Jerusalem by Selma Lagerloef

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Presently he went over to her, and waited. She was crying so hard
that she seemed deaf to every other sound; and he had to stand
there a long time. At last he said:

"Don't cry like that, Brita!"

She looked up. "O God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "are you here?"

Instantly all that she had done to him flashed across her mind--and
what it must have cost him to come. With a cry of joy she threw her
arms around his neck and began to sob again.

"How I have longed that you might come!" she said.

Ingmar's heart began to beat faster at the thought of her being so
pleased with him. "Why, Brita, have you really been longing for
me?" he said, quite moved.

"I have wanted so much to ask your forgiveness."

Ingmar drew himself up to his full height and said very coldly:

"There will be plenty of time for that I don't think we ought to
stop here any longer."

"No, this is no place to stop at," she answered meekly.

"I have put up at Loevberg's," he said as they walked along the
road.

"That's where my trunk is."

"I have seen it there," said Ingmar. "It's too big for the back of
the cart, so it will have to be left there till we can send for
it."

Brita stopped and looked up at him. This was the first time he had
intimated that he meant to take her home.

"I had a letter from father to-day. He says that you also think
that I ought to go to America."

"I thought there was no harm in our having a second choice. It
wasn't so certain that you would care to come back with me."

She noticed that he said nothing about wanting her to come, but
maybe it was because he did not wish to force himself upon her a
second time. She grew very reluctant. It couldn't be an enviable
task to take one of her kind to the Ingmar Farm. Then something
seemed to say:

"Tell him that you will go to America; it is the only service you
can render him. Tell him that, tell him that!" urged something
within her. And while this thought was still in her mind she heard
some one say: "I'm afraid that I am not strong enough to go to
America. They tell me that you have to work very hard over there."
It was as if another had spoken, and not she herself.

"So they say," Ingmar said indifferently.

She was ashamed of her weakness and thought of how only that
morning she had told the prison chaplain that she was going out
into the world a new and a better woman. Thoroughly displeased with
herself, she walked silently for some time, wondering how she
should take back her words. But as soon as she tried to speak, she
was held back by the thought that if he still cared for her it
would be the basest kind of ingratitude to repulse him again. "If I
could only read his thoughts!" she said herself.

Presently she stopped and leaned against a wall. "All this noise
and the sight of so many people makes my bead go round," she said.
He put out his hand, which she took; then they went along, hand in
hand. Ingmar was thinking, "Now we look like sweethearts." All the
same he wondered how it would be when he got home, how his mother
and the rest of the folks would take it.

When they came to Loevberg's place, Ingmar said that his horse was
now thoroughly rested, and if she had no objection they might as
well cover the first few stations that day. Then she thought: "Now
is the time to tell him that you won't go. Thank him first, then
tell him that you don't want to go with him." She prayed God that
she might be shown if he had come for her only out of pity. In the
meantime Ingmar had drawn the cart out of the shed. The cart had
been newly painted, the dasher shone, and the cushions had fresh
covering. To the buckboard was attached a little half-withered
bouquet of wild flowers. The sight of the flowers made her stop
and think. Ingmar, meanwhile, had gone back to the stable and
harnessed the horse, and was now leading him out. Then she
discovered another bouquet of the same sort between the harness,
and began to feel that after all he must like her. So it seemed
best not to say anything. Otherwise he might think she was
ungrateful and that she did not understand how big a thing he was
offering her.

For a time they drove along without exchanging a word. Then, in
order to break the silence, she began to question him about various
home matters. With every question he was reminded of some one or
other whose judgment he feared. How so and so will wonder and how
so and so will laugh at me, he thought.

He answered only in monosyllables. Time and again she felt like
begging him to turn back. "He doesn't want me," she thought. "He
doesn't care for me; he is doing this only out of charity."

She soon stopped asking questions. They drove on for miles in deep
silence. When they came to their first stopping place, which was an
inn, there were coffee and hot biscuits in readiness for them; and
on the tray were some more flowers. She knew then that he had
ordered this the day before, when passing. Was that, too, done only
out of kindness and pity? Was he happy yesterday? Was it only to-day
that he had lost heart, after seeing her come out of prison?
To-morrow, when he had forgotten this, perhaps all would be well
again.

Sorrow and remorse had softened Brita: she did not grant to cause
him any more unhappiness. Perhaps, after all, he really--

They stayed at the inn overnight and left early the next morning.
By ten o'clock they were already within sight of their parish
church. As they drove along the road leading to the church it was
thronged with people, and the bells were ringing.

"Why, it's Sunday!" Brita exclaimed, instinctively folding her
hands. She forgot everything else in the thought of going to church
and praising God. She wanted to begin her new life with a service
in the old church.

"I should love to go to church," she said to Ingmar, never thinking
that it might be embarrassing for him be seen there with her. She
was all devotion and gratitude! Ingmar's first impulse was to say
that she couldn't; he felt somehow that he had not the courage to
face the curious glances and gossiping tongues of these people. "It
has got to be met sooner or later," he thought. "Putting it off
won't make it any easier."

He turned and drove in on the church grounds. The service had not
yet started; and many persons were sitting in the grass and on the
stone hedge, watching the people arrive. The instant they saw
Ingmar and Brita they began to nudge each other, and whisper, and
point. Ingmar glanced at Brita. She sat there with clasped hands,
quite unconscious of the things about her. She saw no persons,
apparently, but Ingmar saw them only too well. They came running
after the wagon, and did not wonder at their running or their
stares. They must have thought that their eyes had deceived them.
Of course, they could not believe that he had come to the house of
God with her--the woman who had strangled his child. "This is too
much!" he said. "I can't stand it.

"I think you'd better go inside at once, Brita," he suggested.

"Why, certainly," she answered. To attend service was her only
thought; she had not come there to meet people.

Ingmar took his own time unharnessing and feeding the horse. Many
eyes were fixed upon him, but nobody spoke to him. By the time he
was ready to go into the church, most of the people were already in
their pews, and the opening hymn was being sung. Walking down the
centre isle, he glanced over at the side where the women were
seated. All the pews were filled save one, and in that there was
only one person. He saw at once that it was Brita and knew, of
course, that no one had cared to sit with her. Ingmar went and sat
down beside her. Brita looked up at him in wonderment. She had not
noticed it before, but now she understood why she had the pew to
herself. Then the deep feeling of devotion, which she had but just
experienced, was dispelled by a sense of black despair. "How would
it all end?" she wondered. She should never have come with him.

Her eyes began to fill. To keep from breaking down she took up an
old prayerbook from the shelf in front of her, and opened it. She
kept turning the leaves of both gospels and epistles without being
able to see a word for the tears. Suddenly something bright caught
her eye. It was a bookmark, with a red heart, which lay between the
leaves. She took it out and slipped it toward Ingmar. She saw him
close his big hand over it and steal a glance at it. Shortly
afterward it lay upon the floor. "What is to become of us?" thought
Brita, sobbing behind the prayerbook.

As soon as the preacher had stepped down from the pulpit they went
out. Ingmar hurriedly hitched up the horse, with Brita's help. By
the time the benediction was pronounced and the congregation was
beginning to file out, Brita and Ingmar were already off. Both
seemed to be thinking the same thought: one who has committed such
a crime cannot live among people. The two fell as if they had been
doing penance by appearing at church. "Neither of us will be able
to stand it," they thought.

In the midst of her distress of mind, Brita caught a glimpse of the
Ingmar Farm, and hardly knew it again. It looked so bright and red.
She remembered having heard that the house was to be painted the
year Ingmar married. Before, the wedding had been put off because
he had felt that he could not afford to pay out any money just
then. Now she understood that he had always meant to have everything
right; but the way had been made rather hard for him.

When they arrived at the farm the folks were at dinner. "Here comes
the boss," said one of the men, looking out. Mother Martha got up
from the table, scarcely lifting her heavy eyelids. "Stay where you
are, all of you!" she commanded. "No one need rise from the table."

The old woman walked heavily across the room. Those who turned to
look after her noticed that she had on her best dress, with her
silk shawl across her shoulders, and her silk kerchief on her head,
as if to emphasize her authority. When the horse stopped she was
already at the door.

Ingmar jumped down at once, but Brita kept her seat. He went over
to her side and unfastened the carriage apron.

"Aren't you going to get out?" he said.

"No," she replied, then covering her face with her hands, she burst
into tears.

"I ought never to have come back," she sobbed.

"Oh, do get down!" he urged.

"Let me go back to the city; I'm not good enough for you."

Ingmar thought that maybe she was right about it, but said nothing.
He stood with his hand on the apron, and waited.

"What does she say?" asked Mother Martha from the doorway.

"She says she isn't good enough for us," Ingmar replied, for
Brita's words could scarcely be heard for her sobs.

"What is she crying about?" asked the old woman.

"Because I am such a miserable sinner," said Brita, pressing her
hands to her heart which she thought would break.

"What's that?" the old woman asked once more.

"She says she is such a miserable sinner," Ingmar repeated.

When Brita heard him repeat her words in a cold and indifferent
tone, the truth suddenly flashed upon her. No, he could never have
stood there and repeated those words to his mother had he been fond
of her, or had there been a spark of love in his heart for her.

"Why doesn't she get down?" the old woman then asked.

Suppressing her sobs, Brita spoke up: "Because I don't want to
bring misfortune upon Ingmar."

"I think she is quite right," said the old mistress. "Let her go,
little Ingmar! You may as well know that otherwise I'll be the one
to leave: for I'll not sleep one night under the same roof with the
likes of her."

"For God's sake let me go!" Brita moaned.

Ingmar ripped out an oath, turned the horse, and sprang into the
cart. He was sick and tired of all this and could not stand any
more of it.

Out on the highway they kept meeting church people. This annoyed
Ingmar. Suddenly he turned the horse and drove in on a narrow
forest road.

As he turned some one called to him. He glanced back. It was the
postman with a letter for him. He took the letter, thrust it into
his pocket, and drove on.

As soon as he felt sure that he could not be seen from the road, he
slowed down and brought out the letter. Instantly Brita put her
hand on his arm. "Don't read it!" she begged.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Never mind reading it; it's nothing."

"But how can you know?"

"It's a letter from me."

"Then tell me yourself what's in it."

"No, I can't tell you that."

He looked hard at her. She turned scarlet, her eyes growing wild
with alarm. "I guess I will read that letter anyway," said Ingmar,
and began to tear open the envelope.

"O Heavenly Father!" she cried, "am I then to be spared nothing?
Ingmar," she implored, "read it in a day or two--when I am on my
way to America."

By that time he had already opened the letter and was scanning it.
She put her hand over the paper. "Listen to me, Ingmar!" she said.
"It was the chaplain who got me to write that letter, and he
promised not to send it till I was on board the steamer. Instead he
sent it off too soon. You have no right to read it yet; wait till
I'm gone, Ingmar."

Ingmar gave her an angry look and jumped out of the wagon, so that
he might read the letter in peace. Brita was as much excited now as
she had been in the old days, when things did not go her way.

"What I say in that letter isn't true. The chaplain talked me into
writing it. I _don't_ love you, Ingmar."

He looked up from the paper and gazed at her in astonishment. Then
she grew silent, and the lessons in humility which she had learned
in prison profited her now. After all she suffered no greater
embarrassment than she deserved.

Ingmar, meanwhile, stood puzzling over the letter. Suddenly, with
an impatient snarl, he crumpled it up.

"I can't make this out!" he said, stamping his foot. "My head's all
in a muddle."

He went up to Brita and gripped her by the arm.

"Does it really say in the letter that you care for me?" His tone
was shockingly brutal, and the look of him was terrible.

Brita was silent.

"Does the letter say that you care for me?" he repeated savagely.

"Yes," she answered faintly.

Then his face became horribly distorted. He shook her arm and
thrust it from him. "How you can lie!" he said, with a hoarse and
angry laugh. "How you can lie!"

"God knows I have prayed night and day that I might see you again
before I go!" she solemnly avowed.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to America, of course."

"The hell you are!"

Ingmar was beside himself. He staggered a few steps into the woods
and cast himself upon the ground. And now it was his turn to weep!

Brita followed him and sat down beside him, she was so happy that
she wanted to shout.

"Ingmar, little Ingmar!" she said, calling him by his pet name.

"But you think I'm so ugly!" he returned.

"Of course I do."

Ingmar pushed her hand away.

"Now let me tell you something," said Brita.

"Tell away."

"Do you remember what you said in court three years ago?"

"I do."

"That if I could only get to think differently of you, you would
marry me?"

"Yes, I remember."

"It was after that I began to care for you. I had never imagined
that any mortal could say such a thing. It seemed almost
unbelievable your saying it to me, after all I had done to you. As
I saw you that day, I thought you better looking than all the
others, and you were wiser than any of them, and the only one with
whom it would be good to share one's life. I fell so deeply in love
with you that it seemed as if you belonged to me, and I to you. At
first I took it for granted that you would come and fetch me, but
later I hardly dared think it."

Ingmar raised his head. "Then why didn't you write?" he asked.

"But I did write."

"Asking me to forgive you, as if that were anything to write
about!"

"What should I have written?"

"About the other thing."

"How would I have dared--I?"

"I came mighty near not coming at all."

"But Ingmar! do you suppose I could have written love letters to
you after all I had done! My last day in prison I wrote to you
because the chaplain said I must. When I gave him the letter, he
promised not to send it until I was well on my way."

Ingmar took her hand and flattened it against the earth, then
slapped it.

"I could beat you!" he said.

"You may do with me what you will, Ingmar."

He looked up into her face, upon which suffering had wrought a new
kind of beauty. "And I came so near letting you go!" he sighed.

"You just had to come, I suppose."

"Let me tell you that I didn't care for you."

"I don't wonder at that."

"I felt relieved when I heard that you were to be sent to America."

"Yes, father wrote me that you were pleased."

"Whenever I looked at mother, I felt somehow that I couldn't ask
her to accept a daughter-in-law like you."

"No, it would never do, Ingmar."

"I've had to put up with a lot on your account; no one would notice
me because of my treatment of you."

"Now you are doing what you threatened to do," said Brita. "You're
striking me."

"I can't begin to tell you how mad I am at you."

She kept still.

"When I think of all I've had to stand these last few weeks--" he
went on.

"But Ingmar--"

"Oh, I'm not angry about that, but at the thought of how near I
came to letting you go!"

"Didn't you love me, Ingmar?"

"No, indeed."

"Not during the whole journey home?"

"No, not for a second! I was just put out with you."

"When did you change?"

"When I got your letter."

"I saw that your love was over; that was why I did not want you to
know that mine was but just beginning."

Ingmar chuckled.

"What amuses you, Ingmar?"

"I'm thinking of how we sneaked out of church, and of the kind of
welcome we got at the Ingmar Farm."

"And you can laugh at that?"

"Why not as well laugh? I suppose we'll have to take to the road,
like tramps. Wonder what father would say to that?"

"You may laugh, Ingmar, but this can't be; it can't be."

"I think it can, for now I don't care a damn about anything or
anybody but you!"

Brita was ready to cry, but he just made her tell him again and
again how often she had thought of him, and how much she had longed
for him. Little by little he became as quiet as a child listening
to a lullaby. It was all so different from what Brita had expected.
She had thought of talking to him about her crime, if he came for
her, and the weight of it. She would have liked to tell either him
or her mother, or whoever had come for her, how unworthy she was
of them. But not a word of this had she been allowed to speak.

Presently he said very gently:

"There is something you want to tell me?"

"Yes."

"And you are thinking about it all the time?"

"Day and night!"

"And it gets sort of mixed in with everything?"

"That's true."

"Now tell me about it, so there will be two instead of one to bear
it."

He sat looking into her eyes; they were like the eyes of a poor,
hunted fawn. But as she spoke they became calmer.

"Now you feel better," he said when she had finished.

"I feel as if a great weight had been lifted from my heart."

"That is because we are two to bear it. Now, perhaps, you won't
want to go away."

"Indeed I should love to stay!" she said.

"Then let us go home," said Ingmar, rising.

"No, I'm afraid!"

"Mother is not so terrible," lie laughed, "when she sees that one
has a mind of one's own."

"No, Ingmar, I could never turn her out of her home. I have no
choice but to go to America."

"I'm going to tell you something," said Ingmar, with a mysterious
smile. "You needn't be the least bit afraid, for there is some one
who will help us."

"Who is it?"

"It's father. He'll see to it that everything comes out right."

There was some one coming along the forest road. It was Kaisa. But
as she was not bearing the familiar yoke, with the baskets, they
hardly knew her at first.

"Good-day to you!" greeted Ingmar and Brita, and the old woman came
up and shook hands with them.

"Well, I declare, here you sit, and all the folks from the farm out
looking for you! You were in such a hurry to get out of church,"
the old woman went on, "that I never got to meet you at all. So I
went down to the farm to pay my respects to Brita. When I got there
who should I see but the Dean, and he was in the house calling
Mother Martha at the top of his lungs before I even had a chance to
say 'how d'ye do.' And before he had so much as shaken hands with
her, he was crying out: 'Now, Mother Martha, you can be proud of
Ingmar! It's plain now that he belongs to the old stock; so we must
begin to call him _Big_ Ingmar.'

"Mother Martha, as you know, never says very much; she just stood
there tying knots in her shawl. 'What's this you're telling me?'
she said finally. 'He has brought Brita home,' the Dean explained,
'and, believe me, Mother Martha, he will be honoured and respected
for it as long as he lives.' 'You don't tell me,' said the old
lady. 'I could hardly go on with the service when I saw them
sitting in church; it was a better sermon than any I could ever
preach. Ingmar will be a credit to us all, as his father before him
was.' 'The Dean brings us great news,' said Mother Martha. 'Isn't
he home yet?" asked the Dean. 'No, he is not at home; but they may
have stopped at Bergskog first.'"

"Did mother really say that?" cried Ingmar.

"Why, of course she did; and while we sat waiting for you to
appear, she sent out one messenger after the other to look for
you."

Kaisa kept up a steady stream of talk, but Ingmar no longer heard
what she said. His thoughts were far away. "I come into the living-room,
where father sits with all the old Ingmars. 'Good-day to you, Big
Ingmar Ingmarsson,' says father, rising and coming toward me. 'The
same to you, father,' says I, 'and thank you for your help.' 'Now
you'll be well married,' says father, 'and then the other matters
will all right themselves.' 'But, father, it could never have
turned out so well if you hadn't stood by me.' 'That was nothing,'
says father. 'All we Ingmars need do is to walk in the ways of
God.'"

BOOK TWO

AT THE SCHOOLMASTER'S

In the early eighties there was no one in the parish where the old
Ingmarsson family lived who would have thought of embracing any new
kind of faith or attending any new form of sacred service. That new
sects had sprung up, here and there, in other Dalecarlian parishes,
and that people went out into rivers and lakes to be immersed in
accordance with the new rites of the Baptists, was known; but folks
only laughed at it all and said: "That sort of thing may suit those
who live at Applebo and in Gagnef, but it can never touch our
parish."

The people of that parish clung to their old customs and habits,
one of which was a regular attendance at church on Sundays; every
one that could go went, even in the severest winter weather. Then,
of all times, it was almost a necessity; with the thermometer at
twenty below zero outside, it would have been beyond human
endurance to sit in the unheated church had it not been packed to
the doors with people.

It could not be said of the parishioners that they turned out in
such great numbers because they had a particularly brilliant pastor
or one who had any special gift for expounding the Scriptures. In
those days folks went to church to praise God and not to be
entertained by fine sermons. On the way home, when fighting against
the cutting wind on an open country road, one thought: "Our Lord
must have noticed that you were at church this cold morning." That
was the main thing. It was no fault of theirs if the preacher had
said nothing more than he had been heard to say every Sunday since
his appointment to the pastorate.

As a matter of fact, the majority seemed perfectly satisfied with
what they got. They knew that what the pastor read to them was the
Word of God, and therefore they found it altogether beautiful. Only
the schoolmaster and one or two of the more intelligent farmers
occasionally said among themselves: "The parson seems to have only
one sermon; he talks of nothing but God's wisdom and God's
government. All that is well enough so long as the Dissenters keep
away. But this stronghold is poorly defended and would fall at the
first attack."

Lay preachers generally passed by this parish. "What's the good of
going there?" they used to say. "Those people don't want to be
awakened." Not only the lay preachers, but even all the "awakened
souls" in the neighbouring parishes looked upon the Ingmarssons and
their fellow-parishioners as great sinners, and whenever they
caught the sound of the bells from their church they would say the
bells were tolling, "Sleep in your sins! Sleep in your sins!"

The whole congregation, old and young alike, were furious when they
learned that people spoke in that way of their bells. They knew
that their folks never forgot to repeat the Lord's Prayer whenever
the church bells rang, and that every evening, at the time of the
Angelus, the menfolk uncovered their heads, the women courtesied,
and everybody stood still about as long as it takes to say an Our
Father. All who have lived in that parish must acknowledge that God
never seemed so mighty and so honoured as on summer evenings, when
scythes were rested, and plows were stopped in the middle of a
furrow, and the seed wagon was halted in the midst of the loading,
simply at the stroke of a bell. It was as if they knew that our
Lord at that moment was hovering over the parish on an evening
cloud--great and powerful and good--breathing His blessing upon the
whole community.

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