AFTER THIRTY YEARS.
The slender birches were sunning their mottled stems in the warm spring
air; the evergreen woods rose dark and mysterious; while the glad little
spruces that skirted the thickets were nourishing soft buds on every
twig, little caring that they would in time be as gloomy and solemn as
the grand old veterans of the forest behind them.
Sweden once more! All seemed unchanged after thirty years, save the
emigrant and whatever specially concerned him. The familiar homes far
back from the road, he remembered them well. His own home, he knew, had
been ravaged by fire, and scarcely a vestige of it remained. His parents
were no more. He could not, if he had wished it, shed penitent tears
over their graves; for their bones were mouldering in a far-away
ancestral vault, with no kindly grass to mantle them, and no glad wild
flowers to whisper of a coming resurrection. The possessions that should
have been his had been willed away to strangers. The once well-known
family name was now rarely heard in the neighbourhood, and then only
sorrowfully whispered as connected with the sad and almost forgotten
past.
It was Sunday morning. The church bell had rung out its peals the
appointed number of times, and now all was silent, for the rustic
worshippers were gathered within the sacred walls.
The congregation were all seated, and the Confession was being repeated,
when a tall, slender man, with peculiarly broad shoulders and a
peculiarly small waist, came with an ungainly gait up the aisle, holding
in his hand a limp felt hat as if it were glued fast to his long, thin
fingers.
He stopped a moment, as if mechanically, before a full pew, and then
stood doubtfully in the aisle.
A little chubby girl perched just behind him had not been too devout to
observe the proceedings of the stranger. She unhooked the door of the
seat in which she was established alone with her mother. The slight
click attracted, as she had hoped, the attention of the new worshipper.
She whispered to her bowed mother, "He has no place to sit; may I let
him in to us?" The head was slightly nodded in reply; the door was
gently pushed open; and the stranger sat down in the offered place. His
dark face was thin, and wrinkled too much apparently for his years. His
thick black hair and beard were irregularly streaked in locks with
white, rather than grey with the usual even sprinkling brought about by
age alone; and his forehead threatened to stretch backward far beyond
the usual frontal bounds. He apparently took no part in the service. His
eyes seemed looking far away from priest and altar, and his ears were
dead to the words that fell upon them.
Above the chancel there had been a painting representing the Lord's
Supper, not copied even second or third hand from Leonardo's
masterpiece, but from the work of some far more humble artist. The
cracks that had crept across the cloth of the holy table and scarred the
faces of the disciples were no longer to be seen. The disciples, whose
identity had so occupied the minds of the little church-goers and been
the subject of week-day discussions, were now hidden with the whole
scene from the eyes of all beholders. A red curtain veiled the
long-valued painting in its disfigured old age. Against this glowing
background was suspended a huge golden cross of the simplest
construction. It was, in fact, the work of the carpenter of the
neighbourhood, and was gilded by the hand of the pastor's wife, who had
solemnly thought to herself as she wielded the brush, "We must look to
the cross before we may draw near to the holy supper."
Some idea like this flitted through the mind of the stranger, though he
did not appear like a devout worshipper. His whole bearing gave quite
another impression. Even when, during prayers later on, he held up his
hat before his face, as is supposed to be a devout attitude in some
Christian lands, the little girl fancied she could see him peeping here
and there round the church, as if he were taking an inventory of its
specialties. It was but a simple country church, with square pillars of
masonry supporting the galleries, from whence light wooden columns rose
to the vaulted roof. Indeed, in the old-fashioned building the rural
seemed to have been the only style of architecture attempted. The whole
interior had been thoroughly whitewashed, however it had fared with the
hearts of the worshippers.
During the sermon the stranger was evidently lost in his own
meditations. As soon as the service was over, he followed the clergyman
down the aisle to the sacristy, on one side of the main door.
The reverend gentleman was in the midst of disrobing, when the
dark-faced man hastily entered and said abruptly, "Will you kindly look
over this paper, which must be my only credential with you? I belong to
this parish, and should be glad to have the privileges of membership
when broken down and needing a home."
The pastor glanced at the paper. It was a simple certificate, from a
well-known dignitary high in authority in the land, requesting that the
bearer, without being subject to further investigation, should have his
right acknowledged as a member of the parish to which he now made
application. The pastor could treat him accordingly, only showing the
paper in case any difficulty arising from this arrangement should make
such publicity necessary.
The paper was properly signed, witnessed, and sealed. The pastor put it
in his pocket, looked wonderingly at the applicant, and said, "The
poorhouse is but a mean place, with accommodation for a few persons, and
the present occupants are of the humblest sort. There are now living
there an old woman, formerly a servant in respectable families, who has
a room to herself; a half-mad fellow, who will not speak when spoken to
unless he can hit on some way of answering in rhyme. He, of course, has
a room to himself. There is, besides, a large room with sleeping-places
for two persons. One of these places is occupied by an old man who has
been a hard drinker; you would have to share the room with him. Would
you be contented with that arrangement?"
"Contented and grateful," said the stranger. His name was given as "A.
Johanson," and was so registered in the pastor's note-book. Particular
directions were then kindly lavished on the stranger as to how he was to
reach his future home.
A peculiar smile stole over the face of the listener. He took politely
the permit which ensured his admittance at the last refuge of the
unfortunate, and then, with a bow and a slight waving of the limp hat,
he disappeared.