Everybody tried to dissuade the Hellgumists from going to Jerusalem.
And toward the last, it seemed as though the very hills and vales
echoed the plea, "Do not go! Do not go!"
Even the country gentlemen did their best to get the peasants to
abandon the idea. The bailiff, the judge, and the councilmen gave
them no peace; they asked them how they could feel sure that these
Americans were not imposters; for they had no way of knowing what
sort of folk they would be getting in with. In that far Eastern
country there was neither law nor order; there one was always in
danger of falling into the hands of brigands. Besides, there were
no decent roads in that land--all their goods would have to be
transported by means of pack-horses, as in the wild forests up
North.
The doctor told them they would never be able to stand the climate;
that Jerusalem was full of smallpox and malignant fevers; they were
going away only to die.
The Hellgumists answered that they knew all this, and it was for
that very reason they were going. They were going there in order to
fight the smallpox and the fevers, to build roads and to till the
soil. God's country should no longer lie waste; they would transform
it into a paradise. And no one was able to turn them from their
purpose.
Down in the village lived an old lady, the widow of the Dean. She
was very, very old! She occupied a large chamber above the post
office, just across the street from the church, where she had lived
since the death of her husband.
Some of the more well-to-do peasant women had always made it a rule
to drop in to see the old lady on Sundays, before the service, and
bring her some freshly baked bread, a pat of butter, or a can of
milk. On these occasions she would always have the coffee pot put
on the fire the moment they came in, and the one who could shout
the loudest always talked with her, for she was frightfully deaf.
Of course they would try to tell her about everything that had
happened during the week, but they could never be certain as to how
much she heard of what was told her.
She never left her room, and there were times when it seemed as if
people had forgotten her entirely. Then some one, in passing, would
see her old face back of the draped white curtains at the window,
and think: "I must not forget her in her loneliness; to-morrow when
we have killed the calf, I'll run in to see her, and take her a bit
of fresh meat."
No one could find out just how much she knew or did not know of
what went on in the parish. With the advancing years, she became
more and more detached, and apparently lost all interest in the
things of this world. Now she just sat reading all the while in an
old Postil, which she seemed to know by heart.
Living with her was a faithful old servant, who helped her dress,
and prepared her meals. The two of them were in mortal fear of
robbers and mice, and they were so afraid of fire that they would
sit in the dark the whole evening rather than light the lamp.
Several among those who had lately become followers of Hellgum,
used to call on the Dean's widow in the old days, and bring her
little gifts; but since their conversion they had separated
themselves from all who were not of their faith; so they no longer
went to see her. No one knew whether she understood why they did
not come. Nor did anybody know whether she had heard anything about
their proposed emigration to Jerusalem.
But one day the old lady took it into her head to go for a drive,
and ordered the servant to get her a carriage and pair. Imagine the
astonishment of the old servant! But when she attempted to
remonstrate, the old lady suddenly became stone deaf. Raising her
right hand, her forefinger poised in the air, she said:
"I wish to go for a drive, Sara Lena, you must find me a carriage
and a pair of horses."
There was nothing for Sara Lena but to do as she was told. So she
went over to the pastor's to ask for the loan of his rig, which was
a fairly decent-looking turnout. That done, she was put to the
bother of airing and brushing an old fur cape and an old velvet
bonnet that had been lying in camphor twenty consecutive years. And
it was no small task getting the old lady down the stairs and into
the wagon! She was so feeble that it seemed as if her life could
have been as easily snuffed out as a candle flame in a storm.
When the Dean's widow was at last safely seated in the carriage,
she ordered the driver to take her to the Ingmar Farm.
Maybe the folks up at the farm were not surprised when they saw who
was coming! The housefolk came running out, and lifted her down
from the carriage, and ushered her into the living-room. Seated at
the table in there were quite a number of Hellgumists. Of late they
had been in the habit of coming together and having their frugal
meals in common--meals which consisted of rice and tea and other
light things; this was to prepare them for the coming journey
across the desert.
The Dean's widow glanced around the room. Several persons tried to
speak to her, but that day she heard nothing whatever. Suddenly she
put up her hand, and said in that hard, dry voice in which deaf
people are wont to speak: "You do not come to see _me_ any more;
therefore, I have come to _you_, to warn you not to go to Jerusalem.
It is a wicked city. It was there they crucified our Saviour."
Karin attempted to answer the old lady, who apparently did not
hear, for she went right on:
"It is a wicked city," she repeated. "Bad people live there. 'Twas
there they crucified Christ. I have come here to-day," she added,
"because this has been a good house. Ingmarsson has been a good
name; it has always been a good name. Therefore, you must remain in
our parish,"
Then she turned and walked out of the house. Now she had done her
part, and could die in peace. This was the last service that life
demanded of her.
After the old lady had gone, Karin broke into tears. "Perhaps it
isn't right for us to go," she sighed. But she was pleased that the
Dean's widow had said that Ingmarsson was a good name--that it had
always been a good name.
It was the first and only time Karin had been known to waver, or
to express any doubt as to the advisability of the great
undertaking.