoked. It came gliding towards him like a mist. A smile

passed over his lips. He could feel the muscles of his face relax, feel

that he again had the look of a madman. But that was better. The other

he could not bear. To be pointed at, jeered at, scorned, mad! No, it was

better to be so again and not to know it. Why should he come back to

life? Everyone must loathe him. The first light, fleeting clouds of the

great darkness began to enwrap him.

Ingrid stood there, seeing and hearing all his anguish, not knowing but

that all would soon be lost again. She saw clearly that madness was

again about to seize him. She was so frightened, so frightened, all her

courage had gone. But before he again lost his senses, and became so

scared that he allowed no one to come near him, she would at least take

leave of him and of all her happiness.

Gunnar Hede felt that Ingrid came and knelt down beside him, laid her

arm round his neck, put her cheek to his, and kissed him. She did not

think herself too good to come near him, the madman, did not think

herself too good to kiss him.

There was a faint hissing in the darkness. The mist lifted, and it was

as if serpents had raised their heads against him, and now wheezed with

anger that they could not reach to sting him.

'Do not be so unhappy,' Ingrid said. 'Do not be so unhappy. No one

thinks of the past, if you will only get well.'

'I want to be mad again,' he said. 'I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to

think how I have been.'

'Yes, you can,' said Ingrid.

'No; that no one can forget,' he moaned. 'I was so dreadful! No one can

love me.'

'I love you,' she said.

He looked up doubtfully.

'You kissed me in order that I should not go out of my mind again. You

pity me.'

'I will kiss you again,' she said.

'You say that now because you think I am in need of hearing it.'

'Are you in need of hearing that someone loves you?'

'If I am--if I am? Ah, child,' he said, and tore himself away from her,

'how can I possibly bear it, when I know that everyone who sees me

thinks: "That fellow has been mad; he has gone about curtsying for dogs

and cats."'

Then he began again. He lay crying with his face in his hands.

'It is better to go out of one's mind again. I can hear them shouting

after me, and I see myself, and the anguish, the anguish, the

anguish----'

But then Ingrid's patience came to an end.

'Yes, that is right,' she cried; 'go out of your mind again. I call that

manly to go mad in order to escape a little anguish.'

She sat biting her lips, struggling with her tears, and as she could

not get the words out quickly enough, she seized him by the shoulder and

shook him. She was enraged and quite beside herself with anger because

he would again escape her, because he did not struggle and fight.

'What do you care about me? What do you care about your mother? You go

mad, and then you will have peace.' She shook him again by the arm. 'To

be saved from anguish, you say, but you don't care about one who has

been waiting for you all her life. If you had any thought for anyone but

yourself, you would fight against this and get well; but you have no

thought for others. You can come so touchingly in visions and dreams and

beg for help, but in reality you will not have any help. You imagine

that your sufferings are greater than anyone else's, but there are

others who have suffered more than you.'

At last Gunnar Hede raised his eyes, and looked her straight in the

face. She was anything but beautiful at this moment. Tears were

streaming down her cheeks, and her lips trembled, whilst she tried to

get out the words between her sobs. But in his eyes her emotion only

made her more beautiful. A wonderful peace came over him, and a great

and humble thankfulness. Something great and wonderful had come to him

in his deepest humiliation. It must be a great love--a great love.

He had sat bemoaning his wretchedness, and Love came and knocked at his

door. He would not merely be tolerated when he came back to life;

people would not only with difficulty refrain from laughing at him.

There was one who loved him and longed for him. She spoke hardly to him,

but he heard love trembling in every single word. He felt as if she were

offering him thrones and kingdoms. She told him that whilst he had been

out of his mind he had saved her life. He had awakened her from the

dead, had helped her, protected her. But this was not enough for her;

she would possess him altogether.

When she kissed him he had felt a life-giving balm enter his sick soul,

but he had hardly dared to think that it was love that made her. But he

could not doubt her anger and her tears. He was beloved--he, poor

wretched creature! he who had been held in derision by everybody! and

before the great and humble bliss which now filled Gunnar Hede vanished

the last darkness. It was drawn aside like a heavy curtain, and he saw

plainly before him the region of terror through which he had wandered.

But there, too, he had met Ingrid; there he had lifted her from the

grave; there he had played for her at the hut in the forest; there she

had striven to heal him.

But only the memory of her came back: the feelings with which she had

formerly inspired him now awoke. Love filled his whole being; he felt

the same burning longing that he had felt in the churchyard at Raglanda

when she was taken from him.

In that region of terror, in that great desert, there had at any rate

grown one flower that had comforted him with fragrance and beauty, and

now he felt that love would dwell with him forever. The wild flower of

the desert had been transplanted into the garden of life, and had taken

root and grown and thriven, and when he felt this he knew he was saved;

he knew that the darkness had found its master.

Ingrid was silent. She was tired, as one is tired after hard work; but

she was also content, for she felt she had carried out her work in the

best possible manner. She knew she had conquered.

At last Gunnar Hede broke the silence.

'I promise you that I will not give in,' he said.

'Thank you,' Ingrid answered.

Nothing more was said.

Gunnar Hede thought he would never be able to tell her how much he loved

her. It could never be told in words, only shown every day and every

hour of his life.

_From a Swedish_ HOMESTEAD