violence, that if Applum were as cold and shut in as here, she could
never live there.
"And it's wicked and wrong of me to say so, I know," she said; "but I've
been thinking of it all the time, while we've been driving here; if I
cannot find something beautiful at the end of it, something to help me,
I shall be haunted by the same fear there as well. I shall be dreading
every day that something terrible will happen."
Sven Elversson thought of the plain at Applum, with the vicarage behind
the church, set in a little hollow to be sheltered from the wind. And he
wondered if she would find any comfort in the evenly divided fields, the
dark wall of hills all round, the narrow view, the homesteads painted
blue and white and red, and the treeless meadowland.
"'Tis none so easy for him just now," thought Sven. "I'd find it hard
myself to comfort her in his place. But he knows her, and loves her--it
makes all the difference."
The Priest must have been thinking of the same thing. He sat for a while
without speaking.
"Let me tell you of a dream I had last winter," he said at last. "It
made me very happy at the time, that dream, and perhaps it may help you
too.
"I dreamed that I was driving along the road to your home at
Stenbroträsk, and it was toward the end of winter, bare earth and
leafless trees, and the road a sodden stretch of mire. The bridges were
out of repair, and the horse was a wretched beast that could hardly move
at all.
"There was a keen, cold wind from the north, and everything was gray and
dismal, and the few houses here and there along the way looked poor and
miserable; the whole country seemed inhospitable and depressing.
"Then at last, coming up over the hill, I caught sight of the steep
river-bank, and the church and the house at Stenbroträsk, and in a
moment all was changed. The air seemed warmer, the fields were green,
the birches wore a veil of leaf, the road was firm and good--everything
was kindly and smiling as if in welcome; even the horse came suddenly to
life and trotted on bravely.
"But the strange thing about it all was that I felt the spring and the
warmth came from myself. They had not been there before, but now, as if
by magic, they came--and all because of the warmth that filled my heart
at sight of your home. And there seemed nothing strange about it all in
my dream--it was all natural and as it should be."
Here the Priest paused, and his wife, in a changed voice, asked what
happened after.
"There was no more," he answered. "For the warmth at my heart was so
good to feel that I woke." And, having said this, he was silent again.
But those few words of love, the little glimpse of something beautiful,
had filled the young wife's heart with joy, and the listener in front
heard her whisper to her husband in a voice almost stifled with emotion:
"You mean that if I had but the same warmth in my heart as you, I should
find beauty in this country of yours, and in your home--even in these
dreadful hills."
And then gladly and confidently she went on:
"Do not be afraid for me. There is nothing to frighten me now. I feel
now as you felt in your dream."
"There," thought Sven to himself. "See how little one can judge things
at first sight. Truly she could not have found a better husband than
Pastor Rhånge. He has a good heart and a good head. Who else could have
answered her so well?"
THE SEA
THE newly married pair had come home on a Tuesday. On Saturday in the
same week, Sven Elversson went up to the vicarage with some papers about
the school. He walked straight up the front steps and through the hall
into the office, and stopped just inside the door.
It was the Pastor's day for business, he knew, and though it was rather
late, he had never thought but that he would find the Priest sitting at
his writing-table. But he was not there--was not in the room at all. He
could not be far away, however, for the big books that were always used
on business days lay open on the table, and a pen was in the inkstand.
It was not Sven's way to push himself forward, and he did not care to go
through to the kitchen and ask if the Pastor was at home, or look for
him in any of the other rooms. There could be no harm, he thought, in
staying where he was, to wait a little.
But as he stood, there was a sound of voices in the next room; the door
was ajar, and he could hear every word distinctly.
"Sigrun"--it was the Pastor speaking, in an easy tone:--"the post ought
to have been here by now. But I can't go down for it myself to-day, in
case any one comes."
"Why, then," answered his wife cheerfully, "that's easily managed. Malin
will be going down to the store directly, and she can bring back your
paper at the same time."
Evidently the Pastor had only gone out for a moment to ask about the
post, thought Sven. He would be back now, since that was settled.
But the Pastor spoke again.
"Well," he said, "don't you think now you might go yourself? Wouldn't
you like a little walk? It's lovely out just now, and the road has dried
after the rain of yesterday. It would do you good to get out in the air
a little."
He spoke gently and kindly, as if thinking only for her good. And the
young wife answered as kindly again.
"I'd go and gladly," she said, "but look at these curtains strewn all
about the room. I can't go till I've got them up."
There was no more to be said after that, thought Sven. But he noticed at
the same time how the Priest's voice, manly and strong in itself, seemed
to lose its pleasant tone, and become rough and coarse, when heard
beside his wife's soft, gentle speech.
And it seemed that the matter was not ended yet, after all, as he had
hoped. The Priest began again.
"Oh, of course, one couldn't expect a great lady like yourself to go and
fetch a paper for her husband," he said. This must be meant in jest,
surely. But it sounded at the same as if he were annoyed at her refusing
to do as he wished.
"Oh, Edward, you know it's not that."
"Or perhaps Applum's too dull and ugly a place for you to care to go out
at all. Her ladyship doesn't care to take the air unless there are fine
houses and big estates all round. Perhaps I had better order the
carriage, so that----"
"Edward!" she cried.
"Oh, I know there's nothing here to compare with your own place," he
went on, with a little ill-tempered laugh. "But I didn't think you were
too proud to set foot to the ground in Applum, for all that."
"Edward, it isn't that at all. I can't go just now."
"You _can't_ go?" asked her husband, with an air of profound
astonishment.
All this had passed before Sven had time to think. "I ought not to
hear," he said to himself. And to make his presence known, he rattled
the handle of the door, opened the door itself and closed it again,
stamped his feet and coughed. But no one seemed to notice, and the two
in the next room went on again.
"No, I can't," repeated the young wife. "There is something in this
place that stifles me; I can't breathe. It isn't just longing for home,
but something more. I am well and happy enough as long as I keep to the
house, but as soon as I go out it comes over me again."
She spoke passionately, flinging out her words in broken snatches.
"But, Sigrun," said the Priest, "what is the matter with you? I meant no
harm."
"I'm not so proud, indeed I'm not," she cried. "Ask any of those at
home, and they'll tell you it was never my way to be so. And it's not
because the place is not pretty to look at that I can't bear to go out.
No, it is something else--if only I knew what it was!"
"Look here, Sigrun," said her husband, "you must tell me what all this
means. We must talk this over seriously, that's clear."
Sven Elversson was at a loss to know what to do. He had already heard
too much, perhaps; it would make matters worse to let them know he had
been there. He walked to the door, but turned back again. He was always
in doubt now as to how to act. It would be hard to find a man so
undecided and lacking in self-confidence.
"I didn't want to tell you about it," said the young wife, speaking
breathlessly and impatiently as before, "for I know it's nothing really.
Only something that comes over me as soon as I go outside the house. Not
anything I can see or hear, but something that makes me feel miserable
and sorry for myself. It is cruel to think that I must go about here
always, and never get away; I feel as if I had been condemned for some
crime. It is just that--to feel myself condemned to stay for ever in one
place, the same little, narrow, monotonous, cheerless place."
"Now I know," thought Sven to himself, "she is only saying this so that
he shall say something beautiful in return, as he did before. And the
Priest's a man with the heart and head to set her right again--'twill be
easy enough for him."
"Oh, if only one could look out and see far away--if only I were not
buried here, in a hole, and had not that wall of hills all round. But it
must be a punishment for something I have done, or I should not have
come here. Oh, can't you say something to help me?"
Now it must come, thought Sven. Now surely he would say some beautiful
thing. And it would be fine to see how he would help her again this
time.
Truth to tell, Sven Elversson was perhaps not sorry to be standing where
he could hear all this. The young wife's voice was very sweet. And he
was sure the Priest would say something wonderful now; something
inspiring and good to hear.
"I have tried again and again," she went on, "to go out. But I can't.
You can't think what it is like. I feel as if I were choking; I feel it
here in my throat. And I've cried----"
"But there is nothing," said the Pastor. "Surely, Sigrun, you must know
that. There is nothing in the air here that we cannot see. It is all
imagination."
"There _is_! There is something here--I can feel it. Something that
hates me, and is trying to take away my happiness. Do you know what I
have been doing lately? I go and look at that poor little picture of
Stenbroträsk, that one of my cousins did for me--I laughed at it then.
But now, when I have looked at it a little, the river and the house and
the big rowan trees by the gate, it seems to give me courage enough to
go on living."
"I am afraid, my dear, you are giving way to a foolish fancy," said her
husband. And the listener marked how he slipped into the admonitory tone
of the preacher. "You must really try to overcome it before it has gone
too far. And I think, really, I must ask you now to go and do as I
said--go down to the post at once."
"But I can't!" she cried. "I can't--I can't!"
Sven Elversson knew, of course, that the Pastor was honestly acting for
the best. But--he had thought he would have found some other way. Still,
perhaps after all this was best. He himself would hardly have known what
to do.
"Listen to me, Sigrun," said the Priest. "You must surely understand
that it is childish to give way to such ideas. The only thing to do is
to overcome it. You are well and strong; you will not tell me that you
cannot walk that little way. Anyhow, I must ask it of you, for the sake
of our happiness--if you wish it to last for life, and not for a few
weeks' honeymoon only."
"I will go another time," she said, humbly, despairingly. "But--won't
you let me off for to-day? I will try in a day or two; I will try
to-morrow."
Sven Elversson stood listening yet a moment, anxious to hear if the
request would be granted. But when the Pastor repeated that he must have
his paper now, at once, Sven saw in a flash what he should have done
before, but in his confusion had not thought of. Very quietly he opened
the door and slipped out. He walked slowly until out of sight of the
vicarage, and then set off at a run down to the post.
And so, when the young wife came walking slowly, so slowly, down the
road, with tears on her eyelashes after what had passed, and trembling,
half-unconscious, as if she had risen from a sick-bed, she had not to go
many steps before a young man stepped up to meet her.
He greeted her politely, and said something about having driven with
them from the station a few days back.
She made no answer, only stared at him, without understanding at first
what he meant. He endeavoured to explain that he had been to the store;
she fancied afterward he must have been going to say something about the
storekeeper having asked him to take the paper up with him to the
vicarage. He spoke softly, and with so much hesitation that she would
have found it hard to understand him even had she been herself at the
time.
He handed her a newspaper, which she took, but still she walked on, as
if unable to realize that here was the thing she had been sent to fetch;
that she could go back home now as soon as she pleased.
Then the young man came up to her again, saying something about going
another way, if she wished to go for a walk. He begged her humbly to
excuse him for the liberty, but seeing she was a stranger to the place,
and a fine evening, if she would not rather go down and look at the sea.
In the midst of all her fear and trouble of mind, with the same stifling
feeling at her throat, she caught a word of the sea, and stopped, and
looked at him.
"The sea? Is there any sea near here?" she asked.
"Indeed there is," he answered. And if she were not above letting him
show her the way, it would not take long to get there.
He turned off along a little path running straight toward the west, and
she followed. She noted that he was dressed as a workman of the better
class, and had a kindly, honest face, though his manner was strangely
humble. She felt no hesitation about going with him now.
It was a beautiful evening, with a curious reddish light that seemed to
float down from the sky. It was as if the air about her took colour, and
became visible. She felt as if it were filled with tiny, delicate
rose-leaves, that came falling softly down, like snowflakes, making the
plain all round blush faintly, like a bride.
And when they came out toward the western hills, she saw that they did
not make one continuous barrier, as she had thought. The wall consisted
of huge masses of rock, but with passes leading through in many places.
The young workman led her out between the rocks, and on the farther side
there was white sand on the ground, with here and there a shell. Then,
after turning a corner of the cliffs, she stopped and drew a deep
breath.
Before her was a broad, open expanse. All the rich red sea of air, and
all the wide sea of water spreading out and away, with nothing to shut
it in. Open, free, as far as the sun itself, that was sinking toward the
western verge.
There was no land to be seen out there save a narrow strip of sand with
a long stone mole, and, farther out, a few black reefs rising from the
pearly water.
And at sight of all this, she felt in a moment that she was saved. For
where could she choose to be rather than here, in a place with so much
beauty, so near at hand--so much beauty that she could see every day.
How could it be that no one had ever told her of this? She sat down on a
stone and rested there a long while, drinking in the light with her
eyes. Her eyes wandered over the wide expanse, looking as far as they
pleased, like birds released from a close cage.
And she thanked God for her home, and for the sea, so great and strong
and clean, so near her.
She must have sat there long without speaking. When she looked up, the
young workman had gone.
Truth to tell, she was pleased at this. She could always thank him,
another time. It was pleasanter now to be alone.
She felt stronger now, and more hopeful--better able to fight against
the stifling sense of something threatening that hung over the plain.
Suddenly she remembered her husband--he might be anxious about her. And
she rose to go home, to tell him that she was better now, and happier.
And to thank him for his sternness in sending her out to face her
trouble boldly.
SAILING
IT WAS a Sunday morning in late October. A heavy wind came sweeping up
from the south, from lands where the air was yet warm, where roses still
budded and bloomed, where the vines were newly stripped, and the juice
of the grape foamed in the presses.
The heavy south wind spoke with a strange, disquieting sound. Listening
to it, one felt confused, as if hearing a stranger speak in some foreign
tongue. Who could say what it was trying to tell--whether some great
secret, or merely a whisper of all the yellowing trees, the fallen wings
of butterflies, the empty nests, it had passed on its way?
That Sunday, Sven Elversson had come over in the boat to land his father
at the little harbour outside the barrier rocks of Applum; the old man
had gone in to service at the church. But Sven did not go with him; as
soon as his father had gone, he sought out a cleft in the rocks a little
to the right. It was a place he knew well; he had lain there often on
the green heather as a child.
This was the happiest time Sven Elversson had known since his return.
The patient, sorrowful smile had begun to fade from his lips, and the
bitter trouble that had filled his soul no longer tortured him as
before. And as he lay there on a ledge of rock, listening to the wind,
wondering what it was trying to tell him, and staring out over the sea,
he called to mind a vision he had seen one day, when he had been lying
just as now on a rocky slope by the shore, with a broad expanse of sea
spread out before him. The bright glitter of the sunlight on the water
had tired his eyes, and he had lain quite still for a long time. Then,
suddenly opening his eyes and glancing down at the great water, he had
seen a mermaid.
It was only the briefest glimpse; she was gone the moment his eyes fell
on her, changed to a fleck of white mist that floated away over the
water.
But he had seen her--and the thought filled him with a great joy; he
felt himself favoured, honoured beyond others, and supremely happy at
having been granted a sight of one of those lovely spirits of nature
that fill the air and sea, yet hide themselves so jealously from the
sight of men.
He was certain that a whole flock of mermaids had been playing there on
the shore, but had vanished the moment he sought to open his eyes. All
but that one, who had not been able to escape in time.
He had never forgotten it, and since then he had never sat alone by a
quiet sea but he must close his eyes and lie very still for a time, that
the mermaids might think he slept, and venture out from the deep. But
never since that once had he gained a glimpse of any.
To-day he tried again, though with little hope. And when he felt he had
been quiet long enough, and opened his eyes, he started almost in
dismay. True, there was no mermaid, no figure half maiden, half a fish,
to be seen amid the waves. But there, on a tall rock just at the water's
edge, sat a woman. A young, slender creature, clad in white, and seated
with easy poise on top of the rock--she seemed as if she might as well
have come there from the sea as from the land.
But it was soon plain to see that the woman sitting there was
no joyous fairy being. She dried her eyes again and again with a
handkerchief--after all, no more than a poor human creature, that could
suffer and shed tears.
Sven Elversson sat watching her, wondering what it could be that
troubled her. Was it more ugly stonehills again, more prisoning barriers
of rock, that made her fear so that she could not go to church, but must
sit alone and weep beside the sea?
He saw how her slight figure shook with sobs; her whole attitude told
him that it was no light burden that weighed her down. And he understood
that she had come to seek for comfort from the sea, having no other to
whom she could turn. And this time the sea had not helped her.
A moment later the woman turned at a slight sound behind her. A man was
clambering down the slope; she recognized him, surely, as the young
workman who had shown her the sea here some weeks ago. Hastily she dried
her eyes and went toward him; she had not thanked him yet.
"I saw you sitting there," said he, "and I thought, if I might be so
bold ... I've my boat close by here, a good boat, though not much to
look at. And if you'd honour me so far. I'd be very glad to take you for
a sail."
Had it been any other day, she might not have accepted. But, just now,
she felt so grateful for any little crumb of kindness that she could not
refuse. And she did not wish that this young workman, who looked so
modest and kind, should think she declined because he had only a common,
workaday fishing-boat to offer her, and was himself but a common man in
his working clothes. Though it was Sunday, Sven was wearing his heavy
sea-boots and rough clothes, with a sou'wester that suited him well; it
looked like the steel helmet of some old sea-king.
So they pushed off from land, and he hoisted the sail, and the heavy
south wind filled it, sending the boat heeling to one side. Sven put the
rudder hard over, heading due west, and the little vessel flew out
across the bay toward the open sea.
Fru Rhånge had at first no thought of any pleasure to herself in going
out for a sail to-day. She had not thought there was anything in the
world that could make her forget the weight of sorrow that burdened her
now. But when they had been sailing a little while, she could not help
feeling easier; fresher in body and stronger in mind to bear her
trouble.
The sky was clear, save for a few little flecks of white cloud. But
there was yet enough moisture in the lower air to soften the light and
tinge the dry, bare surface of rocks and reefs and islets with shades of
grayish red and blue. They seemed, too, now to rise more boldly and
strongly from the water, standing out with a certain majesty against the
rest. The clefts seemed deep and black, the slopes steep and terrible
and perilous; the distances seemed more marked, with ridge upon ridge in
a succession of ever softer and more heavenly hues.
And after a little while there came into the young wife's eyes a look of
quiet, earnest questioning, and she laid her folded hands in her lap as
if in worship of all the beauty spread about her.
She was filled with a single thought--that she was learning to know one
of God's miracles. She was learning to know the sea. She had never known
before what it was to be so near the sea, to feel its breath in one's
ears, to watch the play of expression in its face, to nestle close to
its breast and be lulled to calm and peace.
Sven Elversson put the helm over, and they ran across to the north, in
between the reefs, sailing close in under rugged cliffs, by little red
fisher-huts set among ancient pear trees heavy with red-brown fruit,
with glimpses of meadow between the rocks, greener, more brilliantly,
livingly green than in the kindliest spring.
He led her from sound to sound, meeting white steamers, heavy,
deep-laden barges, and lighter craft that glided over the water like
huge sailing butterflies.
Sven Elversson himself looked at it all with something like amazement.
Reef and islet, houses and meadows and trees--there was a greatness, a
wealth of colour, a beauty over all to-day unlike other days. And he was
glad that she had seen them thus, in their festal array.
They must have known, he thought to himself, how deeply this woman loved
all that was beautiful.
And it was with Sven as with all the rest, the land and sea. He was seen
at his best to-day.
They talked at first of the weather, and of all the beautiful things
about them, and he taught her the names of all the rocks and islands as
they passed. But after a while they came to speak of other things, of
every possible thing, old things and new, as if they had been tried
friends.
And he laid aside the barrier of humility and shyness, and spoke freely
and naturally, until she wondered, and thought that young men born by
the sea, and voyaging early abroad to other lands, must gain an
education and experience beyond others who spent all their days on land.
She felt a real trust in him, for he was good and gentle and wise; she
wished she knew him better, and had such a man to turn to when her own
wits were at a loss.
As for Sven, he had not spoken with her long before there came over him
an intense longing to tell her of his sin, to confess it all to this
innocent creature who knew nothing of sin herself.
It crossed his mind that all those who had hitherto condemned and
despised him were themselves well acquainted with sin and vice. All had
no doubt at some time cheated, lied, stolen, borne false witness, been
proud and merciless, idle, miserly, revengeful, or cruel.
But this young girl from a pious home had lived a quiet and protected
life, untouched by passion or covetousness. She had as yet no knowledge
of sinful nature, her own or others'. She had never cherished an evil
thought, never wished harm to any soul.
He could not expect her to judge him over-leniently, for she was keenly
sensitive, and could never control her abhorrence of all that was ugly
and evil to her mind. But be that as it might, he would gladly submit to
her judgment; she should be his court of appeal. He could not go to the
King for justice, but he could go to her.
For some time, however, he refrained, shy and uncertain of himself. And
while he sat hesitating, he noticed that she had grown silent again. She
seemed to be trying to say something that was hard to begin.
At last, however, she made up her mind and came straight to the matter
at once.
"You saw I was crying when you came up before?"
"Yes," he said. "I could not help seeing that."
"It wasn't anything very much," she said. "Only a letter that came. It
was from a friend of mine, a rich man's daughter, just married, and her
husband was such a good man, clever, and looked up to by everyone; we
all thought she would be so happy."
"And now--you mean she is not?" Sven laid both hands on the tiller and
leaned forward. He seemed keenly interested in all that concerned this
friend of hers.
"No," she answered, looking out over the sea, as if seeking to avoid his
glance. "She is not happy. She writes that her husband is always
displeased with her somehow. And she can't understand it. She asked if
I could tell her what it might be. But I can't. I would gladly help her,
but I can't understand it myself. So you can understand I was sorry.
That was why I couldn't help crying."
"Yes, I understand," Sven replied. "But your husband, lady. Pastor
Rhånge is a man of great experience. Ought you not to ask him about
it?"
Fru Rhånge coloured, and gave him a quick glance, almost of suspicion.
But his eyes met hers frankly and openly, without a thought of anything
to conceal, and she went on:
"I do not think she would like me to speak to my husband about it. It is
always when they have been out anywhere and are driving home that he
is--displeased with her. Hardly speaks to her at all. And whenever she
tries to say anything, he only answers with an unkind word or a sneer."
"But are you sure there is not anything in her behaviour that could
offend him? Anything wrong, I mean?"
"No," answered the young wife, eagerly. "That, I am certain, there is
not. They are earnest-minded, both of them, and wherever they go, among
friends, it is always quiet; no dancing or noisy games or anything like
that. But she did think of that, too, that perhaps he found her too gay
in her manner, and last time they were out she sat all the time with the
old married women and talked sensibly. Only when the host came and
wanted to show her the garden did she go out at all. And he was an
elderly man, and they spoke of nothing but trees and flowers, and how
there were not enough gardens round about. And she was so interested,
and asked him if he did not think they could manage a little garden at
her home. And he promised to send some of his own people over that
autumn to mark out a garden for her, and then in the spring he would
send her some things to plant in it. But then in the evening, driving
home with her husband, she told him about it, and thought he would be
pleased. But he gripped the whip so hard as he listened, she could see
the knuckles grow white, and when the horse stumbled he was furious, and
lashed it again and again. And he told her that their home would stay as
it was, and as it had been, and he'd have no gardener people coming to
alter this and that. And told her not to enter into any arrangements of
that sort in future without first asking his permission. And she tells
me now she was so frightened she could not say a word. Only folded her
hands and prayed to God to show her what it all was, what it could
mean."
The young wife spoke throughout very slowly, choosing her words with
care, and Sven Elversson listened with growing interest. And he could
not help thinking that the description of the old man who was so fond of
gardens fitted in excellently with a landowner living a little way out
of Applum, near the sea; he had a big place, and would naturally have
invited the Pastor and his wife some time.
"She must be very pretty, I suppose--your friend," was all he said.
Again she cast a covert, searching glance at him.
"I daresay people would think her quite good-looking," she said,
carelessly. "But what joy can it be to her, when her husband has so much
to find fault with in all that she does? When it seems as if she were
never to have her will in anything; and all that she cares to do is
wrong? And never can learn what she may do and what not?"
Sven Elversson was getting the sail over ready to tack, and had not time
to answer before she went on:
"Before, when she was at home, no one ever spoke unkindly to her for
what she did. Everyone seemed pleased with her then. She was a good
example to her little brothers and sisters, they said, and wondered how
they would manage when she was gone. And whenever she thinks of that
time she cannot help smiling at herself, for now that she has a home of
her own, it seems she can do nothing right, and is scolded for all she
says or does not say, whatever she does or does not do."
Sven Elversson was at a loss how to answer. "She is all alone," he
thought, "and has no one to confide in; helpless and a stranger. And she
needs someone to talk to; it helps her a little to talk of it this way."
And he said only that Fru Rhånge seemed to care very much for her
friend.
"I wish I could help her," she said, and was very near to weeping again.
"For I know she is good and kind, really. She loves to help and comfort
old people, and the poor, when they are in trouble, but she must not do
that now, and that is almost the worst thing of all. And she may not sit
in the pew that belongs to her home in church, though she likes best to
sit there, because it is just in the choir, and a little above the rest,
so she can see out over the congregation."
Sven Elversson thought of the little pew in Applum church, set aside for
the family of the incumbent; it stood a little higher than the others,
and one had a view of the rest of the church from there. "But how can I
tell her," he thought, "that her husband is jealous? It would only hurt
her. Perhaps it will pass over. Better that she should not know."
He turned the vessel now, and made for home. It was as well that her
husband should find her there when he came back from church.
And in his pain at not daring to help her--perhaps to turn her thoughts
from her own trouble--he pointed to a rocky island far to the west.
"That is Grimön," he said. "That is where the fellow they call Sven
Elversson lives. You've heard of him, maybe?"
She nodded. "Yes, I have heard about that--the whole story."
She seemed inclined to let the matter end there, but suddenly she added
a few words that made an end of the little happiness Sven had felt that
morning.
"You've heard, of course, that the schoolhouse he built over by the
church was burnt down last night?"
"Burnt down!" he cried. And in consternation he loosed his hold of the
tiller, so that the sail was flung over and the boat nearly capsized.
"Yes," said Fru Rhånge, with perfect calmness, "burnt down to the
ground. And a good thing, too!"
Sven brought the boat round again. "Why do you say that?" he asked
between clenched teeth. "Why is it a good thing the place was burnt? I
have heard that the folk in Applum were pleased enough with the
building."
"I have heard so, too," she said. "But what was the good of that when
the children would not go there?"
"Children would not go there?" he repeated, helplessly. "I have not been
over to the mainland since it started--I knew nothing of that."
Fru Rhånge could see he was astonished at her saying it was well the
place was burnt, and she went on eagerly to explain. From the very
first, the children had taken a dislike to the new school. They had
heard it was built by a man who had eaten human flesh, and they feared
they would lose all chance of salvation if they sat at their lessons in
a place that smelt of Christian blood.
And, as she told all this, she wondered why the man before her sat there
so quietly, as if unconscious, with a far-away look in his eyes and a
patient, suffering smile on his lips.
And in order to justify what she had already said, she went on to relate
how the schoolmaster and, most of all, the mistress in charge of the
little ones, had done all they could. Had spoken kindly and sensibly to
the children, shown them how well the new school was built and fitted,
and how all had been thought out to make it useful and comfortable for
them. But the children had no ears for that, and persisted all the same:
the place had been built by a wicked man, a dreadful sinner, and it was
unclean.
Some of them had suddenly begun to cry during the lessons. Others had
fancied they saw visions, and the fear and horror grew day by day. At
last the parents could hardly get their children to go at all; it was
even feared that some of the more excitable would go out of their minds.
Sven Elversson sat looking straight before him. "I wished her to be my
judge," he said to himself. "And so it has come about. She condemns me,
like all the rest."
She went on to say that it was of the children she had been thinking
when she had said it was a good thing the school had been burnt. The
fire had been caused by a pure accident. The woman who came to clean the
rooms had upset a lamp: the fire had spread at once, and before she
could get help it was beyond control.
The man at the helm looked up. "Well, well," he said. "Now Sven
Elversson has been judged by God and man. Now it will be said that God
would not suffer such unclean hands to build a house for children."
"Really, it almost seems----" began the woman, and checked herself. By a
sudden intuition she felt now that the fellow there, who had been in her
company for two hours at least, must be Sven Elversson himself.
Had she not heard his name mentioned the first time, when he had driven
with them from the station? She had not noticed it at the time. But
now ...
She looked at him closely. His simple dress had deceived her; she could
see now that his face was that of an educated man. And then the curious
little accent that she had noticed and wondered at--doubtless a trace of
his English upbringing.
He sat with his eyes cast down, and as she watched the patient smile
that played about his lips, she felt desperately miserable at having
added still further to the burden he had to bear.
"Must I go back now with the memory of having wounded this poor sufferer
against my will?" she thought. "I should have more to sorrow for then
than I had this morning when I came down to the sea. He must have been a
fine young man, with a career before him, and now he has lost all. And
he has spent money, given his own work, on this schoolhouse building, to
regain the good will of his fellow men. It is hard. I should not have
spoken as I did."
Both were silent for the rest of the way home; neither cared to speak.
But when the boat came in to the stone pier under the cliff, and he rose
to help her ashore, she grasped his hand.
"Forgive me," she said. "I did not know that it was you."
And she bent down and touched his forehead with her lips.
"What have you done?" he cried, with a look in his eyes as if she had
struck him.
"I want you to understand that I do not feel toward you as all the
others do," she said.
And, stepping ashore, she walked across the sand without looking
backhand in through the pass between the rocks.
But before she had gone many steps, Sven Elversson was at her side, and
laid one hand on her arm, that she should stop.
"Thank you ... God bless you ..." he said softly, brokenly. "But
remember," he went on, "you must never, never do such a thing again. And
you must not tell your husband what you have done. If you told him, then
in his jealousy he might kill you."
Sven Elversson was gone, and the young wife walked on alone through the
fields, with his last words still in her ears.
"Jealousy!"--could it be true that her husband was jealous? "Oh,
heavens, no!" she thought to herself. "It is impossible. He _must_ know
that I am his with all my soul, with all my thoughts and feelings."
It seemed so cruelly unjust that any one should ever think her husband
jealous; the tears rose to her eyes again.
"Heaven knows how it is with that Sven Elversson," she said to herself.
"There are many that cannot bear the sight of him, but they all say he
is a good man. But perhaps, after all, he is not suffering undeservedly.
How could Edward ever be jealous about me? And that was what he was
reckoning out to himself while I was talking to him in the boat.
"I wish he were here, so that I could tell him the truth. And the truth
is just this--that Edward does not love me any more. It is his
misfortune, and mine. But he is not jealous. Oh, a man such as he, so
far above all others, who is there he could be jealous of? And that
fellow actually thought he could be jealous of him!
"He has ceased to love me," she told herself once more. "He can't help
not loving me any more, but he cannot have ceased to believe in me, and
in my love for him. It would be too unjust, too blind--it would be
almost ridiculous."
On reaching home, the maid came to meet her in the hall, with an anxious
face. The service was over already, the Pastor had come back, and was
terrified at hearing that his wife was not at home. He had looked for
her everywhere; had even been down to the sea to look. He was sitting in
his room now--perhaps it would be best to go to him at once.
Fru Rhånge opened the door to the study. What was this?--was he ill?
There sat this great strong man, with his face hidden in his arms,
rocking to and fro and moaning as if in pain.
She went in, and asked in astonishment what was the matter. But when he
looked up, his face was so changed that she hardly knew him--pale and
drawn, with dull, bloodshot eyes, and his black beard in ragged wisps
about his cheeks. She could hardly have believed such a change was
possible in so short a time.
He looked at her with wide eyes, as if not knowing her. Then he passed
his hands over his face, trying to control himself, to regain his
customary dignity and confident ease. But to no purpose; his emotion was
too much for him, and the tears streamed from his eyes.
He stretched out an arm toward her and, without rising, drew her to him.
Not a kiss, not a caress; he leaned his head against her breast and
sobbed, heartrending to see.
Again and again she begged him to tell her what it was that hurt him,
but it was long before he could speak.
And then--nothing more than that he had come home from church and had
not found her there; had looked for her about the place, even down to
the sea, and, finding her nowhere, he had thought she had given him up
and stolen away.
Sigrun could not help giving a little laugh of triumph and satisfaction.
"You must never go away from me again," he said. "You must promise me,
now, that you will never leave me. Always let me know where I can find
you--you have seen now; I shall go out of my mind if you do not."
And she promised all that he asked. Promised that nothing but death
should take her from him.
And then she stood beside him, stroking his hair, till he was himself
again. She felt light at heart now that she had had proof of his love.
But at the same time there was something strange, something she could
not share, in this. It was a love she did not understand--a thing too
hot and fierce.
She asked him how he could ever believe she would leave him. And then,
impulsively, he told her his thought; she was so far above him. She was
from another world, was good in herself, without having to think about
it. And he was always fearing that one day she would disappear--he was
not good enough to keep her long.
"He does not mean it," she thought to herself. He could not really mean
it. It was only his love that exalted her, as love ever will. And in the
same way she herself had hitherto exalted him in her heart.
She was no longer miserable and despairing, as she had been in the
morning. But there rose up in her a sense of fear toward her husband.
And she said no word of having been out sailing with Sven Elversson that
day.
Meantime, Sven Elversson and his father were on their way back to
Grimön. Old Joel took the tiller, and his son lay in the bows, making
himself as comfortable as could be.
Joel had told him of the fire at the school, having heard the news at
church. He looked old and bowed and sad; it seemed that now, after this
last failure, all ways were closed to his son's advancement.
Sven Elversson stroked his forehead softly as he lay, now with his
finger-tips, now with the whole of his slender, delicate hand.
There was a strange sense of freedom and ease in his soul. His thoughts
came to him clear and indisputable. He saw his way.
"Father," he said, suddenly, "this loathing is surely the strongest
thing of all. No one can overcome it; no one can stand against it. Best
to know it from the first. Whoever tries to fight against it must be
beaten."
Joel shrugged his shoulders slightly, and grunted out something in
answer, but his words were lost in the noise of wind and waves.
Sven lay as before, thinking. And in a little while, when his mind again
had given him a clear and indisputable thought, he lifted his voice and
cried to his father:
"But loathing is not evil in itself. It is a warning and a safeguard.
And if one could use it so, turning it to good use, one might be of
great service to mankind."
The old man looked up. His rheumy gray eyes lit up for a moment, and his
bowed figure straightened.
Sven sprang to his feet, and, stepping across the thwarts, sat down
beside his father.
"Something has happened to me to-day," he said. "Something that has
helped me. I am not unhappy now about the fire at the school. I have
something else to think of."
Then he went back to his place and lay down again, listening to the
heavy rush of the south wind, watching the blending colour of the reefs,
and stroking his forehead with his slender, delicate hand.
LESS THAN THE LEAST
JULIUS MARTIN LAMPRECHT, arrested and remanded on a charge of murder,
lay on the bench in his cell in the lock-up at Knapefiord, staring into
the gray gloom about him.
He was telling himself, as he had done so many times since his arrest,
that he was not really guilty, and that there was really no need to
confess.
"Now, if I really had been," he said to himself, recollecting his own
words at his examination that same morning--"if I really had been guilty
of cracking in the skulls of two old people, I should never deny it for
a moment. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth--I know about that.
And I know that justice must be done. And better to take your punishment
in this world than have it to come in the next, where it lasts through
all eternity."
The accused was a man about forty-five years of age, and looked almost a
giant as he lay there in his cell. His hair was fair and curly as a
child's, his complexion had the delicate colouring of youth, with a
touch of deeper warmth on the cheeks. A handsome face, on the whole,
with well-cut features. Only the eyes, though handsome too in a way,
were unprepossessing, with a look in them now staring boldly, now
flitting uncertainly from floor to ceiling, from corner to corner.
"Each according to his kind," he thought. "Judges and public prosecutors
and that sort must be taken their way. Have to talk a special sort of
truth to them, by reason that the real truth cannot reach their hearts,
unless it be interpreted unto them."
And all the time he lay here telling himself that he had really
committed no murder; he saw himself cold and hungry, dressed in
miserable beggar's rags, coming in late one evening to a lonely village
hidden away among barren, rocky hills. The door had by accident been
left unfastened; he remembered how terrified the old folk had been as
they looked up and saw him come in; how hurriedly they had closed the
drawer in the table at which they sat. He had spoken kindly, sat down
with them by the fire, to warm himself, eaten the food they gave him
without hesitation, but aware all the time that they were far from glad
of his company, and wished him a thousand miles away.
"And when you happen to be an old convict, sentenced to imprisonment for
life, and let out after twenty years of it for exemplary behaviour, it's
only natural to be suspected. I can't blame any one for that. I might
have thought the same myself." Once more he was quoting from his defence
of the morning.
And all the time he saw clearly in his mind's eye how he and the two old
people had settled down to rest for the night, they in their bed in one
corner, and he on a straw mattress at the other end of the room. The fire
was still burning when they went to bed, and he could see the two gray
heads side by side. He felt by no means comfortable himself; his bed on
the floor was hard and uninviting; he was in ill-humour, and in
particular it annoyed him to feel that these two old people grudged him
the shelter they could not refuse. The axe that the old man had used to
cut a few twigs to put under the pot still lay on the chopping-block; he
wondered if it had been left there on purpose, with the blade gleaming
in the light of the fire. Easy to find, and ready to hand--was it that?
He began to feel sleepy, but dared not sleep. Once he did so, the old
couple would have him at their mercy. The old man, despite his seventy
years, looked active enough still. And they were two to one.
He had told them in court that morning, a man who has done his twenty
years in prison doesn't want to go back again in a hurry. And really, he
ought to be less suspected than others. "But I know it's not that way,
as a rule--or, at least, people don't generally act on it."
And as he repeated his well-chosen words he saw himself once more lying
on the floor in the little house, straining his ears to listen to the
old couplets whispering, the old man urging something, and the woman
trying to dissuade him. "Wait till he's asleep," he heard her say. And
the vagabond on his hard straw pallet felt more and more uneasy. It was
plain that the old couple had money in the house, and were afraid he
might steal it. There's a power of danger more than folk would think in
the life of a poor vagabond.
And he was cautious, and pretended to go to sleep, and snored loudly,
waiting to see what they would do. The old man said his prayers, and
that was all; but that in itself was a masterly piece of deceit to one
who knew what they had in mind--one who could see how the blade of the
axe shone in the light of the dying fire, all ready to hand--one who
understood well enough that they were only trying to lull his suspicion
to rest.
"But," thought the accused, "you can't get a judge to believe a thing
like that. Won't hear a word of self-defence, especially when it's a
poor wanderer coming all unarmed and helpless into a strange house. But,
for my part, I can't call it murder at all. If I hadn't got up and
smashed in their skulls, they'd have smashed in mine. I don't believe
they were asleep at all, though they lay quite still and never moved. It
was all a sham. And if I'd been fool enough to go off to sleep myself in
earnest, what would have happened then? They'd have been up and out of
bed in a moment, with the axe. And after, what could be easier than to
bury a body and hide it up, in a wild place like that? No, it's almost
wicked to tempt people, having it all so easy."
And each time the accused went over in his mind the events of that night
he felt more and more convinced that he had only killed the two old
people in self-defence.
At first, he had not expected to be arrested at all. In the first place,
the village where the two old people lay asleep, each with a cloven
skull, was far off the high road, and he had every hope that nothing
would be discovered until he was far away in safety. Then, too, he had
so thoroughly persuaded himself of his innocence that he felt Providence
must protect him. For the justice of Providence is other than that of
courts of law on earth. It was a justice that understood how a poor
vagabond might be forced to act in self-defence. With that sort of
justice it was possible, so to speak, to talk as man to man.
The only thing this supreme justice could reasonably reproach him with
was--he admitted it freely--a little white lie or so that he had allowed
himself to tell at the examination, with regard to where he had been on
the night of the crime and the days following. But for all his
conscientiousness and his love of right and justice, he realized that in
his case it was pardonable. For when a man had been arrested in despite
of common fairness and humanity, merely because he happened to have been
in prison before--and possibly also to some extent because a
savings-bank book, the property of the deceased, and been found on his
person--why, he was simply forced to deviate a little from the strict
and literal truth. He had been obliged to confess that he had stolen the
bank book from the pocket of a fellow passenger in the train. He had not
endeavoured to assert that it had been honestly come by, but had freely
confessed he had stolen it. As to where the other traveller had obtained
it--who could say? It was too much to ask that he, the accused, show
know the goings and comings of every stranger.
Again and again he went through the same arguments, each time feeling
himself more and more innocent of any crime.
He had reached so far, indeed, as to be filled with an intense
conviction of having barely, by a miracle of grace, escaped being
murdered in his sleep himself--when the door of his cell opened, and the
notary, who had conducted the proceedings of that morning, stepped in,
followed by two other men. One was the warder, who had been deputed to
look after him, and the other a young man, dressed like a workman of the
better class.
The prisoner rose at once to his feet, with an air of respectful
attention. He was resolved, as he had told the prison chaplain, on all
occasions to observe a proper demeanour, and show that he himself was
not only a lover of justice, but well disposed toward its servants.
"I have to inform you, Lamprecht," said the young notary, "that your
case will be decided to-morrow. And once more I would ask you, while
there is yet time, to ease your conscience and obtain a lighter sentence
by sincere repentance and confession."
The accused answered only with a determined shake of the head, but for
the rest maintained an attitude of tolerant understanding.
"I can understand, of course, that the notary finds it difficult," he
said. "I have myself learned to love justice, which is the foundation of
all society--the one thing in which all must trust. And I can understand
that it seems hard to judge. You do not wish to condemn an innocent man,
or, on the other hand, to let the guilty escape."
While he was speaking he noticed that the judge made a gesture with his
hand once or twice as if to interrupt, but he took no heed. A man who
has spent twenty years in prison has gained a certain amount of
experience in the time, and may have various things to say which might
be useful to a notary acting, perhaps for the first time, as judge.
He was allowed to finish what he had to say. Then the judge went on,
entirely unmoved.
"You find it very difficult to give clear and distinct answers to
questions put. And I have therefore written down these three points
which you have to answer." He took up a paper, and held it toward the
accused, reading out the contents at the same time:
"'Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having murdered Jonas
Mikaelson with an axe on the night following the twelfth of February
1909?
"'Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having murdered Brita
Gustava, wife of the aforesaid Jonas Mikaelson, with an axe on the night
following the twelfth of February 1909?
"'Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having been aware that the
two persons aforesaid possessed a bank book showing a deposit of two
hundred _kronor_, and to having committed the murder in order to gain
possession of the same?'"
The notary laid the paper on the table.
"You can think it over," he said. "You know that there is no prospect of
your being acquitted, but a confession given of your own free will may
lead to a mitigation of the sentence. Here is the paper; I will have pen
and ink brought in."
The accused was by no means pleased at the manner in which his mode of
expressing himself had been criticized; he was indeed altogether out of
humour now. He stared blankly before him.
"You heard what I said?" the notary went on. "You understand that there
are three questions here for you to answer, with your signature?"
The accused drew a deep breath. He was annoyed, and made no attempt to
hide it. He spat on the paper and going back to his bench, lay down and
closed his eyes.
"I will have a new copy of the paper brought in at once," said the judge
as calmly as before.
"You have an hour. I shall wait in the building that time for your
answer. You are too fond of delay and prevarication; I intend to show
you that the time for such evasions is now past."
The accused answered only with an oath.
A moment after, he heard the door open, and imagined that the visitors
had left. He did not trouble himself to open his eyes and look.
"That slip of a boy will never dare to condemn me," he thought. "Not as
long as I stick to a firm denial. As for his paper, I've no need to
answer that. Why should I?"
And, lying stretched on his bench, he saw in his mind's eye the same
scenes as he had seen before; repeated his former arguments, growing
ever more and more convinced of his entire innocence. He was certain now
that the two old villagers had been in the habit of laying traps for
lonely wanderers; they must have had more than one such life on their
conscience.
At the same time, he found something pleasant in the thought that the
judge had come in person to ask him to confess. It was proof that they
regarded him as an important and dangerous man, whom they were loth to
release.
"There you are!" he said to himself proudly. "That's how it is. People
all round are afraid the murderer may escape after all. All that crowd
there was in the court this morning. And the papers taking it up so
eagerly. And the judge himself uncertain what to do; yes, it's all easy
enough to understand. They'd like to condemn, but they haven't proof
enough. And so they're trying to wring out a confession to help them.
They know they can't condemn a man without proof as long as he denies it
and sticks to it."
He felt so sure of his safety now that he began to whistle.
Perhaps, after all, it might turn out that this sore trial had not been
in vain. "After this," he thought to himself, "there'll be no need to be
content with cold potatoes and scrapings of porridge when you come to a
lonely hut. After this, you'll only have to say your name, Julius Martin
Lamprecht, and people 'll know what they've got to do. They'll get busy
then, soon enough, with pots and pans on the fire, and serve up the best
they've got. No more lying on a bit of mattress on the floor; no, it 'll
be the visitor, the stranger within their gates, that sleeps in the best
bed, and the others can sleep on the floor or out in the shed, if they
like."
But here the accused was again interrupted in his train of thought. A
quiet, gentle voice close by him:
"Five minutes have gone already."
He opened his eyes. The man dressed like a workman, who had followed the
others into the cell, stood by his side, watch in hand, pointing to the
dial as he spoke.
"What are you doing here? Who are you?" cried the accused, unpleasantly
surprised to find that he was not alone. He wondered uneasily if he had
been thinking aloud.
"I--I am nobody to speak of," said the other. "My name is Sven
Elversson, son of Joel Elversson from Grimön. But it just occurred to
me that you might perhaps fall off to sleep, or forget about the time,
until it was too late. And so I asked them to let me stay in here and
talk to you."
Lamprecht could find nothing to disapprove of in the stranger. There was
something extremely humble about his manner, his smile, the tone of his
voice. Even the way his hair was done seemed to have something of
humility about it. He was clean-shaven, too, which added to the
impression. All that could indicate selfishness, pride, superiority, was
effaced. "Must be one of those well-meaning folk that go about doing
good," thought the prisoner to himself. "Well, he won't get much out of
me, anyhow."
"D'you think for a moment I'm ever going to write a word on that paper
there?" he asked, scornfully.
"Do not say 'no' before you've had time to think," said Sven Elversson,
with a glance of gentle humility and goodness. "You have had dealings
with the law before, and you know well enough that you cannot be
condemned in this court as long as you persist in a denial; they will
have to acquit you for lack of proof. But before you decide, let me tell
you that there are certain persons here who have ordered the sum of five
thousand kronor to be placed at your disposal if you decide to confess.
There is reason to believe that you would be glad of the money, although
you will not, of course, be able to spend it yourself."
The accused felt a sudden shiver through his body from head to foot. At
the same time, he could not help making a grimace. But he pulled himself
together.
"What the devil is that you say?" he cried.
"Yes, it is true," said Sven Elversson. "We are ready to give you that
money, if you confess. You understand that it is a matter of importance
to us others that you should confess? Everyone in the district, perhaps
in the whole country, is horrified. And we have resolved that you shall
not go about the country asking for shelter of lonely folk if we can
help it. That must not be. It is too great a temptation for a man like
you. We want you imprisoned for life. We wish you no harm beyond that.
We have no wish to take your life, or to hurt you at all, but we must
have you in confinement. I and several others have watched you in court,
and heard what you said. You are not exactly an intentional criminal,
but you have fancies, and are easily frightened; you imagine that
everyone is anxious to harm you. And if you think over it carefully, you
will see that it is best for yourself that you should be shut up. You
will be at peace then, and need have no fear of any one. I think, then,
it would be better for you and for everyone else if you were to accept
the five thousand kronor and confess."
"Not for a hundred thousand!" exclaimed the accused.
Sven Elversson had drawn gradually closer to the man while speaking, and
sat down now on the bench beside him.
"Do not say that," he urged kindly, laying one hand on the other's
sleeve. "Five thousand kronor is a good sum, and fully enough for the
purpose for which you would use it. You cannot say otherwise. More would
not be good for the one who is to have the money, and less would hardly
do. Five thousand is as good as could be."
"I can't make you out," said the accused. "What do you think I should
use it for? Who is the one I should give it to?"
"I am glad you asked me that," said Sven Elversson. "It was of that I
wished to speak to you. There has been a great deal about you in the
papers of late, and, among other things, how you are always asking after
your daughter wherever you go. You were married, it seemed, before you
committed that first murder two and twenty years ago, and on your
release you tried at once to find out where your wife was. But she was
dead. But you had a daughter--she would be a little over twenty now,
and, as far as any one knows, she is alive, but no one could tell you
where she had gone. And so you have been wandering about the country
looking for her everywhere. As soon as you entered a house, the first
thing you did was always to ask if any there knew anything of Julia
Lamprecht. And"--here Sven lowered his voice and went on a little
sadly--"it seemed to me that there was something I liked about that.
There must be something good in a man who went about seeking for his
daughter."
"But in the name of Heaven," cried the accused, "what have you to do
with it all? Why are you here, talking to me like this? Can't you tell
me what it is you want with me?"
"Thanks once more," said Sven Elversson in his gentlest voice, as if
fearing to arouse the other's displeasure. "Those are just questions
that I shall be only too glad to answer. I am from Grimön, as I said--a
little island far out at sea, so far, at any rate, that I myself need
have no fear of you, for you would hardly come there. But I have a
mother who has warnings in her dreams at times. And on the morning of
the thirteenth of February she asked me to go over to the mainland and
see how things were with an old couple--relatives of ours--who lived in
a little cottage among the stonehills, far from the high road, and with
no neighbours near. She had dreamed something that made it seem best for
someone to go and see how they were. And I did as she asked me. And so
it came about that I was the first to discover what you had done that
night. And I will not deny that it was a cruel sight, and ever since I
have wished something could be done to prevent you from ever being free
to go about again. And that is why I have been about collecting this
money. I wish you no harm, do not think that. I have told you so
already. I only want to see you imprisoned now for life."
As he spoke, he moved a little closer, and stroked the other's sleeve
gently. He was evidently anxious that Lamprecht should not think he bore
him any personal ill will. Had the man been a lion escaped from its
cage, its keeper might have coaxed it back behind the bars in the same
way.
It would be untrue to say that the accused did not regard him with
uneasiness. Everyone filled him with uneasiness: judge and gaoler,
magistrate and witnesses. But he could not help feeling that this Sven
Elversson was little to be feared--he seemed, indeed, something weak in
his mind. "One of those fellows that go about doing good," he told
himself again. "Philanthropists, they call them."
"I seem to understand a little now," he said aloud. "As soon as you
found out that I went about looking for my daughter you thought you
could use her as a bait to catch a poor fellow again for good."
And he laughed in Sven's soft face. The lion was determined to keep its
freedom, and cared nothing for the bait offered.
"Thank you," said Sven Elversson, with his humblest smile. "What you say
brings me just to the very thing I wanted to tell you. Look you, last
summer I was doing some building work in the district. Not for myself,
you understand, but to order. And I had to get some stone from a quarry
just above the fishing village of Knapefiord, where we are now, and in
that way I came into contact with a good many of the people there. And
among them was a young woman named Julia Lamprecht. It was an unusual
name, and as soon as I saw your name in the papers I remembered her."
The accused rose to his feet. Again he felt that shiver through his
body. His face twitched, his eyelids quivered; it was evident that some
emotion took possession of him at the mention of his daughter, though,
truth to tell, he had been seeking her hitherto less from any warmth of
real feeling than in the hope that she might perhaps be well off and
able to give him a home.
He thrust Sven Elversson aside carelessly, and stood up in the middle of
the cell.
"Is she here?" he asked. "I want to see her."
His tone was that of a man who expects immediate obedience to his
orders. But Sven Elversson did not lose countenance.
"You shall see her," he said, kindly and gently as before, but not
without firmness. "You shall sit and talk with her as you are doing now
with me. But there is one thing to be done first. You must write the
answers on that paper. You may think, perhaps, that we are cruel in
trying to separate father and daughter in this way, but we must have
that paper signed first."
The accused flushed angrily. He was not accustomed to have any
reasonable request refused. Ever since he had been arrested, he had been
treated with the greatest leniency, to make him thrive, as it were, in
captivity, and render him more willing to give the confession that would
keep him there. He felt now as if he could spring at this stranger and
thrash him soundly, but he controlled himself. He threw himself face
downward on the bench, keeping his face hidden. He did not know himself
what made him do so, but he felt it was best to conceal his feelings.
"I am glad, I am grateful to you for thinking it over," said Sven. "I
must tell you that Julia Lamprecht is not very happy as she is. Her
mother died early, as you know. And since then she has, as one might
say, grown up in the streets. She came here in company with a workman
from the quarries. They were not married, but quarrymen hereabouts do
not always trouble about marrying, so no one paid much heed to that. And
Julia is a good girl; there are many worse than she. But a few days
back, when the man heard she was your daughter, he left her. Couldn't
bear the sight of her, he said. And now she is all alone. She is
handsome, like her father, with fair hair, and no doubt there will be
others ready to be friends with her in a way, but it will only be the
same again. Now, if she had a little money, say five thousand kroner,
then she could buy a little house and be properly married. Five thousand
would be just about right. More would not be well for her, and less
would be hardly enough. Well, now you see how we have thought it out. As
soon as you have answered the questions there, you can see her, and give
her the five thousand. You would like that, I think. Then she would feel
she had a father. She would feel that, whatever you might have done, you
had still some affection for her."
The accused was silent for a long time. He moved to and fro restlessly
on the bench, moaning from time to time. There was, after all, something
in the man that cried for his child. Fair, handsome, like her father,
she was. And perhaps even then sitting outside and waiting....
Suddenly he sat up, brushed his hair from his forehead, and looked Sven
Elversson straight in the face.
"Can you tell me," he said, "why I should write on that paper at all? I
shall be acquitted to-morrow."
"Quite likely," answered Sven, "you may be acquitted of the murder. But
then there is that other matter of the bank book. In any case, you will
not be released yet awhile. It may be years before you are a free man
again. You cannot say how long it may be. And, in the meantime, what is
to happen to the girl? She may be ruined before you see her. It is not
an easy thing for a girl to be the daughter of such a man as you. And I
am afraid she will go from bad to worse. Five thousand now, that would
help her. Let her have the money now, and you will have something to
think of, something to be glad of, all your life. Then you will have
done something to wipe out what you have done. You would be respected
for that."
The accused rose to his feet once more.
"Stop it!" he cried, stamping his foot. "You are driving me out of my
mind with your talk."
Sven was silent at once.
The accused stood thinking, searching out his soul; looking everywhere
for that love for his daughter that he thought must be there. They were
trying to lead him as they pleased through his love for his daughter.
They asked of him to sacrifice all that was left of life for her sake.
He, a man with nothing in the world but his freedom, he was to give up
that for his daughter's sake! For love of her! But was there any such
love in him at all? Now that he sought for it, he could find nothing. Or
yes, perhaps, a little. But nothing to speak of. Not enough to make a
sacrifice. It is not so easy to make sacrifices. This fellow here who
talked so glibly about it all, and was trying all the time to get him
shut up and put out of harm's way--would he make any sacrifice for the
sake of what he sought?
"I will do as you ask," he said at last; "I will answer those three
questions. But on one condition. It's all very well that my girl gets
the money. But the money's not everything after all. No, the best thing
she could have would be a good husband. _If you will promise me to marry
her yourself, then I will sign_."
Sven Elversson started back in consternation.
"I had not expected that," he said in a low voice.
"I am asking if you will marry my daughter," said the accused, with a
sneer. "Now, what do you say to that? You ask me to give up everything
for her sake, but you are not so ready to give up anything yourself."
"But--she is your daughter. It was you that brought her into the world,"
said Sven Elversson. "I have hardly spoken to her in my life."
"Just as you like. Only then, of course, I need not trouble about the
questions. It's really a pity, though. I've quite taken a fancy to you.
I'd like to have you for a son-in-law." And he laughed boisterously.
Sven Elversson passed his hand over his eyes, and drew a deep breath. "I
understand now," he said to himself. "The man who would have power over
others must be prepared to crucify himself. Nothing less will serve."
He looked long and searchingly at the man before him.
"He is trying to get out of it," he thought. "And wants to lay the blame
on me. He is sure I should refuse. But I will not refuse. I have him
cornered now, and I will not let him go."
"Let it be as you say," he said, shortly. "If your daughter will have
me, I will marry her. Now write!"
The accused man hesitated.
"Very kind of you, I'm sure," he said. "But how am I to know you will
keep your word?"
"Of course," said Sven. "I was waiting for you to ask that. Now, if you
think a moment, you will understand that in a place like this walls have
ears. There are witnesses already to the fact that I have promised to
marry Julia Lamprecht, provided that she consents. I cannot escape now.
As long as I wish to be looked on as an honourable man, I cannot escape.
Now, sit down at the table and write!"
Lamprecht sat down at the table. He took up the pen, dipped it in the
ink, and groaned.
Sitting there, pen in hand, he sought once more for that love for his
daughter. It might, perhaps, have been there in his soul at the time
when he hoped to find a home with her, but now--now that he was asked to
give up his freedom for her sake, it was nowhere to be found.
He wrote with the pen upright, and with the pen aslant; dipped again and
again, splashed the ink about, and at last it was done.
"All I ever promised you was to _answer_ the questions," he said, and
handed Sven Elversson the paper.
And Sven Elversson read, and saw that the judge's three questions were
answered with three crooked, straggling words: "_No_" and "_No_" and
"_No_." Beneath was the signature, Julius Martin Lamprecht, and finally
a single sentence, rambling and ill-spelt: "I would confess if I was
guilty, but I am not."
"You will not get the five thousand kronor for that," said Sven
Elversson, quietly.
"I didn't suppose so," returned the other. "But I've got you to marry my
girl. I never promised you but I would answer the questions if you
agreed to marry my daughter. And I've done it. I'll be acquitted, and
I've got a good husband for her."
He stood there throwing out his chest, proud of his victory.
Sven Elversson flushed angrily. His humility had disappeared, and his
manner toward the accused was less kind than before.
"I might have thought it," he said. "I ought to have known what a
scoundrel you were. I have seen how you treated those two poor creatures
after you had killed them. What made you put out their eyes?" he asked
passionately.
"Put out their eyes!" cried the accused. "That's not true. Someone else
must have done that. When I left them----"
He broke off, bit his lips, and staggered, pale as death, to the wall of
the cell.
"Thanks," said Sven Elversson drily. "I knew how I could get you, if
need should be. But I waited, as long as there was a chance, to make it
easier for you."
Next moment the murderer lay on his knees before him.
"I didn't say it; I didn't say anything," he cried. "I didn't say it--it
doesn't count--you tricked me!"
The man was suddenly transformed to a miserable, grovelling heap of
penitence and despair. All his armour of conceit and self-deception, all
his subterfuges and excuses, had been torn from him now.
"There are witnesses here, as I told you before," said Sven Elversson.
"I warned you."
"I'll write it again--give me a new paper and I'll confess. I'll tell
you all, I'll do all you ask, for the sake of the girl."
Sven Elversson raised his voice a little.
"I will tear up this paper," he said. "Another shall be brought
directly. And if the new one is properly answered and signed, then I
fancy the walls will have heard nothing of the first. We will start
again from the moment you sat down to write. The hour is not yet gone.
You, Julius Martin Lamprecht, have still time to make a free
confession."
* * * * * *
A little later, the murderer sat on a chair in his cell, facing the
judge. His appearance was changed; he wore the look of a man washed and
cleansed, though no such process had taken place outwardly. But he had
confessed. Not only had he answered the two first questions in the
affirmative, and the last in the negative, but he had delivered a full
and free confession of the whole affair. He was exhausted now, and a
chair had to be brought for him or he would have fallen to the floor.
But for all that he looked happy and content. At that moment he bore no
ill will to any living soul. He was cleansed and freed from sin. He had
not felt such comfort since his first communion.
In addition to the judge, there were present in the cell a warder, a
constable, the clerk, and Julia Lamprecht, and Sven Elversson. The
prisoner loved them all, and most of all his daughter, to whom he had
just given the sum of five thousand kronor. He found her beautiful to
look at. Handsome, fair, with curly hair, and a queer shyness of manner.
He had not yet spoken with her alone, but the judge had promised she
should be allowed to sit in his cell as long as he pleased.
Now and again the murderer turned his eyes toward the man who had forced
him to confess, and he could not help feeling a certain sympathy with
him.
The very look of the man, as he stood there leaning against the cell
wall, with his eyes cast down and his brow gloomily furrowed, was enough
to inspire sympathy. The murderer felt he understood him better than any
other. He, Lamprecht, a murderer, could confess his crime and atone for
it, but this man would never be able to wipe away the stain that clung
to his name.
The murderer had seen how the judge and all the other servants of the
law had shaken hands with Sven Elversson and thanked him. The judge,
especially, had been profoundly grateful. It was a great relief to him
now to be able to give his decision without hesitation.
But Sven Elversson looked as humble and sad as ever--only more humble,
if anything, than before. He looked like a man utterly weary of himself.
When Julia Lamprecht entered the cell to receive the five thousand
kronor, Sven Elversson had stepped forward and declared that he had
promised the prisoner to make his daughter an offer of marriage. But the
girl had refused at once. She would not marry that man--never. And she
had told him plainly what manner of man he was.
Sven Elversson had been deeply hurt at her refusal. It seemed to torture
him. He drew back without a word, and stood leaning unsteadily against
the cell wall. And the prisoner himself felt that he was revenged.
His daughter, whom he had never seen until that day, had taken vengeance
on the man who had conquered her father. He felt she was of his blood,
and he loved her.
Not that he repented of his confession. He felt clean and easy in mind,
happy and respected, almost like a decent man. And he had seen his
daughter, whom he would love now all his life, and who would always love
him, since he had given up his freedom for her sake.
As for the true confession, the murderer passed it over, erased it from
his memory. He was a man who always needed to look at himself in a good
light. He was already busy in his mind with a beautiful and touching
story of how it was for this daughter's sake alone he had confessed, and
prayed to God and man for forgiveness. As long as he lived, he would be
able to weave that story over and over again, and he would believe it,
and it would serve to maintain his self-respect during the long, hard
years that awaited him.