ANEHOLM CHURCH.
Sunday had come. Along the public road, where the Italians and the
bear had lately passed, rolled a heavy family carriage, drawn by two
spirited horses. The gray-haired coachman had them well in hand, and
by no means needed the advice or the assistance of the fat little boy
perched at his side, though both were freely proffered. The child was
dressed in deep mourning, but his clothes alone gave any sign of
sorrow. His face gleamed with delight as he was borne along between
green fields, or played bo-peep with the distant cottages, through a
solemn line of spruces or a glad cluster of young birches.
On the comfortable back seat of the carriage was an elderly gentleman,
tall, thin, and stooped, with eyes that saw nothing of earth or sky, as
his thoughts were in the far past, or in the clouds of the sorrowful
present. By his side, close pressed to him, with her small
black-gloved hand laid on his knee, sat a little nine-year-old girl,
her sad-coloured suit in strange contrast with the flood of golden hair
that streamed from under her hat, and fell in shining waves down to her
slight waist. The fair young face was very serious, and the mild blue
eyes were full of loving light, as she now and then peeped cautiously
at her father. He did not notice the child, and she made no effort to
attract his attention.
"Papa! papa! what's that? what's that?" suddenly cried out the little
boy. "What's that that's so like the gingerbread baby Marie made me
yesterday? Just such a skirt, and little short arms!"
The father's attention was caught, and he turned his eyes in the
direction pointed out by the child's eager finger.
The sweet sound of a bell came from the strange brown wooden structure,
an old-time belfry, set not on a roof or a tower, but down on the
ground. Slanting out wide at the bottom, to have a firm footing, it
did look like a rag-dolly standing on her skirts, or a gingerbread
baby, as the young stranger had said.
A stranger truly in the land of his fathers was fat little Frans.
Alma, his sister, had often reproached him with the facts that he had
never seen his own country and could hardly speak his own language.
Born in Italy, he had now come to Sweden for the first time, with the
funeral train which bore the lifeless image of his mother to a
resting-place in her much-loved northern home.
"Is that the church, papa?" Alma ventured to ask, seeing her father
partially roused from his reverie.
The barn-like building was without any attempt at adornment. There was
no tower. The black roof rose high, very high and steep from the
thick, low white walls, that were pierced by a line of small rounded
windows.
"That is Aneholm Church," the father said, half reprovingly. "There
your maternal ancestors are buried, and there their escutcheons stand
till this day. I need not tell you who is now laid in that churchyard."
He turned his face from the loving eyes of the child, and she was
silent.
A few more free movements of the swift horses, and the carriage stopped
before a white-arched gateway. A wall of high old lindens shut in the
churchyard from the world without, if world the green pastures, quiet
groves, and low cottages could be called. It was but a small
enclosure, and thick set with old monuments and humbler memorials, open
books of iron on slender supports, their inscriptions dimmed by the
rust of time, small stones set up by loving peasant hands, and one
fresh grave covered with evergreen branches. Alma understood that on
that grave she must place the wreath of white flowers that had lain in
her lap, and there her father would lay the one beautiful fair lily he
held in his hand.
This tribute of love was paid in mournful silence, and then the father
and the children passed into the simple old sanctuary.
The church was even more peculiar within than without. It was white
everywhere--walls, ceiling, and the plain massive pillars of strong
masonry on which rested the low round arches. It looked more like a
crypt under some great building than if it were itself the temple. The
small windows, crossed by iron gratings, added to the prison-like
effect of the whole. It was but a prison for the air of the latest
summer days, shut in there to greet the worshippers, instead of the
chill that might have been expected.
Warm was the atmosphere, and warm the colouring of the heraldic devices
telling in armorial language what noble families had there treasured
their dead. The altar, without chancel-rail, stood on a
crimson-covered platform. On each side of it, at a respectful
distance, were two stately monuments, on which two marble heroes were
resting, one in full armour, and the other in elaborate court-dress.
Alma could see that there were many names on the largest of these
monuments, and her eyes filled with tears as she saw her mother's dear
name, freshly cut below the list of her honoured ancestors.
The father did not look at the monument, or round the church at all.
With eyes cast down, he entered a long wide pew, with a heraldic device
on the light arch above the door. Prudently first placing little Frans
at the end of the bare bench, he took his place, with Alma on the other
side of him.
The church was almost empty. A few old bald-headed peasants were
scattered here and there, and on the organ-loft stairs clattered the
thick shoes of the school children, who were to assist in the singing.
The father bowed his head too long for the opening prayer. Alma
understood that he had forgotten himself in his own sad thoughts. Her
little slender hand sought his, that hung at his side, and her fragile
figure crowded protectively towards him.
Meanwhile Frans had produced two bonbons, wrapped in mourning-paper,
and with hour-glasses and skeletons gloomily pictured upon them. He
was engaged in counting the ribs of the skeletons, to make sure that
the number was the same on both, when Alma caught sight of him. The
gentle, loving look in her face changed suddenly to one of sour
reproof. She motioned disapprovingly to Frans, and vainly tried to get
at him behind the rigid figure of her father. Before her very eyes,
and in smiling defiance, the boy opened the black paper and devoured
the sweets within, with evident relish, bodily and spiritual.
At this moment there was a stir in the vestibule and in the sacristy
adjoining, and then a murmur of low, hushed voices, and for a moment
the tramping of many little feet.
Alma looked around her, and now noticed on the platform for the altar a
small white-covered table, and upon it a little homely bowl and a
folded napkin. Beside the table a gray-haired old clergyman had taken
his place. In one hand he held officially a corner of his open white
handkerchief, while in the other was a thin black book.
There was a slight shuffling first, and then a tall man, with
apparently a very stout woman at his side, came up the aisle and stood
in front of the clergyman.
"It cannot be a wedding," thought Alma, accustomed to the splendid
fonts of the churches of great cities; she could not suppose that
simple household bowl was for a baptism. The broken, disabled stone
font she did not notice, as it leaned helplessly against the side wall
of the building.
The clergyman opened his book and looked about him, doubtfully turned
over the leaves, and then began the service "for the baptism of a
foundling," as the most appropriate for the present peculiar
circumstances that the time-honoured ritual afforded.
At that moment Karin threw open her shawl, and showed the little brown
baby asleep in her arms. Alma's attention was fixed, and Frans was all
observation, if not attention.
[Illustration: The baptismal service.]
"Beloved Christians," began the pastor; he paused, glanced at the
scattered worshippers, and then went on, "our Lord Jesus Christ has
said, 'Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter
into the kingdom of God.' We do not know whether this child has been
baptized or no, since, against the command of the heavenly Father, and
even the very laws and feelings of nature, he has been forsaken by his
own father and mother."
Here Karin gave involuntarily a little dissenting movement as she
thought of the half-crazy mother and the sorrowful father, and made the
mental comment that they had done the best they could under the
circumstances. The pastor paused (perhaps doubting himself the
appropriateness of the statement), and then read distinctly,--
"Therefore we will carry out what Christian love demands of us, and
through baptism confide the child to God, our Saviour Jesus Christ,
praying most heartily that he will graciously receive it, and grant it
the power of his Spirit unto faith, forgiveness of sins, and true
godliness, that it, as a faithful member of his church, may be a
partaker of all the blessedness that Jesus has won for us and
Christianity promises."
The service then proceeded as usual, and the little Nono was baptized
in God's holy name.
Jan and Karin were duly exhorted that they should see that the child
should grow up in virtue and the fear of the Lord; which promises and
resolutions the honest pair solemnly determined, with God's help, to
sacredly keep and fulfil.
Nono was borne down the aisle, having acquitted himself as well as
could be expected on this important occasion. The eager prisoners in
the pew by the door now filed out, six in number, to form little Nono's
baptismal procession. Sven, insisting upon kissing the baby then and
there, was prudently allowed to do so, to prevent possibly an
exhibition of wilfulness that would have been a public scandal. This
proceeding well over, Nono and his foster-brothers went back to the
golden house, in which he now had a right to a footing, and the
blessing of a home in a Christian family.
Alma could never remember anything of the service or the sermon on that
day. Her attention had been fully absorbed in the baptism of the wee
brown baby whose parents had deserted him, and in whom the "beloved
Christians" of the parish had been called on to take so solemn an
interest.
Before leaving the church, Alma's father gave one long, sorrowful
glance at the new name on the old monument. Beside it the old
clergyman had taken them all by the hand, and had said some
low-murmured words of which the little girl could not catch the meaning.
"Papa," Alma ventured to say when they were fairly seated in the
carriage, "did not the pastor mean you and me, too, when he said
'beloved Christians'? We were there, and only a few other people, and
he must have meant us too. We are Christians, of course, are we not?"
He turned his large sorrowful eyes towards her, and was silent. _She_
might be a Christian. The Saviour had said that children were of the
kingdom of heaven. But she was no longer a very little child, but
uncommonly womanly for her age. He suddenly remembered some
unchristian peculiarities that were certainly growing upon her. She
must be looked after, and placed where she would be under the right
kind of influence. Her small hand was now laid caressingly on his
knee, and he placed his own over it.
Alma was not astonished at her father not answering her. She was
accustomed to see him sunk in moody silence. Happily she could not
read the thoughts that her question had suggested. That he was not
truly one of the "beloved Christians" the father secretly acknowledged
to himself. He had not, he was sure, the firm faith in God and the
loving trust in man that belong to the children of the kingdom of
heaven.