THE OUTCAST
BY
SELMA LAGERLÖF
TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH
BY
W. WORSTER, M. A.
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK, TORONTO
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1922
BOOKS BY SELMA LAGERLÖF
JERUSALEM, A Novel
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
CHRIST LEGENDS
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF NILS
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
FURTHER ADVENTURES OF NILS
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
LEGEND OF THE SACRED IMAGE
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
MIRACLES OF ANTICHRIST
(_Trans. from Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack_)
STORY OF GÖSTA BERLING
(_Trans. from Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flack_)
THE EMPEROR OF PORTUGALLIA
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
THE OUTCAST
(_Trans. from Swedish by W. Worster, M. A._)
CONTENTS
BOOK I
Grimön
In God's House
Father, Mother, and Son
The "Naiad"
The Schoolhouse
The Stonehills
The Sea
Sailing
Less than the Least
BOOK II
Lotta Hedman
The Wonderful Music
Sigrun
Hånger
The Meeting
The Vicarage
Preparations
The Flight
The Long Day
Morning
BOOK III
The Bereaved
A Letter
The Trollfolk of Hånger
The Lifting of the Curse
Ung-Joel
In the Nets
The Sermon of the Sacredness of Life
The Fifth Commandment
Conclusion
BOOK I
THE OUTCAST
GRIMÖN
ON THE island of Grimön, among the rocks and reefs of the western coast
of Sweden, there lived, some years back, a man and his wife. The two
were much unlike each other.
Joel Elversson, the husband, was the elder of the pair by fifteen years
or so. Ill-favoured to look at, heavy and slow, he had always been, and
age had not improved him. His wife, on the other hand, was still as neat
and pleasant a little body as ever; far from having lost her looks, she
seemed almost as pretty now, at fifty, as she had been at twenty.
One fine Sunday evening the couple were sitting on a big flat rock just
outside their house, chatting together at their ease. Joel was a man who
enjoyed hearing his own voice, and delivered his words with care. Just
now he was giving his wife at some length the contents of an article he
had read in the paper. The little woman listened, but her thoughts were
not following very closely.
"Eh," she thought to herself, "he's a wonderful head has Joel, to be
sure. How he can get all that out of a bit of print in a newspaper....
Pity he can't put his learning to some use for us both, instead of
others."
Involuntarily she glanced across at the house. It was a good-sized place
in itself, but in such a state of dilapidation as to be largely
uninhabitable; the pair lived now in one small outbuilding, which the
previous tenants, sea-captains all, had used for kitchen and larder.
"If only he'd had a liking for the sea," went on Mor Elversson to
herself, "like his father and grandfather before him. He'd have laid by
something now, and we'd be able to look forward to old age in ease and
comfort. But he's always been set on farming and field work and such,
and little enough it's brought us."
She did not move from her place while her husband was speaking, but her
little head, that moved quickly and easily as a bird's, turned slightly
as she glanced over the patches of cornfield and potato, little islands
of growth among the barren rock that formed the greater part of the
island.
Every little strip of cultivation was her husband's work; the very soil
was, in a manner of speaking, his creation. He had brought endless
boatloads of earth and manure to Grimön, in the firm conviction that he
must one day reap a rich reward for his pains.
"All that trouble for so many bits of earth, and poor at that," thought
his wife to herself. "Needs but one good northerly gale at Whitsuntide,
and all the sowing and planting'd be nowhere Nay, 'tis to the sea we
should look for our daily bread, living here as we do. There's neither
right nor reason in it else."
Another movement of the quick little head, and she was looking out
through the space between the tumbledown old house and the cottage, over
the broad, gleaming surface of the water beyond.
"Ay, the sea," she sighed. "'Tis different with that. Freights and
cargoes and good money paid. If I'd been a man, I'd have gone to sea
from the first, and never taken up with the farm work at all. And here
we're getting old and older, and what's to become of us when we're past
work? There's none of the children'd stay at home to toil and moil that
away--and small blame to them for that."
The last words must have been spoken aloud, for her husband turned
sharply toward her. He had been describing the perils and hardships of
an English expedition recently returned from the Arctic, and broke off
now in the middle of a sentence.
"You're not listening," he said. But it was doubtless not the first time
he had found himself talking to deaf ears, for he seemed neither
surprised nor annoyed.
"Indeed I was," his wife assured him. "I was thinking this very moment
how fine you talk, and how you'd do for a preacher."
"I don't know about that," said the husband, with a laugh. "If I can't
keep one listener from thinking of all and sundry when I'm preaching,
how'd I manage with a congregation?"
"But I was listening," his wife protested, somewhat discomfited. "I've
got it all in my head now. How they lost their ship the very first
winter and managed to build a snow house, and had to stay and live there
for over a year, till all their food was gone, and they were chewing
bits of hide."
There was a note of vexation in her voice, and her mouth twitched in a
way it often did when anything troubled her.
"Wonder how it would feel," suggested her husband, casually, "if 'twas
one of our own blood had been there starving in a snow hut."
The woman glanced at him sharply. What did he mean by that now?
Something, surely. But Joel sat staring before him, with no trace of
expression in his rheumy eyes.
"Well, if we were to spend all our time sitting thinking of other folks'
troubles, there'd be little pleasure in life," she said, apologetically.
"And, anyhow, they were saved in the end."
"That's true," Joel admitted. "There was a ship went out to find them,
and they're safe back in England now."
"And all the honour and glory, and live happy ever after," concluded his
wife.
To her mind, there was nothing to be so serious about when all had come
well at last. But her husband went on without changing his tone.
"I dreamt last night about our boy Sven," he said. "Dreamt he came and
stood by my bed and said I'd done him a sore wrong. I won't say if I've
any gift of dreaming true as a rule, and I don't know if there's
anything in this or not. But it's a queer thing, all the same, to see
his name in the paper here to-day."
The last words were spoken carelessly, as if the speaker were thinking
only of himself. But from that moment he had no reason to complain of
want of attention in his listener. His wife came close to him and
deluged him with questions: Where was the name? What was it he had
dreamt? Was there really anything about their boy Sven? Her voice grew
shrill, her nose flushed, and tears stood in her eyes.
Had it been any other of their children, she would have been less easily
moved. But it was different with Sven. They had given the boy away, when
nine years old, to an English gentleman and his lady, who had come
sailing along the coast in a yacht. The strangers had simply fallen in
love with the child, and had promised, if he were entrusted to them, to
bring him up as their own, as a rich gentleman, and make him their heir.
It was a wonderful prospect for the lad; his parents had felt that for
his own sake they dared not refuse. If he stayed with them, he would
have none to help him but themselves. And he was a bright child, with a
clever head; they had often agreed that he would surely get on in the
world if he had but the chance in his upbringing.
Seventeen years now since they had let him go, and during all that time
they had heard nothing from him. Never a letter, never a word of
greeting. They knew no more of him than if he had lain at the bottom of
the sea.
"See there," said the man, handing across the paper to his wife. "List
of those saved. Here it is. 'Sven E. Springfield.'"
"Yes, yes. 'Sven E. Springfield'--it's there, right enough."
"And that can't mean anything but Sven Elversson Springfield," Joel went
on. "His own name, mine, and his foster-father's. There's no mistake
about that."
Mor Elversson crushed the paper close. At that moment she felt that the
son she had given up to others of her own free will was dearest of all
her children.
"Why didn't you say straight out at once that Sven was there?" she said,
reproachfully. "I wasn't listening. Now you'll have to tell it all over
again."
Joel seemed somewhat at a loss. He had thought to tell her the whole
story before saying a word about Sven; it would have been easier so.
Then he could have seen how she took it, and acted accordingly.
However, he must tell her now. And he went on to explain all she wished
to know. What was meant by the eightieth degree of latitude, for
instance. And she listened, growing eager on her son's behalf for the
honours to be won, and thinking surely he and his comrades must have
reached farther than any before them. And what had they lived on after
the ship had gone down with all their stores? The story of how the
relief expedition had found them that summer, on the shores of Melville
Island, had to be repeated over and over again.
"Oh, what he must have had to go through in all that time!" she
exclaimed. "No, 'tis a wicked thing to give away one's own child to
strangers."
"But he's made his fortune now, I suppose," she went on, relieved. "And
they'll give him a host of medals and orders and all."
Soon she began to wonder how the boy had been received in England on his
return.
"Millions of people came out to see them," said Joel. "'Arctic
explorers' homecoming.'"
He felt ill at ease, anxious, and in fear. All their future depended on
how he framed his words now; if he could say the thing as it must be
said.
"If only we could have been there too," said his wife. "If I could but
have stood at a street corner and seen him go by."
"No need for you to have stood at street corners," said Joel. "It says
here there was a special steamer for parents and relatives to meet
them."
The look of joy faded suddenly from her face. "Eh, Joel," she sighed.
"Little good it would have been if we'd been there. They'd never have
let you nor me go on that steamer boat. _She_ wouldn't have let us."
"_She_" was Mor Elversson's word for the English lady that had taken
away her son. She had never forgiven her for forbidding her son to write
to his parents. And in her thoughts this stranger woman had become a
monster.
"I doubt but they'd have let us see him, all the same," said Joel.
It was some relief to him, in a way, that his wife laid stress on little
details such as this. He needed time to collect his thoughts before he
could break the news to her. All their future depended on how it was
said and taken; he told himself this again and again, as if to urge his
mind to the effort.
"Never believe it!" cried the woman, stubbornly, with a toss of her
head. "When she never so much as let him write a line all these years.
And I doubt but he's little thought for us, anyway. Nine years old he
was, when he went away, and sense enough, if he'd cared, to write
without her knowing. But it's plain enough; she's put it into his head
how we were common folk, and not the sort for a little young gentleman
to be asking about."
All her joy was gone and vanished now; the thoughts that had plagued her
so often in the past came back with renewed force.
"I'll admit," said her husband--"I'll admit it's a strange thing Sven
shouldn't have written a single word to us all that time. And it may
well be 'twas their fault that wouldn't let him. I heard something up at
the church to-day."
The woman said no word. She was too sick at heart to speak.
"This is going badly," said Joel to himself. "If she's in that humour,
there's little hope anyway."
"The Pastor's had news from England," he said aloud. And now again he
was touching on a matter he had thought to leave until his wife was more
prepared, and in the mood to take it better. But there seemed no help
for it now. "Pastor asked me to go along home with him. 'Twas he that
gave me the newspaper here."
"The Pastor?"
"Yes. Wanted to talk to me about Sven."
"Huh! What do I care! 'Tis all the same now, the way he's turned out."
Joel made no reply to this, and they sat for a long time in silence. At
last the woman burst out violently:
"I never knew the like of you for making a poor body curious. What was
it Pastor's heard from England?"
"It was news of Sven. And Pastor's coming himself to tell you about it
this evening."
The woman sprang to her feet. "Pastor himself--coming here! Well, of all
the wonders.... And you sitting there and never said a word of it till
now!"
She took a pace toward the house, thinking to look round and see that
all was clean and in order. Then suddenly she stopped.
"What's he coming here for?" she said. "There must be something wrong."
She cast a keen glance at her husband, as if trying to look into his
mind and read the thoughts within.
"Maybe Sven's turned softer now," she said, "after being up there in the
ice and chewing bits of hide. Maybe he's wishful to come and see us,
after all. But, mark my words, this time _I_ say no! If we weren't good
enough for him before, we're no better now."
"Be careful of your words," said her husband, warningly. "You never know
but you might be sorry after." He felt a growing anger toward her for
speaking so violently, and taking the whole thing differently from what
he would have done himself.
Mor Elversson had forgotten all about seeing to the house now. Her
husband's last words could mean but one thing--she had guessed rightly.
"And do you know what's the news Pastor's coming to tell?"
"I know something--yes."
"Was it himself told you to read out all that in the paper for me to
hear?"
"Well, no. He was going to tell you himself, I take it. But I reckoned
it was best you should know a little before he came, and be prepared."
"And just as well," said his wife. "Well that I knew of it in time. I
might have been forgetting myself and saying good-day and welcome before
I knew, and been sorry for it after."
Joel felt his anger increasing. "She'll spoil it all beyond mending," he
thought to himself, "and it's all our future to think of. Eh, she'll
never be wiser, only growing worse and worse for every year."
"I fancy Pastor 'll be glad to hear you can talk so careless like about
Sven. All one to you ... well, 'twill make it easier for him to say what
he's got to say."
"Easier? ..." repeated the woman, and her voice seemed harsher even than
before. "What d'you mean by that?"
"Why, it looks as if Sven's in trouble after all. That procession, when
they came home, that was to be last Sunday, and so it was, as fine as
could be. Next day, too, there was banquets and invitations and
things--and then all of a sudden it stopped. They'd come back from the
Arctic all right, but folk were beginning to say strange things about
them. Ugly things."
The woman's face set hard.
"You mean to tell me he's done something wrong?" she murmured between
clenched teeth.
"Took down all the flowers and flags and stuff, and put a stop to
everything. One day they could hardly make a way through the streets for
folk crowding round to cheer the sight of them; and the next, those same
folks ready to spit on them."
Mor Elversson raised her head.
"Well, I never heard ..." she cried. "I doubt it would have been better
for him to have stayed with his own flesh and blood after all."
"Remember," said her husband, speaking more forcefully now, "it's not
the first time such things have happened away on expeditions like that.
They were starving, and mad with hunger, and didn't rightly know what
they were doing. And then one of them couldn't stand it any longer, and
took and cut his throat, and after that, well ..."
"Well? They ate him up, I suppose you mean?"
She spoke the words coldly, without a trace of excitement. Her heart was
full of bitterness and disgust.
"They were no more accountable, really, than folk in a madhouse," said
her husband. "And it says here in the paper they couldn't bring
themselves to go on. Only started like."
"And Sven was in it, too?"
"When anything like that happens, they take good care all's in it. They
made him do like the rest. But that was all."
"And now," cried his wife, with an indescribable contempt in her
voice--"now I know what it is Pastor's got to say. Sven's not good
enough for _her_ now, and so he's got Pastor to come and persuade us to
let him come back here. Isn't that it?"
"I daresay that would be best, if it could be done," said Joel, slowly.
"But I say no!" cried his wife. "I say no! He shan't come back here
because he's nowhere else to go. He forgot all about us as long as he
was well off and comfortable; don't let him think we're anxious to have
him now. Poor and old we may be, and needing help. But we'll not have a
son that's done things so nobody else will own him."
Joel Elversson looked at his wife, with anger and impatience in his
eyes. He was old and weak, and it would have been a grand thing for him
to have a son at home able to work. His wife's feeling seemed to him
childish and unreasonable; she was obstinate; she was downright wicked.
"Wait," he thought to himself. "Wait, and you'll soon hear something
more to your mind."
"Just as I said," he went on aloud. "Pastor won't find it so hard, after
all, to tell you what was in the letter."
"It--isn't it what I thought, then?" asked his wife in a milder tone.
Her stubbornness was shaken by his evident anger and disapproval.
He looked at her sternly.
"Would you like me to tell you myself, or wait till Pastor comes?"
And in his impatience to punish her for her want of affection, he did
not wait for an answer, but went on:
"They live in London--the Springfields. And Sven had gone back home to
them there. But when the ugly stories began to get about, the father
sent a paper with the news up to him--and a loaded revolver with it."
"And the mother--what about her? Did she know he'd sent it?"
"She knew--yes."
"And--and what then?"
"Then--why, it came about as they wished. That's all."
"And now--he's dead."
"Now--now you know what Pastor had to tell you," said her husband.
"And she," cried the poor mother--"she that was not his mother at all,
but had had him with her all those years, she let him kill himself, when
he'd done no wrong?"
She turned on her husband fiercely.
"You lie!" she cried. "It is not true!"
"I'd have said those very words myself an hour ago. I wouldn't have
believed that a woman could be so heartless. But since I've heard you,
now, I can believe it."
"But--but he hadn't only them to look to. He'd his mother and father
here."
"Most likely he thought we'd take it the same way. And he wasn't so far
wrong, it seems."
Mor Elversson turned away, and sat down on the rock. The tears ran down
her cheeks. "Sven's dead," she said, "dead. No mother but a woman with a
heart of stone--and she let him die."
She sat awhile, weeping and moaning.
"O God, why did we ever let him go? And that woman to send him to his
death for nothing! When it was the others that made him ..."
"You'd better try and be calm a bit," said her husband. "Here's the
Pastor coming. The boat's just putting in."
"Tell him I know all about it. He can go back again."
"Can't very well do that, when he's been at the trouble to come."
Joel walked away, and came back a moment later with the Pastor and a
young man.
The priest walked up to the weeping woman.
"Joel tells me you've heard already, Mor Elversson," he said. "About
Sven. He was concerned in a very unpleasant business, and his adopted
parents sent him away."
Mor Elversson had risen to curtsey to the Pastor. She still held a
corner of her apron to her eyes, but, for all her weeping, she caught a
glimpse of the stranger with him.
"It's Sven," said a voice within her. "Sven...."
A host of thoughts crowded into her mind. She realized that Joel had
lied to her, in his anger at her heartlessness. She felt, too, that she
would never be able to overcome the sorrow she had felt on hearing that
her son had tasted human flesh. She saw that they would have to keep
this son at home with them now, since no one else would have him in
their service. But in the midst of all these cold reflections she saw
how thin and pale the boy looked, how his eyes begged her sympathy, and
a wave of pity and love rose in her heart.
"Eh, Joel, Joel," she thought. "Always strange in his ways. He's shown
me now what I am; made me see what I really feel. I know now, that for
all the boy's been away from us all these years, and come back in
disgrace, I can't but love him all the same."
And, without a word to the Pastor, she stepped forward to her son and
bade him welcome, her husband watching her anxiously the while.
"Surely," she said, in her gentlest voice, "it was just for this that
the trouble came--that Joel and I might have you back again."
IN GOD'S HOUSE
SVEN ELVERSSON, the man who had been greeted as a son by the two old
folk at Grimön, sat in the church at Applum, thanking God that he had
found a place of refuge where he was not looked upon with horror and
disgust.
On the lonely, rocky little island with its two poor inhabitants, he had
no fear of encountering that downward curve of the lips that signified
loathing. His father was an old man, and felt no disgust toward him,
having no strong feelings any longer in that way. His mother was
sensitive as ever, but she loved him.
The church in which he sat was an old wooden building, the ceiling
decorated with a great picture of the Judgment. And every time he looked
up he found himself involuntarily gazing at a big, black, grinning
devil, who was thrusting fuel under a cauldron filled with sinners
boiling in a sulphurous broth. Sven Elversson knew that particular fiend
of old, from the time when he had been in that very church seventeen
years before. A striking feature was the long tail, cloven in three at
the tip, which he used with great dexterity to stir the boiling mess.
As a child he had often let his fancy play about the figure of this
master cook, who managed so skilfully to tend his fire and his pot at
the same time. Now, however, other thoughts were in his mind. If all
those who every Sunday looked up at that merry spirit of the infernal
kitchens at his boiling were suddenly told that there, in their midst,
sat one of their fellows who had actually tasted human flesh, they would
hardly let him remain there long.
There was one thing--he could find no other to compare with it--which
civilised human beings could not do. Murder, adultery, cruelty, theft;
these they could commit. They were not above such things as drunkenness,
rape, treason, espionage. Such things as these were of daily occurrence.
There were, no doubt, those who would shrink from any such crime, but
the things were done. _One_ of mankind's ancient sins there was which no
longer existed in civilized countries--a thing too loathsome for any to
contemplate. And that he had done. Yes, he was more to be abhorred than
any fiend.
The only soul in the church, beyond his parents, who knew the reason of
Sven Elversson's homecoming was the Priest. But the Pastor had received
him kindly on the previous Sunday, showed him sympathy, and spoken with
his father; had gone with him out to Grimön, and been pleased to see
his mother's affectionate welcome--and had approved the idea of his
remaining at home with his parents. The Priest had shown himself
throughout as a tolerant and generous man.
To-day, as the Pastor entered his church, his eyes fell on Sven
Elversson, the man from the starvation camp at Melville Island. And at
sight of him he felt a stifling sensation in his throat.
He had helped this man, and done what he could for him; he had been glad
to be the means of bringing him back to his home, and finding a refuge
for an unfortunate who was made to suffer for what he had been forced to
commit; a fellow creature in such desperate straits that he might
otherwise have turned to suicide. But he had not thought to see him here
in church.
At the vicarage, he would not have hesitated to receive him if he had
come. But this he could not endure. The man had eaten human flesh--had
been guilty of something heathenish, abominable. Surely, he ought to
have understood himself that his presence there was intolerable.
A moment after, he reproached himself for his thoughts, accused himself
of uncharitableness, and called to mind how Christ had bidden all
sinners come to Him. He strove to rouse more sympathy in himself; he
thought of the poor sinner's gentle, kindly bearing, and checked his
first impulse to send the verger with a message asking him to leave the
church. He went through the service, and delivered his sermon as usual,
but could not free himself from a feeling of abhorrence.
The words he had to speak clung to his palate; he had to pause once or
twice in his sermon and clear his tongue before he could go on. It was
as if the taste of something loathsome actually filled his mouth; he
seemed to be witnessing the scene as it had happened: the group of
starving men flinging themselves upon the body of the suicide.
He would have felt nothing of this had it not been for the presence of
the man himself there in the church. But the feeling had come upon him
now, and he felt himself helpless in its grasp. He clenched his hands in
strife with himself, turned in the pulpit so as to keep the figure of
Sven Elversson away from sight; he strove to read the sermon as he had
written it, forced himself to concentrate his thoughts upon his words,
and suddenly the trouble was gone, and he felt at ease once more.
But now it chanced that he came to a passage in the sermon dealing with
falsehood, and how far it might be justified in certain cases. And at
once his thoughts turned to Grimön, and the manner in which Joel
Elversson had brought his wife to realize her true feelings. It was his
custom frequently to illustrate his sermons with episodes from real
life, and in doing so, he did not write down the story beforehand, but
told it in such words as came to him at the moment. And now it occurred
to him that the little happening at Grimön might be used by way of
example.
He had had no thought before of using it, but now, carried away by his
subject, he took it up.
He had not been speaking long before a warning thought crossed his
mind--it was perhaps hardly well to make the matter known to the whole
congregation. True, no one had asked him to keep it a secret.
Nevertheless, he felt uneasy, and sought for some way of altering the
story as he went on, but could find none, and told it as it was. He
tried to emphasize only that part which bore on his subject, of
falsehood and justification, but here again he failed, and told the very
thing that should have remained unsaid, making known the entire affair
to all those present.
At first, he felt ashamed of what he had done, then suddenly he was
seized with a sense of exultation at thus treading underfoot the unclean
spirit that had dared to appear in the church itself. "Despicable worm!"
he thought. "That such a creature should ever presume to enter into my
church--into the house of God."
He had struggled against the sense of loathing; now, it had crept upon
him unawares and overwhelmed him.
All next day the Priest was ill at ease. He had not acted as a man
should, with proper self-control. He had behaved like a child, like a
savage, giving way to instinct at once.
In vain he tried to find some way in which to repair what he had done;
it could not be altered now. He must wait until some opportunity
offered. The more he made of the affair just now, the worse it would be.
But what a power--what a terrible power--lay in this sense of loathing,
that it could thus overwhelm a man, as it had done with him, at the very
moment when he stood as teacher and spiritual guide in a Christian
church, speaking to Christian souls!
The little party from Grimön left the church as the preacher descended
from the pulpit.
Once outside, they stopped involuntarily, and stood a moment by the
church door, looking around.
The church stood in the middle of a level, open plain--an unusual thing
in that part of the country. Not of very wide extent, but still
considerable. One could see from one side to the other, and mark the
doings of one's neighbours, yet, for all that, it was large enough to
furnish ground for church and vicarage, and a score of homesteads and
farms round about.
The plain was walled in by gray, rocky hills on every side--not very
high, but still considerable. Both the north wind and the west could
force their way across the barrier, yet it sufficed to shut out the view
of everything beyond, even to the mountain peaks.
The whole plain was cut up into field on field of cultivated ground--and
these were neither large nor small, but of a size to suit the standing
of honest peasant farmers. And here and there among the fields were
buildings, red and blue and white, likewise of an equable, respectable
size. No big mansions dominating all the rest, and, on the other hand,
no poor cottages such as might serve to exalt the appearance of the
others, and make for pride in those who dwelt there.
As for the vegetation, it could not be called luxuriant, for there were
no trees to be seen, whether as woods on the hillsides, or in groups on
the plain, or set in rows along the waysides. On the other hand, it
could not be denied that it was a fertile soil, as it lay there now in
its autumn glory--a waving sea of wheat and grass and peas and beans and
clover.
Almost in the middle of the plain stood the church, from which the
Grimön folk themselves had just, as it were, been driven out. It was an
old-fashioned wooden building, that could not be called altogether ugly,
for it had a slender little tower rising up boldly, and leading the mind
heavenward. On the other hand, it was hardly beautiful, by reason of its
dark, heavy nave, that weighed down the soul to earth.
And in the stone-walled enclosure about the church itself, a
gray-striped cat wandered to and fro while the three stood without. A
handsome animal, well marked, with close, fine fur, and a pleasant
softness in all its movements.
But as they watched it, there seemed to be something uncanny about the
way its limbs moved under the soft skin. It was not only that it moved
so silently, or that its green slits of eyes, as it looked at them, were
so veiled and without expression. The thing was hateful because it was
so smooth and soft and pleasant-looking, while all the time it thought
of nothing but stealing and killing.
And as they looked, the cat seemed to grow and stretch itself and
expand, until it rose so high as to shut out sight of the wall of hills.
And as the creature grew, it purred and hummed and made all manner of
playful, easy movements--and the horror of it increased.
And they saw that the beast was the loathing that had arisen about
them--the loathing that was to grow and grow till it spread over all the
plain, that could find no better soil for its growth than here, shut in
within narrow bounds, where all things were level, equable, even....
Mor Nathalia Elversson faced round toward the church, and, scraping with
her nails at the red-painted wooden wall, tore loose a few splinters,
which she laid between the leaves of her prayer book.
"Here in this church I was christened," she said, "when I was a week
old. And here I was confirmed as a young girl. Here I was married, and
here, like as not, they'll read the burial service over me. But, till
that day comes, I'll enter there no more, as long as the shame of this
day's left to endure."
FATHER, MOTHER, AND SON
AS THE two old people at Grimön came to know their stranger son, they
wondered at him for many things.
"I tell you this, Joel," said Mor Elversson to her husband one day,
"that if _I_'d been taken away and brought up amongst gentlefolks as one
of themselves, and then all suddenly had to lay it all by, and come to
live on such fare as we can give, after being used to all manner of
dainties; if I'd had to leave all that and turn to helping you in the
fields and never so much as time to read in a book, nor ever change a
word with finer folks, but only a pair of ninnies like you and me--if it
was me was come to that, I'd be sullen and hard from morning to night,
that I would. And I doubt but you'd be the same."
Joel agreed that he would find it hard to be otherwise in such a case.
"And then look at Sven," went on his wife. "As if there was never a
thought of such in his head. And he's not grieving over money and
friends he's lost or that sort. Never seems to trouble him that he's no
sort of pleasure nor enjoyment to turn to. He can go about here laughing
and chaffing with me, and arguing with you, as if he'd never thought nor
longing for better company. Every day the same--gentle and humble and
glad as any God's lamb. There's but one thing I can see that plagues
him."
"Well, as for that, I can't think any the worse of him for feeling so.
It's the disgrace that's ever on his mind--and that's a sore thing for
any man to bear."
"Ay, that's true. And a cruel thing it is that folk can't get used to
him like, so he can't go over to the post, or into a store, but there's
some that curl lips at him or let out an ugly word. And I'm as sure as
can be in my heart he's innocent all the time. Sven, he's far and away
above the rest of the children as the sun and the moon, and it's in my
mind he's fretting for nothing at all. Ung-Joel might have done what
they say, but never Sven."
Day after day Mor Elversson talked in the same strain. As soon as she
and her husband were together, she would fall to praising Sven.
"You don't understand him, Joel," she would say. "And his ways, and how
he's different. But I'd have thought you might have seen it by the
difference in me. Washing and doing my hair neat, and sweeping and
scrubbing and cleaning about the place. You don't suppose it's for your
sake I do it?"
"Why," said Joel, "as for that, you've always been a great one for
keeping things clean and neat beyond other folks." It was a way Joel
had, of saying nice things to people whenever he could.
"It's not only that," said his wife, "but it's changed me in other ways.
I'm never angry about things now--I've turned soft as an eiderdown. Did
you ever see a smile like Sven's? When other folks look kindly at me,
I'm glad enough, but when Sven looks at me that smiling way of his, I
just feel I could fling myself naked into the sea if he said the word."
Joel laughed.
"I don't see there'd be any great gain in that if he did," he said. "But
there's something in what you say there. To my mind, the boy's like one
of the stones that lie down on the shore, and always being rolled about
by the waves. He's got worn and smooth from all the hard knocks he's
got, till there's not a sharp edge nor a corner anywhere."
Truth to tell, Joel, was at least as interested in his son as was his
wife. But, pleased though he was with the lad, he could not but be
anxious about him. It seemed as if he were resigned now, to submit to
the judgment that had been passed upon him, and keep away from his kind
for ever. There seemed little chance of his leaving the island. But even
there, he would not be cut off from all communication with his fellows,
unless he wished it so. Joel had been clerk to the magistrate's court
for thirty years past, and in the course of that time had gained much
knowledge of laws and regulations. In consequence, his help was often
sought by neighbours wishing to make a will, draw up a contract, or
arrange some similar matter in proper order. But when such visitors
appeared, Sven Elversson never came in for a word with them. On the
contrary, he would go off to the farthest part of the island as soon as
a boat came in sight.
"Well, what's he to do?" said Mor Elversson, when her husband spoke of
his anxiety. "To begin with, he's almost forgotten to speak his own
tongue in all these years, and it's only just beginning to come back to
him. And when folk themselves turn shy of him as if he was a monster,
what's he to do?"
Joel threw back his head, drew in his breath audibly, and uttered words
that his wife found it hard to understand.
"If I'd been born to be a musician," he said, "I doubt but I'd manage to
find me something to play on."
"Well, and what then?" said his wife. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that, if it's as I think, and our Sven's meant to be a picture
and example and show the way to others, then it can't be right for him
to live here on this bit of an island like a hermit."
Mor Elversson looked at her husband, and a wealth of tenderness shone in
her eyes.
"_You've_ lived on this bit of an island all your life," she said. "But
there's folk enough have been able to come and learn from you and plague
you with no end of things."
Joel waved his hand impatiently.
"What's that compared to Sven? I never learned things when I was young,
but Sven--he was set to it in time. There's nothing to stand in his
way."
"There's one thing...."
"There's that, of course...."
"And that's everywhere, where you'd least expect it. Like a cat lying in
wait, and before you know, it's at his throat."
"Ay," said Joel. "That's just the trouble. And what's done can't be
undone. There's no sort of miracle could keep that cat from flying at
him."
"But, Joel, remember, if it hadn't been for the trouble, he'd never have
come back home to us again. Though I know in my heart he's innocent,"
she added.
And again and again she said the same. So overjoyed was she at having
her son back home that she could hardly understand why he and his father
troubled themselves about what other folk thought. "Never heed them,"
she said to Sven. "They're just foolish. You're better than all of them.
The one that sneered at you the other day when you went to the post,
he'd be in prison for forgery if he had his due. Don't fancy he's any
call to look down on others."
But as time went on, she could not but feel that Joel was right, and
that her son was gradually becoming a recluse, shunning his fellows
altogether. And not only that. His manner had grown so humble that it
almost made him appear ridiculous. He seemed wishful to efface himself
altogether in his misery.
"No," she thought to herself. "This will never do. Something must happen
soon. Surely the Lord will not forsake us altogether."
The parish of Applum, to which Grimön belonged, included, not only the
level tract of the mainland as seen from the church, but also some dozen
little islets off the coast, and the fishing village of Knapefiord,
which last, with its boathouses and sheds, long quays and harbour
basins, vessels and buoys, seems to spread out as far over the water as
over the land.
Mor Elversson often rowed over to the village with butter and eggs, and
in talking with her customers, housewives who had known her for years,
she made frequent endeavours to praise this son of hers who had come
home, assuring all that he could never have done any wrong.
But she soon found that all her pains were to no purpose. No unkind
words were said, but those she spoke to pretended not to hear, as when a
person known to be otherwise sensible enough makes some unreasonable
assertion.
"Oh, they're over good and holy for this earth," said Mor Elversson
bitterly, when she came home. "Full to the brim with faith and
righteousness, till there's no room for a drop of mercy in them."
Joel himself met with no better success.
Of late, when people came to ask his help in this or that, he had taken
to hinting that he was getting too old for the work, and that his son
Sven ought soon to take over in his father's stead. But the suggestion
passed unheeded everywhere. Fisher or farmer, whoever it might be, all
were as deaf on that one subject as the sternly righteous housewives of
Knapefiord.
On Christmas Eve, Joel and his wife and their son sat in the little
dwelling at Grimön, talking of the future.
"Look here. Mother," said Sven, who seemed in particularly good humour
this evening, "don't you think this kitchen place is dark and
uncomfortable? What do you say to moving into the house itself?"
"Heavens!" cried his mother. "What's the boy thinking of! Why, there's
neither roof nor floor to the place."
"That's no worse than can be mended," answered Sven. "I've been looking
at the walls; they're sound enough. There's fine big rooms there, with
plenty of light, and looking out over the sea. It's a shame to let the
old captains' house go to rack and ruin."
Both father and mother agreed in this. But there was the question of
money.
Sven explained that he had money of his own--not from his
foster-parents, but money he had fairly earned. Before starting out on
the expedition he had been promised a thousand pounds to be paid on his
return. And this he had now received.
But Joel, for all that he had felt no qualms himself, suddenly saw how
the old sea-captains who had lived there before would turn in their
graves.
"Not with that money!" he cried. "I'd be glad to see the old house set
to rights--but not with that money--no!"
Mother and son looked up at him in surprise. But both of them realized
in a moment what was in his mind, and no more was said.
Joel sat thinking of the old sea-captains with their weather-beaten
faces, their tarry fists and thirsty throats, good-natured, cheery men,
not over-careful of their speech, nor dainty in their choice of company.
His fathers, no doubt, had been of the same breed--and now he had told
his son he was not good enough to live in the house that had been
theirs. Told him that the money he had earned at the risk of his life on
those same waters where they had voyaged and won their own was not good
enough to be spent in mending their home.
There was a strange smile on Sven Elversson's face that evening--a
gentle, patient, and forgiving smile. It had been there many a time
before, when he had felt how his fellow men shunned him. But now, now
that his father had shown a trace of the same feeling as all others had
toward him, the smile of resignation seemed to settle on his face as if
for good.
When Joel saw that look in his son's face, and marked how it stayed, and
did not pass, he rose to his feet, and tried with kindly words to make
amends. The boy answered with kindly words in return, but the look on
his face remained.
Joel was angry with himself for having reopened the old wound. He
understood that the lad had been keeping the news of the money a secret,
in order to bring it out that very evening. And the sense of shame grew
on him, till he felt unable to stay in the room, and took his hat and
went out into the dark. Perhaps in his absence the boy's mother could
tell him what were his father's real feeling toward him.
Hardly had Joel gone out, however, when a party of seven wild, drunken
fellows came storming into the kitchen. They wanted Sven--Sven
Elversson--to come out with them and be merry. They had taken a boat
across on purpose to fetch him.
Mor Elversson looked at the men, and saw they were a crew of fishermen
numbering some of the worst an wildest men on that part of the coast.
And behind the rest, as if trying to remain unperceived, was one of her
own sons, Ung-Joel, who was working in a store at Knapefiord.
And, turning from the drunken men with their unsteady gestures and
foolish laughter, she looked at the boy, her son, whom they had come to
plague and torture. A slender lad, finely built, with soft, gentle eyes
and clean white hands. Neatly dressed he was, too, and shaved and
orderly. He did not drink or smoke or spit about the place, and never a
rough word passed his lips.
The others, who had come to make a jest of one in trouble, knew well
enough that he had had a better upbringing than themselves, that he had
led a richer life, and had a better understanding. They came because
they hated him, because they looked on him as a worm to be trodden
underfoot, a despicable creature that should not be let live in any
Christian house.
As the strangers entered, a feeling of helplessness came over Sven. Not
an ordinary faintness or loss of consciousness: it was simply that he
felt unable to move. It seemed as if something were telling him plainly
that this must be the end of his life. These men were come to torture
him to death. And it was useless to resist. After all, life, as it was
for him, now was hardly worth any great effort to preserve.
One of the men had found a dead snake by the roadside earlier in the
day. He had taken it home and shown it to his comrades.
"Looks tempting," one of them had said.
"Yes. Anybody like to eat it?"
"Take it over to Grimön and ask Sven Elversson if he'd like it. He eats
all sorts of things."
"Ay, just the thing for him."
And thus it was they had hit on the idea of coming to Grimön. They had
a vague feeling that a man so vile as this Sven Elversson ought not to
be left to enjoy his Christmas in peace; surely that was the very time
he should be punished, and without mercy.
They had brought his brother with them to show them the way in the dark;
the boy had agreed without any great reluctance. He was by no means as
drunk as the others, but his feelings toward Sven were much the same as
theirs. He was constantly being sneered at on account of the
relationship, and many an ugly word was flung at him for his brother's
misdeed. And he asked himself, what right had Sven to come home in this
way and make trouble for them all? He stood now behind the broad backs
of the rest, chuckling already at what was to come.
"Joel, Ung-Joel," cried his mother at sight of him. "What's all this?
What do they want with Sven?"
The boy was used to answering without hesitation when that voice
questioned him. And he spoke out now:
"They want him to eat a snake."
Sven Elversson felt even more powerless than before. He could see the
whole scene; these men commanding him to eat, and he would refuse. Then
they would set on him, with blows and kicks. And still he would say no.
There was no power on earth now that could compel him to such a ghastly
act--they might torture him to death.
But there was still a little respite left before he would be forced to
go with them.
The fellow who had found the snake that morning drew out the long smooth
thing from his pocket, and, rocking unsteadily, held it out before the
mother's face.
"A rare little feast it'll be for him," he said.
"You call yourselves men?" cried the woman. "And you think I'll let him
go with you, that's better than all of you together?"
The men burst out into a shout of laughter.
"He won't have to go farther than down to the shore," said the man who
had just spoken. "We'll make a fire and cook it for him there."
Sven Elversson felt his strength returning. "It will soon be time," he
said to himself. "By to-night it will be all over. And better so."
His mother glanced toward him, and marked how he sat still, with the
same sad, forgiving smile on his lips. No trace of anger or sign of
resistance showed in his face; only a gentle, submissive sadness.
"Sven, you're never thinking of going with them?" cried his mother.
"D'you know who he is, that man there? Olaus from Fårön, that helped
to kill his newborn child--and left the woman to bear it all when she'd
most need of him."
The men roared with laughter.
"Don't be afraid, Mor Thala," said Olaus. "We'll look after Sven all
right. We'll salt and pepper it for him and make it nice. A snake's
nothing to him after what he's been used to."
"Look there!" cried the mother again, pointing to the biggest and
wildest-looking of the men. "That's Corfitzson from Fiskebäck. He's
done a power of evil in his day--and 'twas him that set fire to a shed
full of cattle, to get the insurance money."
"Never mind her talk, boy, you come along with us," said Corfitzson,
laying a hand on Sven's shoulder.
But Mor Thala went on without a stop.
"And there's Bertil from Strömsundet. If you'd know the worst of him,
he's only starved his grandmother to death. She lived just two months
after he came into the house. And him there in the corner--that's
Torsson from Iggenäs, that never sold a fish but what he stole from
others' nets, and those two there that can hardly stand for the drink in
them, that's Rasmussen and Hjelmfeldt. They drink up all their earnings
and leave their wives and bairns to starve."
Her voice had risen almost to a shriek; she was quivering with rage and
terror. Even the men shrank back a moment before her fury, and forgot to
laugh.
"And that one there, behind all the rest," she went on, bitterly. "Can
you see who that is? Your own brother, Ung-Joel, it is. He's done no
more harm as yet than leaving his father and mother to perish for lack
of a helping hand. The times I've begged and prayed of him to come out
here and help us, but he'd never hear. There, lad, that's the men that
have come to bid you go with them--but you won't; you can't...."
But as she spoke, Sven rose to his feet, gentle and forgiving as ever,
ready to submit and suffer.
The men laughed again.
"That's right, my son," said Olaus, who was evidently the leader. "Just
as well to come with a good grace. You'd have little chance against the
lot of us."
But Mor Elversson was not the one to give up without doing all in her
power. With a rapid movement she grasped the body of the snake that
Olaus still held in his hand, wrested it from him, and flung it into the
next room, placing herself before the door.
At that moment the outer door opened, and Joel came hurrying in.
"What's here?" he said, looking round. "What are you rioting here about?
What do you want with Sven?"
Two of the men had sprung forward to force Mor Thala aside from the
doorway; two of the others had gripped Sven by the shoulders and were
thrusting him before them.
Without a moment's hesitation the old man flung himself upon them.
"Out with you! Leave the boy alone," he cried.
And suddenly Sven Elversson was himself again. Something within him was
whispering: "Now, now is the time! Father and mother are fighting on
your side."
"Ung-Joel," he cried to his brother, who was still keeping away behind
the rest. "Open the door there, quick!"
The boy obeyed instinctively; it was as if he could not disregard an
order given in that house. In a moment Sven had gripped Olaus by the
middle, lifted him off his feet, and flung him out.
Corfitzson rushed forward to the rescue, but found himself gripped in
turn by a pair of strong arms, lifted, and flung out after his leader.
Then it was that Ung-Joel stepped forward and stood by his brother's
side. There was a moment of wild tumult, and the place was cleared.
Ung-Joel bolted the door behind his former comrades. Then, solemnly, he
stepped up to his brother and offered his hand.
"How did you manage it?" he asked, after a pause, with frank admiration.
"I'll get you to teach me that throw."
The elder brother's face was flushed with the fight; his look of patient
resignation was gone.
"You've given them a lesson, you may be sure," went on the younger.
"They'll know better than to trouble you again. But what made you take
it so patiently all this time, when you're a match for the worst of
them?"
Now for the first time Sven Elversson lost his self-control. Sinking
down in a chair, he buried his face in his hands.
"What's the use?" he cried, desperately. "How can I defend myself when
all the time I hate myself more than any of them can ever do? Hate and
loathe myself worse than you can ever think. Horrible, horrible. No one
knows as well as I do what it is I've done--what it is I've sinned
against. Is it any comfort to me to stop the mouths of a drunken crowd
when all the time I've that on my mind that's ghastlier than all?"
THE "NAIAD"
A FEW days after Christmas, Ung-Joel came back to Grimön with a message
from Olaus, to ask if Sven would take a share in the herring fishery on
board the motor-boat _Naiad_, belonging to his crew.
"He says it's hardly likely you could get taken on with any other crew,"
said Ung-Joel; "but seeing that you're my brother, I was to tell you.
They'll not be the best of company, I doubt, that sail with Olaus."
Mor Elversson declared at once that it was out of the question; Sven
should never have any dealings with any of them. But his father thought
otherwise.
"It wouldn't be a bad thing, perhaps, if Sven tried to pick up the ways
of the fishery on the coast here," he said. "And it's true enough he'd
hardly get taken on with any other crew."
"Joel! How can you talk so!" cried his wife. "Who knows what they've
been plotting and planning now, to send for him like that. Some new
mischief, I'll be bound."
"Why, I only said 'twas a pity Sven shouldn't have a part in the
fishery," said Joel, mildly.
But Sven remembered his father's words on Christmas Eve, and it came
into his mind now that perhaps it was his wish to get him away from
home.
"You can tell Olaus I'll come," he said to his brother.
"And thank him for offering. I'll go over to Fårön myself as soon as I
can."
"Why not come back with me now?" said Ung-Joel. "Then you can get the
things you want at our store. There was a telegram in this morning that
the herring are shoaling thick up at Smögen. By to-morrow they'll be
getting away all about."
There was a hurry of preparation for a while, and then the two brothers
set off, leaving Joel and Thala alone.
For a week or so they heard no news of Sven, then one Sunday Ung-Joel
came out to visit them.
Mor Thala was eager to know how matters had gone with Sven and the
crew--for all she knew, they might have killed him.
"I've heard nothing but what folk say," answered the boy. "And that's
this. The crew of the _Naiad_ before counted one man that had helped to
kill a child, and one that had starved an old woman to death, one that
had burnt down a place, and one that never sold but what he'd stolen,
and two that were fast drinking themselves to death--and now they'd got
another to help, and that a man who'd eaten human flesh, so it would be
hard to find a rougher crowd on one keel. I've heard nothing from Sven
himself, but, from all accounts, he seems to be getting on all right
with them."
"That's foolishness," said his mother. But for all her angry looks, she
was glad to learn that no ill had come to Sven. "But don't forget as
soon as you've word from Sven to come here and let us know. 'Tis the
best you can do for your father and me."
A fortnight later, Ung-Joel came out to the island again.
"Here's what they're saying now," he began. "That the _Naiad_ men won't
be able to stand much more of Sven. They say, here's the dirtiest,
meanest, stinking little boat all along the coast getting gradually
clean and workmanlike, the motor taken to working properly instead of
going on strike when it's most needed, the rags of sails they used to
help now and then been patched and put in order, the faded old flag done
away with and a bright new one in its place and the name painted clean
on the stern with all the letters in gold; the food on board getting
that decent you wouldn't know but what you were on shore, and clean pots
and pans in the galley. And the way folk look at it is this: the _Naiad_
men, they might at a pinch take any sort of scoundrel on board, but
clean pots and pans and all the rest, it's more than they can put up
with."
"Ah! you're making fun of me," said his mother. But it was plain to see
that she was glad at heart. "And don't forget," she went on, "as soon as
you've any word from Sven, come out and let us know. He's done no wrong,
and we must know how it is with him, that he doesn't come to any harm."
But folk that live at Grimön have need of all their patience, waiting
for news. All through another two weeks Mor Thala waited, before
Ung-Joel came with news of his brother.
"I haven't seen him myself yet," he explained. "But I've heard what they
say, that it can't be long now before there's an end of it with Sven
Elversson and the _Naiad_ crew. It seems that Olaus--he's the
skipper--has taken to seeing the men come on board to time, and more
than once he's got his boat away with the rest of the fleet, instead of
after, and got up in good time to the fishing grounds and made a fair
haul. And what with the nets being sound and whole, instead of torn in
parts and rotten the rest; when they bring up full catches, and the man
at the windlass isn't dead drunk and tips the whole lot into the water
alongside; when they're beginning to earn good money on the _Naiad_,
why, it's plain that Olaus from Fårön and Corfitzson from Fiskebäck
and Bertil from Strömsundet and Torsson from Iggenäs and Rasmussen and
Helmfeldt won't stay long on board. They might bear with a man that's
eaten human flesh, but to sail on a well-found ship and make good hauls
like all the other crews, and earn good money--it's more than any of
them have ever done before."
Mor Thala scolded him roundly for a fool that could never so much as
speak one serious word, but she was pleased enough at the news he
brought.
"You wait and see, it'll all be well yet," she said. "Eh, Joel, Joel--I
wasn't meaning you, lad, but your father. He's surely the wisest man in
all Bohuslän. He knew what he was doing when he let Sven go and take a
share in that boat, he did."
A week or so later, Ung-Joel came in with a new report.
"I've not seen Sven myself," he said, "for the herring are keeping away
up to the north this year. But I've heard what folk say. That when Olaus
from Fårön goes spending money he's earned on doing up his house on
shore, and Corfitzson from Fiskebäck puts his in the bank, as soon as
it's paid him, and Bertil gets his wife a new dress, and Torsson buys a
new boat, and Rasmussen and Hjelmfeldt start bringing home food for
their wives and little ones--why, there must be something wrong with the
_Naiad_ lot somewhere. They might take a man-eater with them on board
and nothing surprising in that, but to see them now with a clean ship
and decently at work and living almost like honest folk, it's more than
any'd believe."
"I never heard your like for talking wicked nonsense," said Mor Thala,
but she was happier than she cared to show. And she declared that all
would go well with Sven in the end; folk would come to look at him
differently before long.
"The trouble is," said Joel, "that folk have always looked on that one
thing one way, and it's hard for any to see differently. And it won't be
easy for him to win them. We must be thankful if we can but see that
it's not too much for the lad himself."
A week or so later, the two brothers came sailing home to Grimön
together. They looked ill at ease as they entered the house.
Neither mother nor father ventured to question Sven, but Mor Thala soon
managed to get Ung-Joel by himself.
"Now what's happened?" she asked.
"Ay, what's happened," said Ung-Joel, bitterly. "Little use that Olaus
and Corfitzson and all the rest of them have turned better than they've
ever been before, and can boast of a clean ship and a good season and a
fine price for their fish, and the money well looked after, when they
can't set foot in their own house but they're met by crying womenfolk.
What's a man to do, when his own wife comes and begs and prays him and
says better go on in the old way, bad as it was, than work and share
with one that's done dreadful things like Sven. Says a man can't go near
one that's done things like that without getting such himself that none
can bear the sight of him after. Houses put to rights and boats and
dresses and food and decency and comfort--they'd give it all and gladly,
to be free of the one ugly thought. When things turn that way, what can
a man do but go to Sven himself and beg of him to take off his hand from
off the ship and crew, and say he'd better go back to Grimön and stay
there, where there's none that's likely to meet him and be the worse for
it."
THE SCHOOLHOUSE
THAT spring, soon after Sven had come back from the herring fishery, old
Joel Elversson was asked by the Priest at Applum if he would care to
undertake the building of the new schoolhouse.
Joel had done a good deal of building work before in the parish, and so
cheaply that he had made but little for himself. And this was perhaps
the reason why he was chosen now, though many might well have thought
him too old for the work.
As soon as Mor Thala heard of the proposal, she at once declared that
Joel was no longer able to undertake work of such responsibility, and
her husband did not altogether oppose her view. But he pointed out that
it would be hard if the parish were forced to get in a stranger for the
work. And he himself would gladly have had some share in building a new
school for the children, who had for long had to put up with the old and
dark and draughty building that served at present.
"You should see the plans," he said to Mor Thala. "The things they hit
on nowadays to make all fine and easy. They'd no such contrivances in my
young days."
"You're set on that building work yourself, that's plain to see," said
his wife. "It's my belief you've promised to take it on already."
The old man looked embarrassed.
"I'd not have done it if it wasn't that I'd a grown son in the house,"
he said.
"But surely you should have asked him first," said his wife. So much
foresight and sharpness on the part of her husband was a surprise to
her. Sven had been going about for some days looking moody and
depressed; it seemed impossible to get him to undertake any work at all.
"I don't think Sven would regret it if he did take to building work,"
said Joel. "A man that's to live in his own house ought to know a bit
about timber and foundations and the like. But if he won't help me. I'll
have to say I can't do it after all."
It was a strange thing to her that her husband should ever think of
getting Sven to work on a building connected with the Church, in a place
where the general ill-will against him seemed stronger than anywhere
else.
Sven was present when they talked it over, but said nothing at first. He
knew well enough what was in his father's mind; it was his one idea and
aim to get him to move about among folk. As to the failure of the
_Naiad_ cruise, Joel had merely said it had turned out far better than
could be expected, and he had nothing but praise for his son. Sven
himself had still but one desire, to hide himself away at home, but he
felt now that his father would not permit him, until he had seen once
more how impossible it was for his fellow men to forget the feeling of
abhorrence with which they regarded him.
"I don't think Father ought to give it up now," he said. "I'll lend a
hand gladly as far as I'm able."
Joel was highly pleased at this, and that very day he took Sven with him
to make a round of visits to the others concerned: merchants,
carpenters, masons, and workmen.
Almost against his will, Sven Elversson soon found himself keenly
interested in the building, and his father let him take the lead. He was
allowed to superintend the work, and to determine how it should be done.
Grimön lies some distance from the mainland, and Sven did not care to
waste so much time in journeys backward and forward, but lived close to
the site while the work was in progress. Joel himself also began to tire
of the everlasting trips from the island in to Applum, and for several
weeks he stayed at home, leaving his son to take entire charge.
Whenever he went in to see how things were going, he invariably returned
well pleased. His wife asked anxiously each time if there had been no
expression of dissatisfaction among the Applum folk at Sven's taking
over charge, but Joel was always able to reassure her.
"I met Israel Jonsson yesterday," he said, "the head of the council, and
I asked him what he thought of the new schoolhouse. 'Well, Joel,' he
said, 'I won't deny that we Applum folk were in two minds at first about
getting your boy take over the work. But I think I can say now that both
the school council and the parish council and all the rest would think
twice about giving it elsewhere. When we see how he puts in granite
under blocks instead of common stone, as it was thought, and find him
building the walls of heavy timber, instead of thin planks that the
architect thought would do, why, if there's any that bear him ill-will,
they'd better put it in their pockets and do the sensible thing.'"
Mor Elversson began to understand now that Joel had accepted the
contract solely and entirely in order to give Sven a chance of proving
his worth and making friends. It was a kindly thought, she was forced to
admit, but she was less confident now, and dared not believe it would
succeed.
Next time Joel came back from the building site, her first question was
whether Sven was still getting on, and if he had had no trouble with
any of the people there.
"I'll not tell you what I think myself," answered Joel, "for you might
not believe me. But I'll tell you word for word what Gunnar Markusson,
that lives close by, said to me yesterday when I met him on the round:
"'I'll admit, Joel,' he says, 'that we were a bit uneasy in the parish
about letting Sven Elversson take charge and build the new schoolhouse.
But I will say now that, to my mind, the ratepayers would do well not to
let their feelings run away with them, when it's a case of a public
benefactor like Sven. He's putting in smoothed boards now, where we'd
agreed we'd have to be content with unplanned wood. And he's using better
paint than we'd reckoned on. He's roofing with tiles, instead of the
tarred felt that was all we thought we could run to. And instead of
cement steps at the entrance, he's making stone. It's this way with that
boy of yours, that he'll have nothing but first-class work, and for all
that it seems he's asking no more for the building than if he'd followed
the plans from the first.'"
Mor Thala was overjoyed to hear that her boy was doing so well, but she
felt nevertheless that the dreadful thing which haunted him was not to
be so easily overcome.
Joel did not go over to the mainland again until September. He was away
for several days, and when he returned, he brought Sven with him, and
the news that the place was finished. The schoolhouse was built, and the
inspection had taken place; the inspector could hardly find words to say
how pleased he was with the result.
Mor Thala agreed that so far all was well. And, looking at her son, she
felt that he looked like one released, from prison; she understood that
he felt he had regained some little of the honour and respect he had
lost.
And she was loth to spoil his pleasure, but as soon as she was alone
with Joel, she asked if there really had been no one in all Applum who
had made Sven feel he was not good enough for the work.
"There's none can say what folk think in their own minds," said Joel;
"but I'll just tell you what the schoolmaster himself said to me
yesterday, when I spoke to him after the opening.
"'There's no trusting to folk's gratitude,' he said, 'but if I was one
of those whose children are to get their schooling in this new place,
I'd show no unkindness to the man that built it. When you look at the
hall there, the way he's chosen the best colours, and the neat and sound
benches he's put up, the fine glass in the windows, well, it's a wonder
how he could do it. And then all the fixtures in the _slöid_ room, and
the kitchen, and heating pipes, and gymnasium fittings and all--it's
plain 'twas a lover of children that settled it all. There's many might
well wish to be children again just to go to school in the place Sven
Elversson's built.'"
Mor Thala could not but be pleased at this, and was glad now to feel
that all her anxiety had been unfounded.
THE STONEHILLS
SVEN ELVERSSON had been in to Göteborg to settle some accounts for
building materials supplied for the schoolhouse, and came back by train.
On arrival at the station nearest Applum, he found that the conveyance
which was to have met him there had not come.
It was over ten miles to walk, and he stood in the station puzzling how
he was to get back, when a small carriage with two horses drove up and
stopped. It was from the inn at Applum, and, on inquiry, Sven learned
that it had been ordered by the Priest, who had just married a
clergyman's daughter from a distance, far away in Norrland.
Sven Elversson had likewise ordered a carriage from the inn, but it was
now clear that his message had gone astray; no carriage had been sent
for him. The driver suggested that he should ask the Priest to let him
ride on the box, but Sven did not wish to push himself forward, and
would not hear of it.
They were still discussing the question, when the Priest and his young
wife came out from the station.
They made a handsome pair. The Priest, just over thirty, was a man of
middle height, powerfully built, and with a splendid head. He wore a
full beard, dark and curling; had a broad, handsome forehead, well-cut
features, and fresh complexion, with white teeth. Altogether, he seemed
all that a young girl could wish for; a man to cherish and protect her,
work for her, and give her a good place in the world. The young wife,
too, was surprisingly beautiful. Sven Elversson was reminded of the type
so favoured by some English painters: handsome women with tall, slender
figure and sloping shoulders, slightly bowed head, rich hair prettily
shading the face, straight eyebrows and delicate cheeks, and with a look
in the brilliant eyes that seemed looking out of a strange world toward
heaven.
It struck him as curious that, as he watched the pair, the Priest seemed
gradually to lose all that Sven had formerly found attractive in him.
The fine, unspeakably delicate lines and colouring of the woman seemed
to render the man coarse and mean, almost ugly, by comparison. And Sven
hoped that he was not influenced by ill-feeling toward the Priest from
the time of that scene in the church, in feeling now that this was but a
poor husband for the slight, dainty creature at his side.
Sven Elversson moved quickly away as the two came up, but he heard the
driver asking on his own account if he might take Sven with him on the
box, whereupon the Priest came forward and invited him to drive with
them.
The Priest had, indeed, always treated him with kindness, and now, as
Sven Elversson sat on the box and the carriage drove off, he tried to
efface the impression of a moment ago. "I was mistaken, as I often am,"
he said to himself. "I should say that I have not seen for years a pair
so completely suited as these two. And well they may be. Here is the
husband sitting and thinking how different life will be now in the
little vicarage at Applum, with a young mistress to fill the place with
life and gaiety--while she on her part is dreaming of all she will do to
make the home so comfortable that he will never wish to leave it, and
always be longing for it when he is away."
So completely had Sven surrendered himself to this view, that he was
astonished when a little later the young wife exclaimed, in a tone of
weariness, even impatience:
"Oh, will they never end?"
"What is it she wants to end?" thought Sven to himself. "What can it be
that could trouble her this day of all days?"
Sven Elversson looked round on all sides. And suddenly he understood. It
must be the stonehills.
It was indeed a strange-looking landscape they were driving through.
Mountain country one could not call it, for there were neither peaks nor
mountain ridges; on the other hand, it was not a level plain, for the
ground was broken everywhere by hillocks of rock, large and small. In
places, they were so close together as hardly to leave a passage
between; then they would lie farther apart, with broad open spaces large
enough for homestead and field. Right and left, behind and before, the
same--truly a stranger might well ask if they would never end. The road
wound in and out between them, and never the crest of a hill so high
that they could see across them, to what lay beyond. All along the way
were stonehills, and ever more behind. Some were sparsely clad with a
poor growth of grass, others were bare, and others again showed patches
of bush and heather; save for this, they were all alike.
Now and again, an open space between led one to hope that the ground
might be clear beyond, but one had scarcely time to frame the thought
before a new hillock thrust itself into view.
"It must be different in Norrland, of course," thought Sven. "And these
stonehills of ours are dark and forbidding enough, it is true. A pity
they should be the first this little lady sees of Bohuslän."
And next moment he heard her telling her husband that she felt as
hopelessly lost among these stony hills as in the darkest forest.
In one place a flock of sheep could be seen grazing, then a couple of
cows, or again some children picking berries. And the young wife
declared that it was well they were there, for had it not been for the
sight of children and homely animals, she would hardly have believed
they were in a Christian country.
"Sigrun, how can you say such a thing!" exclaimed her husband. "This is
Bohuslän, my own country, and I love every stone and every tuft of
heather in it. What would you have said if I had spoken so about the
pine forests and the moors of Norrland?"
As was but natural, his words took effect. The young wife was silent at
first for a while; then she whispered something, with tears in her
voice, and Sven understood that she was begging her husband's
forgiveness for having spoken so about his country.
"I'm not like that other days, really. I don't know what can be the
matter with me to-day," she said.
Every word she uttered was a delight to hear; so solemnly and sincerely
she spoke, with the slightest trace of a lisp in her voice. "God forbid
she should be otherwise for my part," thought Sven. "Surely 'tis only
beautiful that she should be afraid of all ugly things."
Nothing more was said for a time, but then the little lady began again,
with a strange quiver in her voice:
"Edward, I know it's wrong of me to trouble you, but I can't help it. I
am so afraid. I've been trying to overcome it by myself, but I can't--it
won't go away. And then I just remembered that I shan't need to struggle
against things all alone now--that I've you to help me with all my
weakness."
There was such a depth of entreaty in her tone that Sven Elversson felt
embarrassed at sitting there where he could hear. He felt himself
unworthy even to over, hear the thoughts and feelings of this delicate
lady.
She was trying now to explain to her husband that she was actually
afraid. She fancied she had seen these hills somewhere before--had fled
for her life among such a confusion of rocky hills, with some behind
that sought to kill her. Or that there was someone even now lying in
wait there, ready to fall upon them. Something terrible there must be,
close at hand. She had but one desire, to get away from the place.
Her voice told that she was in greater fear even than she would admit,
and that this was deadly earnest. Sven Elversson himself could not help
smiling where he sat, and the Priest was utterly unable to understand
her fear of nothing at all; he tried to answer gaily, and pass it over
with a jest.