There were many who thought that Elof Ersson should have found no
peace in his grave for the shameful way in which he had dealt with
Karin and young Ingmar. He had deliberately made way with all of
his and Karin's money, so she would suffer hardship after his
death. And he left the farm so heavily mortgaged, that Karin would
have been forced to turn it over to the creditors, had not Halvor
been rich enough to buy in the property and pay off the debts.
Ingmar Ingmarsson's twenty thousand kroner, of which Elof had been
sole trustee, had entirely disappeared. Some people thought that
Elof had buried the money, others that he had given it away; in any
case, it was not to be found.
When Ingmar learned that he was penniless, he consulted Karin as to
what he should do. Ingmar told his sister that of all things he
would prefer to be a teacher, and begged her to let him remain with
the Storms until he was old enough to enter college. Down at the
village he would always be able to borrow books from the
schoolmaster or the pastor, he said, and, moreover, he could help
Storm at the school, by reading with the children; that would be
excellent practice.
Karin turned this over in her mind before answering. "I suppose you
wouldn't care to remain at home, since you can't become master
here?" she said.
When Storm's daughter heard that Ingmar was coming back, she pulled
a long face. It seemed to her that if they must have a boy living
with them, they might better have the judge's good-looking son,
Bertil, or there was jolly Gabriel, the son of Hök Matts Ericsson.
Gertrude liked both Gabriel and Bertil, but as for Ingmar, she
couldn't exactly tell what her feelings were toward him. She liked
him because he helped her with her lessons and minded her like a
slave; but she could also become thoroughly put out with him
sometimes, because he was clumsy and tiresome and did not know how
to play. She had to admire his diligence and his aptitude for
learning, yet at times she fairly despised him for not being able
to show off what he could do.
Gertrude's head was always full of droll fancies and dreams, which
she confided to Ingmar. If the lad happened to be away for a few
days, she grew restless, and felt that she had no one to talk to;
but as soon as he got back she hardly knew what she had been
longing for.
The girl had never thought of Ingmar as a boy of means and good
family connections, but treated him rather as though he were a
little beneath her. Yet when she heard that Ingmar had become poor,
she wept for him, and when he told her that he would not try to get
back his property, but meant to earn his own living as a teacher,
she was so indignant she could hardly control herself.
The Lord only knows all she had dreamed that he would be some day!
The children at Storm's school were given very rigid training. They
were held strictly to their tasks, and only on rare occasions were
they allowed any amusements. However, all this was changed the
spring Storm gave up his preaching. Then Mother Stina said to him:
"Now, Storm, we must let the young folks be young. Remember that
you and I were young once. Why, when we were seventeen, we danced
many a night from sundown to sunup."
So, one Saturday night, when young Gabriel and Gunhild, the
councilman's daughter, paid a visit to the Storms, they actually
had a dance at the schoolhouse.
Gertrude was wild with delight at being allowed to dance, but
Ingmar would not join in. Instead, he took up a book, and went
and sat down on the sofa by the window. Time and again Gertrude
tried to make him lay down his book, but Ingmar, sulky and shy,
refused to budge. Mother Stina looked at him and shook her head.
"It's plain he comes of an old, old stock," she thought. "That kind
can never be really young."
The three who did dance had such a good time! They talked of going
to a regular dance the next Saturday evening, and asked the
schoolmaster and Mother Stina what they thought about it.
"If you will do your dancing at Strong Ingmar's, I give my
consent," said Mother Stina; "for there you will meet only
respectable folk."
Then Storm also made it conditional. "I can't allow Gertrude to go
to a dance unless Ingmar goes along to look after her," he said.
Whereupon all three rushed up to Ingmar and begged him to accompany
them.
"No!" he growled, without even glancing up from his book.
"It's no good asking him!" said Gertrude in a tone that made Ingmar
raise his eyes. Gertrude looked radiantly beautiful after the
dance. She smiled scornfully, and her eyes flashed as she turned
away. It was plainly to be seen how much she despised him for
sitting there so ugly and sulky, like some crotchety old man.
Ingmar had to alter his mind and say "yes"--there was no way out
of it.
A few evenings later while Gertrude and Mother Stina sat spinning
in the kitchen, the girl suddenly noticed that her mother was
getting uneasy. Every little while she would stop her spinning-wheel
and listen. "I can't imagine what that noise is," she said. "Do you
hear anything, Gertrude?"
"Yes, I do," replied the girl. "There must be some one upstairs in
the classroom."
"Who could be there at this hour?" Mother Stina flouted. "Only
listen to the rustling and the pattering from one end of the room
to the other!"
And there certainly was a rustling and a pattering and a bumping
about over their heads, that made both Gertrude and her mother
feel creepy.
"There must surely be some one up there," insisted Gertrude.
"There can't be," Mother Stina declared. "Let me tell you that this
thing has been going on every night since you danced here."
Gertrude perceived that her mother imagined the house had been
haunted since the night of the dance. If that idea were allowed to
become fixed in Mother Stina's mind, there would be no more dancing
for Gertrude.
"I'm going up there to see what it is," said the girl, rising; but
her mother caught hold of her skirt.
"I don't know whether I dare let you go," she said.
"Nonsense, mother! It's best to find out what this is."
"Then I'd better go with you," the mother decided.
They crept softly up the stairs. When they got to the door they
were afraid to open it. Mother Stina bent down and peeped through
the keyhole. Presently she gave a little chuckle.
"What pleases you, mother" asked Gertrude.
"See for yourself, only be very quiet!"
Then Gertrude put her eye to the keyhole. Inside, benches and desks
had been pushed against the wall, and in the centre of the
schoolroom, amid a cloud of dust, Ingmar Ingmarsson was whirling
round, with a chair in his arms.
"Has Ingmar gone mad!" exclaimed Gertrude.
"Ssh!" warned the mother, drawing her away from the door and down
the stairs. "He must be trying to teach himself to dance. I suppose
he wants to learn how, so he'll be able to dance at the party," she
added, with smirk. Then Mother Stina began to shake with laughter.
"He came near frightening the life out of me," she confessed.
"Thank God he can be young for once!" When she had got over her fit
of laughing, she said: "You're not to say a word about this to
anybody, do you hear!"
***
Saturday evening the four young people stood on the steps of the
schoolhouse, ready to start. Mother Stina looked them over
approvingly. The boys had on yellow buckskin breeches and green
homespun waistcoats, with bright red sleeves. Gunhild and Gertrude
wore stripe skirts bordered with red cloth, and white blouses, with
big puffed sleeves; flowered kerchiefs were crossed over their
bodices, and they had on aprons that were as flowered as their
kerchiefs.
As the four of them walked along in the twilight of a perfect
spring evening, nothing was said for quite a long time. Now and
then Gertrude would cast a side glance at Ingmar thinking of how
he had worked to learn to dance. Whatever the reason--whether it
was the memory of Ingmar's weird dancing, or the anticipation of
attending a regular dance--her thoughts became light and airy. She
managed to keep just a little behind the others, that she might
muse undisturbed. She had made up quite little story about how the
trees had come by their new leaves.
It happened in this way, she thought: the trees, after sleeping
peacefully and quietly the whole winter, suddenly began to dream.
They dreamt that summer had come. They seemed to see the fields
dressed in green grass and waving corn; the hawthorn shimmered with
new-blown roses; brooks and ponds were spread with the leaves of
the water-lily; the stones were hidden under the creeping tendrils
of the twin flower, and the forest carpet was thick with star
flowers. And amid all this that was clothed and decked out, the
trees saw themselves standing gaunt and naked. They began to feel
ashamed of their nakedness, as often happens in dreams.
In their confusion and embarrassment, the trees fancied that all
the rest were making fun of them. The bumblebees came buzzingly up
to mock at them, the magpies laughed them to scorn, while the other
birds sang taunting ditties.
"Where shall we find something to put on?" asked the trees in
despair; but they had not a leaf to their names on either twig or
branch, and their distress was so terrible that it awakened them.
And glancing about, drowsy like, their first thought was: "Thank
God it was only a dream! There is certainly no summer hereabout.
It's lucky for us that we haven't overslept."
But as they looked around more carefully, they noticed that the
streams were clear of ice, grass blades and crocuses beeped out
from their beds of soil, and under their own ark the sap was
running. "Spring is here at all events," said the trees, "so it
was well we awoke. We have slept long enough for this year; now
it's high time we were getting dressed."
So the birches hurriedly put on some sticky pale green leaves, and
the maples a few green flowers. The leaves of the alder came forth
in such a crinkly and unfinished state that they looked quite
malformed, but the slender leave: of the willow slipped out of
their buds smooth and shapely from the start.
Gertrude smiled to herself as she walked along and thought this
up. She only wished she had been alone with Ingmar so she could
have told it all to him.
They had a long way to go to get to the Ingmar Farm--more than an
hour's tramp. They followed the riverside; all the while Gertrude
kept walking a little behind the others. Her fancy had begun to
play around the red glow of the sunset, which flamed now above the
river, now above the strand. Gray alder and green birch were
enveloped by the shimmer, flashing red one instant, the next taking
on their natural hues.
Suddenly Ingmar stopped, and broke off in the middle of something
he was telling.
"What's the matter, Ingmar?" asked Gunhild.
Ingmar, pale as a ghost, stood gazing at something in front of him.
The others saw only a wide plain covered with grain fields and
encircled by a range of hills, and in the centre of the plain a big
farmstead. At that moment the glow of sunset rested upon the farm;
all the window pans glittered, and the old roofs and walls had a
bright red glimmer about them.
Gertrude promptly stepped up to the others, and after a quick
glance at Ingmar, she drew Gunhild and Gabriel aside.
"We mustn't question him about anything around here," she said
under her breath. "That place over yonder is the Ingmar Farm. The
sight of it has probably made him sad. He hasn't been at home in
two years--not since he lost all his money."
The road which they had taken was the one leading past the farm
and down to Strong Ingmar's cabin, at the edge of the forest.
Soon Ingmar came running after, calling, "Hadn't we better go this
way instead?" Then he led them in on a bypath that wound around the
edge of the forest, and by which they could reach the cabin without
having to cross the farm proper.
"You know Strong Ingmar, I suppose?" said Gabriel.
"Oh, yes," young Ingmar replied. "We used to be good friends in the
old days."
"Is it true that he understands magic?" asked Gunhild.
"Well--no!" Ingmar answered rather hesitatingly, as if half-believing
it himself.
"You may as well tell us what you know," persisted Gunhild.
"The schoolmaster says we mustn't believe in such things."
"The schoolmaster can't prevent a person seeing what he sees and
believing what he knows," Gabriel declared.
Ingmar wanted to tell them all about his home; memories of his
childhood came back to him at sight of the old place. "I can tell
you about something that I saw once," he said. "It happened one
winter when father and Strong Ingmar were up in the forest working
at the kiln. When Christmas came around, Strong Ingmar offered to
tend the kiln by himself, so that father could come home for the
holidays. The day before Christmas, mother sent me up to the forest
with a basket of good fare for Strong Ingmar. I started early, so
as to be there before the midday dinner hour. When I came up,
father and Strong Ingmar had just finished drawing a kiln, and all
the charcoal had been spread on the ground to cool. It was still
smoking and, where the coals lay thickest, it was ready to take
fire, which is something that must not happen. To prevent that is
the most important part of the entire process of charcoal making.
Therefore, father said as soon as he saw me: 'I'm afraid you'll
have to go home alone, little Ingmar. I can't leave Strong Ingmar
with all this work.' Strong Ingmar walked along the side of the
heap where the smoke rose thickest. 'You can go, Big Ingmar,' he
said. 'I've managed worse things than this.' In a little while the
smoke grew less. 'Now let's see what kind of a Christmas treat
Brita has sent me,' said Strong Ingmar, taking the basket from me.
'Come, let me show you what a fine house we've got here.' Then he
took me into the hut where he and father lived. At the back was a
rude stone, and the other walls were made up of branches of spruce
and blackthorn. 'Well, my lad, you never guessed that your father
had a royal castle like this in the forest, eh?' said Strong
Ingmar. 'Here are walls that keep out both storm and frost,' he
laughed, thrusting his arm clean through the spruce branches.
"Soon father came in laughing. He and the old man were black with
soot and reeking with the odour of sour charcoal smoke. But never
had I seen father so happy and full of fun. Neither of them could
stand upright in the hut, and the only furniture in the place were
two bunks made of spruce twigs and a couple of flat stones on which
they had built a fire; yet they were perfectly contented. They sat
down, side by side, on one of the bunks, and opened the basket. 'I
don't know whether you can have any of this,' said Strong Ingmar to
father, 'for it's my Christmas dinner, you know.' 'Seeing it's
Christmas Eve you must be a good to me,' said father. 'At a time
like this I suppose it would never do to let a poor old charcoal
burner starve,' Strong Ingmar then said.
"They carried on like that all the time they were eating. Mother
had sent a little brandy along with the food. I marvelled that
people could be so happy over food and drink. 'You'll have to tell
your mother that Big Ingmar has eaten up everything,' said the old
man, 'and that she will have to send more to-morrow.' 'So I see,'
said I.
"Just then I was startled by a crackling noise in the fireplace. It
sounded as if some one had cast a handful of pebbles on the stones.
Father did not notice it, but at once Strong Ingmar said: 'What, so
soon?' Yet he went on eating. Then there was more crackling; this
time it was much louder. Now it sounded as if a shovelful of stones
had been thrown on the fire. 'Well, well, is it so urgent!' Strong
Ingmar exclaimed. Then he went out. 'The charcoal must be afire!'
he shouted back. 'Just you sit still, Big Ingmar. I'll attend to
this myself.' Father and I sat very quiet.
"In a little while Strong Ingmar returned, and the fun began anew.
'I haven't had such a merry Christmas in years,' he laughed. He had
no sooner got the words out of his mouth than the crackling started
afresh. 'What, again? Well, I never!' and out he flew in a jiffy.
The charcoal was afire again. When the old man came back for the
second time, father said to him: 'I see now that you have such good
help up here that you can get along by yourself.' 'Yes, you can
safely go home and keep your Christmas, Big Ingmar, for here there
are those who will help me.' Then father and I went home, and
everything was all right. And never, either before or afterward,
was any kiln tended by Strong Ingmar known to get afire."
Gunhild thanked Ingmar for his story, but Gertrude walked on in
silence, as if she had become frightened. It was beginning to get
dark; everything that had looked so rosy a while ago was now either
blue or gray. Here and there in the forest could be seen a shiny
leaf that gleamed in the twilight like the red eye of a troll.
Gertrude was astonished at Ingmar having talked so much and so
long. He seemed like another person since coming in on home ground;
he carried his head higher than usual, and stepped with firmer
tread. Gertrude did not quite like this change in him; it made her
feel uneasy. All the same she spunked up, and began to tease Ingmar
about his going home to dance.
Then at last they came to a little gray hut. Candles were burning
inside, the windows being too small to let in much light. They
caught the sound of violin music and the clatter of dancing feet.
Still the girls paused, wonderingly. "Is it here?" they questioned.
"Can any one dance here? The place looks too small to hold even one
couple."
"Go along inside," said Gabriel; "the hut isn't as tiny as looks."
Outside the door, which was open, stood a group of boys and girls
who had danced themselves into a warm glow; the girls were fanning
themselves with their headshawls, and the boys had pulled off their
short black jackets in order to dance in their bright green red-sleeved
waistcoats.
The newcomers edged their way through the crowd by the door into
the hut. The first person they saw was Strong Ingmar--a little fat
man, with a big head and a long beard.
"He must be related to the elves and the trolls," thought Gertrude.
The old man was standing upon the hearth, playing his fiddle, so as
not to be in the way of the dancers.
The hut was larger than it had appeared from the outside, but it
looked poor and dilapidated. The bare pine walls were worm-eaten,
and the beams were blackened by smoke. There were no curtains at
the windows, and no cover on the table. It was evident that Strong
Ingmar lived by himself. His children had all left him and gone to
America, and the only pleasure the old man had in his loneliness
was to gather the young folks around him on a Saturday evening, and
let them dance to his fiddle.
It was dim in the hut, and suffocatingly close. Couple after couple
were whirling around in there. Gertrude could scarcely breathe, and
wanted to hurry out again, but it was an impossibility to get past
the tight wedge of humanity that blocked the doorway.
Strong Ingmar played with a sure stroke and in perfect time, but
the instant that young Ingmarsson came into the room he drew his
bow across the strings, making a rasping noise that brought all the
dancers to a stop. "It's nothing," he shouted. "Go on with the
dance!"
Ingmar placed his arm around Gertrude's waist to dance out the
figure. Gertrude seemed very much surprised at his wanting to
dance. But they could get nowhere, for the dancers followed each
other so closely that no one who had not been there at the start
could squeeze in between them.
The old man stopped short, rapped on the fender with his bow, and
said in a commanding voice: "Room must be made for Big Ingmar's son
when there's any dancing in my shack!"
With that every one turned to have a look at Ingmar, who became so
embarrassed that he could not stir. Gertrude had to take hold of
him and fairly drag him across the floor.
As soon as the dance was finished, the fiddler came down to greet
Ingmar. When he felt Ingmar's hand in his, the old man pretended to
be very much concerned, and instantly let go of it. "My goodness!"
he exclaimed, "be careful of those delicate schoolmaster hands! A
clumsy old fellow like me could easily crush them."
He took young Ingmar and his friends up to the table, driving away
several old women who were sitting there, looking on. Presently he
went over to the cupboard and brought out some bread and butter and
root beer.
"I don't, as a rule, offer refreshments at these affairs," he said.
"The others have to be content with just music and dancing, but
Ingmar Ingmarsson must have a bite to eat under my roof."
Drawing up a little three-legged stool, the old man sat down in
front of Ingmar, and looked sharply at him.
"So you're going to be a school-teacher, eh?" he queried.
Ingmar closed his eyes for a moment, and there was the shadow of a
smile on his lips, but all the same he answered rather mournfully:
"They have no use for me at home."
"No use for _you_?" cried the old man. "You don't know how soon you
may be needed on the farm. Elof lived only two years, and who knows
how long Halvor will hold out?"
"Halvor is a strong, hearty fellow," Ingmar reminded.
"You must know, of course, that Halvor will turn the farm over to
you as soon as you're able to buy it back."
"He'd be a fool to give up the Ingmar Farm now that it has fallen
into his hands."
During this colloquy Ingmar sat gripping the edge of the plain deal
table. Suddenly a noise was heard as of something cracking. Ingmar
had broken off a corner of the table. "If you become a school-teacher,
he'll never let you have the farm," the old man went on.
"You think not?"
"Think--think? Well it's plain how you have been brought up. Have
you ever driven a plow?"
"No."
"Or tended a kiln, or felled a huge pine?"
Ingmar sat there looking quite placid, but the table kept crumbling
under his fingers. Finally the old man began to take notice.
"See here, young man!" he said when he saw what was happening, "I
shall have to take you in hand once more." Then he picked up some
of the splinters of the table and tried to fit them into place.
"You rogue! You ought to be going around to fairs, showing your
tricks for money!" he laughed, and dealing Ingmar a hard whack on
the shoulder, he remarked: "Oh, you'd make a fine school-teacher,
you would!"
In a twinkling he was back at the fireplace, fiddling away. Now
there was a snap and a go to his performance. He beat time with his
foot and set the dancers whirling. "This is young Ingmar's polka,"
he called out. "Hoop-la! Now the whole house must dance for young
Ingmar!"
Two such pretty girls as Gertrude and Gunhild had to be in every
dance, of course. Ingmar did not do much dancing. He stood talking
most of the time with some of the older men at the farther end of
the room. Between dances the people crowded around him as if it did
them good just to look at him.
Gertrude thought Ingmar had entirely forgotten her, which made her
quite miserable. "Now he feels that he is the son of Big Ingmar,
and that I am only the school-master's Gertrude," she pouted. It
seemed strange to her that she should take this so to heart.
Between the dances some of the young folks went out for a breath of
air. The night had grown piercingly cold. It was quite dark, and as
no one wanted to go home, they all said: "We'd better wait a little
while; the moon will soon be out. Now it's too dark to start for home."
Once, when Ingmar and Gertrude happened to be standing outside the
door, the old man came and drew the boy away. "Come, let me show
you something," he said, and taking Ingmar by the hand, he led him
through a thicket a short distance away from the house. "Stand
still now and look down!" he said presently. Then Ingmar found
himself looking down a cleft, at the bottom of which something
white shimmered. "This must be Langfors Rapids," said young Ingmar.
"Right you are," nodded the old man. "Now what do you suppose a
waterfall like that can be used for, eh?"
"It might be used to run a mill," said Ingmar thoughtfully.
The old man laughed to himself. He patted Ingmar on the back, then
gave him a dig in the ribs that almost sent him into the rapids.
"But who's going to put up a mill here? Who's going to get rich,
and who's going to buy the Ingmar Farm, eh?" he chuckled.
"I'd just like to know," said Ingmar.
Then the old man began unfolding a big plan he had in mind: Ingmar
was to persuade Tims Halvor to put up a sawmill below the rapids,
and afterward lease it to him. For many years the old man's dream
had been to find a way by which Big Ingmar's son might come into
his own again. Ingmar stood quietly looking down at the foaming
rapids.
"Come, let's go back to the house and the dancing!" said the old
man, but as Ingmar did not stir he waited patiently. "If he's the
right sort, he won't reply to this today, nor yet to-morrow," he
remarked to himself. "An Ingmarsson has to have time to consider."
And as they stood there, all at once they heard a sharp and angry
bark that seemed to come from some dog running loose in the forest.
"Do you hear that, Ingmar?" asked the old man.
"Yes; that must be a dog on the rampage."
Then they heard the bark more distinctly; it seemed to be coming
nearer, as if the beast were heading straight for the hut. The old
man seized Ingmar by the wrist. "Come, boy!" he said. "Get into the
house as quick as you can!"
"What's the matter?" asked Ingmar, astonished.
"Get in, I tell you!"
As they made for the hut, the angry barking sounded as if it were
quite close to them.
"What kind of dog is it?" Ingmar asked, again and again.
"Get inside, only get inside!" cried the old man, fairly pushing
Ingmar into the narrow passageway. Before closing the outer door he
shouted: "If there are any of you outside, come in at once!" As he
stood holding the door open, people came running from all
directions. "In with you, in with you!" he shrieked at them, and
stamped impatiently.
Meanwhile the people in the hut were becoming alarmed. They all
wanted to know what was amiss. When the old man had made sure that
everybody was inside, he closed and bolted the door.
"Are you mad, to be running about when you hear the mountain dog!"
At that moment the barking was heard just outside the hut; it was
as if the mountain dog were chasing round and round the house,
emitting hideous yowls.
"Isn't it a real dog?" asked a young rustic.
"You can go out and call to it if you like, Nils Jansson."
Then all were silent, listening to the howling thing which
continued to go round and round without a stop. It sounded weird
and dreadful. They began to shudder and shake, and some turned as
white as death. No, indeed, this was no ordinary dog; anybody could
tell that! It was doubtless some demon let loose from hell, they
thought.
The little old man was the only one who moved about. First he
closed the flue, then he went around and snuffed out the candles.
"No, no!" cried the womenfolk, "don't put out the lights!"
"You must let me do what is best for all of us," said the old man.
One of the girls caught hold of his coat. "Is the mountain dog
dangerous?" she asked.
"No, not he, but what comes after."
"And what comes after?"
Again the old man listened. Presently he said: "Now we must all be
very still."
Instantly there was breathless silence. Once again the terrible
howling seemed to circle the hut, but it grew less distinct as it
went across the marsh and up the mountains on the other side of the
valley. Then came an ominous stillness. Presently some man, who
couldn't hold in any longer, said that the _dog_ was gone.
Without a word Strong Ingmar raised his hand and dealt the man a
blow across the mouth.
From far away at the top of Mount Flack came a piercing sound; it
was like a howling wind, but it could also have been a blast from a
horn. Now and again prolonged blare could be heard, then roaring
and tramping and snorting.
All at once the thing came dashing down from the mountain with an
awful roar. They could tell when it had reached the foot of the
slope; they could tell when it swept the skirt of the forest; and
when it was directly above them. It was like the rolling of thunder
across the face of the earth; it was as if the whole mountain had
come tumbling into the valley. When it seemed to be almost upon
them, every head went down. "It will crush us," they all thought.
"It will surely crush us."
But what they felt was not so much the fear of death, as terror
lest it might be the prince of darkness himself coming, with all
his demons. What frightened them most were the shrieks and moans
that could be heard above the other noises. There were wails and
groans, laughter and bellowings, whines and hisses. When that which
they had supposed was a big thunderstorm was right upon them, it
seemed to be a mingling of groans and curses, of sobs and angry
cries, of the blast of horns, of crackling fire, of the plaints of
doomed spirits, of the mocking laughter of demons, of the flapping
of huge wings.
They thought all the furies of the infernal regions had been let
loose that night, and would overwhelm them. The ground trembled,
and the hut swayed as if it were going to topple over. It was as if
wild horses were prancing on the roof; as if howling ghosts rushed
past the door, and as if owls and bats were beating their wings
against the chimney.
While this was happening, some one put an arm around Gertrude's
waist and drew her to her knees. Then she heard Ingmar whisper: "We
must kneel down, Gertrude, and ask God to help us."
Only the moment before Gertrude had imagined she was dying, so
terrible was the fear that held her. "I don't mind having to die,"
she thought; "the awful part of it is that the powers of evil are
hovering over us."
But Gertrude had no sooner felt Ingmar's protecting arm around her
than her heart began to beat once more, and the feeling of numbness
in her limbs was gone. She snuggled close to him. She was not
frightened now. How wonderful! Ingmar must have felt afraid also,
yet he was able to impart to her a sense of security and
protection.
Finally the terrible noises died away; they heard only the faintest
echoes of them in the distance. They seemed to have followed in the
trail of the dog, down through the marsh and up into the mountain
passes beyond Olaf's Peak.
And yet the silence in Strong Ingmar's but was unbroken. No one
moved, no one spoke; at times it was as if fear had extinguished
all life there. Now and then through the stillness a deep sigh was
heard. No one moved for a long, long time. Some of the people were
standing up against the walls, others had sunk down on the benches,
but most of them were kneeling upon the floor in anxious prayer.
All were motionless, stunned by fear.
Thus hour after hour passed, and during that time there was many a
one in that room who ransacked his soul and resolved to live a new
life--nearer to God and farther away from His enemies, for each of
those present thought: "It is something that _I_ have done which
has brought this upon us. This has happened because of _my_ sins. I
could hear how the fiends kept calling to me and threatening me,
and shrieking my name, as they rushed by."
As for Gertrude, her only thought was: "I know now that I can never
live without Ingmar; I must always be near him because of that
feeling of confidence he gives one."
Then gradually the day began to break, the faint light of dawn came
stealing into the hut, revealing the many blanched faces. The
twitter of a bird was heard, then of another, and another. Strong
Ingmar's cow began to low for her breakfast, and his cat, who never
slept in the house on nights when there was dancing, came to the
door and mewed. But no one inside moved until the sun rolled up
from behind the eastern hills. Then, one by one, they stole out
without a word or even a good-bye.
Outside the house the departing guests beheld the signs of the
night's devastation. A huge pine, which had stood close to the
gate, had been torn up by the roots and thrown down; branches and
fence posts were littered over the ground; bats and owls had been
crushed against the side walls of the hut.
Along the broad roadway leading to the top of Mount Klack all the
trees had been blown down. No one could bear to look at this long,
so they all hurried on toward the village.
It was Sunday, and most people were still in their beds, but a few
persons were already out tending to their cattle. An old man had
just emerged from his house with his Sunday coat, to brush and air
it. From another house came father, mother, and children--all
dressed up for a holiday outing. It was a great relief to see
people quietly going about their business, unconscious of the awful
things that had happened in the forest during the night.
At last they came to the riverside, where the houses were less
scattered, and then to the village. They were glad to see the old
church and everything else. It was comforting to see that
everything down here looked natural: the sign-board in front of the
shop creaked on its hinges as usual; the post-office horn was in
its regular place; and the inn-keeper's dog lay sleeping, as
always, outside his kennel. It was also a gladsome surprise to them
to see a little bird-berry bush that had blossomed overnight, and
the green seats in the pastor's garden, which must have been put
out late in the evening. All this was decidedly reassuring. But
just the same no one ventured to speak until they had reached their
several homes.
When Gertrude stood on the steps of the schoolhouse, she said to
Ingmar: "I have danced my last dance, Ingmar."
"And I, too," Ingmar solemnly declared.
"And you'll become a clergyman, won't you, Ingmar? And if you can't
become a preacher, you must at least be a teacher. There is so much
evil in the world one has to fight against."
Ingmar looked straight at Gertrude. "What did those voices say to
you?" he asked.
"They said that I had been caught in the toils of sin, and that the
devil would come and take me, because I was so fond of dancing."
"Now I must tell you what I heard," said Ingmar. "It seemed to me
that all the old Ingmarssons were threatening and cursing me
because I wanted to be something more than a peasant, and to do
something besides just tilling the soil and working in the forest."