LOTTA HEDMAN
ONE day toward the end of September 1915 a train came down from Norrland
to the south. In a third-class compartment sat a young woman, very
simply and decently dressed in black, with a black hat almost devoid of
trimmings. She was talking to her fellow travellers. She was not afraid
of raising her voice at times, and the voice in itself being somewhat
shrill, she could be heard by all those near. It was soon evident that
this was the first time she had travelled on the railway. And the
strangeness of it all, coming out into the world and meeting strange,
kindly people, seemed to have lifted her to a sort of ecstasy. All that
she had been unable to find outlet for during years of life in a
confined situation broke out now. She talked unceasingly, and always of
herself. She was loth to lose an opportunity of letting people know who
she was, and what strange message she had to bring.
"And I'm just one that's never studied at all, beyond the Bible," said
she. "My head's not heavy with knowledge. Not all confused with
doctrines of error. I am as an unwritten page; as the white scroll on
which God Himself writes His own thoughts. And I was born far away in
Lapland, and live in a little settlement, and every day I go to work at
a box factory, and I'm all alone and poor, and neither husband nor
child. And nobody asks whether I live or die, and nobody comes to see
after me if I'm ill, and there's no one there at home that I can talk to
about what's most of all to me. And I know well enough that people make
fun of me behind my back, and I'm already getting shy of going about
among people."
A kindly old lady sitting opposite, who had entered into conversation
with her at first, and got her to speak, now laid a hand on her knee, as
if to calm her, but she went on, as if driven by an irresistible inner
force.
"And all my days Death has been after me like a ravening wolf. His
strivings after me have been manifold. He tried to compass me about
while I was yet in my mother's womb. He sent forth a madman to frighten
my mother, and I was born into the world too early, and a weak and
wretched thing at birth. And once he tried to drown me when I was
bathing, and once, out in the forest, he let a tree fall on me, and once
he sent a serpent to bite me in the foot when I was out picking berries,
and once he threw me down from a scaffold on a building. And he's
plagued me with sickness beyond counting."
It was not only her opposite neighbour that listened to her now. A
peasant and his wife, sitting next to her, followed her words with the
greatest attention. The tone and the choice of words reminded them of
mission meetings, and they put on an almost pious expression.
"And in the days of my youth," went on the girl--she could not have been
more than twenty-six or twenty-seven at the most--"I stretched forth my
arms to God, and asked Him why He suffered Death to persecute me with
sickness and wounds, but now, these last few years, I have ceased to
ask. I know now that the Evil One strove to strike me down because it
was God's purpose to speak through me; yes, out of my mouth God should
set a barrier against the raging of the Enemy."
She paused for breath, and looked round, but finding only kindly looks
and attention among the rest, she went on again:
"And I have wondered in myself why I should live so far away in the
north, and why I should always walk the same little streets and never
see anything of the glories of the world. Why have I been granted so
little understanding to make my way and manage for myself, and why have
I so little pleasure on that which pleases others? Why does the foreman
at the factory never say a kindly word to me, however hard I work? Why
should it be so hard for me to get milk, and why should I live in a
little room where no one else would be?
"But now I have ceased from wondering of these things, for now I know
that it is God that has made all waste and miserable about me. And I may
be glad that He has not sent me out into the forests, or into the
mountains, or sent me to live in a Lapp tent, and wander about with
reindeer in the wilderness. I must be thankful that He has suffered me
to dwell in a place where others besides myself have their homes."
It was not only the three sitting nearest who now gave heed to the young
woman's words. One or two of those farthest off stood up to listen.
"What was it?" some asked. Or, "Who was it carrying on like that for all
the carriage to hear? Some of those Salvation Army people?"
"For it is God's will that my thoughts should be for Him alone," went on
the woman in black. "It is His will that I should think and consider
much; that I should interpret Daniel and make clear Ezekiel, and draw
forth wisdom from the Revelations. And in the evenings, when others are
dancing and feasting, Lotta Hedman sits with her Bible, sits searching
after knowledge of God, and things are clear to her which no other in
the world can understand."
A thrill of wonder went through all those who heard, and the speaker did
not fail to notice it. The attention she had awakened egged her on; even
if she had wished, she could not stop now till she had finished. Her
long-closed lips moved now with or against her will.
"And in the winter nights, when the clock strikes twelve, and one and
all Sweden has gone to rest, and the great white land lies stretched in
the calm of sleep, I sit in a poor little room, a room so mean that no
other would ever live there, and I see God's finger pointing to words
and figures in Holy Writ. And then it is revealed to me how it shall be
with all the others, all those who lie sleeping through the winter
night. A revelation to me, poor and despised as I am, yet given to no
other, to none among the learned and the worldly-wise."
Her voice rose yet shriller; the woman sitting opposite laid one hand
again with a kindly touch on her knee. A conductor, making his round
through the train, stopped to listen, wondering if one of the passengers
had been suddenly seized with a fit of madness.
"And all that I have seen and learned, I have written down in plain
words, and sealed and sent it to the King. To the great palace in
Stockholm, a letter from the poor factory girl at Stenbroträsk, from
one that the boys run after in the street, hunting and snarling like
Lapp dogs after a wild she-wolf.
"And I have waited for many days for an answer from the King, but there
has come no answer from the King. And I have written my letter all
again, and sent it to the papers, and the papers would have nothing to
do with my letter, but sent it back.
"And then I was greatly distressed, for my letter is more important than
many things. For I know when the Great War is to end, and I know that
after it shall come the great Destruction, when Nature shall lay waste
the earth, but that after the Great Destruction shall come the bright
Millennium. And I know that a third part of all mankind on earth shall
perish in the Great War, and a third shall perish in the Great
Destruction, but the last third shall be left alive in the Great
Millennium, which is the Kingdom of the Lord on Earth."
The words, flung out with violent force, pierced many of the listeners
like cold steel, and they shivered with dread. A few years earlier, such
a speech would have been received with derision, but this was the second
year of the World War, when all hearts were filled to the utmost with
horror and expectation. Even in Sweden, no one could feel safe from day
to day, but wondered what the Russians were about up at Haparanda.
"These things and much more--all are in my letter to the King. And I
wrote to him and told him how he should act so that he and all in Sweden
should escape the coming time of wrath, and how they might come to share
in the Millennium of God.
"But I have prayed to God for help, and asked Him how my letter could be
made known to the world, since no one will help me. And God has given me
His commands, and told me what remained for me to do. For there is a
great sin to be atoned for before my letter can be sent abroad and made
known to all men. And it is to atone for my sin that I am going south
to-day."
The excitement in the carriage was at its height. Here was one who
claimed to know what all longed to know: when the war was to end. A
voice from someone among those farthest off was heard asking her:
"When is the war to end?"
And many others took up the cry: "When is it to end? If you know, tell
us, tell us now."
It seemed as if the end of all those horrors and perils that weighed
down mankind were suddenly brought within view. Perhaps before long
there might yet come a time when the murdering out in the great world
was at an end; when men could think once more of other matters than of
war; could live without suffering day and night from the thought of old
women mourning, terrified fugitives, prisoners dying slowly in their
captivity.
Peasants thought of the days when they would no longer have to send
their sons and hired men to guard the still precarious neutrality of
their country; small tradesmen, who had done flourishing business at the
beginning of the war, but were now threatened with dearth of all
commodities; workmen, who saw themselves face to face with increased
cost of living and scarcity of the bare necessaries of life--all asked
with one voice: "When is it to end? When is all this misery to cease?"
But the prophetess from Stenbroträsk did not seem to have expected such
an effect of her words.
"It is all in my letter," she cried. "It shall be made known when I have
atoned for my sin, and God lets my words be published abroad throughout
the world."
There was a perceptible loss of interest among the listeners; evidently
this woman knew no more than anyone else. Most of those who had risen
sat down again.
And the end of her speech, the few words she uttered afterward were
scarcely heard by any save the kindly woman sitting opposite, who had
first spoken to her.
"And I have no time to write except at night," said the girl--"at night,
when work is over, and then my fingers are stiff and unwilling, and I am
not quick at writing properly. They talk differently in our parts. It
makes me very tired, all the writing.
"And I live in poverty and wretchedness," she went on. "Poor and ill and
alone, and living in a place where no one else would ever live, and I
tremble to think of all that must come."
She had marked well enough that no one seemed to care any longer for her
words. Her voice grew fainter, and there was a dreamy look in her eyes.
At last she spoke only in a whisper, and lowered her glance. None but
those nearest could hear what she said.
"But I pray to God to spare me, that I may live to be one among the
purified host. I pray that I may be counted among that last third, and
that I, who have been chosen to proclaim its coming when all despised
me, may share in the Millennium of the Lord, and stand among the elect
and see this earth resplendent in the glory of righteousness."
THE WONDERFUL MUSIC
THE long train from the north rolled on unceasingly from station to
station. Those in the compartment where Lotta Hedman sat gradually got
out: first the peasant and his wife, then the kindly woman who had got
her to speak at first of who and what she was. Then there entered a man,
who, by the look of him, might have been a lay preacher of some sort,
and sat down in the comfortable corner. He had been in another part of
the train before, and came now to find a better seat.
The newcomer at once entered into conversation with Lotta. He asked her
whether any revelations had come to her before the time of the war, or
if it was only since its beginning that she had been aware of her gift.
He spoke in low tones, with a soft, gentle, and very winning voice,
exhibiting the warmest interest, without either expressing doubt or
faith. To others, his manner of speaking might seem irritating in its
extreme humility, but Lotta Hedman was pleased to be addressed with some
measure of respect, now that she had for the first time shown herself
among strangers and revealed her calling.
"I should be glad indeed if you would tell me something about your
visions," said the man. "It is too much to ask, perhaps, seeing that I
am a stranger to you, but be sure I should feel it a great honour."
The young woman could not resist such an appeal, and began at once to
tell about the first time she had noticed anything strange. But she
spoke now with far greater calm than before. True, she raised her voice,
and found also more listeners than the one directly addressed, but the
man before her seemed unwittingly to exert a calming influence, and her
eagerness was restrained.
"I was only fourteen at the time," she said, "and was just recovering
from a serious illness that had been sent by my persecutor Death; I was
very weak, and all my body felt as if it were withering and falling to
nothing. But I did not live alone then, as I do now; I lived at home
with my father and mother. And they were only poor peasant folk, but
they cared for me in my weakness, and let me stay at home, instead of
sending me out to service among strangers. And Mother asked no more of
me than that I should help her with light work and errands, and read
aloud a chapter of the Bible every day.
"There was no sawmill at Stenbroträsk in those days, and no box
factory, and no workmen's dwellings, nor even the beginning of a
settlement. All our side of the river there were no houses beyond a
couple of small farmsteads. The church and the Deanery and the big farms
were all over on the other side, just as they are now.
"Then, one Sunday evening, Mother told me to row over with some milk to
the Deanery, for it was summer time, and everyone there had their cows
out at a distance for months together, and they could not get milk
nearer than from us.
"I got into the boat, and started to row across, and it was all so easy
and light of a sudden. As if the heavy boat was turned to the lightest
little thing, and the water changed to smooth, fine oil, and the oars to
delicate wings. And everything was very quiet and still. The oars did
not creak in the rowlocks, nor splash in the water, and there was no
sound from either shore. Not so much as a cow-bell anywhere. No men and
girls sitting talking on the banks, and all the swallows that always
used to build in the high banks and were always fluttering and flying
about outside their holes, they seemed to be gone all at once, and never
a sign of them.
"And when I had rowed across, and taken the milk and started up to walk
to the Deanery, it wasn't hard walking at all, though it was uphill all
the way, and I had the sun right in my face. The sun didn't seem hot in
the least, and the milk wasn't heavy at all.
"And I thought to myself they must be waiting eagerly for me, and it
must mean something good for me somehow; for I had never found it so
easy to get over there before.
"And then when I came into the kitchen, it was all quiet there too, and
not a soul to be seen that I could give the milk to, so I had to stay
waiting at the door.
"And then, almost as soon as I came in, I heard someone playing in one
of the rooms above, and I could hear it so clearly I almost fancied it
must be in the same room where I stood. And it was so beautiful, I was
glad the housekeeper and the maid were not there, so I could stay
quietly and listen. I was in no hurry to go now--I could have stood
there the whole night and not wanted to go.
"At that time I'd never heard any sort of music but a harmonica and the
old church organ at Stenbroträsk, and I wondered so much what fine
instrument it could be that was playing now. And it wasn't any sort of
tune I knew. Just long-drawn tones like a strong soughing of the wind,
and full of sound, and so clear, it felt as if they stroked my cheek so
gently, passing by.
"And I had such lovely, splendid thoughts as I listened. I felt as if I
were freed from earth, and half-way up to God's heaven.
"Then someone came into the kitchen, and suddenly the wonderful music
stopped.
"When the housekeeper had poured off the milk, she set out something to
eat for me on the table, and told me to sit down. They had had a funeral
that day, she said; it was the old lady that was dead, the Dean's
mother, and they had had guests to dinner. And I was to have a little of
the good things, she said.
"And because she was so kind and nice, I took courage, and asked who it
could be that had played so beautifully up above.
"But the housekeeper, she was so astonished, she could hardly speak.
"'What's that you're saying, child? You can't have heard anybody playing
up above. The piano's at the other end of the house, and we can't hear
it out in the kitchen. And you can think for yourself there's no one
likely to be playing music here the day old mistress is laid to rest!'
"Then nobody said anything for a time. I knew, of course, that I had
heard what I had heard, but I didn't like to contradict.
"And the housekeeper, she sort of thought it over to herself a little,
and then she began again trying to put me right.
"'It's old mistress's room that's here above the kitchen,' she said,
'and the last place in the world any one would ever think of playing
music this day.'
"The tears came into my eyes then, for I knew she thought I had been
telling untruth. And I felt like running away at once, only it would
look so strange to run off before I'd finished what she'd given me.
"And then, what do you think? Just as I was sitting there wishing myself
a hundred miles off, the door opens, and the Dean himself looks in and
asks hadn't they heard the bell for evening prayers?
"And they were abashed at that and made excuses.
"'It's Lotta Hedman there; she frightened us so we forgot everything
else. She says she came into the kitchen a little while back, when there
was nobody here, and hears someone playing music up above. And we can't
make it out, for we know surely enough there's no one here would play a
note the day of the funeral.'
"And I, poor thing, being pointed out like that, I didn't know what to
do with myself. I set down my knife and fork and pushed away my plate,
and was just getting ready to run out of the door.
"'Music?' says the Dean. 'Now let us all give thanks to God. This is a
wonderful act of grace indeed. I knew well that my dear mother would
send a greeting if it were in her power. She would not leave me for all
eternity without a sign to be a guidance to me living on in darkness and
uncertainty.'
"And he came up to me and laid his hand on my head.
"'So you are one of the chosen,' he said. 'One of those appointed to
bring tidings from the dead to the living. Well, well, it may be that
God Himself will speak one day through you on earth.'
"And he said no more, only turned my face upward and looked deep into my
eyes, and sighed, and went away.
"But when I rowed back across the water, I sat thinking of all that had
happened that day. And I felt that in some strange way I was changed
now, and could never be the same again.
"And that was the first time anything wonderful ever happened to me; the
first time I found that I was appointed to see and hear things that are
hidden from the wise and learned.
"And already I believed I was to be one of the prophets of the Lord,
such as I had read of in Holy Writ. I believed I should one day utter
forth words that should endure as long at heaven and earth. I believed
I was to be exalted among mankind, and never dreamed that I should come
to be only a poor working girl in a factory."
SIGRUN
THE stranger thanked Lotta Hedman sincerely for her story.
"I am more than glad that I happened to be in the train to-day," he
said. "Ah, if we could only hear the heavenly music oftener! Then the
world would be different in many ways."
With this remark he drew back into his corner. He pulled his hat down
over his eyes, but Lotta Hedman felt sure that he had not done so in
order to sleep, but to think at ease over what he had heard.
After a little she felt a powerful desire to speak with him again. "Talk
to him of Sigrun. Ask his advice about your journey," said a voice
within her very clearly. "But why should I speak of Sigrun to one who is
a stranger to her and to me?" she protested to herself. Nevertheless, in
a moment the desire was there again. "Speak to him of Sigrun! Look at
him, now that his hat has slipped aside. A good man who has suffered
much. And of a humble heart. Whoever he meets, however fallen and deep
in sin, he holds them for greater than himself. To such a man one can
speak of anything. Tell him of Sigrun!"
"No, Lotta Hedman, be careful! You are not at home in Stenbroträsk now,
where you know everyone. How do you know this man is as good as you say?
Perhaps he is even now laughing at you in his thoughts."
The train rolled on and on, from station to station. People got out and
others entered. At a great junction where several lines met, all the
passengers in the third-class carriage got out, except Lotta Hedman and
the stranger sitting opposite.
Hardly were they alone when the man sat straight up in his seat, put his
hat in the rack above, and began to speak.
He was kind and wise, cheerful, and, above all, gentle and humble in
manner. It was this gentleness that marked him, so that people could not
look at him for five minutes without longing to tell him all their
troubles.
"That man would understand my weakness"--so thought all who met with
him. "It would be good to speak with him. He would understand how hard
it is for me."
And it was not long before Lotta Hedman broke off in the middle of a
conversation about the box factory and work in Stenbroträsk.
"I should like to ask you about something," she said. "I am in trouble,
and you know I live all alone and have no one to ask. Perhaps you could
give me good advice."
"Do not say you want me to advise you," said the man. "I am surely but
ill-fitted to advise. But tell me, at least, what it is that troubles
you. You speak well, and this is a long journey. I am going all the way
to Dalsland myself. It will be a couple of days before I get home."
"Well, it was this way. Once I had a friend. She was the eldest daughter
of the Dean at Stenbroträsk. We were both going to be confirmed, and
went to classes together."
Her voice choked a moment, and her eyes reddened.
"I never cared so much for anyone on earth as I did for her," she went
on, after struggling a moment with her emotion.
The man sat quite still, making no attempt to hurry or assist her. He
looked, indeed, somewhat embarrassed.
"Let me tell you how it was she first came to speak to me. Then you will
understand what she was like."
"Do," he said. "That will be best. And take your time. We have all the
day before us."
"Well, it was when we were going to the confirmation classes, and one
morning, in the interval, some of us, a dozen, perhaps, were standing in
a corner of the churchyard talking about a piece in the catechism. I
remember one of the boys said he was sure God loved mankind, for He had
made us, and so, of course, He must be pleased with His own work.
"Now the few of us standing there together, we were the youngest at the
classes, and poor folk's children, all of us. The others, who were
better and finer than the rest of us, walked up and down outside the
church in little groups, and now and then stopped to gather round the
Dean's daughter; she was going to be confirmed that year too. She was
beautiful to look at, and there was something about her that drew people
to her. You could hardly help looking over to where she was.
"But we others, we knew, of course, that we couldn't expect her to take
any notice of us, and so we had to be content with standing in a corner
talking about the catechism.
"'If we were all like her,' I said to the others, 'then God might well
be pleased with us all.'
"It was the Dean's daughter we were thinking of, and then we all turned
and stood looking at her.
"She had the loveliest soft brown hair, all curling at the temples and
falling in soft waves over the brow and neck. A longish face, with thin
cheeks and long eyelashes, and eyes like a deep well to look down in.
And she seemed to be made somehow of finer stuff than the rest of us.
Like some berries you can see through. She was rather tall, and walked
with her head a little drooping to one side, and it seemed to us that
suited her, with her looks and manner altogether."
The listener bent forward suddenly, covering his eyes with his hand. The
vision of a dearly loved face rose up before him. He saw it now as it
had appeared to him that day at sea, when beauty after beauty passed
before their eyes. So strangely young and questioning.
"Sigrun was her name," said Lotta Hedman. "And it was an uncommon name,
but that was not the only thing uncommon about her.
"Just on that day, watching her as she stood there, in the sunlight
outside the church, I understood why it was one could not help looking
at her.
"True, she was a human being like the rest of us. With eyes and nose and
mouth as anyone else, and born in the Deanery at Stenbroträsk, and her
parents ordinary people like everyone else's. But that could not deceive
any with eyes to see. Sigrun was of another sort than ordinary people;
she was from another world." The man, still sitting with his head
resting on his hand, nodded involuntarily. That was the very word. From
another world--a bird of passage that had lost its way, separated from
its fellows, and somehow come among another flock not of its kind.
"For there _are_ other worlds," said Lotta Hedman. "Many worlds besides
the one we live in. And Sigrun was from one of them. But perhaps you
cannot understand?"
"Yes," said the man, "I understand. I have met someone myself once who
was from another world. At least, I think I understand," he added, as if
fearing he had spoken too confidently.
"And I slipped away into a corner under the belfry," went on Lotta
Hedman, covering her eyes. "I wanted to think over what this meant; that
Sigrun was different from all the rest.
"If she were from another world, then surely she must be able to see
that I was one of the chosen, appointed one day to speak the words of
God. And would she not want to speak to me herself? She who was better
than all the rest, would she not be better able to judge and choose than
they?
"But I was not left alone with my thought for long. The others came up,
all of them from our corner, that did not dare to go up to _her_; they
came and gathered round me.
"'Here's Lotta Hedman sitting crying, because Sigrun won't look at her,'
said one.
"'Of course she won't--Sigrun to look at one like you, indeed, such a
sight!' said another, and tried to make me see it the same way.
"'Look at your hair--sticking out all round your head like a wild bush.'
"And I sat still and let them go on. 'If it was only that,' I thought to
myself. 'But it's because Sigrun is from another world, and that's worse
than all the rest.'
"'And such a figure you've got,' said the others. 'No shape at all. You
can never get your clothes to sit properly like others do. And your eyes
are sharp and hard, and you've a voice like a raven....'
"Now I hadn't been crying before, but then I felt the tears coming,
because the others were all so harsh and unkind, when they tried to
comfort me.
"But then all of a sudden it seemed as if a warm, gentle light filled
the air in front of me--like sunlight in a room on a cold winter's day.
"A cool, soft hand drew my hands away from my face, and when I looked up
it was Sigrun standing there, and smiling at me, and asking if I would
row her across in my boat later on, when we had finished lessons for the
day.
"And though I knew that the others must have told her that I was only a
poor girl, and always ill besides; though I knew it was only for pity's
sake she asked me, still I felt so happy, so happy. Oh, you can never
understand how wonderful it was to feel, and I loved her from that
moment."
"And I loved her from that moment," repeated the listener to himself,
and felt once more the touch of a woman's lips on his face, and a little
merry laugh. "Though I knew it was only for pity's sake," he whispered
to himself--"though I knew well it was only for pity's sake.
"Sigrun," he murmured half aloud, "why should you come back to me like
this to-day? I thought I had sent you away for ever. Why do you come
back now?"
Lotta Hedman went on with her story. "But that afternoon, when we were
rowing across, she asked me, Sigrun, if it was I that had heard the
wonderful music in the Deanery on the day of the funeral, and asked me
to tell her all about it. And I told her that and more. All the other
things I had seen and heard, I told her everything, and told her, too,
that I believed I was to be a seer and a prophet of God. And she did not
laugh at me. Only said quite humbly that she never saw such things
herself, but her dearest wish was to be a nurse. Not for ordinary
people, ill with this or that, but for those stricken by the plague, or
leprosy. Or if that could not be done, then she would go and care for
witless folk, or teach the blind to read or deaf-mutes to talk. Her
greatest sorrow, she said, was that she feared her father and mother
would not let her go away to such work.
"I can remember even now," said Lotta Hedman, "how beautiful she was
when she spoke of that."
The man sitting opposite looked up a moment, and his eyes shone. "Your
story is a great delight to me," he said. "Far more than you know."
"It is very good of you to say so," said Lotta Hedman. "I thought you
would have been tired of it long ago."
"Do not think that," said he. "That girl--the Dean's daughter from
Stenbroträsk--you might talk to me of her all the rest of the way, and
I should not be tired of hearing. And then I suppose you were friends
after the day you went out in the boat together?"
"Yes," said Lotta Hedman; "we were good friends--that is true. We went
out in the boat nearly every evening, as long as the lessons lasted.
Sigrun liked to sit in a boat and just drift up and down, not going
anywhere, but just drifting. She did not care for steamers nor for
railways, and did not care for driving with horses, but she loved to
drift about in a little boat. And the thing she longed for most of all
was the sea."
The man sitting opposite bowed his head once more and covered his eyes.
"True," he thought to himself. "She longed to see the sea. She told me
that. How she had longed for it ever since she was a child of fifteen.
But it was given to me to show her that. At least, I have done one good
thing in my life."
Lotta Hedman did not need much encouragement from a listener; she went
on, undisturbed, with her story.
"Then I thought, as soon as the confirmation classes were over, we
should never see each other again, but all that summer after, Sigrun
came down to the shore nearly every day, and we rowed up and down the
river for hours together. And so it went on, summer after summer; it was
the happiest time in all my life."
The man sighed. "Why have you come back, Sigrun?" he whispered to
himself. "You, so young and good, so beautiful and unspoiled, why do you
come back to me now? I have tried to think of you as a woman ageing, a
mother of children, a loving and affectionate wife. Why do you come now
in all the freshness of youth?"
"And now I must tell you the end of that friendship," said Lotta Hedman.
"After it had lasted four years, I was sitting at home one Sunday
afternoon in spring, looking at a big red-painted farmhouse that grew up
outside the east window. One wing showed out after another, and I was
wondering what sort of a house it could be, and why it was being built
up so grandly just that evening.
"It was getting late, and nearing twilight already. Father and mother
had been to church that morning, and were sitting on either side of the
hearth, smoking and talking. But I sat at the window, watching the house
grow up against the grey evening sky.
"It was a red house on two floors, set high on a hill with a lot of old
apple trees on the slope in front, and on one side of the orchard I
could see a cowshed and barn, and on the other, stables and outhouses
and a big stone store-cellar with one little room built over.
"Close by the store-cellar was a tree, of a sort I did not know. It was
all knotty and rough, with a thick trunk and wide-spreading branches,
and looked ever so old--there was something misshapen and threatening
about it.
"Father and mother, sitting by the hearth, sat without speaking
now--just thinking together. They knew each other so well.
"'It's a pity about Lotta,' said mother. And father answered at once
without asking what she meant, that it was a pity, surely. He'd been
thinking of the same thing, you know.
"But I thought to myself that they did not know at all, really--for how
could it be a pity about me in any way, as long as I had all my visions
and voices to be happy with?
"And the big farmhouse stood there clear and plain as ever. It looked as
if I could just walk in at any moment through the gate and talk to the
people indoors. I could see tools and things lying about in the yard,
and the bucket by the well, and the dog-kennel and the pigeon-loft, and
I could see it was a fine big place, but something old and out of date
about it.
"It was all very still and quiet and forsaken. Not a soul, not a beast
of any kind was moving anywhere.
"And then I saw something that was more surprising than all the rest.
There was a stone wall round the farm and buildings and yard, between
them and the fields, and in the middle a gate. And one of the gateposts
stood up straight and firm, but the other was grey and almost rotted
through, and would have tumbled down if it hadn't been for a whole lot
of struts and supports round it.
"Just as I caught sight of that old gatepost, I felt a shiver through
me. And I knew that there was something I was afraid of, and did not
want to see any more.
"I put my hands before my eyes, and turned away from the window; it
would not go away. Next time I looked out, there it was, just as before,
a splendid place to see, standing out against the black hills behind.
And looking at a place like that in reality, you would surely think it
must be rich and powerful people that lived there. Everything was well
kept, except that one gatepost.
"And I tried not to look at it, because it made me afraid, but just as I
turned my eyes away from it, I saw that there was someone in the house
after all. Someone sitting at the window of the little room above the
cellar, almost opposite the gatepost, and looking down at it.
"It was an old woman, with a stern but beautiful face, and white hair
set up under a cap--I had never seen anyone wear a cap like that before.
She sat quite still, with folded hands, and her eyes fixed on the post.
Sitting there like a stone, just looking and looking at it all the time.
"Now I felt more afraid of her than of the post itself, and I turned
away from the window, and tried to make her go away, by thinking of
Sigrun.
"I thought what good friends we had been, and still were. There was
nothing that could separate us. The winter before, Sigrun had been away,
to visit some relatives in the south, and stayed with them for several
months, but when she came back, we were just as good friends as before.
"I never needed to do more than just call for Sigrun to make all
darkness vanish away. But it did not help me this time. When I turned to
the window again, there was the farmhouse, just as before, and the old
woman still staring darkly and fixedly down at the same spot.
"Father and mother, sitting by the hearth, were talking the same way as
before.
"'Yes, it will be hard for Lotta,' said mother. 'But she's young, and
young folks soon forget.'
"'Yes, that's true. As long as you're young,' said father.
"And then they sighed, and puffed away at their pipes.
"Heavy thoughts weighed on me now. I felt that father and mother were
right, and that something cruel was going to happen to me.
"Then I tried again. I thought of Sigrun, as she had been, when she came
to me a few months back and told me that she was engaged to a clergyman
she had met while she had been away staying with her friends.
"She had been so happy at the thought of marrying a priest. It was just
the thing for her, as a clergyman's daughter. And he had a living of his
own already, and his own congregation, though he was only a little over
thirty. It was only a small place, but then he was not to be there long.
With his powers, he would certainly end as a bishop.
"So, really, it was a fine thing that he had a home of his own already,
and they could get married in the autumn.
"I was a little astonished at first, for I had always thought she was
going to be a nurse, but she said it was just the same when you married
a priest. Better, indeed, for now she would have a whole congregation to
help and look after.
"I thought over all this, and looked out again, thinking it would be
better now. But it was only worse, for now the old woman stood up, and I
could see her face. And it was dark with anger and hate, and she lifted
a clenched hand and shook it toward me, pointing with the other hand
toward the gatepost. It was just as if she had said, if I dared to touch
it, it would be the worse for me.
"She was terrible to look at, and I was frightened, but at the same
time, she was so pitifully old and helpless, I felt like crying with
pity for her.
"But then, just as she raised her hand, the whole thing disappeared.
All--farmhouse and gatepost and the old woman herself. As if there had
never been anything there at all. And oh, I felt such a relief.
"Why should I be anxious, just because Sigrun had her lover staying on a
visit for a day or so? And why should mother and father be anxious about
me, just because they had seen him in church that day?
"And then at last I saw a couple of heads appear on the river bank. And
I was so glad, and called out to mother and father:
"'That's Sigrun, I'm sure, coming to show me her lover. Come and look,
if it isn't right--the two there coming down toward the river?'
"Then mother made haste to put away her pipe and move all the chairs
about and wipe up a few drops of water spilt on the floor.
"But father came over to me by the window, and we stood looking out at
the two. And now I saw the man for the first time, walking there with
Sigrun on his arm. He was not so very tall, but strongly built--a
broad-shouldered, powerful man. And handsome, with a fine head. I could
not see anything to find fault with, unless it were that he was
short-sighted and wore glasses.
"When they came in, they looked proud and happy. And I was pleased, too,
with Sigrun's lover, and glad they had come to see me. He looked as if
he could take care of his wife, whatever might happen. As long as she
had him to support her, surely she could never be unhappy or
discouraged.
"The priest spoke kindly to father and mother. But when he came to speak
to me, he blinked his eyes a little behind his glasses, and looked at me
with a sort of smile.
"'Aha,' said he, 'so this is the great seer, the wise young woman from
Stenbroträsk. I'm quite afraid of her. She can see through people, of
course, and what if she were dissatisfied with me!'
"And he laughed, and Sigrun too, and father smiled a little.
"It was as if I was just something to laugh at and make fun of.
"I went all red at first, with the blood rushing to my face. Then I felt
I turned all stiff and hard. And I could not understand how anyone could
talk so openly about the thing that was my holiest secret. And how could
Sigrun ever have betrayed me, and told her lover, when I had told her
just because I could trust her?"
Lotta Hedman's voice rose to a shriller tone, just as when she had
spoken of her hard and lonely life. The pain of her thoughts rang in her
words.
The man before her looked up with a sad smile.
"You might surely have known it must be so," he said. "Sigrun had given
herself to him with all her soul, with all her thoughts, and all she had
ever known."
"That was so, perhaps," said the other, "but it was cruel to me to feel.
Mother tried to answer for me, for she knew I could not say anything
myself then.
"'She has but a foolish mother, has my girl,' said mother. 'But the Lord
has heard my prayers. He has given me a daughter that sees and
understands more than most.'
"I felt how brave it was of mother to speak out. I could have gone down
on my knees and thanked her, but she was silent, she too, when the
priest gave her one sharp look through his eyeglasses, and began talking
with a thick and heavy voice, all important, as if he might have been
standing in the pulpit.
"'We've need to be ever watchful, those of us who are Christians,' he
said, 'lest we should fall back into heathen ways. And whosoever seeks
to penetrate into the unknown is trying, as it were, to go their own way
instead of the way that is Christ Jesus. Beware of setting up other
gods; of setting up oneself as God.'
"And he preached like that for a long while. And nobody in the room
dared to say a word against him now. And where was all that I had seen
and heard before? It all seemed blown away in a breath, the moment that
man came into the house. And I had to sit there, helpless, without a
word, and hear him preaching and correcting me in front of Sigrun and
mother and father.
"I looked over at Sigrun, and there she was sitting, looking up at her
lover all humbly and admiring. And I could see she was pleased that he
was trying to lead me into the right way. And she, too, felt now just as
he did, that all we had had to talk of together before was something
wicked and harmful. He was speaking for my good, and all I had to do was
to turn from my erring ways and try to be like everyone else.
"I was so miserable; it was so cruel. I would rather have died than sit
there and see Sigrun turn away from me like that."
The listener looked up once more.
"Yet it was good, surely, that she had no other thought, no thought of
her own, but only his thoughts," he said. "That is the beautiful thing
about her."
Lotta Hedman went on without heeding.
"They stayed some time, not talking to me alone, you understand, but to
mother and father too. And all that the priest man said was kind and
sensible in a way; he knew how to speak. When he dropped out of the
preaching tone, his voice was cheerful and bright. It was easy to
understand that Sigrun was fond of him.
"I did not say a word as long as he was there, and Sigrun looked at me
every now and then with a sort of surprise, and at last she asked me was
I ill? But I only shook my head. She didn't seem to think anything but
that I ought to be quite happy about it all.
"It was a relief when at last they were gone. But then a thing happened.
Sigrun had forgotten her gloves, and came back by herself to fetch
them."
The man sitting listening had changed countenance. "What right have
you," he asked himself, "to sit and listen to all this talk of Sigrun?
Take care! Longing will return, sorrow will return, and love wake
afresh. It will be just as it was six years ago, when you sat on the
rocks dreaming of love. Day after day, dreaming of her."
"And then," Lotta Hedman went on--"then she asked me if I did not think
her lover was wonderful and splendid; had I ever believed there was such
a man in the world? And when I still said nothing, she lost patience
altogether.
"'Whatever is the matter with you to-day?' she asked. 'What makes you
silent and hard all at once? I thought it would do you good to talk to a
priest. And he was so eager to see you himself, and I've told him so
much about you, and how strange you were. And what will he think now?'
"I sat quite still until she was out of the door. But then I ran after
her.
"'Oh! Sigrun, don't marry him!' I cried. 'He will make you miserable.'
And Sigrun looked at me all astonished, and I said again, 'He will kill
your soul, as he has killed mine!'
"Then Sigrun drew herself up.
"'Now you are wicked and unkind,' she said, 'to speak like that just
because someone says things that do not please you to hear.'
"And then she went away for good.
"And I was glad that mother and father did not say anything, did not try
to comfort me or explain things. I went out into the kitchen, all cold
as it was, and sat down and cried. Cried for hours together. Crying for
our beautiful friendship, and for my own soul that had been taken away
and could never come back; I felt myself wronged and betrayed; and for
the first time in my life I tasted that bitter fruit."
Lotta Hedman had lowered her voice, just as when she had ended her long
speech about the letter to the King and the Millennium. Her face showed
deep suffering; she felt the agony of humiliation.
HÅNGER
OH, BUT Lotta Hedman was glad to tell her story. It was a delight to be
able to speak of Sigrun.
And she tried so hard to speak properly, and not in her country dialect;
tried to speak as seriously as a book of devotion. And she was grateful
to her listener, who sat there still, following all she said, with a
patience that seemed as if it would never end.
"And now there is only one thing more I have to tell you before you can
give me the advice I want," she said.
"Do not put yourself out in any way at all," he said. "Talk as you
please; we have time enough before us."
Lotta Hedman dropped back immediately into the tone of the story-teller.
"Well, then, it was in the autumn of that same year," she began again,
"and it had just come on to rain so heavily that we were obliged to
hurry back into the house, father and mother and myself, or we should
have been drenched to the skin.
"And we had hardly got indoors when the door opened and a couple of big,
burly men came rushing in. They asked quite nicely if they might stay
till the rain was over. And father bade them welcome, and mother and I
set out each our chair for them by the door.
"And one of them was talkative, and asked father if he thought they
could get work at the new sawmills they were building at Stenbroträsk.
But the other man was very quiet, and said nothing, only sat staring out
of the east window all the time.
"And the rain was pouring against that window with full force. There was
such a stream of water down the panes you could hardly see out.
"I wondered what it could be he was staring at. For I was quite sure he
must be looking at something else besides raindrops and hailstones.
"And I went up and sat down in my old place by the window and looked
out.
"But there was nothing to be seen except the little grey outhouses and
the water streaming from all the roofs. And it was so thick and dark
outside you could hardly see as far as the river bank. And the
rainclouds hung over beyond as close as a curtain.
"I thought how I had sat at that window on dark evenings, when the
darkness had not hindered me from seeing; had sat there in dense
snowstorms, but the snowflakes had not hindered me; I had seen ships
sailing and railway trains rushing by, and kings making entry into
beautiful cities, and wedding processions and angels dancing and at play
before my eyes.
"But what could it help me now, though I sat at the east window? My
seeing eye was closed; I could make out nothing now but the yard and the
sheds and the pouring rain. There came no warnings to me now, no
message, no revelations any more.
"I fancied I could see something that looked like red houses and tall
woods against the grey wall of cloud, but it was all dark and
indistinct.
"And I tried to feel glad that I was like others now, but my life seemed
poor now, and weighed me down, now that I no longer saw or heard
anything beyond what was real. I felt no joy in living. I was like one
that has sat for a long time at a feast with all things plentiful, and
now had not so much as a crumb to ease my hunger.
"And there was no one now that could comfort me, for Sigrun was just
about to be married, and going to move down to the husband's place at
Applum, in Bohuslän. She had asked me if I would go with her to her new
home, and help her there, for that was what we had agreed long before.
But I told her I would rather stay with mother and father in
Stenbroträsk. For I would not go with Sigrun now. She had never been
the same since she heard me speak ill of her lover, and I could no
longer look at her now as a strange bird that had lost the way; she
seemed well enough at home now among earthly things.
"Then just when my thoughts were darkest, I heard footsteps, and the
silent stranger stood beside me, leaning toward the wet panes.
"'A very strange window, this,' he said, and touched my arm to make me
look. 'I wonder now if you can see the same as I do?'
"'I can't see anything,' I said. 'But why do you say it is a strange
window?'
"'It must be strange,' he said, 'since I am looking at Hånger farm in
Dalsand through the window of a house in Stenbroträsk, ever so far
away.'
"'Is that a farm standing high on a hill, with apple trees on a slope in
front?' I asked. 'Is there a store-cellar with a little room on top, and
a gate with one old rotten gatepost, and an old woman sitting at the
window?'
"'Yes,' he said, leaning down to see better; 'that is right. There is an
old woman sitting at the window of the cellar room; it is all as you
say.'
"'And she is staring at the gatepost; isn't that right? Staring as if
she could not take her eyes from it?'
"'Yes,' he said, and drew a deep breath. 'Yes, sitting there watching
lest the gatepost should fall. She must hold by that till the end of the
world.'
"And I could see how anxious he was about what he saw. There were big
drops of sweat on his forehead, and he was deadly pale, and could hardly
speak.
"But then he turned away from the window, and looked quickly at me. 'But
you say you can see nothing?'
"'I can see nothing now,' I said. 'But one day last spring I saw the
farmhouse as you say it is.'
"And now I noticed that father and mother and the other stranger had
come closer and were listening.
"'There are many in our family who have that gift,' said the other
stranger to father, in a low voice, 'but I have never heard until to-day
that my brother had it too.'
"But the one who had spoken to me before turned his eyes to the window
again, and next moment he started back, afraid.
"'She has seen me!' he cried. 'It is all over with me now!'
"And it was strange to see him so afraid, that great, strong man. But
not even mother, who was always ready enough to laugh, so much as smiled
at him now.
"'Let us sing a hymn,' I whispered to mother. And we sang the first
verse that came into our heads.
"And while we were singing, the rain stopped. The grey cloud hung no
longer like a wall above the river bank, and a ray of sunlight stole
into the room.
"The man who had seen the vision had sat down on a chair, with his hands
before his face, not daring to look up or even to move.
"But now, when it cleared up and grew bright again, his brother spoke to
him sensibly.
"'Come now, Jon,' he said. 'The rain has stopped, and we can go on now.
Look up; you can see it is all gone now.'
"But Jon sat huddled up in his chair, and only moved his elbow to say he
would not be disturbed.
"'No, Anders, no,' he said. 'Let me be. I dare not.'
"Then Anders came over to us, and shook his head.
"'It is no wonder he was afraid,' he said. 'For the thing he saw was
something that once was, and the place he spoke of is the place our
grandfather's father came from.'
"'I think he said it was called Hånger,' I said, seeing that none of
the others spoke.
"'Yes,' he answered. 'Hånger it is, and it lies in Dalsland, and we who
come from there are called the trollfolk of Hånger. We are bigger in
body than most men, and they say we are ill to meet, but, for my part,
I know of nothing strange about us, beyond that we all die by our own
hand. My father did so, and his father and his father's father before
him.'
"When he had spoken, all was silent again. We shuddered, and could not
ask nor speak a word. But the stranger seemed to feel that when he had
said so much, he must go on.
"'They say it all comes of an old story,' he said. 'In the old days, the
men of Hånger were proud and rich, and would submit to none, and often
they were at feud with the priests. And once it seems that one of them
killed a priest in a fit of jealousy. But it was never found out who had
done it. The crime was never atoned, and for the sake of that sin, it
has been so ever since, that all the men from Hånger must die a violent
death, by their own hand or another's.'
"'But surely that can't be,' said mother. 'That the innocent should
suffer for the guilty, no.'
"It happens, for all that, and none so rarely to my mind,' said the man.
'It's not easy to say how it's managed about that. But there was a woman
there at Hånger, mother to him that had murdered the priest. And they
say she knew all about it, and helped the son to dig a grave under one
of the gateposts and long after he was dead she used to sit watching the
spot, that no one should pull it up or break it down or put another post
in its place. She moved down into the little room above the
store-cellar, that was closer to the gate, and there she would sit
watching night and day, and some say she's watching there still. And
Hånger's passed from our family now, and the trollfolk of Hånger are
scattered about all parts, but it seems that all of her blood can still
see her. She follows us, folk say, and sees that never one of us escapes
the penalty of that crime.'
"But mother would not give in.
"'It can't be that this should go on,' she said. 'There must be
something you could do to make an end of it?'
"'True,' said the man. 'And there's those that have tried. Two of us
there were that thought it would be well if they themselves became
priests. But I don't know if the old lady found that to her mind. One of
them died when he was still young--the other is still alive.'
"I was getting more and more frightened now, and, putting together all
that had passed, I knew well enough what answer I should get when I put
my question.
"'And is his name Rhånge?' I asked.
"'But--heavens, child!' cried mother.
"The man answered at once:
"'That's right. Rhånge he calls himself. It's just Hånger spelt round
another way. He's the Pastor at Applum in Bohuslän, and just married,
so I've heard, a daughter of the priest at Stenbroträsk.'"
The listener in the corner gave a sudden start.
"Well, now, I don't mean one should always go by such old stories," said
Lotta Hedman. "But there might be something in this after all, and
perhaps it was wrong of me not to have gone with Sigrun to Bohuslän
after I had heard all this. And perhaps that's why everything has gone
wrong with me since. For though I've got back my seeing and hearing
again, there's none will ever listen to what I say, and perhaps that's
because I failed in my duty to Sigrun. And would it be right now?"
She broke off; her face, that had been alive with feeling, stiffened and
hardened all at once.
"I can see something," she said. "Ice and snow, all white. And a tent--a
black tent--and a long sledge...."
The train entered a station. Lotta Hedman's fellow traveller rose
hurriedly from his seat and reached up for his luggage on the rack.
Lotta Hedman did not heed; she was full of the vision that had come to
her.
The man had left the train, and was moving across the platform when he
heard Lotta's voice calling him back. But he went on without turning
round.
Lotta pulled at the strap of the window with all her might, but by the
time she had opened it, the man had disappeared.
THE MEETING
TWO days later, Lotta Hedman sat in a hired cart, jolting on along a
stony road in the parish of Algeröd, in the eastern part of Bohuslän,
far from the sea, right up on the Dalsland side.
"Heavens!" she thought, looking round; "this is worse than Lappland.
Bare rock everywhere--I never saw the like in all my life. How can
anyone live and get their wherewithal in such a desert?"
And indeed the country she was passing through was little more than a
level stretch of rocky upland. Heather and juniper, moss and stunted fir
showed here and there, but the rock was everywhere.
The more she looked at her surroundings, the more her spirits sank.
"What could Sigrun and her husband have been thinking of," she wondered,
"to move out to a place like this? They were not so badly off before, by
all accounts. Close to the sea, with a well-to-do congregation, and
people round about. What possessed them to come out to a wilderness like
this?"
The stony waste seemed filling her with its own desolation.
"There's no living to be got here, for priest nor any other. Well, if
they've not enough to have me with them, I'll just have to go back home
again, that's all."
At the moment, she felt doubtful if she had acted wisely in coming thus
to visit Sigrun without an invitation, or even sending word herself
beforehand of her coming. She ought at any rate to have sent a message
through Sigrun's parents, or let her know in some way.
"_Herre Gud_!" she thought to herself, as she drove on. "And six years
now since Sigrun left her home at Stenbroträsk, and all that time I've
hardly heard a word of her. A letter or two the first year, and then I
saw her once or twice the summer she came home to visit her people, but
neither of us did anything really to be friends again like we used.
"I can't forget the beautiful letter she wrote me when her little
daughter was born. I was so glad. And she wanted me to come to her then
and help her with the little one. But I couldn't leave them at home, and
I didn't really want to, I suppose. It seemed hard to go and stay with
Sigrun as a maid, and I was afraid of her husband, too. Anyhow, I've
regretted it since, for when the child died I couldn't help thinking it
might have lived if I had been there helping Sigrun as she asked. And
perhaps she thinks so too. I've never heard a word from her since then."
She felt a weight at her heart. Perhaps, after all, the long journey
would come to nothing.
She strove to repress her anxiety. "What will be, must be," she told
herself. "Day after day I heard voices and had warnings telling me to
go. I had no peace nor rest to work things out. 'Sigrun, Sigrun, first
of all,' something was always saying, when I was trying to find out
about the war and the millennium. And then, when father and mother died,
and my brother took over the place and gave me the wretched little
cellar room to live in--why shouldn't I start out and see if she needed
me? There, Lotta Hedman, now pull yourself together. At least, you are
seeing something of the world, and not wasting your money all to
nothing."
As she was thus endeavouring to raise her drooping courage, the driver
lifted his whip and pointed to a dark, pointed church-tower rising from
a clump of trees.
"There's the church already," he said. "We're nearly there now."
Directly after, the road began to slope down into a narrow valley, with
a winding river at the bottom, some farms and houses and fields, groups
of trees, and a little wooden church.
But before they reached the place, the driver lifted his whip again.
"Bless me, but I do believe it's Mistress from the parsonage herself
going down the road, ahead there."
At his words Lotta Hedman felt the weight at her heart almost stifling
her. She could hardly breathe, and all her courage was gone in a moment.
"Oh, why ever did I come like this?" she asked herself. "Perhaps she
won't even remember me. What ever made me set off on this wild
adventure? Perhaps, after all, only to be laughed at and treated with
scorn."
The driver of the cart evidently thought he was driving a new servant to
the vicarage; he turned to Lotta and asked if he should pull up, so that
she might speak to her new mistress as they passed.
"Oh, heavens!" she thought. "If I could only turn back now."
And then, when they were within a few steps of Sigrun, Lotta felt her
fears completely overwhelming her. All her faith in voices and warnings
was gone; she stretched out her hand to grasp the reins.
"Turn, turn back!" she cried. "I am not going any farther. It must be
the wrong way."
But they were so close now that Sigrun heard, and turned round. And at
sight of a strange woman trying to take the reins from the driver, a
slight smile passed over her serious face.
Next moment, however, before the smile had faded, she put her hand to
her heart, and hurried up to the pair.
"Oh, Lotta--is it really you?" she said, with tears in her eyes.
But at sight of her tears, Lotta thought only that they must be for her
little girl that had died because she had not come to help.
She threw herself down from the cart, and would have fallen at Sigrun's
feet in the road to beg her forgiveness.
But before she could do so, Sigrun had taken her in her arms, and was
telling her how glad--how glad she was to see her.
And Lotta understood that Sigrun was weeping for joy that she had come.
And she herself was very happy; this was surely the greatest thing that
had ever happened in her life. But at the same time she thought to
herself: "Sigrun must be unhappy, indeed, if she weeps for joy at seeing
one so poor as I."
THE VICARAGE
IT WAS an evening in November, when the days were short and the nights
seemed as if they would never end.
All the district round about the vicarage at Algeröd was quiet and
still as in the vicarage itself. The horses had come in from the fields
and were stabled, the cows had been milked, and the fowls had gone to
their roost.
In the brewhouse, or, rather, in the little room beside it, sat Lotta
Hedman that still evening, busy with her calculations. She had the Bible
before her, and pen and ink and paper, and was searching earnestly in
her dear Book of Revelation.
In the kitchen, in the main building, the fire had gone out, and cook
and housemaid sat at the sewing-machine trying to reshape a blouse that
the seamstress had somehow mismanaged; the man was in an adjoining room,
stretched on a bench, waiting for supper-time to come.
The priest was sitting in his study, but not at his writing-table. He
sat in a rocking-chair in one corner of the room. A lamp was close by,
and he was reading the paper. When he raised his eyes, he could see into
the next room, where his wife was sitting on a low stool by the stove.
She sat with her chin in her hands staring into the fire.
Close beside her sat the Bailie, who was staying at the vicarage by
arrangement. He was in poor health, and the Rhånges had been glad to
take him in, since the sum he paid for his keep was a welcome aid to
their scanty resources now they had moved to this poor living up in the
waste lands. He was a man of about fifty, who had never done anything
but please himself all his life, until at last his affairs had been
taken out of his hands, and he himself had been sent up to a place where
he would have no opportunity of wasting the little that remained to him
of money and health.
The Bailie showed traces of a stroke he had had some time before: one
side of his face was drawn awry, and the left eyelid hung down and could
hardly be opened, but, for all that, he was a fine-looking man, of good
bearing. He was a man of the world, had travelled much, and was
intelligent and interesting to talk to.
He had drawn up a chair near the fire, and was telling Sigrun about
foreign lands, that she had never seen and never would see, now that she
sat buried here in a little parsonage in Sweden.
Sigrun was busy with her own thoughts and her restless desires, and let
his words pass idly by. She she could have listened to what he was
saying; it would have perhaps dispelled her weariness and longing if she
could. But it was beyond her power.
Every now and then the Pastor raised his head and looked in to them from
the room where he sat. And, listening, he could hear that they were
talking of great cities in the lands where now the war raged at its
worst. And it seemed to him very foolish of Sigrun to sit listening to
all that idle chatter.
Out in the brewhouse where Lotta Hedman sat, the milkmaid had just
finished rinsing her pail with hot water, and, seeing that the work was
ended and the room would not be in use any more that day, Lotta moved in
there with her table, her lamp, and her Bible. She drew a pair of pink
stuff curtains across, in front of the great bricked-in cauldrons,
hiding all the smoky black corner and making the place look more like a
living-room.
She had a comfortable wicker chair to sit in, and brought out another
now from the room adjoining, placing it by the table. For it was
Sigrun's custom to come out and talk to Lotta for a while during the
long evenings. Now and again the Bailie would come out and sit for a
long time, coaxing Lotta to talk of Sigrun, and sometimes the Pastor
himself would come and tease her by asking if she had yet discovered the
mystery of the seven seals and the glorious millennium.
Lotta Hedman had been asked to stay at the vicarage and help with odd
work, looking after the fowls and such-like, on condition that she could
be content with a room in the brewhouse. She had accepted the offer with
joy. Sigrun had herself put up wall paper and curtains in the little
room at the side, and given her really beautiful things to furnish it
with. Lotta had had her belongings sent down from Stenbroträsk, managed
her own housekeeping independently of the rest of the household, and in
the evenings she had the two rooms entirely to herself. It was quite
like having a real drawing-room of her own.
About the same time as Lotta moved into the scullery, the lad in the
men's room went into the kitchen to find someone to talk to. The
milkmaid was there as well. And now all began talking about their master
and mistress, and wondering if the Pastor had not yet found out that the
Bailie was in love with his wife.
"He was so jealous about her before, they say," said the milkmaid, "that
he moved up here on purpose, to be somewhere where she wouldn't be
likely to see anyone but him. But he doesn't seem to mind about this
Bailie man."
"Thinks it's not worth worrying about, I dare say," said the lad. "An
old man like that, and half dead with the stroke already."
The Bailie was sitting as before by the stove in the inner room. But he
was silent now, and had drawn up his chair and sat deep in thought.
He knew that Sigrun had not been listening to what he told her. What
could he find to talk about that would make her listen to him?
He had spoken of life in the great cities of the world, and of the part
women played there. He had spoken of women as those whose mission it was
to reconcile, one to life. Said that men became humble and good when
they met with beauty, personified in the likeness of a young woman. He
had told her that one possessing the gift of beauty should regard it as
a duty to use it for healing, reconciling, bettering her fellow
creatures.
But, to tell the truth, he hardly knew whether she had heard a single
word of all he had said.
It was easier to attract her attention when her husband was there. Then,
he never spoke to her at all, but only to the Pastor.
And then, he felt, he was forcing her to make comparison between the
experienced man of the world and the simple Priest; between one who had
seen and shared in great events and one who buried himself in a
wilderness, never studying, never progressing, but in a fair way to sink
to the level of a common peasant.
He knew that the Priest despised him. He was often irritated and
humiliated by his host's treatment. But he bore it all very patiently,
knowing that nothing was more calculated to lower the husband in the
eyes of his wife than his showing himself tactless and devoid of finer
feeling.
The Bailie sat silent for some minutes, and then taking a subject near
at hand in these days of the Great War, he commenced to talk of the Red
Cross, its originators, its organization, and the brave work of the Red
Cross Sisters in the war.
He noticed at once that the beautiful woman by his side became
attentive; she tore herself away from her own thoughts and listened.
Just at the moment when the Bailie had begun talking about the Red
Cross, it happened that Lotta Hedman lifted her eyes from her Bible. Her
thoughts were suddenly restless, and she could not keep her mind
concentrated on her work.
"I wonder," she thought to herself, "if Sigrun has ceased to love her
husband. She hardly ever speaks of him now. And the servants say he
plagues her with his jealousy. But one thing is certain: he wrongs her
in that. If she does not care for him, she certainly cares for no other
man."
A sudden smile lit up her face.
"And here's this foolish old invalid trying to make himself agreeable,"
she thought. "But that matters little; nobody bothers about him."
"It must be a great misfortune to be so beautiful as Sigrun," she told
herself. "You are better off as you are, Lotta."
She turned to her Bible again and tried not to think of Sigrun any more.
"I hope it doesn't mean something is going to happen to her, since I am
so anxious all of a sudden."
The Pastor sat on in his room, reading by the light of the lamp. Again
and again he had glanced at the pair by the stove, noting quite
carelessly and easily how they sat there, while they, on their part,
found nothing to disturb them in the thought that he could see them all
the time. Then suddenly he noticed a change. It was impossible to say
where it lay. Perhaps the speaker's voice had grown louder and warmer;
perhaps the young wife's attitude was different. The Pastor laid down
his paper, rose to his feet, and, leaning forward with all his senses on
the alert, he watched them.
The visitor was still talking about nursing and works of mercy during
the war. After a little while, he saw that a tear rolled down the
woman's cheek and dropped to her knee, glistened there a moment, and
disappeared; then, very gently, tear after tear fell.
For a long time he went on talking, without appearing to notice her
emotion; then, suddenly, he bent forward so that he almost touched her.
"So that is what you have been wanting--that is what you are longing
for?" he said. "You want to take part in the work out there yourself?"
She folded her hands and held them out toward him.
"Oh, how can I help it?" she cried--"longing for it with all my heart.
It is dreadful to live on here in comfort, doing nothing."
"But could you not get away, then?"
"There would be nothing wrong in it," said the woman, lifting her folded
hands toward the speaker. "If I could only be free for just a little
while. After all, I am a human being--I ought to be allowed to choose
for myself for once."
The sick man took her hands in his and drew them toward him.
"True, indeed!" he said. "You have the right to live as well as the rest
of us."
Just then they heard footsteps behind them, saw a fierce face in the
doorway of the study, and both cried aloud in dismay. The Pastor came
rushing toward them, in a violent passion, which left no possibility of
any explanation.
The Bailie seemed to lose his self-possession altogether. He crouched
down in his chair without moving, but Sigrun threw herself toward her
husband to stop him.
"Run, quick--make haste!" she cried. And the Bailie sprang to his feet
and ran toward the door, while Sigrun for a moment held her husband
fast.
"Edward--what is the matter?" she asked.
He did not answer, but flung her aside. She fell to the floor, striking
herself badly against a corner of the table, but the Pastor, without
heeding her, rushed after the fugitive, out into the hall, down the
steps, and across the courtyard.
Lotta Hedman, sitting in the scullery with her Bible, was suddenly
roused by the shouting and banging of doors and hurrying feet. She rose
hurriedly, opened the door, and looked out. Two men were running across
the courtyard; in a moment they had disappeared in the darkness.
While Lotta stood there terrified, listening to the retreating
footsteps, the lad and the maids in the kitchen had likewise heard the
noise, and sprung up from their seats. And now they saw their young
mistress come staggering in toward them, her hair and dress in disorder,
and the blood flowing from a cut on her forehead. All four hurried to
her, but she waved them off impatiently.
"Never mind about me," she cried. "Hurry after my husband and--the other
one. Quick, and look after them before they kill each other."
The four stood still, too confused to act on her orders, and she cried
excitedly:
"Don't sit there staring at me! After them, before they kill each
other!"
At this the lad hurried out, and the milkmaid, a big strong girl,
followed after him, but the two others stayed in the kitchen to look to
their mistress.
They brought forward a chair and begged her to sit down, for she was
trembling as if the floor were swaying under her.
Her strength was at an end now, and she fell to crying like a child.
"Help me over to Lotta Hedman," she cried. "Help me over to Lotta."
The two servants took her under the arms and led her across the
courtyard to Lotta's room.
And Lotta, standing in the doorway, saw them coming, and hurried forward
to meet Sigrun. She led her to the wicker chair that had been waiting
for her all the evening.
"And I have done nothing," said Sigrun. "Lotta, I have done nothing
wrong. We were just talking, that was all. And he was sitting in the
next room, watching."
Suddenly she turned deathly pale, and would have fainted, but Lotta
dashed water in her face, and she came to herself.
Lotta made haste to wash the cut on her head, and saw it was neither
deep nor serious; but what troubled her most was that Sigrun seemed
hardly to be quite clear in her mind. She talked all the time, repeating
the same thing over and over again.
"And I have done nothing," she said. "I have done nothing wrong. We were
just talking. And he was sitting in the next room, watching."
"Oh, I know, Sigrun--I know you have done no wrong," said Lotta,
addressing her now familiarly, as in the old days.
"You understand, Lotta, I know," said Sigrun again. "I have done
nothing...."
Lotta tried to interrupt her.
"Sigrun, I'm so afraid you will be ill," she said. "We must ask Malin to
get your bed ready, and you can lie down."
But at this, the flow of words suddenly stopped.
"No, not there! I will never go back to him," said the sick woman quite
briefly and dearly.'
"But, dear angel," said Lotta. "You can never mean that!"
"I will lie down here," said Sigrun. "I will sleep in your bed, Lotta. I
can feel I am going to be ill. And I must be in a place where I feel
safe."
A moment later she began again as before:
"I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking. And he was sitting in
the next room, and came rushing in...."
She looked at them with her eyes all wild, as if wondering why they did
not follow what she was saying.
Lotta talked over with the two servants what was best to be done. They
could find nothing better than to let the sick woman have her way. The
housemaid hurried into the house and came back with sheets and pillows
and blankets. Sigrun began hurriedly undressing; they had scarcely got
the bed done before she was ready.
And as she was getting into bed, she cried again, so that it could be
heard all through the place: "I have done nothing wrong. We were just
talking. And he was in the next room, and came running in...."
As soon as Sigrun was well in bed, she called gently to Lotta:
"Don't go to bed yet, Lotta. Sit there by the table and read your Bible.
And mind, you must not let anyone in the world come and take me away
from here."
And so it was. Lotta sat down with her Bible and the two servants went
into the house to see how matters were going there.
A moment later one of them came back with the news that nothing very
terrible had happened. The Bailie had made his escape; the Pastor
himself had fallen into a ditch in his pursuit, and they feared he had
broken his leg. Bad enough, certainly, yet not by any means the worst
that might have happened.
Sigrun was still crying aloud her explanation, but when Lotta had told
her several times that there had been no fight between the men, she
seemed to grow calmer, and went off to sleep.
PREPARATIONS
THOSE who heard, in this way or that, of the regrettable event which
took place some weeks later in the vicarage of Algeröd were inclined to
throw all the blame on Lotta Hedman.
"If the young mistress there hadn't had that half-mad creature about the
place, turning her head completely with her visions and warnings, it
would never have happened," they said.
But this was not fair to Lotta Hedman. Never in all her life had she
been so quiet and sensible as during that time. Her friends in the other
world left her in ignorance, and she had not the slightest inkling of
what was to happen.